:: a.whisper.in.water ::

:: Friday, August 22, 2003 ::

So much to say. So much to say. So much to say. ::blam::
Starting at the beginning (which, I've been told, is a very good place to start indeed), the last two days in Boston were quite nice indeed; it would be hard for any couple to see their favorite band together and not feel to some degree in step again. I paid in emotional discomfort for being a guy, but these things pass far more quickly, and we were on the best of terms before I left. Incidentally, the two of us pushed Bookworm to its utter limits, and reached level 34 or something, though the ranks only go up to 32 (Bookworm Supreme); beyond that a small sheriff's star appears at the lower-right of the towering bookworm numbering its redundancy.

The last day found us in Boston itself (which really should happen more often), at the aquarium, which posed a challenge to my photography skills. Aquariums fucking rock; we spent some 2-3 hours simply wandering around, not reading as much as we should, but just enjoying what there was to see and admire. A giant turtle swam away with my heart, and there were seals aplenty outside (actually perhaps 3, though it only takes one to melt your heart and steal your wallet. Fucking seals.) to accompany nature's ostensibly-born-to-cuddle mammal, the sea otter. Some giant fucking grouper greeted us after the doormen-penguins (and their accompanying smell; one dropped a disgusting white deuce all over the rocks as soon as I walked in, sending me into middleschool hysterics. Come on, it's a shitting penguin); the museum was definitely set up well as far as placing the shock-and-amaze exhibits at the front, though Our favorite was one full of mantas and a few stone groovy fish, not to be confused with stonefish, which are ugly, poisonous motherfuckers indeed. There was a touching-type exhibit with what must have been the most disease-ridden starfish readily available for human contact (you put yourself in a small tank and allow snotnosed 4-year-olds to handle you improperly and see how you turn out), which naturally didn't prevent me from picking it up and getting chastised for not holding it deep enough underwater, such that it wasn't quite able to breathe. Oops. Some sort of Caribbean fish housed within the giant, awesome spiral-down tank in the middle of the aquarium with the most fucked up mouth and teeth wouldn't leave me alone, causing me some degree of irk. A giant manta ray scared the bejesus out of some poor Asian lady by swooping up out of nowhere, and a puffer fish was described as ghetto-fabulous by a woman behind us, bringing us no end of joy.

Beyond that, there was a fair time spent in Cambridge revisiting a lot of places we'd gone before, including the spot behind some hall or other on Harvard's campus where we cuddled the second time we met (it was a Monday, and I'd seen MIT and Harvard earlier that day...that's a memory to take to the grave for certain) and the Science building where much debating took place on account of the Harvard Invitational Student Congress being held there. I wore the infamous Mexicoat to it, though it now resides in my basement. I don't know that I feel like wearing it much anymore; I don't really have to in order to express individuality, and I'm loud enough to be socially unnerving anyway. It's earned me enough flak, including one most-memorable "nice bathrobe, faggot" from some punk-ass punk outsider the Garage, which we revisited too, though (lucky for him) that kid was gone. Coming back to Harvard was quite nice, as far as Memory Lane is concerned, though there's not a ton to do for the stagnant socializer. After coming home on a wicked crowded bus, there was an attempt at a relaxing dip in a cooling pool, which was in reality a ball-jarring flail-fest in a frozen-ass pool. Jenny did her best to stay awake, but simply has too much good-student reflex that keeps her on a normal schedule, though we did catch the cute-when-not-annoying The Mexican, which featured a miscast Julia Roberts doing her best Cameron Diaz. Whalrp. After that was a bit of packing and an early ride into Logan Airport in Tristan's souped-up frankencar, which, as sweet as it is, feels rather cobbled together. The leaking steering fluid that boils off the engine every time the car stops is a strong contributor to that factor, as is the Tropicana carton holding up the studio monitor doubling as a speaker in the trunk. Oh, which reminds me: Happy Birthday Kelley!

It's rather sad, seeing a sunrise from the inside of an airport terminal over the airplane taking you away from a wonderful week. Oh well. Until next time...I Love You, and I hope the wisdom teeth surgery aftereffects wear off soon...I miss you.

Harkening back to a conversation had long, long ago wherein I argued that the truth, in an ideal world, should always be told, I should have lied. With the very mentioning of Philip Gautier, my mom has undergone a full-fledged transformation into the paranoid, suspicious harridan of high school days gone, the only known cure for which is (mercifully) college, which I leave for in a week or so. It's been nice; I've seen him twice in the past two days, and though he's certainly not the same Phil I knew in high school, I'm far from the same Aziz (a point of no small pride, really), which means that it's rather doubtful that the breed of philosophical conversations I romanticized and cherished will re-emerge. I mischaracterized his remarks from before; he's not sick of folks who do drugs, he just needed a change of pace from the tedium of the drug-folk with which he hangs out. Yesterday was little more than my registering my total amazement and reflexively driving to the C&O canal where so much walking was done before. Though I walked a ways, the conversation was a little forced; he was stoned. There were also far too many cobwebs for my princess-personality to successfully ignore; Boney and I found ourselves clawing webs off ourselves while the stolid Phil walked on. After seeing him off back at his place (and eating more duplex cookies...the loneliest fridge ever is in his apartment, and has naught but a carton of whole milk), I wasted a perfectly good evening and played fucking Budokai in Boney's basement. Oh well. Until next time...

Tonight was dinner at a superb Lebanese place, followed by a short stint at Barnes & Noble (where we ran into Elizabeth Kline and Becky Wald, of all people), and a longer one at Tower Records, where I basically picked out a bunch of CDs for Phil. I crave a job where someone with too much money pays me a small fee for every CD I get them that they love, and CDs they hate get taken out of my total salary. Personal music consultant? Absurd, but dollars to doughnuts they exist. Incidentally, I sent Phil home with RDJ, Orbital's Brown Album, License to Ill, and (it thrills me every time someone buys it, much less fucking PHIL. Where has this kid BEEN? Wait, I know that know) OK Computer. At least I didn't get smelled when I came home tonight, though I didn't fail to point out that mom was treating me rather poorly since she heard Phil was alive (tonight I lied, having learned my fucking lesson).

Though it's a recycled link from the ever-useful Fark, this is still rather tragic, in much the same way that the poor so-called "Star Wars Kid" turning out to be damaged by his being mocked viciously across the world (who would have known?) to the point of needing therapy and spending some time in an asylum is tragic, only worse. As it turns out, my new CD player was shipped, only to Haverford, which is almost okay, really. I don't have to worry about transporting it. In a total pleasant surprise, Kazaa has oodles of old Bugs Bunny cartoons for the downloading, as if you don't get enough on Cartoon Network.

As it is, I'm trying to establish a decent routine that I can take back to school in the few days I have before actually going there. Anne, I hope you're still up for library time and running together...

Music: Massive Attack - Man Next Door.

:: Aziz 6:34 PM [+] ::
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