tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55038252011-04-21T11:37:19.071-07:00Sexy and shallow—just like that Wedgewood serving platter you saw at Neiman's.Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comBlogger531100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1096515241985740042004-09-29T20:32:00.000-07:002004-09-29T20:34:01.986-07:00

Seriously, everyone. www.xanga.com/dirtypeaches. The future is now.

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1096251805747537332004-09-26T19:14:00.000-07:002004-09-26T19:23:25.746-07:00

Well, the time has come, ladies and gentlemen. This Okie is making the trip out West. Figuratively, of course. Like the Joad family, I've found that peaches over at Xanga—over yonder, just past the sated beggar and the recently bludgeoned Messianic icon—are just a little sweeter. More sugar for your shilling, to be crude about it. See you there? www.xanga.com/dirtypeaches

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1091995034934623192004-08-08T12:16:00.000-07:002004-08-08T12:57:14.933-07:00

The fluids vaulting from my nose and mouth aside, today has been a today of pleasant surprises. The most recent surprise is that I've found the motivation and time to write another disptach, even if it is relatively low in content. Truly, I am God's gift to the internet and to...you? Which reminds me: if you read this site, particularly if you read this site regularly, I'd love to hear from

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1091890933063187372004-08-07T07:00:00.000-07:002004-08-07T08:02:13.063-07:00

Just as I eat twice a day, take Effexor twice a day, smoke at least 12 times a day and wash my hands at least 13 times a day, I seem to update this site once a month. Each dispatch begins with an apology for, or callous and hypomanic defense of, my infrequent posting. I don't know. I just thought I'd bring it up. It's 10am, Saturday. I'm supposed to be hungover in Provincetown, picking hairs

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1088736312038842552004-07-01T19:40:00.000-07:002004-07-01T19:45:12.036-07:00

A month goes by and then I remember to update this site. If I had a pet that needed feeding, it would surely die of neglect. Had an interesting, which is to say uneventful-though-pleasant, birthday. You know, I think "23" actually brings some wisdom...which I'll share next time. Cheers to NRC, who not only called me on the night in question but who will, undoubtedly, appreciate the allusion

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1086080409063288532004-06-01T01:18:00.000-07:002004-06-01T02:05:21.206-07:00

It's 430am and I'm taking a break from packing up my room. I'm leaving Providence. And no, I'm not happy about it. I love this city—and while I shouldn't assume that my love is reciprocated, I can say with some objective certainty that we've had our moments. Driving off, I'm sure I'll have some sort of anxiety attack. If you see a black SUV on the side of the highway with its vaguely

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1082561462770322072004-04-21T08:30:00.000-07:002004-04-21T08:34:00.686-07:00

And suddenly, motion isn't relative any more.

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1081712481507210132004-04-11T12:14:00.000-07:002004-04-11T12:44:09.560-07:00

I am not particularly good at fantasy--sexual or otherwise. Sure, like anyone, I have romantic, psychological and geographical crushes now and then. I imagine what it would be like to be somewhere, to be someone, to be with someone. But I'm not particularly good at these; the future, now the present, is not what I ever thought it would be. Or we can phrase it differently: I am unable to

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1075769349956652992004-02-02T15:57:00.000-08:002004-02-02T16:52:37.700-08:00

Recently, Adam, Chris and I found ourselves in a Kay Bee toystore. If there were ever a reason not to have children—particularly the ungrateful sort—the prospect of shopping at Kay Bee would be it. The trip was not entirely unproductive, though; there were several items of interest: the Osbourne trivia game, a PC application called Will Writer, Glam Rock Skeletor, various singing creatures and

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1075701887017487522004-02-01T21:34:00.000-08:002004-02-01T22:08:17.123-08:00

I have to apologize for that last post on boredom. Halfway through the post, I decided that I wasn't going anywhere good. So I declined to go anywhere at all. Of course, it would have been nice if I had remembered to delete what I had written. Yes, yes: mea culpa. Pleased to be absolving me? A few other things to confess, Father. —I have committed blasphemy, taking our Lord's name in

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1075530876386581282004-01-30T22:14:00.000-08:002004-01-30T22:36:12.670-08:00

I'm surprised people still read this site. You'd think a five month hiatus would etherize most readers. But in the two days since my bit on Moonpies, about 20 people have come to piddle on my peach tree. Normally, watersports don't do it for me--fuck me, though, if I wouldn't drink a tub of your 'bathwater.' If you love me, tell me so: jsg1332@yahoo.com. By the by: I've completely forgotten

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1075357406066159852004-01-28T21:53:00.000-08:002004-01-28T22:26:24.733-08:00

It's been--a few months, has it? Ugh. And so whatever readerbase I might have had has undoubtedly disappeared. Said the pussycat to the wall: I might as well be speaking to the ceiling. See? I'm a little rusty. Let's see if a little practice can change that. But practice will have to wait. I'm eating a Moonpie right now, the problem-du-jour being that I hate Moonpies and that I won a

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1064807838186664202003-09-28T20:16:00.000-07:002003-09-28T20:58:39.886-07:00

Recently, I've had some ideas for some TV and film spin-offs. By recently, I mean over the past few months. And by "ideas," I mean the category of potentially interruptive cognitive happenings that are opposed to "fantasies." For instance: I had an idea concerning John Guillory's Cultural Capital, which I'm reading for a seminar; I had a fantasy about dragging Lucy Liu by her hair and

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1064120891457286482003-09-20T21:32:00.000-07:002003-09-20T22:11:35.283-07:00

So, despite my plea, I've yet to receive any email concerning this site. That's OK, folks; in my mind, silence is love. Standing me up is love. Not returning my phone calls or letters—that's love. Better yet, it's lust. In no particular order, meine fuckbudden, my life's most recent month: Ass massages to relieve my back...back exercises to relieve my leg...leg lifts and stomach crunches to

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1064036332708162292003-09-19T22:09:00.000-07:002003-09-19T22:47:49.060-07:00

Once more, my life is odd enough to warrant some internet interaction. Well, here I am, you spermy e-trolls. Sorry about that. Sorry. I hurt the ones I love. And truly, I'm sorry about my extended absence. But that's what happens when you have nothing to do: the little you have to do becomes uniquely overwhelming. So if you want me to write more frequently, if you have fewer immediate

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1061085249573143532003-08-16T18:54:00.000-07:002003-08-16T18:59:19.073-07:00

Well, so that’s it. It’s been nice. All my spoons are burnt and all my mental veins are sclerosed. Press kits should read: “after careful consideration, and after watching Gray Davis mismanage the state of California so appallingly, I’ve come to the decision—a decision drawing on both the mutual perception of my abilities and the nebulousness of my "ambitions"—that graduate school is probably

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1060637728440706662003-08-11T14:35:00.000-07:002003-08-11T14:42:55.120-07:00

No apologies this time. I’ve done nothing wrong. So if you sit around waiting for me to write, playing internet canasta and checking this filthy fruit cart every hour, I suggest you get a cat. You know, something to keep you company while you wait. Since my last dispatch, I’ve been fairly busy. Health concerns, mostly, with some emotional and social reevaluation on the side. Don’t act so

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1059775951536871822003-08-01T15:12:00.000-07:002003-08-01T15:12:31.590-07:00

Last summer, whilst traipsing lightly through the Providence Place Mall, Arthur and I found a coin-operated scale. According to the scale, neither of us were at our ideal weight. Holy fcuk! Alert the media! Last night, the tarnish-your-self-esteem-for-a-dollar-o-tron and I had another encounter. However, in addition to telling me that I should reduce, the scale had a few suggestions on how I

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1059451838348700002003-07-28T21:10:00.000-07:002003-07-28T21:17:40.580-07:00

Hi, all. I know it's been a while, so I'm tempted to apologize. But, hell, I know my readers. "I'm sorry" doesn't cut it here. "You're welcome" does. In any event, it's been a week of tiny pleasures and equally tiny atrocities—a week of feeling guilty for the good things and the bad. So, to inaugurate this mutual return to internet banality, I have a news item: the United States' greatest

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1058828410836140302003-07-21T16:00:00.000-07:002003-07-21T16:11:50.830-07:00

When it comes to viticulture, I'm as dumb as Drew Barrymore. Which is to say, I'm ignorant but experienced. I do know one thing, though: I am unable to drink red wine. As Liza Minelli would say, I get sho shloppy, daralingg. Which is a shame, because my blood and body are wholly sympathetic to Port. However, your fears to rest; the demons to bed—because I'm not the worst sympathizer out

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1058751460528975282003-07-20T18:37:00.000-07:002003-07-20T18:42:39.316-07:00

A few posts ago, before my joking—you see? joking! joking!—threat to go Aum on the MTA, I asked for some responses to dirtypeaches. Yes. Which you're reading right now. No. Don't act so surprised. In any event, I received such a response this morning. I was delighted, to be sure—a letter, a letter from the front! Said response, however, was from an email address I'd never seen before and

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1058652653955831772003-07-19T15:10:00.000-07:002004-02-02T16:58:17.576-08:00

First, though, an aside: the Metropolitan Transit Authority (MTA) had better watch its ass. Under no circumstances, MTA, are you allowed to levy fare increases or mug or try to kill the people I care about. This is your only warning. Another offense? I'm coming down to handle this in person. And you don't want that. And yeah, I got a new fucking chair. My sincere thanks to Tyler, as

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1058541189515589412003-07-18T08:13:00.000-07:002003-07-18T09:21:44.313-07:00

When I was in elementary school, I was one of the few children that didn't like Roald Dahl. I had learned to read at too young an age; I was jaded; and the novelty of reading had worn off by the time I turned seven or so. I was content to play sports and eat candy and ignore the other kids' discussions of Emile Durkheim and Isaiah Berlin. Durkheim and Berlin, of course, were vehicles for

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1058379679227249212003-07-16T11:21:00.000-07:002003-07-16T11:23:28.476-07:00

I really hate rice. It's bland and it's filling, sort of like seawater, sort of like him. I realize that billions of people live on almost rice alone; I feel so bad for them. Knowing this, you could correctly assume that I grow uncomfortable when I see bags of rice. And so when I opened a package from Ben this morning I was, well, uncomfortable. In a box was a bag of basmati rice. But

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1058309745703715302003-07-15T15:55:00.000-07:002003-07-15T17:57:16.830-07:00

"Pfirsiche, it's sooo, like, MCM11 to excerpt Barthes." "But I enjoy Barthes, you preachy, Virilio-sucking plutocrat." "But he's sooo cliche, yes." "Losersayswhat." "Ce qui? Oooh, oooh—is that Badiou reading US Weekly?" SNAP! Onward, Christian soldiers. "Garbo," Barthes writes in "The Face of Garbo," "still belongs to that moment in cinema when capturing the human face still plunged audiences

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1058194698854758922003-07-14T07:58:00.000-07:002003-07-14T15:53:04.640-07:00

"Whore" might be my favorite word. Etymologically it can't be beat; and given English's phonetic proclivities, it's particularly useful in puns. Don't get all wide-eyed; you've seen me do it twice:once above and once in my dispatch "Germ Whorefare." (Cf. previous peaches.) But don't get too impressed either. I certainly don't stand up to the Dorothy Parker challenge—absinthe and antifreeze

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1058055967522072692003-07-12T17:26:00.000-07:002003-07-12T17:30:34.650-07:00

Well, if it's Men's Health it must be true: the muscle spasms, sciatic shooting pains and femoral atrophy are of "psychic" origin. Forget the x-rays that suggest the need for an MRI, or the diagnosis of extant (degenerative) osteoarthritis in my spine. It's all in my head? It's all in my head!" Yeah, in my dreams. Otherwise, this dispatch is for one bayou-bound Victorian. From what I hear,

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1058045801829534282003-07-12T14:36:00.000-07:002003-07-12T14:48:49.033-07:00

I have to wonder: when is my back going to mend? Like the current administration's approval ratings, and perhaps George Tenet's self-esteem, my pain continues to fluctuate. If the cards are in my favor, I'll be seeing an orthopaedist this week—who, unlike my donkey of a chiropractor and well-meaning family and friends, will discuss curative rather than preventative measures. Not that I don't

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1057899867307824432003-07-10T22:04:00.000-07:002003-07-11T12:39:56.890-07:00

Enjoyed a few hours with Tyler this evening; we laughed; we didn't dance; but he did watch me drink and tell me a plan to stage farcical papal drama for Telemundo. Currently, there are two photographs of Tyler available online: there's the one he wanted me to use and there's the one I'm using. Despite all that blond hair, and that what-do-you-mean-Santa's-dead face, Tyler did manage to put my

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1057880731556183972003-07-10T16:45:00.000-07:002003-07-10T17:02:09.343-07:00

Like the title to this dispatch? I think it's charming—in the way I find charm in Lenny's "Huh huh, I like to pet the rabbit, George," and Shine's "Huh huh, whosealuckyboydaddyI'maluckyboydaddyha-a-a-a-ah." A student said this bit on identity about 8 hours into yesterday's 20 hour workday. The younger children were forced to work among the vertical looms, if only because their small limbs

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1057813948471075892003-07-09T22:12:00.000-07:002003-07-09T22:12:28.563-07:00

It's been a few days since my last dispatch; I apologize. I'm in the middle of another 65hr work week. Each day: 4 hrs of teaching, 2 or 3 hours of planning (or 4 hours of conferences) and then about 10 hours of grading papers. To quote Uncle Howie, with his operatic Brooklyn accent: "Well, Jawsh, that's whoy they cawl it wirk." It's 1am now; if I get to sleep by 5 I'm going to build God a

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1057636038292775802003-07-07T20:47:00.000-07:002003-07-08T05:39:25.020-07:00

Today was a complex day. As, like, I told my guidance counselor in high school, I'm just really emotionally like complicated and I don't think anyone really understands me or my vision for the mural. Eh, like close enough. For efficacy's sake, I'll itemize, which is itself a hegemonizing of various -izations. An aside: while teaching today, I noticed some lexical similarities between

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1057599549378455572003-07-07T10:39:00.000-07:002003-07-07T10:40:52.263-07:00

So on 19 August, Artie and I are seeing Belle and Sebastian play at Prospect Park. Izzy might be joining us; and if I like you, you should come too. Otherwise, I'm one foot out the door toward the doctor's office. I started teaching today—more on that some other time—and I started to feel the spasms in the last hour of instruction. You want learnin'? I'll learn you—I'll learn you real good.

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1057539806578807282003-07-06T18:03:00.000-07:002003-07-06T21:42:28.816-07:00

Professors Russom and Rooney, I, hence, disagree. Some sounds are inherently meaningful. Like "ick," "ack" and "Omigod, I went from having a lively night planned to being an alcoholic in a bar watching Fox." That last one is a single sound. Maybe a diphthong. So originally, I was supposed to have dinner with A this evening. But she had to cancel, so then I was planning to meet B and C

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1057510189236386682003-07-06T09:49:00.000-07:002003-07-06T09:58:12.460-07:00

I think I've finally gotten my web counter working. Fuck my luck, I'm pathetic—next thing you know I'll be checking Apple for updates on the aluminum 15" powerbook, going through Friendster withdrawal and seriously considering the possibility of internet dating. Uh, yeah. About that. In any event, I saw Nathalie do this once, so I'll try it now. Come on Google, Daddy needs...some attention

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1057506626849176792003-07-06T08:50:00.000-07:002003-07-06T09:33:02.213-07:00

The only thing on television right now is Star Trek: First Contact. And that's why this post is on books. Like Drew Barrymore, I'm usually reading several things at once. And like Ms Barrymore, I assume, I don't usually finish a given work—novels aside. But then again, I don't read too many novels in my spare time. Given my fragmented/ing reading habits, I find that non-fiction is much

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1057443353582961672003-07-05T15:15:00.000-07:002003-07-05T15:23:25.056-07:00

My sister left this afternoon. I'm sad to see her go: we ate lots; she gave me a wonderful birthday gift; she helped me try to hang a picture on the wall. Huh? Huh. And contrary to what she/you may think, I had a great time despite mounting evidence that... ...my back is again outward bound. Unfortunately, I had a Hoegaarden with lunch, so the soonest I can take Relafen or Valium is

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1057268249115173292003-07-03T14:37:00.000-07:002003-07-03T14:41:29.896-07:00

Yesterday, despite its shitty beginnings, turned out nicely. Thanks to Nathalie and Joel, for their voices and their time. God, if I weren't so me, I'd be getting sentimental. You'd be able to smell the emotional agon. I can't let this emulate the scenes cut from "Welcome to the Dollhouse." Director Todd Solondz's note to ugly leading girl: Your, uh, this thing's got to go. When did this

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1057159866229151912003-07-02T08:31:00.000-07:002003-07-02T11:38:10.430-07:00

A bird just shit in my hair and on the back of my neck. Not much shit, but enough. Enough.

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1057158103652638692003-07-02T08:01:00.000-07:002003-07-06T09:34:58.793-07:00

So while it still hurts, I think my back is now "in." But after 10 days of complete inactivity, I've gained six pounds; I've acquired the equivalent of a foetus. Then let's hear it in chorus, mes anges: ABORT! ABORT! ABORT! ...but aye, there's the rub: with my skanky Girl Scout of a chiropractor telling me to avoid physical activity for the next month, how do I go about this? Short of a coat

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1057115105896201022003-07-01T20:05:00.000-07:002003-07-01T20:22:03.543-07:00

I'm tired of reading articles on anti-bacterial soap. It does good things and it does bad things; we all know this. And rather than bicker over staph resistance, it seems that we soap users should focus on more important things—like people who don't use soap at all. However, and this comes from a boy who likes a little cavicidal excitement in his washroom, something does need to be done about

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1057090684929181272003-07-01T13:18:00.000-07:002003-07-02T12:08:26.616-07:00

Foucault and Laporte saw them coming: internet savvy Luddites. "Dude, after I graduate from Wharton and grab a few million in options by the time I'm 30, I'm gonna take the system down from the inside."

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1057081999721912852003-07-01T10:53:00.000-07:002003-07-01T20:18:32.073-07:00

I think it's at the end of "Clear and Present Danger," a Harrison Ford vehicle if I've ever rented one. Something like "Come on Jack, every hear of the old Potomac two-step?" "I'm sorry, Mr President. I don't dance." So it's one step forward, two steps back. Or one step forward, two steps back and then another two steps back just in case the plebes remember that they're living under martial

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1056913498816725192003-06-29T12:04:00.000-07:002003-06-29T15:46:19.136-07:00

So my birthday guests—Ted and Solon, bless their Hegeman-ic hearts—left a few hours ago. Still deadened by the diazepam, my goodbye was not as expressive as I would have liked. I wish I could have spent more time with them, wish I could see them more often. I wish I could have driven them around myself, rather than asking Josh, Ted and Jill to drive us around in my car. And I wish Arthur

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1056812245663672582003-06-28T07:57:00.000-07:002003-07-01T10:27:43.466-07:00

Like Jamie Lee Curtis in Trading Places, I suppose I'm getting used to this supine routine. My back pain has been constant since Monday; it's hard to say whether the Valium and Relafen are helping; and I'm worried that the "schmoogies" at the RI Hospital ER missed something. Or maybe this is a chiropractic thing. "The answer could be chiropractic," to quote my father, who is politely skeptical

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1056592113016015762003-06-25T18:48:00.000-07:002003-06-25T18:51:07.076-07:00

Valium can't get you love, get you into graduate school or get you assassinated by a bunch of hopped-up Beltway skanks. But it can make your back better. So yes: my back, while still painful, no longer feels like the victim of an ongoing episiotomy. God bless Rhode Island Hospital's Emergency Room, the fashion sense of its patients aside, and God take extra time to bless my savior Jill Pierce

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1056497118006143982003-06-24T16:25:00.000-07:002003-06-24T16:26:30.976-07:00

Bad day to be an anaphylact? Better than 25 million birds . Speaking of birds, several birds and I came to understanding today—much like le comte de Gobineau and his undoubtedly ethnic bankers. I think I was speaking to pigeons, but when you're willing to talk to birds, reality's specifics seem to lose their sway. For Providence, I said, I would give them Philadelphia. They refused; they

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1056493084062747512003-06-24T15:18:00.000-07:002003-06-24T16:41:38.320-07:00

At various points in the past few months, I've become a bit of a mailbox-baiter. Brown's mailroom punishes you by filling your mailbox twice a day; when I was waiting for graduate admissions letters, the final days of a process about as successful as Pepsi Blue, I was hitting the post office nearly every hour. Now, too, I'm waiting for a blue-suited and possibly disgruntled Santa. Things I'm

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1056420508625861632003-06-23T19:08:00.000-07:002003-06-23T19:47:02.710-07:00

"Alright, already, Peaches Malloy: we don't want anymore high school dispatches tonight." I'm hearing you, but I have one more. Please. I have nothing else these days. Tonight, food and company. I spent three wry hours with Karl Decker, whose English class I took in 1996 and '97. I don't know why he still talks to me—but I can say that Karl, who now lets me call him Karl, was one of those

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1056401562394375122003-06-23T13:52:00.000-07:002003-06-23T14:09:47.986-07:00

A teacher of mine once said that the easiest way to inspire abstinence was to make children ashamed of their bodies. I wonder now if her message was misdirected: Tainted love .

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1056398034534229842003-06-23T12:53:00.001-07:002003-06-23T19:11:56.323-07:00

Nathalie has shown me how to create linking text. Duly, I defer to her: www.nchicha.com/cupofchicha . Cup of Chicha is the Parnassus of inscribable space, and I'm doing my best to climb. For reference, I re-present yesterday's other link, brought to you by diphenhydramine HCl. Have a gander at it, Ms Kilgallen? www.jfkresearch.com/morningstar/killgallen.htm . Dotsy's plight was a curious one,

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1056340634803156552003-06-22T20:57:00.000-07:002003-06-23T14:00:41.636-07:00

NB: I'm not very good with technology; I don't know why my computer's clock is three hours slow. Under no circumstances did I take a sleeping pill at 8.50pm on a Sunday, so stop looking at me as if I were Dorothy Kilgallen. I thank Nathalie (www.nchicha.com/cupofchicha) for inspiring me to post links: www.jfkresearch.com/morningstar/killgallen.htm. PS NB: I'll add that I have no idea how to

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1056340178257111852003-06-22T20:49:00.000-07:002003-06-23T13:58:48.196-07:00

Waiting for an over-the-counter sleeping pill to take effect, I created a "blog." But blog is a really ugly word—much uglier than "scrotal," "mooch," "moola" or "luscious." So we'll call this my diary? Journal? I'll settle for "inscribable space."

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.com