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Talked to roommate this morning and he mentioned the paper’s police report. Apparently Marcus _______ was wanted for armed robbery, trafficking in steroids, and cooking meth in his suite.

Good thing I don’t keep airsofts in my room.

So here’s a scene-setter: 1:43 in the AM, my room, last night. The lights are all off save for haze of the freshman building that sneaks through the blinds, the laptop monitor and the digital clock. I’m making an attempt to observe Quiet Courtesy, so i’ve got my studio monitor headphones on.

I’ve just turned my report on well, the Drudge Report in via Yahoo Groups a few hours ago and i’m sitting back to watch some of this and this. Now remember, i’ve got headphones on. What I hear is the faint rapping of a knock on one of the inch-thick steel doors we have in this building. I- as usual- ignore it– i’m not expecting anyone, especially not at 1:43, and i’m not about to pretend to care about some sap from two floors up who locked himself out of his apartment and is too shy to tell the front desk about it.

About thirty seconds later I hear another muffled knock. There’s only difference this time. This rapping is distinctly on the door to my room (locked).

Christ, I think to myself, Suitemate must have locked himself out of his room. I open the door.

I’m greeted by a true-blue San Jose cop wearing a grimace and a full utility belt. We’re talking full here: Taser pistol, pepper spray, nightstick, cuffs, and a jet black handgun from what I made out in my quick scan.

Cop: “Hi, could you step outside of the room, please?”

Me: “Uhhh, why?”

Cop: “It’s ok, just step out of the room, please.”

Outside in the living room I almost walk straight into three other guys: another SJ cop and two SJSU security boobs in blue nylon jackets and with intimidating authoritarian walkie talkies at the ready. My roommate is standing in his doorway with a blank expression.

Cop #1 waves a massive flashlight inside my room for a bit before turning back towards me.

Cop #1: “Hey you, what were you doing in Mark’s room?”

Me: “…… I’m sorry?”

Security Guy: “He’s asking you a question, man.”

Cop #1: “So what were you doing in Mark’s room?”

Me: “I- uh, am Mark.”

Cop #2: “Marcus ________??”

Me: “No,” I tell them my full name.

Long story short (too late for that, really) they got the wrong room number from whomever rats out people downstairs. I think the selling point of this anecdote was the spike of raw terror I got when I emerged and saw those three mooks at the ready. For a moment there I was sure that they were going to jump me and give my eyes a good spraying and wrists a good cuffing before dragging me down to the lobby.

The point where the cops looked skeptical and had to radio to reconfirm whatever it is they reconfirm was also good for a few chills down the spine. This building is great!

Currently Listening to: The gentle cries of riled fratboys

Last night the WYSIGSIGISIGNGSI control panel for writing posts exploded and I, for the life of me, could not access the html shell to do, well, anything. :sadfaces:

Rands Pantalones of a certain situationist comic-fame wrote about that cybersubstance of controlled cybersubstances, World of Whorecraft, on his weblog. That’s one weblog I wouldn’t mind having pseudoplatonic psychic sex with.

I shouldn’t log onto IRC right now, I really shouldn’t. I already skipped psych today to dick off and put stickers all over the p-bass.

I’ve got to prepare an in-detail presentation on some site called the Drudge Report. Oh you’ve heard of it? I had a choice between researching Drudge or the Official Santa Clara County website and I went with Drudge on the grounds that it looked about thirty times more hilarious than the S.C. County site.

Now Serving: Monaco – Kashmere

Every boy, and men feeling lonely

Guro: The Bleeding Edge of Sexuality

On Tap: Pet Shop Boys – Bet she’s not your girlfriend

Current listens:

Juan Atkins – The Berlin Sessions

Five unnamed, ultra-long session tracks from one of the dudes who more or less invented house music after listening to a bunch of Kraftwerk and playing with synthesizers.

To be honest, i’ve only listened to the first track, and it didn’t exactly catch my fancy. It’s later-era house, a bit too repetitve on the pattern swapping and devoid of that Brite Piano plinking that I love. I’ll give it a fair listen (some day).

Fila Brazillia – Dicks

Acid-jazz postfunk triphop remixcore outtake album. Pretty fantastic bunch of roughcuts, though for a philistine such as me, it’s really quite hard to tell that it’s anything but a long, 23-song extended album.

The range of tastes stretches from electrified neo-folk that could almost pass for Doves on E (“Kiss My Whippet”), to break-tastic triphop/jazzfunk hybrids that I want playing in my swingin’ fusion-age bachelor’s pad (“Sidearms and Parsnips”).

Bonus points for one of the best album covers since Factory Records was in business.

Pet Shop Boys – Behavior

One of the best chill-out albums money or bandwidth can buy. Quite possibly the Boys’ slickest (and best) full-length to date.

It’s a damn nice, tightly-arranged progression from the extended and intense detachedness of Introspective (PSB’s Mezzanine). Though the analogy is already getting to be something of a cliche, Behavior is great after-party, post-clubbing music to wind down to with some gentler alchy or sedatives.

Arx Fatalis is pretty damn good. A hell of a lot better than the fifteen minutes I played of Gothic 2. I guess there’s just something about those ex-Warsaw Pact Eastern European videogames that can never be molded well enough to fit into the width of my suspension of disbelief. Something claustrophobic, tacky, two-dimensional, and downright shoddy.

Chrome is the videogame equivalent of a vladcar.

Currently Playing: Pet Shop Boys – Opportunities

There’s something about trans-Pacific flights.

When I was in elementary school, between the masses of atrophied phospholipid and lactic acid on Mrs. Ralstonheimer’s indian rug, the teachers told us that by this time- The Future- the noble march of science would have already produced telephasic teleportation booths that could decompose the trillions of carbon bonds in a human body and reorient them onto another point anywhere on the globe using the practical magic of Telecommunication.

Anyways, there’s something about trans-Pacific flights. They’re fucking horrific.

I’d heard stories about the olden times, about subsonic peoplemovers taking forty-eight hours to crawl halfway-round the breadth of the world, scrambling the stratosphere’s brains the whole way there. All the while they were packed to the brim with passengers trying their best to deny that they were several thousand feet above the ground in an aluminum cylinder ripe with raw gasoline, plenty of flammables, and travel vodka, or whatnot.

If anything, thermospheric supersonics are a hell of a lot worse. You see, you’ve got to hurtle up to near-suborbital levels of flight before any lateral movement can happen. This is to ensure pineapple villagers in the Marianas and the Solomon Islands don’t have their eardrums blow out in the wake of every white Delta shuttle passing overhead (three every seven minutes).

So you’re left up there in almost-space wondering about all the gees pressing down on the top of your head. It’s hard to hold any thought for long with the mandatory, non-terminable pentalingual safety announcement playing videofeed direct full-screen in your right iris and the smartprotein audio motes collecting onto your eardrums from the recycled air and thumping the sound out.

A few weeks ago, my Californian friend Bootsy linked me to a hack for those visual/audio spams that abound in airports and within fifty yards of any Omnibell or NTT building and also some of those few leftover Fed outposts that dot the hellscape of the California Central Valley. Unfortunately, the hack was lost to the sands of time and reformatting.

Then the jet levels out with the jolt of pre-programmed CO^2 retrojets. You’re left deep in the midst of dessicated parents jamming tissues and vomit bags in their children’s faces to stem the low-gravity tides of bloody noses and veritable Horsehead Nebulas of regurgitation. Somewhere, a baby is shrieking into the plastic.

Economy Class. The Future.

It’s 11:43 AM as of RIGHT NOW in sunny San Jose and the fratboys are just starting to ease out their first tentative bellows and mewling catcalls of the morning.

The primary purpose of weblogs is to bitch about the superfluous and uniquely First World(POSH PEOPLE WITH PROBLEMS!), right? Well the person– i’m sorry, Barista— I order from every morning at the Jazz Cafe gives me a fucking Glare of Death every time I order a wet cappuccino(sometimes a cigar is just cigar).

To be fair and balanced, the drink does look like a pain in the ass to make.

It’s no Scobleizer, but it’ll do, right?