Notes From the Underground

Instead of writing my last paper, I have decided to drive Tove insane.

My corridormates have become accustomed to the eccentricity I develop when left with nothing to do for too long a time. I tend to think of it like a dog left home alone who begins chewing on the furniture...they just say it's like living with Kramer. Back in October I learned of astonishing advent of deep fried Twinkies and, like the luminscant appendage which draws prey into the gaping maw of a lamprey, the thought of fat-battered fried sugar was irresistible to me. Unfortunately, you cannot get Twinkies in this frozen communist backwater, so I was eventually forced to build them from scratch--making my own cream and performing delicate surgery (I assembled all the lamps in the corridor around the kitchen table and wore a little mask) on several yellow shortcakes. A number of the patients did not survive the operation, but no science is exact, and they had to be sacrificed for the greater good.

My corridormates viewed these proceedings with a sort of Swedishly detached combination of amusement and abject horror, sort of like watching a friendly clown throw pies at a pile of dead puppies. But when at last my creations emerged, glistening and steaming from the vat of primordial lard from whence they came, it was I who had the last laugh.

Anyway. We have two sinks in the kitchen, and I've developed a nasty habit of reaching underneath and turning one or the other off when Tove's not looking. The rest of the corridor is in on it now and aids in my guilty transgressions. I can't help it...you see, Tove is very health-conscious and athletic and tends to be getting up for her morning run just as I come staggering home at 5:30 in the morning, and she has this speech pattern where her voice gets really high and shrieky in the middle of words, so I feel after uncountable mornings of that voice stabbing into my hungover brain, she had it coming.
Maybe later I'll find a crosscut saw and lower the legs on her desk by a couple inches.

I don't really have much to report here, but I didn't want to let this blog go too long neglected and I know my strange despatches are the only light in your otherwise muddy lives, so I'm just going to put up a few random things here.

Like, for instance, this recent conversation with Ashley. The timestamp is important.
[14:02] *****: omg
[14:02] *****: did i tell u
[14:03] *****: i had this horrible holocaust dream
[14:03] FailingPiano: That's what I like to hear.
[14:04] *****: okay so i dreamed we were watching schindler's list and people kept coming over and pooping in my toilet
[14:04] *****: i was so upset!
[14:09] FailingPiano: ...We can't be friends anymore.

For the benefit of you non-Facebookians (fools! ingrates!) here's the vague itinerary for my summer travels. If you've been to any of these places or know someone in them or have anything useful to offer about them, do please let me know:

Rome
Florence
Genoa
Italian Riviera
Venice
Vienna
Munich
Berlin
Amsterdam
Brussels
Paris
London

I start travelling 10 June, and I'll be home in the afternoon of 20 July. My birthday is the next day, so expect a party soon after. And yes, I use the term "party" in my usual euphemistic sense, since we all know that my idea of a party consists of sitting around listening to Tom Waits, drinking scotch, and talking about stuff. Should you wish to buy me "Welcome Home"/"Happy Birthday"/"Fealty Tribute" presents (and you should!), then peruse my Amazon Wishlist.

That's about all for now. More news as it develops.

What I'm Reading
Eric Wolf, Europe and the People Without History.