november 1, 2000. "I live in a town where you can't smell a thing..." - radiohead Just like everyone else in this hemisphere, I've spent quite a lot of time this week listening to Radiohead. But in my case, I've been obsessing over "OK Computer." Yeah, I'm behind the times. But I was busy being miserable in 1997; I didn't have time for this stuff. Now that my CD collection has quintupled through the holy state of matrimony, I'm discovering all kinds of neat musical things that happened in the 90's while my attention was elsewhere. (Interestingly, Cranly reports a similar phenomena from his end. "I'm trying to figure out this Radiohead thing," he writes. "I dunno. They're no Phish.") (Last night I dreamt that I was in a supermarket with a whole bunch of people. They were mostly strangers, but I recall a shorter, blonder Cranly who brought along Ophelia. Who wasn't speaking to me, even in my subconscious. What a way to escape the world, hmm?) I also dreamt of the Anti-Stephen, who doesn't appear to be speaking to me these days, either. Perhaps something about the party turned him off - although I can't figure out why. All we did was badger him with trivia about people he resembles but has never met, then I put makeup on him, then I fell into the mud on my way out of the house. Surely there's nothing in there that would detract from my sparkling worthiness, right? It must be him. I appear to be something of a pariah at present. Everybody in my beloved social studies class will speak to me - from across the room. The entire class filled up before anyone could be persuaded to take the empty seat next to me. God, this is good for my self-esteem. Of course, this is the class where I can't stop running my mouth, so maybe that's it. If I'd just shut up for 15 minutes, maybe people would like me. And if I just learned to wear makeup & style my hair attractively & co-ordinate my clothes...but now we're deep in the realm of fantasy. 19 more days and I'll be in the local schools. Yep. Staring at hostile teenagers who like Limp Bizcut & want to make me cry. And I think to myself...what a wonderful world... Meanwhile it won't stop bloody raining. I'm in a very Tom Waits mood. No shadows, no stars There's no moon and no cars November. It only believes In a pile of dead leaves And a moon That's the colour of bone. No prayers for November To linger longer. Stick your spoon in the wall And we'll slaughter them all. November has tied me To an old dead tree. Get word to April To rescue me. November's cold chain, Made of wet boots & rain. Shiny black ravens on chimney smoke lanes. November seems odd You're my firing squad, November. With my hair slicked back With carrion shellac And the blood from a pheasant And the bone from a hare. Tied to the branches Of a roebuck stag. Left to wave in the timber Like a buck shot flag. Go away rainsnout Go away, blow your brains out! November...