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Saturday, November 16th, 2002
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12:24 pm - And another e-mail to the same girl
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Doped up on caffeine right now, apt to rant and ramble, digress and deviate. So I battle contradiction: sanguinary and langourous inclinations, bloodlust and laziness. Do I go speeding Keystone Kop-like down an avenue of words and wordplay (swordplay?)or do I say (merely, dryly, wryly)charily, how merrily I smiled when I saw that you had written me back.
How nice! Thinks I. And in a trice (a trice? what's a trice?) I am sitting and stringing words together like popcorn and cranberry at such a merry Christmas.
Now I see what you can, the two sides of the coin, my two emails together like Higgins and Doolittle, an unlikely pairing, though both fair. One from a poverty of words, the other with a wealth, a dearth, a hearth, a room somewhere.
Don't be disturbed. I'm not schizophrenic. Nor have I frontal lobe epilepsy. Dysfunction induced by a surfeit of swill, I swear.
As for the exploding dog, it was not so much demolition as dysentery, my verbal loghorhea connoting canine... It was a mess.
Well, if you haven't run screaming, teaming with tears and fears from your screen and keys, I believe you've passed through the gauntlet or took it up with glee.
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12:20 pm - An e-mail to a girl who FINALLY did egt back to me...
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There is a peculiar code shared among most men: Under no circumstances be "that guy". "That guy" is a state of being tough to describe, but you always know him when you see him. Oh no, you whisper to your friend, there's "that guy". Among men, "that guy" is usally the drunk trying to edge in on the pool table. Only rarely, it seems, is being "that guy" a benificence, so avoiding that state is kind of a Pascal's Wager, where even if you lose, you win.
"That guy" is a former stalker, a drunk who grabbed you in a bar. "That guy" stood you up. "That guy" spilled his drink on you and blamed you for it. And as much as you don't want to make eye contact with "that guy", we don't want to be him.
Another way to be "That guy" is to take to heart an ephemeral interest, pursue it with phone calls and e-mails until, finally, our objet d'infatuation, in a firm yet frightened voice suggests an eternal silence.
Which brings us to me. I do not want to be "That guy". I will not be "That guy" or be made to appear to be "That guy". And as rebellious against rules as I am against impingements upon our rights, there is a rule I am measured against. Three attempts. That's all I can give, tho' I wish like fishes I could give more. To do so would put me squarely in the "That guy" circle.
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| Sunday, May 19th, 2002
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2:54 pm
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I haven't written in a while; the past few months have been spent thinking about what went wrong with the text, how to salvage and, if possible, repair it. In a pique, I decided to renounce the first person present and try a dissociative thrid person limited past instead. Truth be told, I chose it more for its tradition and the the ease of its technique than for any other reasons. Continuing the revelations, I think I chose first person present because I'd been reading and re-reading Survivor and Fight Club. More, however, I can do with third person. Plot development, character development, theme extrapolation, narrative description; these can all be more easily accomplished in a distanced voice. Thanks to the Futurists and the Surrealists, the post-Modernists and the Deconstructionists, there is an arsenal of technique available to the third person voice. There are fewer problems to solve with third person and the obstacles I've met with have offered few, if any, satisfactory solutions. Finally, it came to me to fall back on this, more classical, mode. We find the story much the same, starting differently, ending similarly.
I just want to tell it well.
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| Tuesday, February 19th, 2002
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10:59 pm - Not the story....
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When my father drove away with my older brother in the car, going for the summer, a summer tour across America, I loved and hated him like no one before or since. The postcards from Carlsbad Canyons, the Badlands, Zion National Park, the Alamo and all those other places I never went as child I received as a child and my heart leapt at their arrival and bowed as I tacked them carefully to the wall. On the reverse side of the faces of Mt. Rushmore in my fathers' tightly woven script, a personal note, saying next summer was to be mine. Toward the end of that summer - I wish I could remember the exact date - on one of those perfect summer afternoons where the sun lingers above you and warms your skin as cool beads of sweat roll down both your forehead and the sides of your glass of pink lemonade - I learned, though no one ever told me, that next summer would never be mine. I fell when walking inside, for a comic book, for a cookie, I'll never remember what, but I fell. The doctor at the clinic told my mother it was heat-stroke, but two nights later, covering my little body with ice, he recanted. Scarlet fever. Panic on my mothers' face, tears rolling down her cheeks as she applied a compress to my head remains the one unfragmented memory of that unbinding week. Cold blankets and ice baths and delerium, all of us in a struggle to keep the living alive, my mother discovered the mothre within her, the coveting protectiveness that defined all my future rebellions. At the end of the summer, after my clothes and sheets and playthings had been put to blaze, my father returned my brother home to us. He tousled my hair and asked how my summer was, did I get all the postcards. I answered as the dutiful son, neglecting to tell him that my mother had kept me alive while he was sight-seeing. And then I went inside because, that summer, outside was a frightening place, and I had no trust in my father as a protecting and vengeful god any longer. I held him in disdain, thinking of him infrequently and then only in terms of his death and my subsequent inheritance, throughout the rest of my adolescence. The next summer did come but I declined the adventure, prefering instead to stay close to home, rough-housing through the neighborhood. He did ask me why I chose not to go and I remember my answer well. "Mom's not feeling well," I told him. "I don't want to go while she's sick." There was a silence on his end of the line finally broken by a grudging assent. August came and my mother was not getting well. We children foraged in a refrigerator filled infrequently. It was years later I learned my mother had a heart disease that summer that nearly killed her. Sometimes, when the sun lingers above me and warms my skin, regardless of season, I think about the summers of life I shared with my mother. There are memories of emotions, recollections without images or sounds, that I feel, decades later, as stridently as I felt them then. These are moments I want to cry for no reason, laugh just to feel the joy of joy.
Today, in the half-light of winter when even direct sun seemed to be filtered through cheesecloth, I felt the warmth of it, the numinous touch of the suns' rays. I went inside, smiling from sadness and I laid down on the bed with my dog.
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| Sunday, February 3rd, 2002
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9:35 am - Disgust
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I am disgusted. When Vassili is snoring softly in his bed, I nudge you awake and send you to him. Then, alone again in the almost complete darkness of the hotel room, I am finally able to cry and to sleep.
Mornings are rebirth. Waking is resurrection. Morning is renewal. Cliche, cliche, fucking dumbass cliche. Morninbg is betrayal. Waking is revolt. Morning is the Fall that renders us from the exquisite. In the fogged mirror of the morning, face half lathered, I realize who is who. I am Moloch. I am for open war. And I cook and clean and that pale hue of resolution is made opaque and thus does heroin make cowards of us all.
Backseat bound. My silence intimidates you to speech, Anjelica, and as you relate your youth to the stoic man beside you, I think, "Stockholm Syndrome."
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| Tuesday, January 29th, 2002
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9:39 pm - I toook it too.. Hmmmm.
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9:09 pm - Waking
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I wake in the back seat, my face in a bloodstain of my own making. I wake with with every hate and resentment renaissanced. All it takes is opening my eyes, Anjelica, and I see you're bent again across the emergency brake, going down again. I see his eyes in the rear-view and our eys connect and I see them cringe in a smile. Adjusting the mirror down to where I can see the back of your head, he breathes so deeply and quickly I can hear him despite the open window, he seems to think I want to watch. Like I really fucking want to watch. I close my eyes.
In Cleveland, Anjelica and I take turns using the shower in our hotel room at the La Quinta near the airport. We are waiting for Vassili to come back, switching channels listlessly, finally resting on the new Tom Hanks movie. "I don't remember you being this angry," you are saying over a pathetic moment. "I wasn't. Now, I have good reason to be." "What? You're ugly? "Sure." "And that's it?" "All I'm ready to admit to." Two men hugging on screen, slapping each other's backs. "So there's other reasons?" "Aren't there always?" "I suppose." And there's a sweet moment where the ingenue smiles sweetly and baffles the hero in a parting moment. Shortly she sleeps, leaving me wondering what else has me angry, what else beyond the obvious, those things that, when tallied, create a sum as great or greater than my misanthropy.
1) I am ugly. Children have replaced women in their pointing and staring; 2) Vassili is effortlessy beautiful; 3) Anjelica (dumb cunt) is in love with him; 4) Comprehension of speech is slow. All tongues stuttering against understanding; 5) I haven't had an erection in months; 6) I am intimidated by my own thoughts and their strange constructions; 7) I owe my every excitement to a man I hold in disdain; 8) Abandoned by self-identity, I exist in a state of anxiety, slowly terrified by and for the imminent transformative, liminal moment that I am afraid will mow me down; 9) I can't kick loneliness;
And, if this all weren't enough:
10) My only reprieve from self-torture is my kidnapper's touch.
Vassili pads into the room on cats feet, an entrance that wants for a bell and a ball. "You're awake," he says, tossing a vial onto my chest. "I got you something," his voice is slurring and I am smelling scotch from his breath or clothes. "Thanks," I say, feeling for my shoes alongside the bed and dropping the vial into one of them. "I'm going to shower." "Ok." "Do you want to?" "No." And I wonder if this is 11) I don't know what I want. "If you change your mind." And he closes the door behind him. I listen to the water start, the change in tone as he steps into the tub. I listen for the entire thing, keeping my imagination above the waist.
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5:14 am - Bleeding
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Again, Vassili doesn't care if I get blood on the seats. The cuts on my hand won't stop bleeding so we pull off the US Interstate to find a pharmacy, for antiseptics, for bandages, for other things. Vassili grabs a tin of Danish sugar cookies and a twelve-pack of Trojans, ultra sensitive, lubricated condoms. Anjelica, after a chat with the pharmacist in the back room, manages to get the abortion pill. While she's doing that, Vassili and I browse the syringes. So, laden with bandages, alcohol, antibiotic creams, cookies, condoms, abortion remedies, we approach the Kathy at the counter, who scrutinizes our purchases as I ask for a pack of non-filtered cigarettes and pull out my amex. Vassili says, "I don't think any man has bought me condoms before." Anjelica laughs for the first time since the park. "Isn't there a kind of social contaract thing, prohibiting that?"
"Unless," I offer, trying on a butch-yet-swish voice, "Unless they were for us," italicizing and underscoring with tone the "for us".
"I don't want to know who they're for, " the Kathy says tonelessly.
"I don't either," I say signing my name to the slip.
"Thanks. Have a nice day," the Kathy says and walks away, back to restock her Leggs eggs.
"Doesn't she want to know who's having the abortion?" you ask us quietly as we leave.
Vassili opens the trunk and we put the stuff we don't need immediately in it. Including a syringe package that he pulls from inside his jacket. I'm very excited about that.
Our next stop is for lunch, a truck stop off I-90. Despite relaxing in the bathroom. Fuck it. Despite getting high, shooting up, fixing in the bathroom my appetite is sufficient for a half a grilled cheese sandwich with tomato and a few of the fries that came alongside like a surprise.
"You guys make me feel like such a pig," you say throwing the last of your burger down.
"Vassili, what are eatting?"
"Cottage cheese and melon."
"Christ, you guys are going to give me a complex."
"Hey. He's eatting cheese." But we're just offering distractions. Truth is, we're both losing weight, getting trim, slim, firming up. Neither of us have kicked our exercise habits and I still go through my sit-ups, push-ups, leg stretches, crunches, and Vassili still skips rope, shadow-boxes, crunches, stretches and twists.
"I envy you," I say to you, turning to Vassili, "She can eat anything she wants, doesn't exercise and look at her."
"A miracle of nature," he says and you, you dumb bitch, you blush.
"Sure, or she's doing Kegels all day to burn the calories off and isn't that a thought?"
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| Monday, January 28th, 2002
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5:40 am
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And there's a stranger behind my eyes, a murderous vagabond, a hobo preying on local children. And there's a song in my heart, one I've never heard, with lyrics abusive, obscene, evoking images of autopsy tables. And there's a little hop in my step.
We tour Cedar Point and, after a while, I'm able to relax, the muscles of hate losing their tension despite Vassili and Anjelica's fawning over one another. I sit alone or by strangers on the rollercoasters while they sit behind me, laughing. I put my elbow into a teenage nose when his screaming of the word "fuck" becomes just that much too much.
"Shut the fuck up," I tell him, leaning in close, scarred and menacing. Then he's a little boy, all intimidated silence, sitting next to me, dripping blood onto his lettermans jacket, looking down at his hands.
Vassili has to show the gun to keep the friends off me.
We leave the park and, Anjelica, you are vapid in your sulking where Vassili and I are crowing our victory.
"I see you smash that kid and I'm thinking, the fuck?"
"He was such a bitch about it. Grabbing his friends like that."
"When they all came up to you-"
"That was nuts. Scared the shit out of me."
"I knew I had to do something."
With Vassili interposing between me and the group of them, I hit the kid again. He dropped, eyes open, eyes rolling.
"I'm still shaking. Look at this."
"You're bleeding. Never hit someone in the mouth. look you cut your hand on his teeth."
"Can we just go," you complain.
We get in the car. I ride shotgun for the first time this trip.
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5:20 am
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| Friday, January 25th, 2002
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8:20 pm
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You Can't Catch Death
You can't catch death She whispered, her arms around my shoulders Legs knotted behind mine You can't catch death she whispered, as my tears wetted my cheek wetted her cheek You can't catch death You can't catch death And her voice was as song As her skin was smooth And her breasts were as soft As her belly was flat And her lips were as red As her hair was black And her breath as sweet As her taste was sweet And she whispered, her arms around my shoulders, Legs knotted behind my knees, You can't catch death.
And you can't catch death I whisper in our bed her pillow abandoned her side unruffled You can't catch death I whisper, half smiling half crying, tears wet on my cheek You can't catch death You can't catch death And her voice was as song As her skin was smooth And her breast were as soft As her belly was flat And her lips were as red As her hair was black And her breath was as sweet As her laugh was sweet Early in the night she said You can't catch death
You can't catch death she said holding my hand, knowing it was important hoping I would believe tears wetting her cheek tears wiped away You can't catch death.
Catch me, I'm dying she said. Catch me, I'm dying
And you can't catch death Though you wish you could And though her skin was smooth And her voice as song And her breast were as soft As her belly was flat And her lips were as red As her hair was black And her breath was as sweet You can't catch death
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1:02 am - Loneliness...
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We stand in line, the first of many, and Vassili jokes about with a teenager there with a younger sibling. You, Anjelica, your exhiliaration is pathetic. You hop and sway and kick your feet and I can't stand it. But, with the heroin I can barely stand at all and I lean against the rope and my head drops and I drool, just a little. Vassili wipes my chin and flips the spittle off his hand with a whip of his wrist. "Do you think this is a good idea?" I ask him. "You not feeling well?" "I don't know." "Keep me informed," he says. "What are you guys talking about?"
With a gun in your back standing in line for a roller coaster has less charm, I imagine, than without. With a gun in your back, standing in line for anything becomes a little more tedious. It's not actually in my back. It's tucked in his waistband, but the feeling of being owned exagerates the reality of the situation. Especially with him behind me, talking to me, touching my arm, pointing my attention here and there. He wants to know what it was like growing up here. He wants to know how I feel. He wants to know if I'm angry with him. He wants to know if I was okay with his hand on my cock. "You're the one with the gun," I say and we're at the front of the queue, climbing into the carriage, securing ourselves behind the behind the bar.
Anjelica is a screamer. Vassili hoots. I am embarrased and silent chagrine and can't seem to kill the feeling of loneliness in this joyous and moronic crowd.
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| Wednesday, January 23rd, 2002
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9:14 am - And so ends part 1 What happens next?
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I'm taking notes and writing down ideas, but if y'all are worried, don't be. Ari and Vassili and Anjelica's adventures will continue shortly.
Meanwhile I just got a job at he Bellevue Art Museum. supervising the cafe, a near-management position. Pretty exited about everything but the early morning commute.
That commute starts next week. Which explains why I'm sitting here at 9:15 am.
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| Saturday, January 19th, 2002
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2:12 am - Just a question....
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2:10 am - Meanwhile back in Cedar Point
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Vassili doesn't drive, has Anjelica do it. Instead, he sits in the back seat with me, giving directions and proclaiming how much the bullet hurt him. "Damn," he says, slapping my thigh. "I thought it would hurt, but it feels like someone took a bat to my ribs." "Someone once took a bat to my face," I say. "And you look it," Anjelica says from the front, her lips smiling, parting, showing teeth, in the rear-view mirror. Vassili cooks for two and Anjelica, you moron, you don't even notice. When you finally do, someweher outside Santa Cruz, Vassili says, Diabetic, it's just insulin. You believe him, believing being easier than knowing the truth behind the lie. We're not there, not there, not yet. We're still in Ohio, on the Cedar Point Causeway, heading north by northwest. This is a place I know though it is an old man shrunk with time, not what it was. I know we will see the convention hall through the trees when we come around this bend, the place where Helen Keller gave the Lion's Club something to do. Behind it, the Colliseum and atop it the Ballroom where Ozzie Nelson played the night my grandparents met, dancing swing while all of America listened on the NBC Radio network Holding my grandfathers hand and crossing the heavily trafficked street of dreams at the intersection with Remembrance Avenue, walking through the park and following his wistful fingers with my eyes, I listened as he told me of the depression and learning to be a man at Cedar Point. Riding the Cyclone, drinking at the bar of the Hotel Breakers, dancing to Les Brown with the prettiest girls Ohio had to offer, even kissing one of them behind the, well, I don't remember where. Only kiss before grandmother, he said. And I can see the convention center now, old and beautiful and you say, "What's that?" And I answer, "That's the place my grandparents fell in love." Vassili's hand is inside my pants and the warmth of his fingers cupping my balls is comforting. He says, "Let's go there." "It's an amusement park." Anjelica laughs, "You mean roller coaters?" There they are, just there beyond the hotel, next to the Ferris wheel. "Yeah. There's fourteen coasters here." "Fourteen?" Vassili's head rolls over and sits askew his shoulder. "That's a lot." "It's the American record. Maybe world." "Can we ride all of them?" you ask, your lips aiming at Vassili while his one of his fingers rubs my perineum delicately. "Three are for children. But we can ride all the others, technically." "Why not?" Vassili says, sitting up, his hand coming out of my jeans. "Let's do it." "Just so long as no one gets shot, please." "Nobody'll get shot, " he says and smells his finger. Then kisses it.
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| Friday, January 18th, 2002
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5:23 pm - Here's another "poem"
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A War of Plenty
When I was young I wrote Tanka toys, Songs of tractors and fire engines Designed in Japan, manufactured here at home.
In high school I wrote Haiku-kies In French class, of pastries and hors-doevres Little bites of emotion and solitude College was more homespun with The indigenous limerick canvassing The ruled lines of my notebook. Re-writing Marvell and Donne and Heine There was no reason to make the more ludicrous.
And there were the translations Made with the awkward and uncomprehending help Of the foreign students in the cafeteria Shakespeare in kSwahili Brautigan in Tagalog Borges and Neruda in Slovenian
Posted on the message boards The chalkboards The job boards Guerilla poetry, a war of plenty Political and absurd, done for the laugh The embarrassed laugh and tear Of the young Russian student Who had never had the opportunity to read "Relentless as a Tarantula" or "An Ode upon my Socks."
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| Wednesday, January 9th, 2002
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9:14 am - It's easy to get to Cedar Point (Taken from the Cedar Point Park Web Site)
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It's easy to get to Cedar Point! We are located on a Lake Erie peninsula, midway between Cleveland and Toledo in Sandusky, Ohio. Take the Ohio Turnpike (I-80) to Exit 118(7) and follow the signs north on U.S. 250, or take Exit 110(6A) and follow Route 4 north. Once you get to Sandusky, just follow the signs to the Cedar Point Causeway. The ride of the century! Millennium Force set the amusement industry on fire when it debuted in 2000 as the tallest and fastest roller coaster on planet Earth. Standing a skyscraping 310 feet tall and eclipsing legal speed limits at 93 mph, this towering steel thrill machine is just the latest in a storied history of world-record-breaking roller coasters at Cedar Point.
Millennium Force takes its eager riders on a 2-minute, 20-second journey over 6,595 feet of brilliant blue track that winds its way along the Frontier Trail and onto an inner island in the center of the park. Termed a "giga coaster" for its enormous height, Millennium Force broke a whopping 10 world records when it debuted, stunning thrill-seekers around the world. More than 1.7 million riders went "full force" in 2000.
OPENING YEAR: 2000 PHYSICAL DIMENSIONS: Track Length: 6,595 feet Lift Height: 310 feet Angle of Lift Hill: 45 degrees Vertical Drop: 300 feet Angle of Descent: 80 degrees Second Hill Height: 169 feet Third Hill Height: 182 feet DESIGN: Model: Out-and back coaster Structure: Steel tubular track Features: Tiered seating on the coaster's cars for better viewing (similar to stadium seating); 122-degree overbanked turns (extremely banked, but not quite inverted); Two tunnels; Elevator cable system; first of its kind in the world; New magnetic braking system TIME AND SPEED: Time: 2 minutes, 45 seconds (approximately) Speed: 92 mph (approximately) VEHICLES: Coaches: Nine four-passenger coaches on each train; Three 36-passenger trains Design: Stainless steel coaches with lap bars and seat belt 10 WORLD RECORDS: Tallest roller coaster (310 feet) Fastest roller coaster (93 mph) Longest drop on a roller coaster (300 feet) Most roller coasters at one park (14) Most rides at one park (68) First roller coaster to top 300 feet Most steel roller coasters at one park (12) Most roller coaster track at one park (44, 013 feet) First coaster to utilize elevator lift system
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| Monday, January 7th, 2002
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9:32 am - A little rant
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"Do you know we live in a time that is opening? I know that's a poor metaphor but try and follow me. No. Try and join me. Lots of people say that we're at an eschaton. They don't say we're at an eschaton, they say we're living at the end of history, which is an eschaton, it's what an eschaton is. An end of history. The end of history. Eschaton. I, I don't think that's so. No. Even after looking at the other side I think, no. No. History is opening to us. We're making it. We, I mean, not me, not you, but we, us, are making it, history. We have dropped the prurience (I love that word, prurience) of our progenitors and we're if not embracing than at least enveloping things that we've, you know, as a civilization, marginalized.
Ron Jeremy was on the "Weakest Link." This proves my theory. I'm right. A friend of mine told me that he wanted to meet and marry a porn queen. (Laughter) He said, "I want Jenna Jameson to fall in love with me." We are so enamored with celebrity that we create celebrity where there is none. I, I could be famous! You, behind the scenes, the writer, the slam poet, the avant garde sculptor , the producer of "That seventies show", are all, you know, on a quantum level, potential celebrities. Warhol was right about his fifteen minutes, but he missed the great, the great, the great aspect of it. Which is that when everyone can be a celebrity, what they do becomes celebrated. All that stuff marginalized is moved to the center and is exposed. Exposeed. Imagine.
So you're your average, run-of-the-mill, adjectival grave-digger. And some talent-scout sees you, some news reporter takes video of you rescuing your neighbors cat, and you got the it, whatever that is, at the moment. Then suddenly the media. The media takes it and celebrates you, what you do, you know, the fifteen years you've put in at Soylent Greens working in coveralls and driving a mini tractor. That fame doesn't last, but it calls attention, a cultural attention to whatever it is that you do. And though your star may fade, that information sticks around a lot longer than you do.
Ron Jeremy was on prime time. Prime Time. Not everyone watching the show knows that he ever did anything before those cameos on Baywatch. But, a good many people watching have seen this man, well, well. You know.
The point is that my friend wants to marry a porn star. That porn star is probably trying to break into television or music and she doesn't know. She doesn't know that it doesn't matter anymore, or is really beginning to not matter. I don't know what it all means, but I'm sure it means that history is not ending. There's just, there's five billion people and more every minute of every day. And they haven't even been looked at, much less interviewed, interrogated, and exposeed. And with all the media in the world, it'll never happen. I say that when we all wake up and realize that what Warhol should have said, "everyone wants to be famous for fifteen minutes" that we can put that desire away. We don't have to want it. We won't chase it. We won't need it. We'll be famous by accident. Our culture will keep getting richer. By accident.
I thought my friend, I think my friend was wrong. I've met the women he goes out with. He needs to rent a Lexus Locklear movie. I just don't think Jenna's right for him."
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| Sunday, December 30th, 2001
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1:08 pm - I found this. How cool is it?
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Crime Scene Cleaners Inc provides efficient, detailed, and courteous service to homeowners and landlords. Our remediation methods insure that the property or dwelling will be safely usable within the shortest possible time.
We pride ourselves on prompt, professional service, and back all of our work with a 100% satisfaction guarantee.
Homicide, Suicide, and Accidental Death Remediation: Cleaning, disinfecting, and removal of all contaminated items to restore the scene to a safe, non-biohazardous state.
Distressed Property Rehabilitation: contaminated property cleanup including persistent or reoccurring odor abatement. We also coordinate post sampling to obtain a Certificate of Fitness to release the premises for habitation.
Hantavirus Prevention: The aftereffects of rodent infestation can bring potentially lethal exposure to Hantavirus spread by infected rodents. Our professional cleanup teams utilize HazMat techniques to remove and dispose of all remains of rodent infestation as mandated by State and Federal regulations, including post cleanup sampling.
Fingerprint Dust Removal: Removal of fingerprint dust after evidence technicians have powdered the area.
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| Saturday, December 29th, 2001
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8:17 am - Where do we go from here?
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