Sunday, February 22, 1998
Just returned yesterday from a rollicking good night of fun and larceny at Ho-Chunk Casino in
Wisconsin Dells, Wisconsin. The evening started late, as we waited for Karl to pack up and get
ready to roll,
but once we were on the road (at about 7:30 p.m.) we made great time. The car piloted by Vinnie
stopped for alcohol, and arrived at the casino about an hour later than expected. A few hours of
gambling, some mad drinking at the beautiful Twi-Lite Hotel, and a stop at the A&P for burgers
(and stolen root beer mugs) later, all were convinced that the truest friends pack a roll of sausage
between the legs. Eric was up big-time at the end of the weekend, and Peterson was down, but it
was a blast, so no one fretted too much. I won't go into more detail than that, because to do so
might betray the trusts of those who attended the evening. However, I will offer the three
catch-phrases for the night, and allow you to create your own humorous stories to go with
each:
"Um, sorry. . .that's my butt."--Nick Graber's "first"
"Hey, it was a snow day."--Some guy at Adam's camp
"I'm so pathetic that I should kill myself."--Adam Grayson (only joking)
But enough raunchy, dirty fun. Yesterday consisted of essentially coming home, heading out to
Best Buy, and hanging out all night doing nothing. I bought Matthew Sweet's "Girlfriend" at Best
Buy with money I should have saved for expenses like eating and just living. It's really great stuff,
but in purchasing it, I realized just how dehabilitating my current addiction to sticky-sweet pop
about girls has become. The ABBA thing, Matthew Sweet, Ben Folds Five--it's all very poppy (at
least, the parts I'm listening to) and it's all about girls. And when I dip into my archive of albums,
I'm more likely to go for Material Issue or certain XTC songs than for Elvis or Bruce.
Again, this reminds me of a quote from High Fidelity by Nick Hornby (which I'm
currently re-reading and still recommend): "Which came first--the music or the misery?" I'm not
saying that this sticky-sweet pop makes me miserable, though there is an element of self-torturous
yearning involved. But it's reached the point in my immediate life where I don't know if the music
is feeding my yearning and ickiness, or if my yearning and ickiness is feeding my taste in music.
It's certainly become a vicious cycle, that's for sure. Then again, who am I really hurting by
feeling yearny and icky all the time because I listen to clever cotton candy music?
Retraction: It has recently come to my attention that certain comments made recently in
one of my daily diatribes have had an unintended hurtful effect, as well as cast my personality in a
certain light which is probably for the most part untrue. To the person who was hurt by my
words: I am truly sorry for hurting you, and you know better than anyone else in my life how 75%
of what I do and say is bullshit anyway. To everyone else: don't forget that last bullshit part, and
no offense, but it's not really any of your business who I'm specifically adressing, though I'm glad
you're here anyway. Come back soon, culture vultures.