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November 22, 1997
I just read a report on Reuters that Michael Hutchence, lead singer of INXS, was found dead in a hotel room of either a drug overdose or hanging. not a crippling blow to the world of art, but what the hell? sometimes, people make no sense to me. "sometimes", nothing. people pretty much never make sense to me.

the second incarnation of my beard met with its inevitable demise last night. although it looked alright, the entire effect was just too much like Paul McCartney's beard in "Let It Be". there wasn't anything specific wrong with it, but it just wasn't happening. so it goes. my face, which had grown irritated at the beard's presence and demanded salves, does not miss it much. although I cannot help but feel like a pathetic hairless creature every time I look in the mirror. that will pass.

trying to slog through a sociology research project involving doing a bunch of interviews - the interviews are half done, but I hate having to do papers where certain aspects (i.e. people's attendance at the interviews) are beyond my control. I'm hoping to be done in time to leave champaign on tuesday morning directly following the debut of Radioactive Monsters Over London, my radio show on WEFT 90.1 FM. and for all you limeys out there, that's not just a title, it's a threat! no, I love britain. thank you for Blur and all that.

Seamus, kick-ass english 342 teacher at large, is having the class over for dinner at his house this weekend. how cool is that?

in the last bit of big news, I am now launching a surprise offensive in the never-ending legal battle over the Cradle (my car). I have contracted the services of a lawyer and am going to, well, increase the amount of money that I'm looking for. substantially. because I'm tired of this crap and if there's anything that I learned from watching "The Untouchables" a few hundred times as a child, it's that you have to "take the battle to him!" and kick the bad guy's ass. this is because bad guys generally refuse to kick their own asses. how rude.

raves:
tape delay, books, swing, veterans of the Hollywood Squares Wars.
distastes:
that which is frozen in chunks, blisters on your feet (instead of in a scream at the end of "Helter Skelter").

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