we sail tonight for Singapore.

FADE IN:

INT. ROGER’S BEDROOM -- MORNING

ROGER is lying in bed, sprawled out, diagonal, alone. He’s a narrow late twenties guy, and by the look of the place he’s single. A blanket blocks the light from spilling in through the curtainless window. The clock by the bed reads 7:36 a.m.

Clothes and food containers decorate the room in lieu of knickknacks. Draped across a chair in front of a closed laptop is a white button down, tie still knotted loosely, hanging from the collar.

The clock changes to 7:37. An imperceptible whine starts to issue from it. The whine grows louder slowly and Roger turns on his side.

The whine grows louder and Roger, eyes still closed, wraps a pillow around his head.
The clock is screeching now and Roger sits up slow and awkward. He rolls over toward it and flails toward the button that will make the noise stop.

He misses and leans up more, stretching out over the divide between bedside table and mattress. He reaches for the clock, slaps clumsily out at it. He misses.

The momentum takes him, with a cry, tumbling out of bed. All the sheets come off with him as he falls off the side of the bed, the alarm still screeching away.

Beside the bed, where Roger and his sheet ought to be, there is nothing but dirty floor.

EXT. OCEAN -- DAY

Waves lap against the hull of a ship. Despite the fact that the material comprising it resembles nothing so much as cast iron, the ship is, otherwise, a pirate vessel. It sails effortlessly on a gentle wind over the calm seas and under the clear blue sky.

The Iron Boat is sailing alone on the open ocean, no land in sight.

Suddenly, from far up in the sky, something falls.

The object is too far to be clearly discerned as it falls, though it falls from a great, great height. It does look to be human-shaped, though. And it appears to be trailing bed sheets.

It stop abruptly as the silhouette of falling object is intercepted by the Iron Boat. A thud is heard.

MUSIC: the decemberists: california one/youth and beauty brigade

(P.S. the preceeding is the beginning, finally, of what I've been getting ready to write for two months.)

(P.P.S. "We're lining up the light-loafered and the bored bench warmers, castaways and cutouts, fill it up. Come join the youth and beauty brigade.")

It's well over now,

the Ghost Festival, that is. Dear sons and daughters of hungry ghosts, I am afraid that your next chance to appease and free, albeit culturally cross-wise, will be November 1.

I hope they can wait, because otherwise we've a trite horror movie on our hands.

And speaking of trite horror movies, is it wrong to be purposefully derivative if it's in a lauditory, self-aware, original way? Can you be derivative in an original way, you ask? And in response I direct you to numerous episodes of the X-Files as well as The Man Who Wasn't There and the script I intend to start outlining once I get my hands on a copy of Shadow of A Doubt.

I spent one dollar on a local paper today which has given me absolutely no leads in the hunt for work. I spent five dollars today on lottery tickets. It's either a waste of money five times as great or a fantastic investment. Though I believe it to be the former, clearly my money, literally, is on it being the latter.

Adventures ought to happen for free.

MUSIC: Godspeed you black emperor: providence

cotton

"This song is for the rats who hurled themselves into the ocean when they saw that the explosives in the cargo hold were just about to blow.

This song is for the soil that's toxic clear down to the bedrock, where no thing of consequence can grow. Drop your seeds there, let them go. Let them go.

Let them all go.
Let 'em all go.

This song is for the people who tell their families that they're sorry for things they can't and won't feel sorry for.

And once there was a desk, and now it's in a storage locker somewhere, and this song is for the stick pins and the cottons I left in the top drawer.

Let 'em all go.
Let 'em all go.

I wanna sing one for the cars that are right now headed silent down the highway, and it's dark and there is nobody driving, and something has got to give.

I saw you waiting by the roadside. You didn't know that I was watching.

Now you know.

Let it all go.

Let 'em all go.
Let it all go."

-The Mountain Goats

I'm on my way...

...to becoming either a bond company stooge or a waiter (again). Tomorrow I will buy lottery tickets.

MUSIC: the pixies: caribou

"Best summer ever:

stickers."

Thanks, old navy.

though your inexpensive clearance shorts are grand.

In other news: the heatwave has broken, at least for the moment. Dramatically, the heat wave shattered over 36 hours of downpour, and now it's not even 65.

"Spidoors are go!" -Joel Robinson.

MUSIC: lambchop: something's going on

An educational film:

Here we see Jef carrying what appears to be a computer monitor. Now, Jef appears to be a strapping young lad, fully capable of carrying a monitor to the very ends of the earth...

but what if I were to tell you that Jef hasn't eaten in three days?

You see, without proper nutrition and a reasonable caloric intake, Jef here is as weak as a kitten. The way it works is, each night when Jef is asleep, his body takes what it needs to repair itself, not from the food he's eaten, but from itself. So when he wakes up and should feel refreshed and ready for the day, he is actually sluggish and weak as a kitten.

Oh! Good job, Jef... you nearly lost it there.

Let's hope Jef gets a good meal tonight... and let's not watch him try to get the refrigerator.

(and such was the inner monologue during my move out.)

MUSIC: the cure: the end of the world

(note: college accomplished)