Advice from a Caterpillar v. 2.0

Like the first.

Monday, February 21, 2005

Death knell: ding-dong.

It seemed wrong to leave loose threads unthreaded. So here you have it: a little tombstone for a little blog that was up a little while. I was reminscing this weekend about the death of the prior incarnation of this journal—a death which even you, Google, cannot fully explicate! The truth, I'm afraid, lies outside of hypertext—and realized that I at least had the courtesy to send A.v.C. vol. 1 off officially. Vol. 2 has been dragging on since my star-cross'd meeting of Ashlee Simpson. So, to any of you who still haunt about here, waiting for another boring update about the books I am half-reading and the work I am not doing, let me free you to better pursuits.

It's been fun while it lasted. And it's afforded me what I've always wanted, a marvelously overstated death scene. And so, Caterpillar: 'Tis a far better thing I do now than I have ever done...

Wednesday, July 21, 2004

All right, all right. There have been a lot of rumors flying, and I would like to quell them all. Here, from the horse's mouth: the facts.

Now, I was, as you may have heard, embarrassingly drunk last night. Like, throwing up in front of momma, keep you off the street, possible hallucination drunk. However, I also touched Ashlee Simpson under some dreamed-up auspices. That is not a lie. Thus: I am better than you, cooler than you, more worthy than you.

Hopefully this will clear up any concerns that you--by which I mean I, who can't really remember most of the night--may have had.

Saturday, July 10, 2004

NP: The 6ths, "San Diego Zoo"

This song rules. Also, I had a good night, for what it's worth. I am getting good at networking and necking.

Thursday, July 08, 2004

Fuck my internship, man.

Sunday, July 04, 2004

My sunburn will kill you.

PS. How lame is my navel ring? Who am I kidding?

Sunday, June 27, 2004

Gooooooood morning. I have been up since 5 a.m. after going to bed at 10 p.m. last night for no real reason other than my mother came in to ask me if I wanted to get up and I didn't really want to talk to her. It's fine. I'm seizing the day! Already today I caught up on Gawker, Gothamist, and Curbed, read the New Yorker, and definitively decided that this will be the week I get my driving permit. I read the whole book, which is full of helpful facts like "If you have been drinking for 8 hours, do not drive. Drinking impairs senses necessary to driving, such as sight, touch, and hearing." But this is it. By the end of the week, I will be a permit-carrying (if it arrives) almost-driver, and by the end of the summer, there will be a license. See what getting up before dawn does for one's resolve?

Also, I miss Kid A. I've never really missed an album before. Not like I lost it, or I want to listen to it but can't, because I know exactly where it is, and I don't really want to listen to it. I just kind of miss it. Back in the day, I spent most of my weekends face-down, blasting Kid A and mumbling "Idioteque." Sweet bird of youth! Come back, little Sheba!

9 a.m. and already nostalgic! Where can I go from here?

Thursday, June 17, 2004

Hooray, hooray: I now have a designer email address. As if the posturing of it weren't already perfect for me, it also means no more deleting emails ever. This is the sweetest music to my ears since "Toxic."

Thursday, June 10, 2004

Okay. Okay. I am self-deprecating as all-get-out, but one moment please of bragging for which I hope not to be faulted in the future.

I just won $1,100 for the best English essay by a sophomore and a share of a larger prize for literary work on assigned topics.

I will go back to hating myself tomorrow. Carry on.

NP: Bjork, "Unravel"

Okay. Here is the number one reason you do not leave your cell phone on your bed while you go downstairs to watch reruns of The Nanny because you have work tomorrow and you are being responsible:

"Hi, Matt, where the fuck are you? I have been fucking calling you all fucking night do you fucking know what fucking I have just done? Okay okay okay okay you know I said fucking you know 'member that party I am doing door for for internship fucking you know WHAT okay shit sorry I'm drunk on these new things they are called Sofialites [Or something. --Ed.] and they are fucking adorable yes adorable champagne in Red Bull cans yes fucking anyway what this party I was totally the fucking door person it was me I decided fucking who went in who fucking didn't you could have gone in like you know who fucking Sofia Coppola and I was like you are an ugly fucking slut your movie sucked but I was like okay fucking go right in but I talked to __________________ [Wait for it. --Ed.] and fucking leaned on her she was the goddamn DJ WHAT WHAT yes fucking you could next timei you will I what shit I don't have money for a cab shit okay I'm getting in one anyway okay why didn't you answer your fucking phone okay I love you, goodnight."

Sigh. Oh, the blank? See "NP."

UPDATE: Somehow I was really calm and good-natured about the whole thing on the phone. Transcribing the whole thing made me realize how much it fucking sucks that I missed that shit. Goddammit.

Saturday, June 05, 2004

NP: Emmylou Harris, "Deeper Well"

It is purely coincidental that, in a bout of cleaning-inspired nostalgia, I put on a mix that a certain boy made me a year ago about this time, and ended up on Emmylou Harris' "Deeper Well," in which she describes descending into hell. It is a coincidence that I then opened my browser and my homepage informed me that President Ronald Reagan is dead. He was 93.

I'm not, I will say, pleased; that's too macabre. And I'm far too ill-informed, and far too distant from my 11th-grade American History class, to state specifically what is wrong with Ronnie, though I could vaguely detail the horrors of elitist trickle-down economics and Reaganomics, the absurdity and evil of ignoring the impending AIDS crisis, the wrongheadedness of the Moral Majority that allowed his election. Political rants ain't my style.

Is it wrong to feel some degree of relief, though? He was an important figurehead, and he is gone. Is it wrong to see an omen—the incompetent conservative with the same ranch-hand image as a certain someone, the one who successfully won a second term in office, dies right before an important election?

Thursday, June 03, 2004

Who had a good time last night? Me, apparently. I woke up this morning—mercifully on time for work, since I forgot to set my alarm—with my contacts in, a roaring nausea, and a chunk of half-devoured Manchego cheese on my bed. Par-tay.

Wednesday, June 02, 2004

I cannot stop watching Degrassi. Amy and I are coming up with a plan to rig the win-a-walk-on contest. It is a very simple plan. My only anxiety is, if I win, what if they make me walk on with a character I hate?

Yes, yes. This is my only anxiety. In life.

Monday, May 31, 2004

New layout. With comments. Hint, hint. (Narcissizzism!)

NP: Slumber Party, "Air"

Home from New Haven, where Goose and I swept and sweated and ruminated on our future coexistence. I stood in one room, she stood in another, and said "Hello." Through the walls, you could hear the sound as if she were next to me. Take this as you will: either a testament to the fact that I will never, ever have a sonically proliferating experience in our house, or as a testament to the fact that Goose and I are spiritually connected and our communications break through drywall.

Went to a post-Yale party last night, that is, one populated by recent and less-recent Yale graduates who stood in a room and did exactly what they did at Yale. The same petty tensions arose and were awkwardly quelled, the same conversations were had. I left before Frank the Elder rolled in. Some old Yales are not my old Yales. I escaped to Amy's beautiful new Cornelia St. apartment, from there, the sopping remnants of a party that began and ended long before we'd gotten there. Never one to take a subtle hint, we stayed anyway. Vodka tonics go swimmingly with Pimp My Ride and HBO specials about gender reassignment.

Finally, in a cab home, I passed the club where tonight, Yale's favorite privileged-white-boy band, the H. Strokes, had played to a crowd of thousands. Seeing its frontman seated on the street alongside some others, I got out and went to greet. They snuck me in and I supped on whiskey and watched go-go girls go. Amazing the antics one can pull with a large metal pole. A frat-man—how else to describe the aimless, post-collegiate experience of those who peaked among soiled couches and ESPN?—encouraged me, whilst tipping, to slap her ass. I blushed. Apparently I have retained some traces of shame.

When I got home, I caught the tail-end of a multihour Degrassi marathon. Craig's father died, you know, and he laughed at the funeral. But more importantly, the one of indeterminate racial origin is soon to come out of the closet.

Oh, and everything pales before Middlemarch.

Friday, May 28, 2004

NP: Elliott Smith, "Son of Sam"

That last post's gone. I try to self-censor only very rarely, but that was one of those times. If you caught it, congratulations: you are here too often, you care too much about me. At least it's an exclusive little club you belong to. As for me, I'm going to do what I always do, and back slowly away from emotion into academia. And so I present to you my newest interest (-of-the-moment): Egyptology. Awesome, right?

Thursday, May 27, 2004

So let's play a game called six degrees of something.

Someone who reads this—one of the six or so of you—needs to know someone who knows someone who knows someone who has a ticket to Gillian Welch's sold-out Brooklyn show. Specifically, a person who wants to part with it. I need that ticket. Give it to me.

Go, internet, do your work!

Well, off to an ever-so-chic restaurant. 11 p.m. dinner reservation. Delicious.