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Wednesday, March 31, 2004


today i kissed a very pretty girl on the top floor of a five story parking garage. first we looked down at the people passing-by, the people living in the apartments. the last car pulled out of the spot next to where we were standing. our meter ran out.

walking towards the stairs, bathed under orange parking lot lights i kissed lips and hair. then more lips, less hair. then again and again on the landing of almost each flight of stairs.

dark brown hair, silky hair. a good smell and imperfect kisses.

Tuesday, March 30, 2004


Romance or horror?

Sunday, March 28, 2004

at the gym

there were too many plates on the bench bar to figure out how much weight this guy was lifting today at impe. it was alot, definitely over 400 lbs. two stout, troll-like men flanked either side of the bar for emergency support, while three other beefy monster dudes hooted and hollered for inspirational support. they made my body jump as i lay in preparation for a set of my own.

they all spoke english, some of them were bald, most had pot bellies, but all could lift lots of weight. every now and then one of them going topless in order to dress into some sort of weight-lifting apparatus suit/body gear. they looked like aliens and attracted gawking on-lookers.

didn't know whether to feel appalled or impressed.

jumping the pistola

this is a personal translation of the impassioned reaction of a Spanish journalist immediately following the attacks in Madrid a few weeks ago. javier marias, a prominent writer for spain's premier periodical el pais, like most mardileƱos, intially assigned the homegrown terrorist group ETA as responsible for the attacks.

with more insinuations that ETA was not behind the attacks, he responds in his blog to this, his earlier reaction that is a bit emotional and a bit mistaken:

Early in the Morning
Each time that ETA assassinates - and it's almost always done early in the morning, the terrorists get up early, or maybe they don't sleep the night before-, there's a custom that, near midday, those responsible for the city councils step outside the door of their buildings, in the heat, cold or rain, and remain in silence for one or two minutes. Along with them are as many city dwellers that wish to join, normally those who live nearby. It's a very impressive thing, this silence that is at the same time mournful yet condemning, a collective silence, of people who interrupt their daily activities or chores and stand quietly in the middle of the street. If someone utters a shout or a curse against the assassins at that time, their voice is usually quieted because in those moments the true condemnation is to not say anything. And, in spite of the reiteration of this custom throughout so many years, the act has not lost strength, nor has it worn itself out, in comparison to so many other reactions that have become empty as a result of repetition.

Today from inside of my house I noticed this suspicious silence. I looked out of a balcony and from there I saw the mayor and all the town councilors, both of his party and of the opposition, standing quietly in front of the building. There were also more passers-by than usual, stopped passers-by. The flags were at half-mast. "Once again," I thought, "Who's it going to be?" without imagining that this question was meaningless because right now there are only anonymous deaths, and they number one-hundred and seventy eight while I write these lines, and there will be more still, as many of the assassinated have yet to finish dying. In three of four railroad stations in Madrid, thirteen bombs have exploded bright and early, when the commuter trains run full of people going to work, of students going to classes, of sleepy people that just woke up.

It is the bloodiest attack in all of Spain's history, the most massive, when two days remain for the general elections, those that we never miss - for the little that we like the current political parties - we who lived under Franco and yearned to be able to go to the ballot boxes sometime in life. That dictatorship ended. That of ETA remains almost like a prolongation of the other. It's obvious that that organization longs for Franco when before they were able to be seen as a "resistance." …

ETA does not tolerate the existence of a democracy, all of the imperfect that it could be. In the Basque region there hasn't been any type of oppression for more that twenty-five years, at least that which it imposed itself; there is an autonomous government and a widely competent parliament, including a Basque police force against which ETA also attacks once in a while. ETA is just a mafia. Their members and their sympathizers know that if they stop killing that wouldn't be anybody anymore, they wouldn't be "respectable" people anymore, that is to say scary and unscrupulous, in their towns and cities.

There could be a day that ETA dissolves. It is very possible that there will be an amnesty which releases all of its prisoners to the streets, like that which had already begun at the beginning of our democracy, returning freedom to all that were prisoners then, including those who had committed assassinations. ETA will have ended and I am sure that the citizens would consent to this amnesty; they would give it gladly, even if it might be with disgust. But not in our heart of heart, neither in our memory nor in our conscience. There in the land neither civic nor political, there, in the personal and intimate soil, we will never forgive them.

white girls

so a white guy, a mexican guy, a chinese guy, and an indian guy all walk into a bar.

guido's, 02 east main - the first white girl was melia. her mom named her after a best friend she made in hawaii. melia used to work at guido's before its trendy-sportsbar makeover, when it was known simply as 02 east main, "yeah i mean like it was just so ghetto. i like hip hop music and everything but it was just so ghetto."

"now it's like cool and the people here are awesome."

the second white girl with the easily forgettable name was wearing a pink dress. lounging nearby with her caucasian cohorts, we rubbed elbows next to each other while sitting at the bar. dumb chatting then eventually "what's your name?" martin. "mark? where you from?" the south side of chicago. "what are you?" omg... "yeah that's cool i like being real, keeping it real, you know ... cultural." later she said "hey pedro scoot over" as she returned back to her seat from the bathroom.

a fellow former ihop co-worker jillian made her entrance later on at the restaurant. princess jillian. she paraded back and forth easily over a dozen times, greeting the cooks and manager, making her rounds, ignoring several greetings from yours truly as she swivelled by only inches away. then, at 3am, her majesty deigns to phone one of her loyal subjects, "hi, were you sleeping? yeah, well ... today's my birthday."

todavia borracho

27 year-old white girl with freckles blanketing her bony back. felt familiar, looked for constellations.

rahul said she looked 35. she was thin and had a pink dress and explained to me the insignificance of a ringless left-handed ring finger, of course not before reminding me of the respect due to a woman otherwise.

a woman otherwise. at guido's, 02 east main. bartender was a total fucking actress. bravo, bravo, exit to ihop, to yet even more actresses.

after cholesterol and saturated fats, home to Jason X on the tube. (the shittiest movie ever) bloated, tomorrow a pilgrimage to impe, but today-

tonight, thinking now about a tough and gorgeous girl, a morrocan.

Friday, March 26, 2004

keyless kinch, the fearful jesuit

yesterday at penny's on diversey with a foreign beer and a pretty girl. only lied once, maybe twice.


afterwards walking tour of lincoln park and the sometimes ballsy architecture of the neighborhood houses. the jesuit statue priest on the de paul quad was offering advice (drugs?) to other stoned students.


still in gringolandia after the adieu, yerba mate at a tea shop, then piper's alley for eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. 


on the walk back to the train $3 pints of Harp's Lager at a murphy's-esque pub. not as think as you drunk i am, writing alone in the corner by the light of the neon bar signs. cue popular REM song.


enter 40-year old former drummer currently valet parker Paul. "fuckin' fags," he said and "let's not fucking talk about religion, ok?"


back down south finally on the long and lonely red line. no dice for a bus ride home at 3, 4ish. so a yo-yo back up 15 miles on the el for a beefy, greasy breakfast at clarke's on belmont. no home keys, called mom, hi goodmorning, i'm comming home. at 6am. roll poignant ozzy osbourne tune.

Wednesday, March 24, 2004

This man will clearly explain to you the possibilities of controlled memory erasure.

"There's some irony here, while films like Memento and Eternal Sunshine fret over the perils of memory erasure, we should really be worrying about the opposite - What happens when you remember too much?"

short and

last night drank german beer. can't pronounce the name. spongebob was on the tele at barfly.

got home and read an e-mail from ivette. she says i'm a very creative monkey.


I am in search of reality.

Something stable and unchanging. Something that everyone can see without needing contacts, eyeglasses, or corneal-shape-shifting eye surgery. (When is LASIK sugery NOT for me?)

Saturday, March 20, 2004

last night

sleeping for 14 hours after being awake for 32.

woke up once at 2am and read my ims and refused to feel bad and fell back asleep.

pre-drinking, smoking at 206. to nargile in a cab. ricky and ryan and me and ivette and tonya and ryan meeting becky and someone and someone else. trila? shawna? dunno. hookahs, beers, an atm, and more beer. cab ride back home, then to ricky's to watch shrek. (shrek, wtf?)

sitting in a corner somewhere @ ricky's with bong in tow. suddenly and inexplicably fleeing the apt. run forrest run. growing exponentially more lost somewhere in deep urbana. after an hour of direction-less perambulation, finally signs of life, street lights, sidewalks, and carle hospital. back home @ 206, alcoholic search for beer, excavating the boxes of 12-packs on the balcony - no beer. sitting at the computer getting all bitchy talking to ricky. lost cell phone. lost weed. the sun starts to rise.

admit to ryan that i stole and smoked his weed at 9am with bweetz. then it's 2:48pm, suddenly remembering having to work in 12 minutes. "too much partying?" asked my boss. sheepishly going about my business. back at home said goodbye to ryan (he's going north to chicago) jeff, (west to los angeles) and rahul (east to north carolina).

"i'm all aloooone, there's no one here, besides meeee."
-donkey from shrek

Monday, March 15, 2004


someone stole my motorbike that i stole, but we beat their ass and stole it back, again. mom kicked chris out of the house for doing drugs. there was a jamaican parade down 112th street. uncle frank was coming to pick me up to help him do some work.

Tuesday, March 9, 2004


I wanted to give my spanish literature professor a hug today after he handed back my DOUBLE A+s. ("+" + "+" = "#"?)

Hell yeah.

School, work, meetings, then Kam's last night with the underage sorority girl asking Ricky and I to buy her beer.

Dinner sometime before Kam's: Cocktail shrimp sauteed with red onions and minced garlic. Valencia rice reddened with tomato sauce, sprinkled with cumin, and fermented with one (1) bay leaf. Oh and a protein shake for that swoll.

Sunday, March 7, 2004

sweet home

Went back home to Chicago this weekend. Drove up there with Rosie who says she doesn't have much fun at rock concerts. Boo.

Mom looked alive and well. Little brother Chris is auditioning for the Stokes with the never-ending brown spirals of hair on his head. Dinner Friday night with the grandparents, the original gangstas, the OGs.

Eri turned 22 ("22" backwards) Saturday night. I drank $2 margaritas and chatted occasionally with the Cuban bartender girl in between bouts of banter with Eri. People at the raegae bar in lincoln park looked nervous at first, but most of us were dancing by the time Ryan and his rockstar brother Luke showed up a couple hours later.

Ryan's gf Diana is going to Greece for the Games this summer. She told us in the car on the way back to Champaign. Meeting today at 4 cancelled. Shit I forgot about Iyengar at 4:15. Oh well.

Now I must busy myself with the convoluted language of scientific journal articles. But first i'll put on some pants.

Wednesday, March 3, 2004


Ok so I was keyboardless for a few days. I guess the four three-year old generic AAs in my wireless keyboard (which btw, I never move from the desk) finally gave out. I popped four new ones in and wondered what it would be like to be able to type on my computer again. The keyboard didn't work. I restarted the comptuer, and still the keyboard wouldn't work. Wondering if wireless keyboards in general had this problem, I restarted the computer again, yet again to no avail.

I thought maybe if I take it farther away from the RF reciever, it'll work. It didn't. How about closer? Nope.

I sat in my chair daydreaming for a while, figuring how long it would take to copy individual letters from various websites or documents and paste them together to form the most urgent of my messages in the most simplistic manner possible. I thought that I might as well leave the Character Map window forever open and also would have to constrict my range of AIM expressiveness to it's dozen or so various emoticons.

them: hi
me: :o)
them: so what's up
them: ...
them: keyboard busted?
me: ;o)

I'm not dumb enough to have put in the batteries backwards, I thought. But just for kicks I began to open the battery panel, thinking, nah I'll just have to buy a new one online or something. I can do it tomorrow at the computer lab. I'm such a consumerist pig. How much would it be, $50-60? I'll have to ship it to work cause the mailbox downstairs is too small.

I was wrong about the batteries.

Tuesday, March 2, 2004

4 years and this is what i've learned

How To Write A College Paper:

1. Realize that you have no life.

2. If you still think that you have a life, go to step 1.

3. Stare at the blinking cursor however long you need to.

4. Google the Mars Rovers.

5. Wonder why you are still on this planet.


6. Now write.

beef jerky: you can eat it with your dog.

When you first buy a baseball mitt, it's really too stiff and cumbersome to use effectively, so you go through this long process of breaking it in. One such process includes placing a baseball in the mitt, spraying the entire mitt with specially formulated mitt-breaking-in juice, tieing the mitt shut with a rag or t-shirt, and letting the fibers in the mitt break down and loosen up. After a few days you had a significantly more flexible mitt that's one step closer to being ready for gameplay.

I notice that whenever someone does or says something nice for me I react awkwardly, stiffly like an unbroken-in baseball mitt.

I guess one of the things that I miss the most about high school were the abundance of windows. Every class, every lunchroom, it seemed, was cordoned by 2 inch think walls of transparency. Of air and light and hope and possibility. Of daydreams and reality and escape and Chicago.