How Do You Wear Oregon?

The other day Skippy showed me how to skin a squirrel.
On my birthday the heavens gave me a beautiful dead squirrel just laying out in front of commons to satisfy my desire to make taxidermy. My fridge broke down and I decided nobody would mind if it was in the Fels fridge (based on the assumption that nobody would look inside the lumpy garbage bag without a note on the vegetable crisper). Unfortunately some hungry souls did go poking around and weren't happy about it. Then it lived outside in a labeled box until either:

• An angry Felsian threw it out to spite my carelessness
• A maintenance or cleaning person threw it out
• A wild animal took it (unlikely, cuz it probably would've left the box and garbage bag)

Anyways, Skippy still showed me how to skin a squirrel by letting me work on his. It's a weird thing skinning an animal. It doesn't smell very bad but the smell it does have really gets into your nostrils. Skippy said it smelled like dog farts. It was really stomach acid.
The weirdest part is when you pull the squirrel's arms out of its arm-skin leaving it with a set of skinned, chicken-arms and a pair of furry arm-wings.

Soon, it will be taxidermied and then I'll feel ready to taxidermy my own squirrel without much direction. I don't know where I can find another dead animal, though; the last one dropped right into my lap.

Settling into classes and bullshit. Sitcom'll probably be fun. Projects is looking good. Etc. Don't know how I feel about Marguerite's class - it's a little intense.

Emily's bday party is tonight. I'm supposed to dress like my homestate, but I'm not sure how to dress like Oregon. I want to be a sad, beardy, guitar guy, but that's more attitude than appearance. Otherwise... how do you dress like Portland? I could be a Klan member, but unless you're from Portland that probably won't register as place-specific unless you grew up with historical pictures like this in the whitest city in the Pacific Northwest:



And only dickholes dress up like the Klan. Maybe I'll be Elliot Smith with a knife in my chest. Maybe only dickholes do that, too. Maybe I'll just be the spirit of seasonal depression.

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Yesterday Diggy came to visit for half a second. I remembered how much I like Diggy when she related some pearls from her Disney Channel lifestyle, the choicest being that her friend was behind the wheel of the car that killed Buddy, the Clinton family dog.

Quote Wikipedia:

Buddy, however, suffered the same fate as Clinton's previous dog, a cocker spaniel named Zeke, when he was killed by a car while running loose near the Clinton home in Chappaqua, New York, on January 2, 2002.

What it doesn't say there is that the friend was skipping school and she was afraid that if she stopped she'd get in trouble. Or that the Clintons lived by a highway. After the hoopla of Socks passing away this past week I was wondering how I never heard about this.
Oh the seedy underbelly of upstate New York. You could make a really benign series of noir comics about it.


R.I.P.

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It's really strange to me that people I don't even know or don't know very well read this blog. I always think reading other people's blogs feels voyeuristic in a way that makes me uncomfortable. Especially when nobody comments on it - it's like performing for an invisible audience. Sometimes somebody will sheepishly tell me that they've been reading it and I'm always shocked because writing a blog feels so self-indulgent it's hard for me to believe that somebody would have any interest in how my classes are going or reading about smelling squirrel stomach acid. What's weirder: that or the fact that I find most blogs so boring and wanky, including mine? I guess if you hang your dirty laundry on a public line you shouldn't wonder if anyone stops to look at it.