packing

Man, was it ever a bad idea to work two days after getting back from Maine and before moving out of my apartment. This won't make much sense without some context. The rest of my vacation in Maine was pretty awesome. Zach, Jess, and Nicole came up to hang out with Katie and I, and we had a great time. We did all the normal tourist-type shit: went to the beach, perused the tourist traps and little shops, and drank obscene amounts of alcohol. Not much else to do in York Beach, but the company was good and so was the weather. So very relaxing.

Then back to Boston. Uck. Hot. Work. Bad. Katie left for western Mass so she could pack. I stayed to slog through two shifts and finish packing up my apartment. For some reason these last two shifts were horribly annoying and tiring. The amazing music swap that Zach, Nicole, and I conducted made me feel a bit better, as well as watching The Doom Generation and Nowhere, which might be two of the best American films I've seen recently (as always, read the imdb.com user comments; half total idiocy and half people who get it equals almost as much entertainment as watching the films). Reminded me of a more graphic Twin Peaks, which is fantastic, obviously.

On Saturday I went out to spend one last night with Katie before she left for Jordan. This was difficult. Not to delve too deeply into personal stuff, but we had a really good summer and it was pretty hard to say goodbye. It was probably for the best that she was occupied with arranging all her stuff and fitting it into her suitcase, because just about every time I looked at her I practically burst into tears.

Back to Boston. I hate the Mass Pike. Those fucking rest stops have to be the most depressing outposts of big corporate hegemony ever. For those who've never had the pleasure, when you're on the Mass Pike you can't get off without paying a toll, and are therefore stuck with purchasing your gas from Exxon and your food from McDonald's, D'angelos, or Boston Market. And for no extra cost, you get to enjoy your genetically-modified flash-frozen MSG-laced meal in the ruins of someone else's "Great Food At A Great Price!" while the howling bat-children of fat bag-eyed parents engage in the highly uncoordinated destruction of everything around them. Also: The amount of yellow "support our troops" ribbon sticker thingies was frightening. Cue Noam Chomsky!

"The point of public relations slogans like "Support our troops" is that they don't mean anything... That's the whole point of good propaganda. You want to create a slogan that nobody's going to be against, and everybody's going to be for. Nobody knows what it means, because it doesn't mean anything. Its crucial value is that it diverts your attention from a question that does mean something: Do you support our policy? That's the one you're not allowed to talk about."

Then I spent a few joyous hours in the sweltering swamp-heat moving the mounds of crap I accumulated this year out of my apartment (so long you dingy piece of shit! I'll miss your flimsy doors and leaky faucets and tiny bathroom and maurauding ants!). With the estatic assistence of my parents, we jammed everything into our automobiles and set off!

Of course, I promptly got lost because the turnoff for 95 South is hard to see and I haven't driven home in awhile so, y'know, it only took me an extra hour to get home after speeding around fuck knows where in southeastern Massachusetts for awhile. And, of COURSE, within five minutes of arriving home and taking off my shoes, I had THREE fucking mosquito bites on my feet. Beautiful.

Fortunately, the previously mentioned Christopher Burke was on hand to save the day. He came over and we had a long talk about how fucking EXCITED we are about our respective trips to Europe, drank some nice wine, smoked a wee joint, and just generally did what we always do when we hang out, which is make each other laugh a whole lot with our collective insanities. He leaves Wednesday, and as much as I'd love to hang out with him more, it's probably for the best--if he were around I don't think I'd get anything done.

The Czech film bug is buzzing around my head now, which is a lot better than the fucking mosquitos, so I'm gonna go watch one of the seven(!) DVDs I ordered. For reference purposes, I shall list them: Daisies (Vera Chytilova), Valerie and Her Week of Wonders and The Joke (Jaromil Jires), Conspirators of Pleasure (Jan Svankmejer), Closely Watched Trains (Jiri Menzel), Loves of a Blonde and Black Peter (Milos Forman). Seek them out. You'll be happy.

Or give me a call and maybe if you're real special I'll watch one with you before I leave.