No title. Just Read.

So what makes a brothel a brothel?

My sleepless nights are fraught with such semantic dilemmas.

I reason that a brothel could be defined as a building where women are paid to have sex with men.

Or perhaps it's like pornography: I can't define it, but I know it when I see it.



Or perhaps it's none of the above.

According to Pennsylvania law, a brothel must

a) house more than four women

and

b) contain a kitchen.


This is apparently why sorority houses on my campus don't have kitchens and are required to keep records of all male guests.

So that's what makes a brothel a brothel. A kitchen.

See, if I were the police, I wouldn't be worrying so much about kitchens. I'd be checking out the houses with six straight men and two straight women, all unrelated. Kitchen optional.

But since this is not considered a brothel, and because it's allowed in the college dormitory system, I am happy to announce that this is exactly who I'll be living with next year.

Heh. heh.

P.S. We're all straight, but don't worry--we have strictly platonic relationships.

Passover Weekend

Good news: I have pictures. Or rather, my mom has pictures. They have not yet made their way through the anti-primordial world of cyberspace to my inbox to this page. This is because my mom took the pictures with her camera, which is at home, and hopefully connected to the Internet at this very moment in anticipation of the hard, cold, tumble-of-a-journey.*

So they're coming. Ye must be patient.

In other news, I am a bad Jew.

I suppose that is semantically twisted, because I'm only half-Jewish, on my father's side. And in Jewish law, the mother must be Jewish for the child to be Jewish.

But that's beside the point. I've been eating egg matzo for passover for the last few days, and I've been enjoying it. So this morning, I have nothing better to do than to read the side of the box, which informs me:

Egg Matzos may be eaten only by the infirmed, aged, or children according to Shulchan Aruch.

Ooops. I can't talk my way out of this one.

And who's Shulchan Aruch?

Rehearsal for Murder

My stomach is all wiggly. Rehearsal for Murder debuts at 10:00 tonight.

I will try to post pictures of the show for all you who couldn't make it.

Sorry that this is a boring post.

Okay, I'll make that sentence more interesting: I am most distressed that my individual words have caved into themselves in lieu of fornicating and giving birth to most delightful sentences.

Enough for now.

A look at the inner workings of my Hypothalamus

First, find my key. There's only so many places this bitch could be.

That wasn't supposed to rhyme, but I suppose I can't complain. I love music and movies so much that I think I'll make this entire post stream of consciousness. Won't that be a delight for you all to read?

I thought so.

If one's mind was spotless, truly spotless, how could one learn? Would not one continue making the same mistakes, cracking the same ice, jumping the fire? I thought as much, and apparently so does Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, which I watched for the first time ten minutes ago. When I was about seven, I would lay in bed for hours wondering if I had really always been myself in my environment or if I had been kidnapped and my memory erased. Each second was an untrusted sentinel. I did not depend on my memory, but I never thought to write down my thoughts for proof.

This is all making sense in my head. Sorry you have to suffer through it. Or are you in my head, too? Hmmmm? You're all in my head, aren't you?

My fingers feel like they have been pricked at the tips with super-sharp toothpicks. I'm learning how to play the Ukulele again, and my calluses are still developing. Last night I dreamed that I forced people under glass partitions on couches and propelled them into an alternate universe. It was cathartic, until a golden snake the size of Route 22 rose from a pit of incense and bit me on the index finger of my left hand with its fangs burnished gold as well.

According to my mother, this is auspicious. According to me, it's kinda fucking weird. But I prefer to agree with her on this one, if only because my mind does not appreciate the prospect of being categorized as hyper unusual during REM stages.

I shook Barack Obama's hand last Monday, and thanked him for supporting arts education. He looked me straight in the eye and said, "you're welcome".

It can only go downhill from there.

I should be working right now

My eyes are tired. And this is only my forty second post.

Did you know the Swedish word for "End" is "Slut"?

I am Famous

I have devised a plot such that whenever people think of Heath Ledger or Bill Clinton my shining face comes right to mind.

Such that:
+

=

Wow. Formatting that was more arduous than standing in line for three hours and waiting for Bill Clinton to show up.

Anyway, I am always the first to know about anything that concerns Bill and Heath. When Heath died (and though I didn't know him, I was sad because I felt like I was getting old, you know? Because I actually am familiar with his work, not like when my parents are like, "Ramana Panaluke died today, how sad, such a valued member of the Purple Eggs." Or whatever. It makes me feel old, you get the point.) I was the first to spread the news. "Did you hear that Jen cheated on Max?" the girls in the industrial bathroom would flit. "Did you hear that Heath Ledger DIED?!?!?" I'd reply, thinking that I would become the official source of gossip.

"Who's Heath Ledger?"

Ummmmm.....what?

If you don't know who he is, look him up. I'm not that much of an anti-pop culture nerd not to have heard of this dude. And some of his films were excellent.

There went my gossip dreams. But I like to imagine that my face, flushed yet apporpriately solemn as the occasion demanded, is (to them) inexplicably tied with the birth of Heath in their impoverished minds. I am Heath Ledger.

More on Bill later. I'm going to watch my friends play video games and comment on how artificial and pseudo-hipster they all are.

Not Being in Mexico

So, along the lines of The Best Cruise I Never Took I give you The Best Film I Never Saw: No Country for Old Men.

Or, as my dad mistakenly termed it, No Room for Old Men. Which captures the literal meaning, of course, but really skimps on the poetics. Unless it's a eccentric allusion to the birth of Jesus.

Also known as No Country for Cold Men.

Finally, No Tree for Old Men.

Okay. I'll shut up on the doppelgangers now. Promise.

My dad pointed out that the film had gotten only the best reviews from the nation's top critics. Which are, of course, men, but that's obviously beside the point.

Then I found out that No Country for Old Men is a visual representation of a Cormac McCarthy novel. Since most of All the Pretty Horses was comprised of a baffilingly post-modernist lack of quotation marks, untranslated Spanish, and landscape descriptions that each contained the phrase "And the grass, and the trees, and the horses...", I wasn't expecting much.

I watched the trailer.

I watched the trailer and read one of the [male] reviews, which describe it as "bleak, scary, and violent." I have come to terms with the fact that I can only face one of those three ghouls at a time, so I decided not to go. I did appreciate the author's description of Javier Bardem, something along the lines of a Beatle gone wrong.

My fanatically intelligent film professor says that The Diving Bell and the Butterfly really got snubbed. I totally agree.