Last night Laurie and I finished the first season of Gilmore Girls. We sat in silence for about five minutes, and then started freaking out because we desperately wanted the second season. It was around 10:30, and we were frustrated because we've been insomniacs for the last few weeks (being unemployed also means there's little to wake up for before noon), and we've spent the last couple days being enthralled with Rory's relationship with Dean and being mostly confused by Lorelai's random references that never seem to fit the context of whatever conversation she's having. We have the first two discs of the second season at the top of our Netflix queue, but we won't get them until Wednesday, and we seriously considered going to Blockbuster. Then, of course, we remembered that we don't have money because we've been unemployed for almost three months.
I would probably feel better about my unemployment if I could achieve a starving artist existence. Alas, I'm not artistic, nor do I write anything that doesn't go in a blog. I don't think "starving blogger" has the same effect.
I do, however, make many mix CDs with pretty liner notes for friends.
I was on The Facebook the other day and looking at everyone from my high school. My high school was very, very small. There were less than seven hundred students when I graduated. There are ninety-nine on Facebook, and it surprised me that Washington and Lee produced that many college-bound graduates, much less ninety-nine people who can type their names and interests into the Facebook profile editor.
I sort of have a job, though it's unpaid. I'm going to be contributing concert reviews to Angst magazine. I guess the woman who's publishing Angst was really desperate for writers, because she continued to email me after I sent her my resume. Also, she asked me what kind of music I liked and disliked. One of the bands I said I hated was My Chemical Romance. Guess who's on the first cover of Angst? Yup. Whoops.
Anyway, I'm writing a review of the Broken Social Scene / Feist show at the Metro on Friday. I'm going to spend the next few days reading pretentious Pitchfork Media concert reviews so I'll know what I'm doing. My friend Steve told me I should avoid using "awesome" in every sentence and use fancy words. I'm going to try for "transplendent."
I had a dream the other night that was very Po-Mo. I was sitting at an information desk of some sort and this eight-year-old boy came up and asked me what time it was. I looked at the clock, which said 7:20, and without thinking (you know how you just know things in dreams), I said, "It's New Porno Time." Of course this doesn't make any sense, nor is it particularly funny at all, but in my dream I laughed so hard that I dreamt that I woke up, found a piece of paper next to my bed, and wrote down "It's New Porno Time!"