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Today was actually relatively normal.

I feel happy today - this has not been the case for a while. I switched my music from Paint it Black to See Me Feel Me Touch Me Heal Me and other selections from Tommy, all of which are more conducive to a good mood than Paint it Black. I got out and played some Ultimate - back at practice for now. This is good, because the UPA College Championship Series is coming up RSN, and I intend to kick ass in the Eightfold Way of Ultimate:

That is to say, life is good for now. And it's getting better all the time.
On 3/28/00 I took my car to the state Motor Vehicle station to get the mandatory annual inspection. There was no line, which was nice, because the long lines at New Jersey's DMV inspection stations were a steady news item for a while... I had just got an oil change, and the car was behaving about as well as I might wish at 104,000 miles. So, I was kind of let-down when they failed the car for an exhaust leak.
In my mind, that means that the entire exhaust system, including the catalytic converter, will have to be replaced. Local mechanics have staked a living on me feeling that way. So, I gave myself a few weeks to get a raise and deal with income tax and worry about something other than THE FREAKING CAR FOR THE FIRST TIME IN MONTHS
<*deep breath*>
Today, then, I went to the local Midas shop and asked them to pinpoint the leak and give me an estimate for repairs. I sat reading a computer magazine from last September ("look for 700MHz AMD's by the end of the year!"), and eventually the manager came back and said, "Couldn't find a leak, although your catalytic converter is a little rattle-y." Cars don't heal, so what happened here?
Could it be a conspiracy to keep people from going to the free, state-run inspection stations?
Dropping a computer off at Bruce's studio: it's an incongruous piece of debris among all the colors of his canvases and bits'n'pieces - the lite brite many-breasted lamp, the toothy horse and the bride. Bruce and Jerry are smoking cigars. I've known Jerry for about 20 years now and i always forget that he drives trucks for a living. Not that it makes a difference. The air is thick with cigar smoke, and they keep offering us meat. That's the phrase of the evening: Hey, want some meat? There's a grotesque-looking piece of kielbasa in some water in a frying pan on the stove. I sit in the death chair (the one Jerry's father died in) and flip through a book - a history of photographic nudes. Not just Edweard Muybridge, either, but real weird crazy porno stuff. From the 1800's. What great pictures. It turns out the modem had been scavenged from the computer we brought so it's no good to Bruce. Ah well. Before we go, he shows us some of the old men's magazines he's found. On the back cover of Monseiur from 1957, the photo caption reads,
      I'm just a crazy, mixed-up kid
      Who doesn't know her ego from her id
      Nor right from wrong, unless I'm caught!
      That gives a Jung girl Freud for thought.
When i get home i run right back out the door, and wolf a slice of pizza on the way. Cubanismo! is playing at Pearl Street, and it is unlike things i would typically go to see. Abdiel is there and teaches me to say wepa and ay dios mio! Ay dios mio, this band is together. It's supernatural. Hippies are dancing like hippies always dance, but there were people there that could actually latin dance, and that makes all the difference. I somehow cannot allow myself to dance. I guess it's because i sense that Abdiel would dance closer to me, and i wouldn't stop him. And i don't need more complication. Plus there's that whole coworkers thing. But also, i am just self-conscious in public. The timing in this band is phenomenal! There's a small crowd up there acting as a unit. The upright bass is electric and has almost no body. At one point the light changes and it looks like a stalk of celery, being plucked. One woman in the crowd is shaped like slimer from the ghostbusters and has on a tight top and miniskirt; her hair is magenta and she's very distracting. When i can see her. Abdiel translates lyrics for me: the music is complicated but the lyrics are simple. The air is smoky, smoky, my throat feels full of smoke.

Their encore is an afro-cuban jazz rendition of Bob Marley's Get Up, Stand Up. It's hard to grasp that this can exist, yet they are playing it.

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