RyanHarne.com

So, um, Summer Session Two 2006! will consume me. If I disappear, vanish, begin to solely appear in dreams… understand my physical self is likely at work in studio. Why? Because ID Studio is just that amazing.

This will be a session grateful for every crazy, off-topic, spontaneous moment that is offered to it.

I did realize, though, that I am forever in love with early 1990s faux jazz music. Specifically the type you may associate with a stroll through Montgomery Ward or Leggett’s. You certainly know what I’m talking about. When the bass player has his strap as tight as it will go, nearly plucking strings with his teeth, and starts to play/jiggle about with his eyes closed - that’s the moment I fall in love with the sound. Just another quirk, I suppose.

Now, back to my making cool cash monies.

Summer Session Two 2006! begins tomorrow, the delete key has a few more dead skin cells than the return key, and Boca bratwurst tastes just like the animal-killing real thing. Futhermore, The Love Supreme is the best album to soak in while in the presence of friends, fireflies don’t like prison anymore than people do, and photography is the greatest sport alive.

If you want to celebrate America, celebrate freedom, whatever you call it, do so in the company of companions who like to talk and do crazy things. Because America is crazy. Very crazy. So the crazier you are and your friends are, the more American you can proclaim to be.

Without an explanation for doing so, I skipped the fireworks tonight. But it was the most American thing for me to do. While crazy people watched bombs shoot from the ground and harm only random molecular organization in the air above (quite the opposite direction for bombs to fire), I decided to deviate from this tradition and be crazy on my own. Getting away from that American-esque destruction fascination only advanced the theory that I myself am truly the more crazy. And the further crazy I become, the more America I have concentrated in my blood. Totally crazy; totally American.

Land ho!

Laken and I were taking the Draper Road route to Kroger this afternoon when we came across a white dove in the roadway. It wasn’t moving from its awkward position, so our closer inspection affirmed its macabre state. Perhaps, it fell from the power lines above and broke its neck (which was very peculiarly wrenched to the side) but doves can fly, right? The rest of the power lines actually had a small flock of white doves, when Laken and I looked skyward, so maybe this bird took one too many freeloading volts from the Virginia Tech Electric Service.

We hoisted the bird onto a make-shift stretcher, two simple sticks of wood under its well-stiffened wings, and decided where to discard it from the infrequent, but nevertheless possible, traffic. There was a daycare recess yard just feet away, but the guest may not be welcome, at least by the daycare admins. Our other choice was the ditch nearby. The bird was too beautiful for a ditch, in my opinion, it’s pure white feathers were long and without spots of disease or misuse, but rather exemplified regular preening. And daycare kids could use an early exposure to autopsy initiatives.

The dove eventually found its resting place in the ditch where it will likely be torn apart by larger birds or mammals. Frankly, I expect the daycare kids would have granted it a more civil (maybe even distinctly scientific) goodbye.

I bought some Gala apples a few minutes later.

There are less than 30 pages left for me to read of The Fabric of the Cosmos. Once I complete it, I will have cause to celebrate having read a book from the library for the first time since I was in elementary school. (And for expert readers, this book has been getting better; beyond his introduction to string/M-theory (ala The Elegant Universe) the book picks up pace and focuses in on space and time and spacetime - a worthy read).

Two ladies came into Bollo’s tonight having just left The Lyric theater and Hard Candy. They were middle-aged, likely working in something VT-related, and were the comic resemblance of Click & Clack. Even though they repeatedly warned me not to see the film, their recollection of the frightening and disturbing moments were filled with giddy chuckles, the kind that middle schoolers (read: me) would resort to when telling of mass destruction and carnage without fully comprehending the situational seriousness. They could have been easily pulling off a comedy routine for me, the one man audience, and I would have been clueless - there was an invisible see-saw of humor between there brains. These are my favorite types of late-night customers.

Humor aside, somehow I managed to slice up my palm tonight. I have several papercut-like marks in my left palm that I have been unable to team with a cause. Plus, I keep feeling like there are bugs crawling on me. Just going nuts.