Occludine 18, 28.

DIARY

- YESTERDAY - Uneventful, except for class, where we discussed Barthelme's The Dead Father and had a rousing debate on Lacan. I don't know enough of Lacan to offer an informed opinion, but I offered the perspective that anything necessarily hingeing on Freud is whack. As whack as Ptolemy. I'm going to do a Gothic Funk statement sometime on just how whack it is. And after sitting on it for a couple years, I've firmly decided I don't buy the "it's talking about art, not psychology" gambit. If his theories weren't considered to have bearing on some basic functioning of the human mind, people wouldn't be citing him and his disciples in their literary essays. The reversion to Freud is an embarassment to the whole artistic community, is still ridiculously pronounced in literary criticism, and one of the most reasonable answers the mainstream provides for not taking us seriously. You think you can take me? Go ahead. I dare you.
- WEATHER - Cold out west. Mild out east. Deep south and midwest; big storms. Aah! Winds! Floods! Tornadoes! I mean, giant phalluses descending from the sky! Run! Run, you fools! Run!!!

- MARCH - Is the month of Umbrellas.
- HAPPY BIRTHDAY - My friend, Brian Spurling. (He doesn't read this, so he probably won't know I'm wishing him a happy birthday, but I wish it all the same.) And Amerigo Vespucci. And Yuri Gagarin.

LINK OF THE WEEK
THE Inpsector Gadget Web Page

QUESTION OF THE DAY
Give us a guilty pleasure. (But it has to feel guilty.)

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