Destination Unknown

6.4.2k2



"Life is so strange when you don't know
How can you tell where you're going to
You can't be sure of any situation
Something could change and then you won't know

You ask yourself

Where do we go from here
It seems so all too near
Just as far beyond as I can see
I still don't know what this all means to me

So you tell yourself

I have nowhere to go
I don't know what to do
And I don't even know the time of day
I guess it doesn't matter any way

Life is so strange
Destination unknown
When you don't know
Your destination
Something could change
It's unknown
And then you won't know
Destination unknown

You ask yourself

When will my time come
Has it all been said and done
I know I'll leave when its my time to go
Till then I'll carry on with what I know
Life is so strange
Life is so strange"



Yeh, somebody else wrote it. I ain't claimin' anything but the truth of it. See ya tonight at: The Hyde-Out

Bang your gavel

6.3.2k2


I’m moving, right, so everything in the apartment is in total flux. Thank Jeebus I got a good setta speakers on the Mac and a ton of mp3’s, ‘cause the stereo’s been packed deep in a cardboard box with a wadded-up ream of that blank newspaper, a bulk pac of powdered soup, all the coasters in the joint and the few comic books I’ve deemed worthy of keeping. Do you purge when you move?
I’m compelled to purge. Remember that compressed-air bike horn I bought and fucking loved for about a week? Cocksucker had to go. (MS Word didn’t underline “cocksucker” like it did “Jeebus,” “setta” and “pac.” That makes you think, yes?) The horn made the move from Chicago to ‘Frisco, and from the old joint to the new one. Ain’t gonna make it to the next one, though. Neither is a huge box of Tupperware, half of my Macintosh collection or a cool, vintage raincoat I got for ten bucks in Old Flagstaff back in ’89. My relationship with a lot of my clothes has run its course. I’m purging about 40 T shirts, numerous pants, shorts and sweaters, as well as a legion of socks. All told, the donation pile filled a car. Add to that the stuff I threw away and you might think I’ve purged most of my stuff. Nope. I still got some thirty-odd boxes, bed, couch, book cases, blah, blah, blah. Good thing I don’t have a basement full of junk. Or an Attic. There’d be no end to the junk I’d amass.

News: “Got a call from Ced on Monday evening requesting TNSC to be in the Mission somewhere near the Voodoo Lounge (Mission X 25th & 26th. His friend Elmer is hosting a band at the Voodoo Lounge and is trying to pack the place (I have no idea how big it is). The cover charge is $8.” So sayeth Founding Member Alan J. Chimenti. What Ced told me is that the cover will be comped and that Elmer will buy you a free drink if you go. I’m in. So, okay, “Attic” first, then Voodoo later. Got it? (Gratuitous explanation necessary for some list members who get confused. Alan.)

Tricked a few of you (Alan) with last week's Find the Reference! Some of you math geeks saw through it.

That’s all for now. Packing. Busy. See you at Attic. bye-ee!

Pi

6.2.2k2


Well I don’t know about you but I can spot them telemarketers and junk phonecall jocks a mile away these days and I ain’t relying on no fancy-ass caller ID-type boxes, gadgets or displays to do it. Nope. I do the old fashioned “wait for the pause,” and if there is a pause after you pick up the ringing handset and say something like “Uh, hullo” then you slam that sucker back down onto the receiver or like me you emphatically push the “end” button over and over until the handset thinks you’ve lost motor faculty and starts wailing a pitiful “beep beep beep beep.” Don’t even give those punks a chance to take the call over from their computer. After all, it is the computer that’s calling. It likely places one million calls at the same time on the chance there’s some boob gonna pick up. When boob does, HAL pokes the punk in the ass, probably with a mild electric shock, and says in that voice, “Someone has picked up the phone; now enabling audio channels. You are on the air.” That’s the pause. It takes precisely 3.4 seconds for the computer to say those sentences, shock the punk, and enable the punk’s mic. That’s how long it takes me to flush the call.

Or not, sometimes. Like the other day. I answered the phone in a funny voice; a labored, sort-of Mexican accent through clenched teeth. “Bueno,” I said in that voice. Then the pause. I was game for a change. 3.2, 3.3, 3.4: “Hullo. May I speak to Jish Joston?” said the punk. “Bueno?” I said again.
“Yes, uh, Jish Joss-ton?”
“No. Momentitty.” I said and waited 3.4 seconds. “Bulla?” (This time it was a kind of Apu. Retarded Apu.) “Bulla?”
“Is this Jish Jos ... Joss-ton”
“Yub. Dissis Dosh Doshdon.”
“Yeh, uh, ‘hullo Miss Joss-ton, Um calling for Discover Card ...“
I angrily interrupt: “Bissus? Youb calla be Bissus? Lookit her! I dotta Bissus youb!”
The punk freaked. “Oh, I’m sorry! Uh ... ‘hullo MISTER Joss-ton, I’m calling for Discover Card ...”
Again I interrupt, as I’ve had about enough: “Yes, okay. I hab the cod. I hab the cod. Thank youb! Yes.”
The punk says, “No, uh, I know you have the card, Miss, uh, MISTER Joss-ton, we just wanna, uh, give you ...”
“Yes. Thank youb. I hab the cod. I hab the cod. Thank you. Yes, okay.” Then I hung up. It seemed I was about to be in it for a haul, and I wasn’t that bored.

Please come celebrate Founding Member Alan J. Chimenti’s birthday where he was born: Lutheran General, South City

News: Thanks to Venue Announcement pinch-hitter Mossy! Impressive work, Miss ... uh, MISTERS! (That Japanese cock-Flash thing was weird and disturbing.)

Porn Title of the Week: City of Anals

Tonight’s Singled-Out List Member: Mo!

Yeh. See you tonight. I feel nice. bye-ee!