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After Thanksgiving dinner I found all my old copies of Ad Astra. The thing really did deteriorate in quality over the 10 or so years it was in existence—but yeah, as soon as my brother saw 'em, he decided that he's been charged with a divine mission, namely to bring back the good name of the ICKEE Society...I told him to talk to the mysterious Pfingsten. [chuckles] All the silly mystique therein is fun, though I also let him in on the big secret of ICKEE, namely that those who create it have never been any more masterful or in possession of any more gnosis than anyone else at that school—they're pretending, just like everyone else. I think he knew that, though.
- - -

I'd like to take this opportunity to beg those reading never to take me down to the Bass Pro Shop or Main Street in St. Charles unless I specifically ask to be taken there, and even then, to please question my judgment, especially if it's around Christmastime. Got dragged there today, and single shop was jam-packed with inane Christmas kitsch, stuff that no one in their right mind should ever buy, like these intolerable bear figurines and other "country" or "homey" artsy-craftsy crap.

Please shoot me if I ever buy any of that. I understand how people end up with that stuff, even if they're not particularly into faux-Colonial furnishings—someone buys them some, thinking it's the cutest thing ever! (it's not cute) and then they feel obligated to display it somewhere, perhaps on the mantle...then other people see that crap, assume you like it, and buy you even more of it. Nonetheless, I'm planning to never have to display any of that, so do me a favor and never buy me any. No country potpourri, no goddamned potpourri candles, even—none of that shit. Sure, I appreciate true country stuff, when someone has a real farm, etc. This, however, is smarmy, sentimental suburban soccer-mom shit. I'm just not interested.

3:36 pm, November 29, 2003 :: the jablog years

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