Found this small red memopad recently on my desk. Here’s what I wrote on it, all from January 2003:

– Get on your bad motor scooter and ride.
– Jesus Fucking Christ!
– “Amor” tattooed on a man’s hand.
– White Izod socks, head down.
– My brother’s name is Daniel and my name is Jackie and my father only drinks Jack Daniel’s.
– Good thing he doesn’t drink Old Crow, then.
– Chinese New Year’s Party for M.’s birthday, January 11 (Actual b’day is the 13th) Year of the Horse.
– Carlos! Carlos! Chaos!
– The special love I had for you, my baby blue. The special love you had for me, my dixie dear. Driving around Chicago – 1996 Honda Civic, Black. Radio tuned to 97.1 FM, Badfinger is playing. End argument, burst into Badfinger song.
Everything is a trigger; stimuli for the memory.
– Machinery, the human body, video games.
– Their prostitutes are not like our prostitutes.
– Is this just one girl?
– Yes, she has a, headset. She’s like Madonna.
– I like that you can’t kill the parachuting dude.
– 12-9 is the MTA code for someone who has fallen under the train.
– Crazy Homie5. La rana.
– You wear a tube top in winter?
– Thanks for showing up to our first practice!
– Julie Mehreiu, Matthew Ritchie – MOMA QNS.
– Internet Ebonics.
– The black man still walks the land. Kiss my shit. Don’t think I don’t know who you are!
– Written on a fireplug on 23rd Street: Neck Face. In white-out.
– If I ever have a cat, its name will be Mei-Mei.
– She pulls on his cheek; subway conversation. His hair looks like a wig.
– Get ’em dead. He don’t care what it mean.
– Who is it?
– This is the police, open up.
– Who is it?
– This is the police, downstairs. Open up.
– Feeling like manic fatigue.
– Toto IV ‘Africa’ represent.
– Hittin’ the flask, early?
– Now this wasn’t permitted by the last band –
– Yeah.
– But is it me or are trustafarians invading the free psych scene?
– Hey man –
– I mean not people like you h2ijw or me.
– You’re talking about friends of mine, man.
– No, I don’t mean the last band. I mean kids with like five hundred dollar bongos and shit.
– General Rag Company Incorporated.
– He was like phoning it in.
– Phoning what in?
– His laptop.
– Like a dial-up?
– No I mean like –
– Dial-up, heh.
– What?
– If I wanted to hear dopey post-rock noodling, I wouldn’t have left Chicago.
– I, for some reason, inexplicably hate Pittsburgh.
– If I wanted to hear dopey post-rock noodling, I’d be friends with Ian Williams.
– Oakland, too.


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