2008-03-05
Les notes au hasard ！ 博客腔！
老娘和我电话，好脾气的听她抱怨，据说是被学生炮轰了下，说她总是博客腔。老娘非要刨根问题出来博客腔到底是什么？
我：你又冲人家孩子絮叨了吧？
老娘：没有啊。（很委屈）
我：用安妮宝贝和郭敬明构词法说话了吧？什么副词+名词之类，把2个不搭的玩意非得弄一起？
老娘：安妮宝贝过时了好伐？郭是谁啊？你校友吗？是不是那个秀气的矮个小姑娘？
我：你又格调、品味之流，隐性炫耀了吧？
老娘：我有吗？我一直就光明正大的有格调有品味。哪像你……
赶快打断，防止火烧到我身上。
我：明明是简单句非要用复句表达，还硬塞了好多形容词吧？
老娘：我说话多简洁啊。
我：引用了古典诗词？引用了一流作家的二流话语或者二流作家的一流语录？还都是欧洲的特生僻的那种。还用心理分析了吧？
老娘：最近没时间看书，也就看看窦文涛的锵锵。
我：谈八卦了吧？很黄很暴力，很傻很天真吧？
老娘：他们比我门清。
我：又青年愤怒，中年小资，老年发春了吧？
老娘：……（隐约听见咬牙切齿声）
我：你肯定不是那种人！
随即把什么意淫、发骚、脑残、装B之类的话通通咽下。要不就算隔着电话老娘的拳头也能过来。
我：你就当小孩夸你呢。
老娘：哎，不知道他们想什么啊。
事后证明，小孩子们确实是夸我老娘，只是她听岔了。
2008-03-05
Les notes au hasard ！ 左脚正午，右脚黄昏！
在大学研读史料的时候曾觉悟，多人对一件事的共同回忆，绝对会衍变成一场灾难性的“罗生门”，于是一大棒把我击入了悲苦的历史虚无主义者的阵营。脱离了愤怒青年的调调，再回首这些往事，如果没有那么多“各说各话难解的谜题”，历史学家不就通通饿死街头了？某一方面讲也就没有我的那张烫金大红证书。这么一来我不仅不应该悲苦，还应该觉得乐趣无穷。
和hana的几次见面，不能不让我想到一部喋喋不休的电影《日落之前》，记忆中总在不停的说，漫无目的的说，变换场景和方式的说，而说的什么其实根本不重要。
三月的北大，在我心里应该草长莺飞，阡陌之间春花遍野，软风轻抚湖柳摇曳，若能见到几个踏歌的如花美眷，更是不亦快哉。但是事实弄人，仍是一派深秋的作风，萧瑟自然不提，水塘底甚至还留着陈年的老冰。看到一只油光水滑幽幽冒着蓝光的喜鹊才略解失落之感。
hana在四合院模样的建筑研究所前按下了快门，规整的四合院旁边却一片片断壁残垣，显得建筑研究所何等孤立无援。用老郭的话打趣，研究完了原来是这等样貌啊，很高科技。
自从joyo上网购很久没去万圣，甚至忘记了在哪里，害得司机叔叔兜了一圈。逛书店文艺青年们大抵都会眼大肚饱，买书如山倒，读书如抽丝。我不是文青依旧如此，挑得多看得多，根本不买，内心是世俗的计较着银子的得失，雅克事后还情真意切的批评了我，这么有纪念意义的一刻应该买本书啊。hana呢，绝对不是银子作祟，而是她根本没有时间，她对时间的渴望轻易就可以读到。
午餐是不正点的贵州菜：蕨根粉，酸汤鱼火锅，冻豆腐，茼蒿菜。hana试吃鱼肉间，俨然煮妇派头，联想到站在四合院门口自然要拍照的她，原来那个他是何等的幸福啊！
拖着hana的箱子，本本，包包，我们窝在卡瓦小镇，很切合咖啡馆的调调：永远在路上，永远的旅人。听她天真未凿的谈追求真正的人生，我问了她很多“然后呢？”，当然知道这不过是睿智的hana一种“晚上千条路”的奇幻畅想，或者解读为保养皮肤刺激荷尔蒙分泌也成。
安定的生活是奇幻畅想的强力后盾。生命的本质之一就是“早晨起来卖豆腐”般的重复。无论存在着多少种奇幻，无论发生怎样的艳遇，无可奈何的只是重复。再刻骨的东西也不过落得如流水般，转瞬逝去的下场。花自开自落，人生中的良辰美景却未必失而复得。纵然春暖花开，即使面朝大海，也不过年华虚度空留疲惫。
hana不同意雅克的论调“网络上的个人不是真正的自我”。这个论调来自某次雅克和我的真情告白，意义在于封笔blog。也曾惶恐于记忆在语言不断描摹下，失真虚焦，于是乎出现了强力美化抑或更加自怨自艾的自我。也许是种精神鸦片或者讨好所谓的潜读者。这个自己是不是自己呢？或者说，我们是否能够正视某种真正的自我。分裂的自我是否彻底击垮内心统一人格的心理防御呢？也许某天我实在受不了分裂的自我而弃博不写，看野草丛生也是乐事。
在hana上车那刻，拥抱了她。因为肢体的陌生，我们都显得僵硬而不协调。慢慢的走回家，脑子里是王小波的在《黄金时代》里的话：在似水流年里，有件事叫我日夜不安。这是一种怎样的感触？普鲁斯特写了一本书，谈到自己身上发生过的事。这些事情看起来就如一个人中了邪躺在河底，眼看着潺潺流水，波光粼粼，落叶、浮木、空玻璃瓶，一样一样从身上流过去。
听朋友们说上海已经很热了，鹅黄色的报春花开放了没呢？轻声说句，陌上花开，可缓缓归矣。
2008-03-03
Les notes au hasard ！ 对猫的正解和误读！
葡萄不知道是哪根春情勃发，更换睡觉位置，由沙发换成装水果的盘子，难道她也知道葡萄是水果吗？
当然也增加了恶习，比如早晨攻击人。躲在很暗处或者人的视线死角，匍匐在地，炯炯有神，慢慢将身体缩成一团，迅雷不及掩耳盗铃的速度扑向正在刷牙或者洗脸的我和雅克。难道我们是小老鼠还是小鸟？雅克和獐头鼠目身负小鸟还能扯上关系，而葡萄咬我只能解释为对我青春美貌和伶牙俐齿的嫉妒。
昨天冷不丁挨了葡萄一口，和雅克哭诉，雅克嬉皮笑脸道，你也咬她一口嘛。生活还是很公平，今天挨葡萄打的便是雅克。你也可以用形意拳还葡萄一爪嘛，我笑嘻嘻的。
雅克恨恨的说，以后决不养猫。
由于猫的鬼魅总被认定为女性化的动物，其实不仅仅是那么简单，猫就是一不折不扣的女文青。
猫是神经质且情绪化而需要不断YY假想敌才能生活下去的。它是不是喜欢你？不仅你不知道，它也不知道。这一秒可能懒洋洋卧于你的腿上，下一秒很可能狠狠咬你一口。对生活永远充满了不切实际的好奇心，可能猫的世界不过是一间厨房、一间卧室而已，但是你无法知道这猫的内心是不是装着整个宇宙。它在你眼里也许很脏，因为怕水不洗澡，但是在它内心却固执着自己的精神洁癖，舔只不过是个外向的表达而已。用逃避搞定一些它不愿动手的事情，而由此衍生出的北方俏皮话“猫盖屎”。没被阉割前，它毫不掩饰自己的情欲，也许那些不能释怀的情欲给他人带来的困扰远远大过于它自己。当然它还将假独立贯彻一生，都说猫是很独立的动物，经常内心把主人亦当成宠物，用耳朵蹭你也许不只是告诉你它的喜爱，更多的是撒尿划地盘的行为。但猫忘记了不论多高傲它始终逃离不开吃喝，而这吃喝恰恰是想让它献媚的主人提供的。献媚是人类强加给它的生活准则，而独立只不过是个精致的附属品而已。于是它隐忍的讨好，既保全了独立的名声又不似狗儿那般赤裸裸，这一切的结尾不过是点猫粮。可能它靠吃垃圾也能生存，但既然有媚术能吃上伟嘉，又何乐而不为呢？聪明反被聪明误到。
想起了某句老话，男不养猫女不养狗。其实还是有一定道理。男女有别，人猫更是两道。男人养个女文青还头大万分呢，如果再整个思维混乱语言不通的猫文青呢？结局一，猫文青为了口中食安乐窝不能离开男人，在男人洋洋得意的爱心泛滥炫耀中抓狂度日。结局二，猫文青为了口中食安乐窝不能离开男人，在男人洋洋得意的爱心泛滥炫耀中被改造成狗儿没皮没脸。
当然这不过是我一厢情愿的生搬硬套。
说回我和雅克，雅克正策划某个夜黑风高的晚上把葡萄偷过来，顺着窗户扔出去以绝后患。为了让雅克再一次感受北方曲艺的魅力，我只好套老郭的话。
“扔猫我可研究过。从2楼扔和从12楼扔不一样！”
“怎么不一样？”
“2楼是：啪--喵喵。12楼是：喵喵--啪。”雅克狐疑的看着我。
“我们住6楼，雅克你猜葡萄是先喵呢？还是先啪呢？”
补写，某轶事。汉末，蜀汉裸眠成风。李郎喜猫，夜必共枕。入夜，李郎春梦，尘根起伏。猫惊为鼠，捕之，尘根断，吞食。有邻闻之，广为传。故老者多嘱子孙：猫为男患，不可养之。史记，蜀太监盛，亦猫为之。
2008-02-29
C'est la vie！ 百度成就了多少艳遇！
百度绝对应该颁奖给我。出于对百度快照的依赖，我基本屏蔽google。
提出问题，提炼关键词，搜索，变换搜索方式，信息分类筛选，综合搜索结果，解决问题。
我的贡献如下：不但积极的使用它的各项功能和现实生活紧密联系，而且不遗余力的推广给身边的人，传播某种扯淡的理念“没有搜不到只有想不到”简直弄成了一个爱百度爱生活的典范。
曾经一度和百度公司一墙之隔，他们也没有慧眼把我这个潜在的优秀员工吸收进去。
多次和闺密们感慨：如果某一天没有了搜索引擎，像我这等好奇心杀死猫的人该如何生活呢？闺密们纷纷做痛心疾首状，对我这种不切实际的求知欲大加批判。但每当探八卦，找电影，修电脑，换手机，下补丁的时候又通通短信我这个人肉引擎。
和小杰子聊天，在一通护肤心得小tip后，转入我近期的思想动态。
请允许我用郭叔叔的语言（参见调侃陈冠希和我要旅游的段子）来叙述这段艳遇：搜你，然后点你，你再点她，互相点腻了以后，sm聊天啊，被雷，然后如小鹿撞心，春心荡漾……前提是这些最初不过是个无意识的动作，轻点右手食指，动动眼球而已。
于是我大踏步向女同路上前进，可惜不过是个半吊子。惊艳后做了几个YY的好梦罢了，连个hug都紧张的忘记了，还别提蓝颜怂恿我的french kiss玩意了，弄来弄去还是大学时代的好心眼儿的伪女流氓是也。
除了把小杰子说得热血沸腾，就差“狼，fighting”连我问她老blog地址都忘记回答，于是我搜我搜我搜搜搜，轻易的扒出了小杰子的老博。
一下子灵光一闪啊，百度还真忙。一不留神成就了多少正常的不正常的关系：红颜，蓝颜，知己，酒肉，夫妻，女同，男志，419，sm，小三，小四……
嗯，问题又来了，去搜一下咋french kiss，好像难度蛮高。
2008-02-28
Ma thèse ！ I'LL NEVER FORGET YOU!
by Ray BradburyFrom Mar 1983 Reader's Digest (Pages 92-96)
When Ann Taylor came to teach at Green Town Central, it was the summer of her 24th birthday and it was the summer when Bob Spaulding would turn 14. She was that teacher for whom all the children wanted to bring huge oranges or pink flowers. She always seemed to be passing by on days when the shade was green under then tunnels of oaks and elms. She was the fine peaches of summer in the snow of winter, and she was cool milk for cereal on a hot early-June morning. And those rare few days in the year when the climate was balanced as fine as a leaf between winds that blew just right, those were the days like Ann Taylor, and should have been so named on the calendar.
As for Bob Spaulding he was the cousin who walked alone through town on any October evening with a pack of leaves after him like a horde of Halloween mice. Or you would see him, like a slow white fish in the tart waters of the Fox Hill Creek, baking brown - or hear his voice in those treetops where the wind entertained, dropping down hand by hand, and there would come Bob Spaulding to sit alone and look at the world.
That first morning when Miss Ann Taylor entered and wrote her name on the board, the schoolroom seemed suddenly flooded with illumination, as if the roof had moved back. Bob Spaulding sat with a spitball hidden in his hand, but let it drop. After class, he brought in a bucket of water and began to wash the boards. "What's this?" She turned to him from her desk, where she had been correcting spelling papers.
"The boards are kind of dirty. I suppose I should have asked permission," he said, halting uneasily.
"I think we can pretend you did," she replied, smiling, and at this smile he finished the boards in a burst of speed and pounded the erasers so furiously that the air was full of snow, it seemed.
The next morning he happened by the place where she took board and room just as she was coming out to walk to school.
"Well, here I am," he said.
"And do you know," she said, "I'm not surprised."
"May I carry your books?" he asked.
"Why, thank you, Bob."
They walked for a few minutes and he said nothing. She glanced over and slightly down at him and saw how at ease he was, how happy he seemed. When they reached the edge of the school ground, he said, "I better leave you here. The other kids wouldn't understand."
"I'm not sure I do, either," said Miss Taylor.
"Why, we're friends," said Bob with a natural honesty.
'Bob--" she started to say. "Never mind." She walked away.
And there he was in class and there he was after school for the next two weeks, never speaking, quietly washing the boards while she worked, and there was the silence of the sun going down in the slow sky, and the rustle of papers and the scratch of a pen. Sometimes the silence would go on until almost five, when Miss Taylor would find Bob in the last seat, waiting.
"Well, it's time to go home," Miss Taylor would say. And he would run and fetch her hat and coat. Then they would walk across the empty yard and talk all sorts of things.
"What are you going to be, Bob, when you grow up?"
"A writer," he said.
"Oh, that's big ambition."
"I know, but I'm going to try," he told her. "I've read a lot."
He thought for a while and said, "Do me a favor, Miss Taylor?"
"It all depends."
"I walk every Saturday along the creek to Lake Michigan. There're a lof of butterflies and crayfish. Maybe you'd like to walk too."
"I'm afraid not. I'm going to be busy."
He started to ask doing what, but stopped. "I take along sandwiches and pop. I wish you'd come."
"Thanks, Bob, perhaps some other time."
"I shouldn't have asked you, should I?" he said.
"You have every right to ask anything you want to," she said.
A few days later she gave him a copy of Great Expectations. He stayed up all night reading it, and they talked about it.
Each day Bob met Miss Taylor and many days she would start to tell him not to come anymore, but she never could.
He talked with her about Dickens and Kipling and Poe, coming and going to school. But she found it impossible to call on him to recite in class. She would hesitate, then call someone else. Nor would she look at him while they were walking. But on several late afternoons as he moved his arm high on the blackboard, sponging away the arithmetic symbols, she found herself glancing over at him for seconds at a time.
Then one Saturday morning he was standing in the creek with his overalls rolled up to his knees, bending to catch crayfish, when he looked up and saw her.
"Well, here I am," she said, laughing.
"And do you know," he said, "I'm not surprised."
"Show me the crayfish and the butterflies," she said.
They walked down to the lake and sat on the sand with a warm wind blowing softly about them, fluttering her hair and the ruffle on her blouse, and he sat a few yards back from her and they ate the ham-and-pickle sandwiches and drank the orange pop solemnly.
"I didn't think I would ever come on a picnic like this," she said.
"With some kid," he said.
They said little else during the afternoon.
"This is all wrong," Bob said later. "And I can't figure why. Just walking along and catching butterflies and crayfish and eating sandwiches. But Mom and Dad'd rib me if they knew, and the kids would too. And the other teachers would laugh at you, wouldn't they?"
"I'm afraid so. I don't exactly understand how I came here at all," she said.
That was about all there was to the meeting of Miss Ann Taylor and Bob Spaulding: two or three monarch butterflies, a copy of Dickens, a dozen crayfish, four sandwiches and two afternoon, she left early with a headache.
But on Tuesday after school they were both in the silent room again - he sponging the board contentedly, and she working on her papers in peace, when suddenly the courthouse clock struck five. Its great bronze boom shuddered one's body, making you seem older by the minute. Miss Taylor put down her pen.
"Bob," she said, "come here."
"Yes'm." He put down the sponge.
She looked at him intently for a moment until he looked away. "Bob," I wonder if you know what I'm going to talk to you about."
"Yes," he said at last. "About us."
"How old are you, Bob?"
"Going on fourteen."
"Do you know how old I am?"
"Yes'm, I heard. Twenty-four. I'll be twenty four in ten years, almost," he said. "And sometimes I feel twenty-four."
"Yes, and sometimes you almost act it."
"Do I, really?!!"
"Now sit still. It's very important that we understand what is happening. First, let's admit we are the greatest friends in the world. I have never had a student like you, nor have I had as much affection for any boy I've ever known." He flushed at this. She went on. "And let me speak for you - you've found me to be the nicest teacher of any you've ever known."
"Oh, more than that," he said.
"Perhaps more than that, but there are facts to be faced - a town and its people, and you and me. I've thought this over, Bob. Don't think I've been unaware of my feelings. Under some circumstances our friendship would be odd. But you are no ordinary boy. And I know I'm not sick, mentally or physically, and that whatever has evolved here has been a true regard for your character and goodness. But those are not the things we consider in this world, unless they occur in a man of a certain age. I don't know if I'm saying this right."
"If I was ten years older and about fifteen inches taller it'd make all the difference," he said.
"I know it seems foolish," she said. "When you feel very grown-up and right and have nothing to be ashamed of. Maybe someday they will judge a person's mind so accurately that they can say, 'This is a man, though his body is only thirteen, with a man's responsibility.' But until then, we have to go by ages and heights in an ordinary world."
"I don't like that," he said.
"Perhaps I don't either, but there really is no way to do anything about us."
"Yes, I know."
"We must decide what to do," she said. "I can secure a transfer from this school ..."
"You don't have to do that," he said. "We're moving. My folks and I, we're going to live in Madison."
"It has nothing to do with all this, has it?"
"No, no, my father has a new job there. It's only fifty miles away. I can see you, can't I?"
"Would that be a good idea?"
"No, I guess not," he said.
They sat awhile in the silent schoolroom.
"When did all this happen?" he said, helplessly.
"I don't know," she said. "Nobody ever knows. They haven't known for thousand of years. Sometimes two people like each other who shouldn't. I can't explain it."
"There's one thing I want you to remember," she said finally. "There are compensations in life. You don't feel well now; neither do I. But something will happen to fix that. Do you believe that?"
"I'd like to. If only you'd wait for me," he blurted.
"Ten years?"
"I'd be twenty-four then."
"But I'd be thirty-four and another person entirely, perhaps. No, I don't think it can be done."
He sat there for a long time. "I'll never forget you," he said.
"You'll forget."
"I'll find a way of never forgetting you," he said.
She went to erase the boards.
"I'll help you," he said.
"No, no," she said hastily. "You go home."
He left the school. Looking back, he saw Miss Taylor through the window, at the board, slowly washing out the chalked words.
HE moved away the next week and was gone for 16 years. Though he was only 50 miles away, he never got to Green Town again until he was almost 30 and married. Then one spring they were driving through on their way to Chicago and stopped off for a day.
Bob left his wife at the hotel and walked around town and finally asked about Miss Ann Taylor.
"Oh, yes, the pretty teacher. She died in 1936, not long after you left."
Had she ever married?
"No, come to think of it, she never had."
He walked out to the cemetery and found her stone, which said, "Ann Taylor, born 1910, died 1936." And he thought, Twenty-six years old. Why, I'm almost four years older than you are now, Miss Taylor."
Later in the day the people in the town saw Bob Spaulding's wife strolling to meet him under the elms and the oak trees. She was the fine peaches of summer in the snow winter, and she was cool milk for cereal on a hot early-summer morning. And this was one of those rare few days in time when the climate was balanced like a leaf between winds that blow just right, one of those days that should have been named, everyone agreed, after Robert Spaulding's wife."
- Condensed from "A Story of Love", a short story by Ray Bradbury.
2008-02-28
Les notes au hasard ！ 窥！
喜欢某个blog，是不是一定要见到博主呢？
想到了老钱的名言“假如你吃了一个鸡蛋觉得还不错，又何必要去认识那只下蛋的母鸡呢？”当然我这么说没讽刺的意思，毕竟鸡不是啥好词汇。
是做他人生命中默默的窥视者，熟知一个陌生人的种种生活动向甚至小趣味，时不时在表达叙述语境中把他（她）当成老友一样搬来弄去自然的讲述着他（她）的生活乐趣呢？
还是大大方方的见光死，用一种狂热的掏心掏肺的类似会见心理医生的自我叙述达到高潮，然后相忘于网络呢？
而那个为潜读者们劳心劳神码字的博主，究竟是他（她）自己？还是我们心中郁郁不得的某种自我或者夸大臆想的自我的投射呢？
在打开门出发的那刻，我问了自己以上的问题。
答案我并不知道，也许想太多确实很无聊。
“去见博友，女性。”我这样和雅克交待，他愣了一下。
一个人窝在starbucks松软的沙发中等待hana。紧张期待兴奋胆怯又搅拌了些许莫名其妙，很长时间没体验过这么复杂的情绪了。
hana出现的极为准时。职业女性，干练，很强的人气磁场，无可挑剔的微笑旋即扑面而来，一下子想到好脾气的标准OL表姐。
灯火阑珊中内心似乎有捧小野花默默开放，却又不知如何拿出手送给心仪的人儿。
转换了战场来到人声鼎沸的桥咖啡。局促的开始闲聊，紧张不安中流露着某种熟捻。一直强力避免见到HR后因紧张而滔滔不绝瞎侃情况的出现，但不得不承认，hana身上有抹不掉的HR气息，一度让我紧张到致命。
幸好可以抽烟缓解这些。忘记了当她说到什么的时候，一下子若干记忆中早已沉睡的人苏醒了，灯光昏黄的咖啡馆变得烟雾缭绕。像被一群人团团围住缓缓挤压，似乎看到oliver曾经温柔的眼神，握住小松曾经潮湿的小手，肆意的让思维抽离内心泛滥。也许我要见的不是hana，也不是郁郁不得志的自我，而是内心那些甜腻的腐败的感伤的忧愁的空洞的记忆，他们需要某个突破口继续回到我的生命中。
如果说强力人气场标准微笑算头香的话，hana身上成熟女性的混合魅力就是中调，芬芳馥郁沁人心脾。而我也心甘情愿如小女孩般顶礼膜拜。细致而隐秘的观察她的手，她的嘴角，她的中英混搭表达方式，她接听电话矛盾的小女人娇态，她的一厢情愿的天真……至于hana这瓶香水的尾调是什么，时间紧促而无从知晓，也许就是神秘吧。
在光合作用前分别，听着高跟鞋嗒嗒的快步前行，默默点燃了心爱的ESSE，轻轻的哼几句不成调的“can't take my eyes off you,can't take my mind off you”……
问雅克“如果我喜欢女人怎么办？”雅克依然愣了一下。
补充一下：听着maksim 的hana's eyes幽幽的觉得hana的尾调应该是善良和纯美。
2008-02-03
C'est la vie！ 很忙！
 “2007我很忙！” 你呢？点这里测测看！ |
测试地址:http://www.yodao.com/07busy/
2008-01-28
Les notes au hasard ！ 克雅！
克雅是雅克英语名字中文翻译倒过来。
灵感来自2005年冬天某天洗澡归来路上。
那时候刚在一起，一个任性，一个盲从。大张旗鼓的妄图改变他人的生活习惯。
拉着雅克去上大浴室洗澡。对于上大浴室的依赖超乎寻常，每周2次的洗澡比吃饭都重要，曾经写过blog扯淡从洗澡中悟到哲学高度。
23岁的时候似乎还有和人比较的资本，洗澡的时候总是抬着头，一脸傲慢和不屑。看看身边的这个，内心中比比那个，喜悦总归大于失望。
对男浴室充满了好奇，特想知道男人们在洗澡的时候是不是也互相观察暗自揣摩。于是，把雅克拉入了浴室，尽管他不怎么情愿。
30分钟后两个头发湿漉漉脸庞红彤彤的人步行在上大校园，洗澡后心情会变得格外的好，话也自然密了起来。
雅克略略讲了男浴室的周遭见闻，显得很不好意思。
讲着讲着就说到给孩子起名这件事情上，大约从男女上升到孩子能回归严肃，似乎恋爱中的人都干过这么无聊的事情。
没有什么铺垫，两个人就不约而同的把英语名字翻过来偷懒。凑着“雅”还衍生出“庸”之类的其他字眼。
此后，克雅就成了我们相互打趣的词汇。雅克也再没去过上大浴室，似乎是对4元价格心存偏见，或者是对公共浴室心存反感。而我也懒得要求他什么了。
总想若是克雅能够诞生，知道他的名字是年轻的父母无聊的一时消遣，或者他这个人也许就是一时消遣，不知道内心作何感想？
生命其实玩笑大过严肃吧。
2008-01-18
C'est la vie！ 还是喜欢我的老巢！
喜欢22楼的界面，舍不得离开。
这里记录我太多太多的快乐。
想起了和yark那些甜蜜的日子。
心都要融化。
要不要搬家回这里？
还是脚踩2个博？
在选择抓狂中……
现在的blog：http://hi.baidu.com/lolitalin
2007-04-21
Les notes au hasard ！ 我只是个写字的！
22楼总是给我意外。
我习惯了被关又开再被关又再开……
如麦兜一般死蠢的活着。
我已经不去思考。
只是记录。
被yark嘲笑“创作”，也许一直被其他人嘲笑着什么……
可是，
我只是个写字的，在生活中失去话语权的人。
也许，
将来的，
某个，
茫茫的黑夜，
我只能默默的想着，
不再向任何人提起！
2007-04-19
Les notes au hasard ！ 一切都如此之慢！
不上班的感觉特别好，时间过得和飞一般。
只是除了时间，什么都慢！
22楼打开的速度也是越来越慢，写个文章要开n次，仅有的一点小灵感也消失殆尽。
为了bobo的音乐，不得不买了个mp3，290元1G。在卓越和当当上比较了10分钟。
在卓越上买过一次书，印象很是不错。这次还煞有介事的弄了个加急，没想到被mail告之不能今天发货。郁闷！看来书和数码产品确实不是一个概念级的。
物流——网络购物公司永远不能突破的瓶颈。和我们公司一样的垃圾。不知道投诉下是不是有点什么赠品，只是可惜自己的手机费，算了放过他们吧。希望在我走之前送到。
看yark打游戏有点心得，意识有了些许提高。不过总觉得英雄移动速度慢的心焦，即使穿上红跑鞋也那么无奈。在敌方英雄剩下一丝血的时候，恨不得bm疾风步或是mk的锤子一下飞过去。还好每次yark砍死英雄都伴随着我一声解气的大叫“死”，那感觉真爽。
慢慢慢，什么都慢，很是焦急。
2007-04-17
Les notes au hasard ！ 开往海拉尔的火车！
昨天突然很想听《加州梦》，一天中头脑都是一个旋律。晚上把bobo连同饼干寄给我的碟子塞到dvd机器中，没想到一下子就听到《加州梦》了。
那张碟子我一直没有听，昨天看到的时候是满满的我喜欢的音乐，非常仔细的整理成文件夹，一段相声，一段电影。很多曲子要用驴子爬很久才能下来。女朋友之间的情谊，我想男人是不会懂。yark说了声嫉妒。
在五道口住的关系，每天都能看见火车肆无忌惮的穿过大街。我怀疑五道口的由来和火车有关。在繁华的地段，一列列火车穿越着，心不在焉的人群烦躁的等待。车厢里的人犹看动物般看我们。每天如此，周而复返。
昨天我看到的火车是到海拉尔的。不知怎么的，想到了初中的一次经历。
那时候北京火车站和现在一摸一样，破破烂烂。我从北京返回天津。爸拉住我急匆匆的往站台冲，没有人阻拦，列车员都笑嘻嘻的。在一列脏兮兮的绿皮火车前，爸问了一句“到天津吗？”听到一个肯定的答案后，他就把我抛给了那列车，给了我一张很大额的钞票，用手机简短的和妈说了一句，形色匆匆的离开了。我现在依旧想不起来，他到底有什么火烧眉毛的事情。
一个人默默的环视那列车厢，是卧铺车厢。在肮脏的铺板上躺着一些彪形大汉，依稀看到浓密的胸毛和圆滚滚的肚皮。我恐惧的看着他们，他们冷漠的看着我。不知所措起来，没有人理我，火车缓缓开动，我就那么傻愣愣的站着。就在这时一个同样脏兮兮的小姑娘开始和我说话，自顾自的讲着海拉尔的草原和牛奶，我记得她的牙齿特别白。
列车员粗暴的打断了小姑娘的叙述，在以抵押我的一个旅行包的条件下，逼迫我去补票。我感觉到他的烦躁，因为我得到一个模糊的地址。我就那么向前走着，火车晃晃悠悠。
我记得那是一个烟雾缭绕的车厢，有很多异常肥胖的男女。一个中年妇女和一群壮汉围住一个列车员模样的人，我慢慢的挤了进去。中年妇女喋喋不休的讲着生病的孩子，神情真切的恳求一张卧铺票，列车员哈欠连天。我怯生生的蚊嘤了一句，补一张去天津的车票。没有人理会我，甚至我觉得他们根本感觉不到我的存在。场面还在继续，我就如透明一般插在这些人周围。我提高了几次音量，结果都一样。我感觉到自己的异常无聊。
我不知道自己下一步要做什么，就那么愣愣的站着还是什么，火车的晃晃悠悠给我神奇的第六感让我继续向下一个车厢走去。在那里我补到了票，一张黄色的纸，上面有一些潦草的字迹，我付出了11元。我不太确信这张纸片能让我回家。
我赎回了我的行李，小姑娘不见了，我被轰到餐车。找了个靠门的位置，对面是个穿着油腻制服的火车厨师。他的东北口音我不太习惯。火车停停走走，我一直要问他是什么站，他不太耐烦。忘记了都说了些什么，只记得他问我饿不饿，配上东北人特有的纯朴的一笑。
后来我发现自己是不会找不到天津站的，因为那站下的人很多，停车时间异常漫长。大概火车厨师在内心笑话我这个第一次单独火车回家的孩子，笑我的异常小心。
回到家后，告诉妈很轻松，一切都很简单。11元的价格在天津只如同打车概念。那张大额钞票剩下的零钱，我后来依稀花了很久。
也许这是个很无聊的故事。因为我后来又无数次的火车，心情平静无他，一切从容不迫。再也没有那么紧张小心的感觉。
之后生命中又出现很多第一次的过往，在开始时无聊幻想，在进行时的小心翼翼手足无措，在结束后的悔恨追念。
在写这篇blog的时候，一直放着久石让的音乐，这些往事彷佛也如同宫崎骏的动画片一般。
虚无，我最后得到的是这个词。
一切都很虚无，如同繁华都市中开往海拉尔的火车。
2007-04-16
Les notes au hasard ！ 耻辱的开始！
明天就开始大假了。心里默默的快乐。
一切都默默的，不知不觉，却又那么存在着。
偷偷的笑，然后突然觉得人生很虚无。
不知道自己为什么得到那么毫无联系的答案。
发邮件给相关的人，麻烦到冒汗。
boss连续发了几个mail，还祝我假期快乐，默默的觉得他很可爱。
对自己说就当他们都很可爱吧。
看到obi的留言，他要搬家了。
每年都在内心悄悄记住被蚊子第一次咬的日期。
而今年这个日期出现在昨天夜间。
后背、脚踝。
这种耻辱默默的开始，慢慢的延伸，到夏季达到高潮。
就写到这吧，心里开始烦了。
2007-04-15
Les notes au hasard ！ 猫的抑郁症问题！
从00那里看到了所谓传说中小白的照片，原来是只黑色的猫。想到同事把自己家的狗叫成喵喵，文婧说过以后养猫起名要叫兔子，都是异曲同工。80后青年的潜意识的反叛心理？也许。
00一直叫我看他blog关注小白的受伤问题，看了2页还是不知道所以然，内心烦躁。此人的叙述越来越接近海派文字从业者。
公司里有个漂亮姐姐，职位很高，人美自然脾气大，相当的花瓶。养了一只价值3k以上的英国血统猫，酷似维嘉猫粮广告片中的主角。一天漂亮姐姐突然娇滴滴的说猫得了抑郁症，不吃不喝不叫只是一味看着窗外。我突然想到家里倒是有抗抑郁的药物，但是不知人猫是否同理。
在不知是否存在猫心理医生的情况下，我们都建议漂亮姐姐让小猫出去活动一下，漂亮姐姐小脸一皱，语出惊人：那还要找个绳子拴住才能遛的。人猫的问题没有解决，但是在这一刻猫狗确实同理了。
估计漂亮姐姐在小区中这么一折腾，她会被小区人民永远的记住的，有个遛猫的漂亮的女bt抑或女sb。
不知道小白是否存在心理问题，要不身价和心理疾病成正比的论断就可以成立了。
和杰子的朋友语言交恶。不过他鄙视我的一个原因我倒是同意，因为我忘记了余时英。不过我对新儒学一类从来没有兴趣。我应该记得吗？我应该知道些什么？我不是也曾经因为此类的问题鄙视了很多人嘛！可是结果呢？我看到一个狂躁的小孩子。我想起了很多人的过去，一些依稀狂躁但越来越麻木的面孔。
在门口的小书摊买了一本《亮剑》8元，在轻轨上不会无聊了，在厕所中不会无聊了，在yark打游戏时不会无聊了……很多坚持的到最后不过是本廉价的盗版书。学了历史，反而成了彻底的历史虚无主义者。
很多时候人生就是如此。我们只能双手一摊。就这样吧。
2007-04-14
C'est la vie！ 和老狐狸的斗争！
搞了一次辞职风波，和狐狸boss说了一些负气话，被批了一个大假。
狐狸boss的人格魅力还是值得赞一下的。
心里还是七上八下觉得狐狸boss会对自己有什么看法。
算了，玩票工作就是了。
感叹下，再厉害的热血小猎手还是没有斗过狡猾的老狐狸。
利用我的大假好好出去游山玩水去！
不想透露自己的行程给同事们，我不喜欢给任何人带纪念品。
叹一下，工作这么久依旧不会做人，越来越幼稚。
一定要去上海见一下我的亲们，很久没有好好说话了。
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