After two years,
everything you said is clear
people say what's the point
- ti trovo un posto
the first words I learned in your language were the most beautiful
first thing learned is last forgotten
Hope
come back and you won't get away
burned in me
11/11/2006
11/08/2006
Hounds of Love
I need a passport to get me into my next state of consciousness. Tired of ramming clichés into a blender and everything coming out smoothie, a bit too digestible. Eco-conscious thoughts, are these sentiments neurodegradable or will they litter the thoughtscape for centuries? Packaging, I’m cutting down on packaging now.
“In the future…” My favourite way to start a sentence.
In the future will pork and beans be outlawed?
I did a hatchet job on myself.
Got soaked again. Can’t trick Mother Nature. Like a soccer commentator, uttering poignant things every tenth minute.
Leave me dice and a drawbridge for the night and I can be the knight in the moat with fight in his face and lice in his hair, dirty but unbowed and proud of his duty and serving the beauty of her name and eyes and the skies will be painted with her fair breath, so dress for Sunday and pluck the goat, the moment's tonight and the broken backs are upon the boat.
Pisces do unnerve me, they are fish with a tail, a dragon drinking ale and I’m a wiggin with the nail, this hammer of my finger does not linger for a moment in my mind so unwind the twine and unfurl limericks into mirth; it's a truth you can't escape the mind ready for rape and the ladies're atittering at their own selfastonishment.
Selfish it is to sell fish at all.
“In the future…” My favourite way to start a sentence.
In the future will pork and beans be outlawed?
I did a hatchet job on myself.
Got soaked again. Can’t trick Mother Nature. Like a soccer commentator, uttering poignant things every tenth minute.
Leave me dice and a drawbridge for the night and I can be the knight in the moat with fight in his face and lice in his hair, dirty but unbowed and proud of his duty and serving the beauty of her name and eyes and the skies will be painted with her fair breath, so dress for Sunday and pluck the goat, the moment's tonight and the broken backs are upon the boat.
Pisces do unnerve me, they are fish with a tail, a dragon drinking ale and I’m a wiggin with the nail, this hammer of my finger does not linger for a moment in my mind so unwind the twine and unfurl limericks into mirth; it's a truth you can't escape the mind ready for rape and the ladies're atittering at their own selfastonishment.
Selfish it is to sell fish at all.
11/02/2006
Flaming Hogs of Fishbait!
How did we meet - do you remember?
I was interested in your name. I was referred here by a friend, Ms. Kimberly Quock, a friend from the islands. Your name is Chloe? A good name, doesn't get my blood boiling, a fine name for friendly conversation. Chloe, where have you been all my life? You must forgive me, I have never, ever met someone with so large a forehead.
I have my fetishes: a voluminous forehead here, a well-manicured, even serrated toenail there; a fluffy pink bunny laid carefully above my doorframe. Everyone has some micropleasure, Chloe - what are yours? Perhaps dromedary limericks, or piping hot porcini mushroom pie - or is it blonde peach-fuzzed boys named Sven? Oh we'll get along fine, ma'am; I am a tolerant soul.
I don't go well with your brother, true. The exception proving the rule. That mango on his head - a custom from the island perhaps, or psychotherapeutic appendage. Such folly. A mango can't help your brother; noggin fruit doesn't help anything, Chloe. Your brother should give up his pet personalities. That bit of tropicalia is a stubborn ploy. 'MangoHead' be damned; it adds up to nothing but a rotting piece of fruit...
(the preceding serves no purpose at all. except practice)
I was interested in your name. I was referred here by a friend, Ms. Kimberly Quock, a friend from the islands. Your name is Chloe? A good name, doesn't get my blood boiling, a fine name for friendly conversation. Chloe, where have you been all my life? You must forgive me, I have never, ever met someone with so large a forehead.
I have my fetishes: a voluminous forehead here, a well-manicured, even serrated toenail there; a fluffy pink bunny laid carefully above my doorframe. Everyone has some micropleasure, Chloe - what are yours? Perhaps dromedary limericks, or piping hot porcini mushroom pie - or is it blonde peach-fuzzed boys named Sven? Oh we'll get along fine, ma'am; I am a tolerant soul.
I don't go well with your brother, true. The exception proving the rule. That mango on his head - a custom from the island perhaps, or psychotherapeutic appendage. Such folly. A mango can't help your brother; noggin fruit doesn't help anything, Chloe. Your brother should give up his pet personalities. That bit of tropicalia is a stubborn ploy. 'MangoHead' be damned; it adds up to nothing but a rotting piece of fruit...
(the preceding serves no purpose at all. except practice)
10/31/2006
Quit your day job
(Get a day job and quit)
The emptiness that came so swift upon
being respectable
the pointlessness sets me adrift on being
respectable
I don't speak any more, it's
circumspect to piss or spit
when you wake up too early to work late
complaints don't rate
when I can't raise complaints I feel so
normal even keeled and self-possessed and
god I
hate it.
This is the other half, the
greener grass, the moment past for future moments that will pass
so think about half-naked women so nice
and car insurance and a motorbike
monthly pay is comfortable, safe, that's good advice
You get old, accept that excuse
nobody promoted from a recluse cave and
integrity's a kind of
ascetic self-abuse I guess so
let up let up get up and give up
And if you just stopped reading
then you deserve what you get.
'If I just stop writing I'll get everything
I deserve.'
The emptiness that came so swift upon
being respectable
the pointlessness sets me adrift on being
respectable
I don't speak any more, it's
circumspect to piss or spit
when you wake up too early to work late
complaints don't rate
when I can't raise complaints I feel so
normal even keeled and self-possessed and
god I
hate it.
This is the other half, the
greener grass, the moment past for future moments that will pass
so think about half-naked women so nice
and car insurance and a motorbike
monthly pay is comfortable, safe, that's good advice
You get old, accept that excuse
nobody promoted from a recluse cave and
integrity's a kind of
ascetic self-abuse I guess so
let up let up get up and give up
And if you just stopped reading
then you deserve what you get.
'If I just stop writing I'll get everything
I deserve.'
10/29/2006
Sympathy for the Devil
(The evolution made me do it!)
Heaven doesn’t glow with the fires down below, a bit sterile and empty like Leonard Cohen sang, it’s closing time for heaven, I’ve got somewhere else to go when it’s half past eleven, down the alley there are drums in the alley drunken bums, fisticuffs and satin fluff on a blonde wearing mink earmuffs. Coddle your bimbos three by three, they probably all failed Grade 10 History, and so everything repeats, like the staring at the teats and suffering of the people at the hands of an elite. We evolved from the army ants, hierarchy and caste transmitted through our pants, blame the progeny of your genitals and that’s why women love to dants. The tribe rules, look at Survivor, and Dilton Doiley ain’t MacGyver, it’s those firefighter high-fivers and the 6 ft 4 NASCAR drivers that are the result of this DNA (why you love
T & A) tumult.
Heaven doesn’t glow with the fires down below, a bit sterile and empty like Leonard Cohen sang, it’s closing time for heaven, I’ve got somewhere else to go when it’s half past eleven, down the alley there are drums in the alley drunken bums, fisticuffs and satin fluff on a blonde wearing mink earmuffs. Coddle your bimbos three by three, they probably all failed Grade 10 History, and so everything repeats, like the staring at the teats and suffering of the people at the hands of an elite. We evolved from the army ants, hierarchy and caste transmitted through our pants, blame the progeny of your genitals and that’s why women love to dants. The tribe rules, look at Survivor, and Dilton Doiley ain’t MacGyver, it’s those firefighter high-fivers and the 6 ft 4 NASCAR drivers that are the result of this DNA (why you love
T & A) tumult.
10/28/2006
Dress up Thursdays
When I was 19 I would dress up in a shirt and tie - every single Thursday.
I'm not sure why I started it.
"So..." people asked, "why are you all dressed up?"
I had no good answer. But I kept dressing up. It had the makings of a story.
"Because, um. It's Thursday."
I wore a tie every day for five years in high school - but it was a non-issue. When you go to an all-boys private school, having a physical appearance is mostly a non-issue. As a teenager I was all intellect and brain vapour. I had no use for mirrors.
Then I got to university. 'Feel good by looking good' was my new philosophy. It worked. People got to expect it - the tie, the style, the smile. It was strange for me, because I don't really like attention. The direct, staring 'who's that guy'? kind. I still don't like mirrors; they force me to stare.
Anyway, my first haircut at Queen's was on a Thursday. It was early November, my hair was criminally shaggy. And my new hairdresser was hot.
"Why are you dressed up," she asked, "on a Thursday morning?"
She had an incredible figure and bottle blonde hair. But Christ - her first name eludes me now. It was one of those blonde-bombshell names.
"It's this thing I do." I was half in love already. "It's dress-up Thursday."
Jaclyn? Holly? Amber? Sonja? Kendra? Tricia?
"Ok.... Why do you do it?"
Cuz I'm an eccentric baddass daredevil, I wanted to tell her. Glad I didn't. It was a great haircut. She cut my hair every two months for the next three years.
"I guess because it makes people smile."
I was 100 % faithful to her. Her scissors, my hair, three years. I've never been committed to anyone that long.
She moved to Ottawa in 2000 to open a salon. I think of her every time my hair grows shaggy. I'm sad about her name now. I'm sad because she asked me the best questions - and I'm letting her down.
"It gives people something to talk about."
I've never told any hairdresser since Keira about Dress up Thursdays. It was our thing, and besides - they might think I was strange.
Ah. Yes. Keira. Keira. Keirah? No.
I miss you Keira. Move back to Kingston. Thanks for indulging this incoherent anecdote. I wrote about you so I could remember your name.
I'm not sure why I started it.
"So..." people asked, "why are you all dressed up?"
I had no good answer. But I kept dressing up. It had the makings of a story.
"Because, um. It's Thursday."
I wore a tie every day for five years in high school - but it was a non-issue. When you go to an all-boys private school, having a physical appearance is mostly a non-issue. As a teenager I was all intellect and brain vapour. I had no use for mirrors.
Then I got to university. 'Feel good by looking good' was my new philosophy. It worked. People got to expect it - the tie, the style, the smile. It was strange for me, because I don't really like attention. The direct, staring 'who's that guy'? kind. I still don't like mirrors; they force me to stare.
Anyway, my first haircut at Queen's was on a Thursday. It was early November, my hair was criminally shaggy. And my new hairdresser was hot.
"Why are you dressed up," she asked, "on a Thursday morning?"
She had an incredible figure and bottle blonde hair. But Christ - her first name eludes me now. It was one of those blonde-bombshell names.
"It's this thing I do." I was half in love already. "It's dress-up Thursday."
Jaclyn? Holly? Amber? Sonja? Kendra? Tricia?
"Ok.... Why do you do it?"
Cuz I'm an eccentric baddass daredevil, I wanted to tell her. Glad I didn't. It was a great haircut. She cut my hair every two months for the next three years.
"I guess because it makes people smile."
I was 100 % faithful to her. Her scissors, my hair, three years. I've never been committed to anyone that long.
She moved to Ottawa in 2000 to open a salon. I think of her every time my hair grows shaggy. I'm sad about her name now. I'm sad because she asked me the best questions - and I'm letting her down.
"It gives people something to talk about."
I've never told any hairdresser since Keira about Dress up Thursdays. It was our thing, and besides - they might think I was strange.
Ah. Yes. Keira. Keira. Keirah? No.
I miss you Keira. Move back to Kingston. Thanks for indulging this incoherent anecdote. I wrote about you so I could remember your name.
10/23/2006
ludicrous trash
Great big bird! Enter and I am atyourservice. Great things we expect, not least is this cheek, offered up, to be pecked, your beak this lip, need for affection least changeable thing this week. Oh jump! Oh bump! Oh cancerous lump! Tie to me to a trapeze, such acrobatic phlegm in a dogmatic den of sorcerous orthodoxy – long on melancholy and choking on conformity. We serious lynchmob, long for big guns, warm bullets, chickens with no heads, sweaty fingers itchy for a target, big bull and bear maul all strangers in the market. Cranks and critics lash invectives, reviews a reflection of their talent in the trash. The guttersnipe attacks itself, the self-esteem suicide is the master of self help. Oh night, grey day, mad morning and unspoken traffic torment, sewer rust and cliché lust, too snobbish for an Elvis bust on your housewarming holiday.
10/21/2006
Ms. Rhythm makes a comeback
She came into the night and this light dying and my heart failing. After hours of screaming silence, she winks and whirls into the river, as though escape by water could excuse her crime. She didn't leave a calling card or a thoughtful hand-written note. I scour the bank upon a skiff, a boat beneath me to float that way and this, the merest whiff, perfume in a jar in my memory, across the ocean she's laughing or crying. I asked her mother her new address; I carried a photograph of her silk black skirt, I don't remember clothes but I remember certain textures, powders or sensations of heat. She was a criminial no doubt, word was out in the town, most wanted thief, most feared devil, most loved siren, most certain death.
10/20/2006
10/17/2006
Buy the new Hip album or I will kill you...
(...with reminders of how extremely good it is!)
My Second Album Review: World Container
It will be written: in 2006, Gord Downie discovered melody. And heart. And Bob Rock didn't put up with overintelligent lyrical obfuscation. And the band kicked it as usual - with piano!
The Tragically Hip are the only band I'll stoop to review; here's my nonsensical track-by-track analysis of World Container - possibly the third best Hip album ever behind Road Apples and Fully Completely. It is surely Gord's best vocal performance to date.
1. Yer Not the Ocean: Gord loves nature - but hates Stephen Harper. Harper's a piddling puddle, he's no Atlantic. Look beyond politics and this is a rebuke to mankind (yes, one of those species-wide rebukes): "I'm standing on my toes" and "[you] can get out of your own way" are references to evolution. Ie for all our advances the water is still above our heads. Kim Jong Il (evolution's finest product) should listen to this one. Oceans can take only so much crap.
2. Lonely End of The Rink: Song-about-Bill-Barilko-who? Song-about-Bobby-Orr-what? This track officially replaces the national anthem, the Hockey Night in Canada theme, as well as every Tim Horton's ad in existence. A classic 'story song' for goalies, who according to GD play "the noblest position in professional sport." 'Lonely' is inspired by Gord's dad, a former travelling salesman with 5 kids who nonetheless managed to watch young Gordie play net as a kid - showing up halfway through a game, watch Gord make a few key saves, and then vanishing. All I can say is - sweet smokin shitbricks! Don't get shredded by the opening guitars.
3. In View: A love song, the antidote to Harper. Also the best song about cell phone paranoia (and call display) ever recorded. The melodies shine out for the first time; finally, a Hip song we can hum!
4. Fly: This is untapped potential, the urge to realize dreams; also about Gord finally tapping into his heart with his songwriting: "something deep inside saying - 'Where you been all my life'." Also about talented and well-educated immigrants who come to Canada and then get shafted into "pushing the broom," doing work far beneath them. The coastline of Canada beckons like 'a pair of glowing thighs' but many immigrants end up cheated. Fly fly fly. Lots of choruses. Fly 'Air-World Container', yes.
5. Luv(sic): a pun in the title! Another song about airplane sickness aka soggy puke. I mean, love. "Words I carry in my heart?" - but hadn't the courage to say, for fear of succumbing to soggy cliche. Can the Hip grapple with Cupid - without becoming... Stupid? Is Love the only virtue there is? The Hip sound convinced.
6. The Kids Don't Get It: About how hard being as awesome as the Hip is; how hard defining Canada for all the clueless Canadians is. This is about how if humans don't cut back on CO-2 emissions Ma Nature's gonna deprive us our high-horsepower engines, kick our asses back to the Paleozoic and devolve us into whiny paramecium. Er, yeah. Anyway - some quite capital screeching here!
7. Pretend: I could 'pretend' this isn't another heart-filled love song - but I'd be lying. The keyboards are a huge departure. What's next - a random rant about lovesick Killer Whales?
8. Last Night I Dreamed You Didn't Love Me: About 'old school' Hip fans who don't like the new stuff, especially departures like the previous track. Also about two minutes too long - the only song on W.C. I don't really like. The irony. Flush it down the World Container!
9. Dropoff: Some bands are afraid to experiment. The Hip are NOT such a band - and it can be scary. To experiment that is. Fans don't want change. Even Bob Dylan got/gets heckled - and he's a narrowness-bestriding colossus. Has the word 'iridescent'. Spurts of machine-gun lyrics recall '100th Meridian'. Some verses remind me of Georgian Bay. I love Ontario.
10. Family Band: holy crap - I'm hemorrhaging from my incredulous forehead. 'Family Band' is possibly the best Hip song ever. Possibly the best Hip song ever. Unfortunately... bad title. I prefer "Rock the Universe - Hardcore" or "The Day the Earth Exploded" because that's exactly what happened here. FB is an FU to Kim Jong-Il, Harper and all their jabronies, and a big thumbs up to all that's incorruptible like James Brown, Elvis Presley, shiny Lamborghinis and quality street meat (?). Climaxes with a scorching mid-song pause + hypermetal reignition which make all of 'Little Bones' seem like a stupid accident.
11. World Container: This is all Bob Rock; a complete killer-whales departure with keys and a rollercoaster melody - Gord vocal's the equivalent of a trapeze acrobat. Lyrically, I suspect it's about Kim Jong-Il or Stephen Harper -"the one who couldn't imagine all the people [Canada] living life in peace" or maybe Gord's on about fickle fans again: "The good news is that you're smaller/the bad news is you can be smaller than that." Or maybe it's about how vast the sky is. Whatever, it's instantly likeable and makes me cry. Or laugh. "Laugh and laugh till yer told 'please dont come back'." Please come back!
Down with Harper, up with bodies of water. 'Save the Planet' and don't Contain the World. Five stars!
My Second Album Review: World Container
It will be written: in 2006, Gord Downie discovered melody. And heart. And Bob Rock didn't put up with overintelligent lyrical obfuscation. And the band kicked it as usual - with piano!
The Tragically Hip are the only band I'll stoop to review; here's my nonsensical track-by-track analysis of World Container - possibly the third best Hip album ever behind Road Apples and Fully Completely. It is surely Gord's best vocal performance to date.
1. Yer Not the Ocean: Gord loves nature - but hates Stephen Harper. Harper's a piddling puddle, he's no Atlantic. Look beyond politics and this is a rebuke to mankind (yes, one of those species-wide rebukes): "I'm standing on my toes" and "[you] can get out of your own way" are references to evolution. Ie for all our advances the water is still above our heads. Kim Jong Il (evolution's finest product) should listen to this one. Oceans can take only so much crap.
2. Lonely End of The Rink: Song-about-Bill-Barilko-who? Song-about-Bobby-Orr-what? This track officially replaces the national anthem, the Hockey Night in Canada theme, as well as every Tim Horton's ad in existence. A classic 'story song' for goalies, who according to GD play "the noblest position in professional sport." 'Lonely' is inspired by Gord's dad, a former travelling salesman with 5 kids who nonetheless managed to watch young Gordie play net as a kid - showing up halfway through a game, watch Gord make a few key saves, and then vanishing. All I can say is - sweet smokin shitbricks! Don't get shredded by the opening guitars.
3. In View: A love song, the antidote to Harper. Also the best song about cell phone paranoia (and call display) ever recorded. The melodies shine out for the first time; finally, a Hip song we can hum!
4. Fly: This is untapped potential, the urge to realize dreams; also about Gord finally tapping into his heart with his songwriting: "something deep inside saying - 'Where you been all my life'." Also about talented and well-educated immigrants who come to Canada and then get shafted into "pushing the broom," doing work far beneath them. The coastline of Canada beckons like 'a pair of glowing thighs' but many immigrants end up cheated. Fly fly fly. Lots of choruses. Fly 'Air-World Container', yes.
5. Luv(sic): a pun in the title! Another song about airplane sickness aka soggy puke. I mean, love. "Words I carry in my heart?" - but hadn't the courage to say, for fear of succumbing to soggy cliche. Can the Hip grapple with Cupid - without becoming... Stupid? Is Love the only virtue there is? The Hip sound convinced.
6. The Kids Don't Get It: About how hard being as awesome as the Hip is; how hard defining Canada for all the clueless Canadians is. This is about how if humans don't cut back on CO-2 emissions Ma Nature's gonna deprive us our high-horsepower engines, kick our asses back to the Paleozoic and devolve us into whiny paramecium. Er, yeah. Anyway - some quite capital screeching here!
7. Pretend: I could 'pretend' this isn't another heart-filled love song - but I'd be lying. The keyboards are a huge departure. What's next - a random rant about lovesick Killer Whales?
8. Last Night I Dreamed You Didn't Love Me: About 'old school' Hip fans who don't like the new stuff, especially departures like the previous track. Also about two minutes too long - the only song on W.C. I don't really like. The irony. Flush it down the World Container!
9. Dropoff: Some bands are afraid to experiment. The Hip are NOT such a band - and it can be scary. To experiment that is. Fans don't want change. Even Bob Dylan got/gets heckled - and he's a narrowness-bestriding colossus. Has the word 'iridescent'. Spurts of machine-gun lyrics recall '100th Meridian'. Some verses remind me of Georgian Bay. I love Ontario.
10. Family Band: holy crap - I'm hemorrhaging from my incredulous forehead. 'Family Band' is possibly the best Hip song ever. Possibly the best Hip song ever. Unfortunately... bad title. I prefer "Rock the Universe - Hardcore" or "The Day the Earth Exploded" because that's exactly what happened here. FB is an FU to Kim Jong-Il, Harper and all their jabronies, and a big thumbs up to all that's incorruptible like James Brown, Elvis Presley, shiny Lamborghinis and quality street meat (?). Climaxes with a scorching mid-song pause + hypermetal reignition which make all of 'Little Bones' seem like a stupid accident.
11. World Container: This is all Bob Rock; a complete killer-whales departure with keys and a rollercoaster melody - Gord vocal's the equivalent of a trapeze acrobat. Lyrically, I suspect it's about Kim Jong-Il or Stephen Harper -"the one who couldn't imagine all the people [Canada] living life in peace" or maybe Gord's on about fickle fans again: "The good news is that you're smaller/the bad news is you can be smaller than that." Or maybe it's about how vast the sky is. Whatever, it's instantly likeable and makes me cry. Or laugh. "Laugh and laugh till yer told 'please dont come back'." Please come back!
Down with Harper, up with bodies of water. 'Save the Planet' and don't Contain the World. Five stars!
10/13/2006
Song for lonely jazzheads
Some things are insufficient to express, me not prone to the mental undress.
Always sharpening. Sharpen yourself into electric current, until your eyes are a solar eclipse - and you draw blood by being invisible.
You sitting on a bench, by the tin, in the park, beside the swing, sit and sigh - skyscrapers are selfish; they make the sky dark.
Traffic pumping blood; open door equals flood, metaphor equation, permanently transient nation, this tree in spring – I remember tiny buds, thanked each leaf, chased each in autumn to rescue gratitude from the thud.
Nobody dreams of work. They dream of fringes, exceptions. I dream of Mediterranean vacations with my rose-coloured queen. I don't recall dreams much but this one reoccurs. She has straw hair like cornstalks, laughs three millimeters from my cheek. That night in Ottawa I told her how proud she made me. She didn’t expect that; choked up. I never complimented her but this time I did. She could not speak, eyes watering. I forgot how intimidating I can be. ‘Love is an action’ I told myself - but women aren’t made that way. I felt like an alien. You can't speak... I choke up. She couldn't read my music for the notes I wrote her. Like a jazz pianist with mittens.
Me high? On pork tenderloin, cab sauvignon. Medications, milady, we’ve taken a few. I’m wrapped in butter and slippery do, and no no no - I never ever did stop loving you.
Always sharpening. Sharpen yourself into electric current, until your eyes are a solar eclipse - and you draw blood by being invisible.
You sitting on a bench, by the tin, in the park, beside the swing, sit and sigh - skyscrapers are selfish; they make the sky dark.
Traffic pumping blood; open door equals flood, metaphor equation, permanently transient nation, this tree in spring – I remember tiny buds, thanked each leaf, chased each in autumn to rescue gratitude from the thud.
Nobody dreams of work. They dream of fringes, exceptions. I dream of Mediterranean vacations with my rose-coloured queen. I don't recall dreams much but this one reoccurs. She has straw hair like cornstalks, laughs three millimeters from my cheek. That night in Ottawa I told her how proud she made me. She didn’t expect that; choked up. I never complimented her but this time I did. She could not speak, eyes watering. I forgot how intimidating I can be. ‘Love is an action’ I told myself - but women aren’t made that way. I felt like an alien. You can't speak... I choke up. She couldn't read my music for the notes I wrote her. Like a jazz pianist with mittens.
Me high? On pork tenderloin, cab sauvignon. Medications, milady, we’ve taken a few. I’m wrapped in butter and slippery do, and no no no - I never ever did stop loving you.
10/08/2006
What's Troubling Marjorie
(short story squiblet, best not to read this... I haven't bludgeoned y'all over the head in weeks)
Big asses troubled Marjorie Gold. That was for starters.
For example the 62-inch ass of her cousin Desmond was a source of consternation and regret. His ass glowed in summertime, as a result of sunburns on the superfluous flesh that extruded from Desmond's jeans. This ass made a fool of Desmond - who was presentable but for this troubling fact. To Marjorie, Desmond was more foolish than a toad with a top hat who spoke lousy English (and whose ass was bigger than acceptable). Marjorie wrote notes for Desmond - which she never sent - advice on how to disguise himself with foliage, perhaps twigs, or judicious drapery. But she was much too shy to rebuke her cousin openly about his copious rearage.
The uneasiness over Desmond was not the end of her neurosis. Marjorie was a self-conscious girl who often vomited in public. This made her very shy. She vomited during prayer meetings at her parish; she vomited on strangers on the sidewalk if they moved too quickly from side to side to avoid Marjorie while she returned from the grocer with a large basketful of spinach or plums. She vomited a lot, and her stomach lining was in ruins. She consulted the internet on a thrice-weekly basis to find naturopathic cures for damage due to bilious discharge. Hers was not an easy lot, but then many teenage girls had it difficult. Some girls did not grow very big chests, and had to obtain special brassieres. Other girls had braces which made it impossible to kiss boys. Then there were the girls with embarrassing parents, transitional complexions, braces and small chests who did not want to exist at all. These girls were sometimes sad, yet were often interesting and always had an inner beauty which writers like to mention - because people like an underdog.
Asses and puke were thus the two extremes of Marjorie's exotic teenage life. And yet to call Marjorie 'exotic' is a blatantly sarcastic reference, and Marjorie feared sarcasm most of all.
One day Marjorie was avoiding sarcasm by paddling a canoe along a river. The river was an urban estuary that local activists had revitalized with applause-worthy endeavours like “Wish for the Fish and Switch from Filling the Ditch with Garbage, Bitch!”which had reintroduced salmon spawn to the downtown marshland. Not all such activist endeavours had rhyming names, but most were well-received. The estuary in question had recovered its ecological vigour, and Marjorie saw a turtle flapping its tiny limbs beside her metal canoe. “How I love the simple turtles,” she said to herself, “they remind me of myself – with their tough exterior and soft underbelly... Or is it vice-versa?" And she sighed, continuing this 'canoe of thought', "Not to mention some of the boys have complimented me; they say I have the nose of a tortoise.” This last thought was true: Marjorie had the nose of a tortoise. A strikingly tortoise-nosed, but nervy and puke-prone girl was Marjorie Gold. It was the new millennium, she thought, and Reality TV shows could be made that featured even girls like her.
It was an idea, she thought. Reality television would be an escape from her 'exotic' life. Marjorie had connections in the television industry. She had bought a television once at Radio Shack, now called the Source. “That man who sold me the TV – maybe he knows how to get me a reality show,” she thought. Marjorie was tenacious, like a turtle-nosed wolverine. What she lacked in knowledge she made up for with a turtlish, dogged wolverine-like donkeyheadedness. Marjorie was, indeed, a complex girl.
Big asses troubled Marjorie Gold. That was for starters.
For example the 62-inch ass of her cousin Desmond was a source of consternation and regret. His ass glowed in summertime, as a result of sunburns on the superfluous flesh that extruded from Desmond's jeans. This ass made a fool of Desmond - who was presentable but for this troubling fact. To Marjorie, Desmond was more foolish than a toad with a top hat who spoke lousy English (and whose ass was bigger than acceptable). Marjorie wrote notes for Desmond - which she never sent - advice on how to disguise himself with foliage, perhaps twigs, or judicious drapery. But she was much too shy to rebuke her cousin openly about his copious rearage.
The uneasiness over Desmond was not the end of her neurosis. Marjorie was a self-conscious girl who often vomited in public. This made her very shy. She vomited during prayer meetings at her parish; she vomited on strangers on the sidewalk if they moved too quickly from side to side to avoid Marjorie while she returned from the grocer with a large basketful of spinach or plums. She vomited a lot, and her stomach lining was in ruins. She consulted the internet on a thrice-weekly basis to find naturopathic cures for damage due to bilious discharge. Hers was not an easy lot, but then many teenage girls had it difficult. Some girls did not grow very big chests, and had to obtain special brassieres. Other girls had braces which made it impossible to kiss boys. Then there were the girls with embarrassing parents, transitional complexions, braces and small chests who did not want to exist at all. These girls were sometimes sad, yet were often interesting and always had an inner beauty which writers like to mention - because people like an underdog.
Asses and puke were thus the two extremes of Marjorie's exotic teenage life. And yet to call Marjorie 'exotic' is a blatantly sarcastic reference, and Marjorie feared sarcasm most of all.
One day Marjorie was avoiding sarcasm by paddling a canoe along a river. The river was an urban estuary that local activists had revitalized with applause-worthy endeavours like “Wish for the Fish and Switch from Filling the Ditch with Garbage, Bitch!”which had reintroduced salmon spawn to the downtown marshland. Not all such activist endeavours had rhyming names, but most were well-received. The estuary in question had recovered its ecological vigour, and Marjorie saw a turtle flapping its tiny limbs beside her metal canoe. “How I love the simple turtles,” she said to herself, “they remind me of myself – with their tough exterior and soft underbelly... Or is it vice-versa?" And she sighed, continuing this 'canoe of thought', "Not to mention some of the boys have complimented me; they say I have the nose of a tortoise.” This last thought was true: Marjorie had the nose of a tortoise. A strikingly tortoise-nosed, but nervy and puke-prone girl was Marjorie Gold. It was the new millennium, she thought, and Reality TV shows could be made that featured even girls like her.
It was an idea, she thought. Reality television would be an escape from her 'exotic' life. Marjorie had connections in the television industry. She had bought a television once at Radio Shack, now called the Source. “That man who sold me the TV – maybe he knows how to get me a reality show,” she thought. Marjorie was tenacious, like a turtle-nosed wolverine. What she lacked in knowledge she made up for with a turtlish, dogged wolverine-like donkeyheadedness. Marjorie was, indeed, a complex girl.
10/02/2006
So much for that
tired of wiring myself and even more stuck
not exactly prescient
vagaries become the president
tape-recording a seagull cluck
oh beautiful girl! I was thinking of
your eyelash. If Monday means the apocalypse
then I'll be waiting with my
tuxedo.
I visited Copenhagen when I was 25, and no, jealousy is not the word to
describe my experience. More like 'this is how blonde people live.'
I hollowed my wooden leg into a canoe. I can't run marathons but
the portaging in Algonquin is grand.
O great woman! Let me taste that recipe. But Thanksgiving's near and I'm
empty of claims, nobody owes me a thing.
Upon purchasing a Mac I'm learning to write all over again. Like wearing Luke Skywalker's prosthetic arm (hollowed out leg)
not exactly prescient
vagaries become the president
tape-recording a seagull cluck
oh beautiful girl! I was thinking of
your eyelash. If Monday means the apocalypse
then I'll be waiting with my
tuxedo.
I visited Copenhagen when I was 25, and no, jealousy is not the word to
describe my experience. More like 'this is how blonde people live.'
I hollowed my wooden leg into a canoe. I can't run marathons but
the portaging in Algonquin is grand.
O great woman! Let me taste that recipe. But Thanksgiving's near and I'm
empty of claims, nobody owes me a thing.
Upon purchasing a Mac I'm learning to write all over again. Like wearing Luke Skywalker's prosthetic arm (hollowed out leg)
9/29/2006
Steam!
Hey you small people, big people, those in between:
do you know what I mean?
Ellision of worlds ain't easy, and the microphone is useless when I'm voiceless or wheezy.
Who can doubt my double dare - who can stare at the pinhole eclipse, at the horse's hair and cry 'fair enough', or if dwarf and elf are made of gruffer stuff then why do I pass it off as fluff?
Hotbeds for the horny, stiff masts for the ancient and stormy. Uselessness essential, dementia serious subject for the sane. If the crazies could collude and dissect a dismal dullard, what shock and disbelief - what grandmother-grief! What sweet excuses and relief! Such sad tragedy - to have shipwrecked my schooner on such an ordinary reef.
do you know what I mean?
Ellision of worlds ain't easy, and the microphone is useless when I'm voiceless or wheezy.
Who can doubt my double dare - who can stare at the pinhole eclipse, at the horse's hair and cry 'fair enough', or if dwarf and elf are made of gruffer stuff then why do I pass it off as fluff?
Hotbeds for the horny, stiff masts for the ancient and stormy. Uselessness essential, dementia serious subject for the sane. If the crazies could collude and dissect a dismal dullard, what shock and disbelief - what grandmother-grief! What sweet excuses and relief! Such sad tragedy - to have shipwrecked my schooner on such an ordinary reef.
9/27/2006
egads
Wherever she is is a lie, drowning all my thoughts in work. I'm an alcoholic for schism, there is the great grey wispy fog, that magic mochaed crowing smack. Smackusabout, and do not shout empty paternal volcanicisms.
9/24/2006
Flavours
Dig the new classification scheme on RHS, ie 'Cupcakes, by flavour'. I was always wondering about splitting this blog into different categories. Last month Blogger in Beta answered my prayers, so thanks guys for doing the dirty work. I've managed to classify almost half my archives by flavour. Lots to think about. Unfortunately, my life will change as of this week, and I seem to have lost the ability to post anything interesting on FIAC*. Previously I would have been distressed, but maybe I'm just supposed to accept another chapter closed and move on to different things.*
*reverse psychology
*reverse psychology
9/18/2006
Second glass of wine
Have I told you how good you look? Reflection of the sun, you genie for life, grant me just one wish. Things never as they seem, the past four months - a neverending dream. Just today I had a break, perked up and made chili. Something gluey within me, something fluid finally, yet it just seems somehow silly.
9/10/2006
I smell like chlorine
Swim on a Sunday afternoon, home to a broom, saunter past Boom and eat mac and cheese. I have nobody to see, just me and the fleas in my sneeze; the strawberry jam on toast with tea and - with the kitchen window open - the inevitable bees. Where is my wine? I haven't gone boozing for over a week; appetite been slack, like a dirty green potato in a dusty brown sack.
Gather your whimsy in a paper cone, call your mother on the telephone, she's up at the cottage, and the blood in your head collecting; take aspirin to lesson clottage, fear a stroke, by pen, blacklisting men make your life miserable with, punishment for whippersnappers so guilty of wit.
How did my job interview go so wrong? Maybe it was my tapdancing, or when I burst out in that song.
Backup plan? I have a hundred and ten. Fear not, as I do not, we live in the land of the donut, not the 'do' nut and I do not see a problem!
"I thank him not for his cordiality, but for his punctuality; his rhyme and sense of timing, that careful attention to grammatical hygiene. "
Or maybe it is autumn's approach that places the sun above reproach. Value what disappears, learn to love beauty after the years, he said "that's why I don't spend money on beer;" ah but so many people have wax in their ears.
For a half-hour, this is worth it, a moment in the ultimate, that I am so filled up with breath I must share, and so empty of nothing I don't dare.
Gather your whimsy in a paper cone, call your mother on the telephone, she's up at the cottage, and the blood in your head collecting; take aspirin to lesson clottage, fear a stroke, by pen, blacklisting men make your life miserable with, punishment for whippersnappers so guilty of wit.
How did my job interview go so wrong? Maybe it was my tapdancing, or when I burst out in that song.
Backup plan? I have a hundred and ten. Fear not, as I do not, we live in the land of the donut, not the 'do' nut and I do not see a problem!
"I thank him not for his cordiality, but for his punctuality; his rhyme and sense of timing, that careful attention to grammatical hygiene. "
Or maybe it is autumn's approach that places the sun above reproach. Value what disappears, learn to love beauty after the years, he said "that's why I don't spend money on beer;" ah but so many people have wax in their ears.
For a half-hour, this is worth it, a moment in the ultimate, that I am so filled up with breath I must share, and so empty of nothing I don't dare.
9/09/2006
Feedback Loopy
Can't sever myself in discrete chunks. Can't step out of time and figure out what happened. Can't analyze what's doing the analysis. Can't introspect, can't set a control group, graph the result. Nothing erased from this hard drive, it's all there, overheated and congealing. Attention involves a blind spot. Perception is fiction. Gestalt little happy faces. Can't see atoms, infrared, most of the E-M spectrum; don't believe my eyes, but fear the alternative - living in a cave - even more. Being and not being. Give me my cell within the Borg, an oar on a slaveship; can't handle being alone no more, so desperate to sell what's left of my personality.
I switched to Blogger beta, and it's way cool. One neato thing is the stats on post frequency by year and month. Seems something happened in August 2004 that took the fire out of me (heartbreak?). Then in July 2005 I attempted to retire (burnout); after my comeback I was never the same. Or maybe I just ran out of things to say. Whatever the case, each year I've posted approximately half of the previous year's totals. So 2007 will get only 50 posts, approx once per week. I hope they're good!
I switched to Blogger beta, and it's way cool. One neato thing is the stats on post frequency by year and month. Seems something happened in August 2004 that took the fire out of me (heartbreak?). Then in July 2005 I attempted to retire (burnout); after my comeback I was never the same. Or maybe I just ran out of things to say. Whatever the case, each year I've posted approximately half of the previous year's totals. So 2007 will get only 50 posts, approx once per week. I hope they're good!
9/05/2006
Marilyn and John Drink Their Faces Off
...a conversation b/w two people who won't admit they're in love
(read this only if you are drunk)
Marilyn: Pass the bottle. I’m doing my best fish
J: What’s your deal, why the drinkies?
M: You won’t believe the shitty day I had
J: Did it involve spandex?
M: No – that would have been much worse.
J: What happened?
M: Nothing. Everything.
J: This is something to do with Todd. Cut him loose like a chicken that won’t let go.
M: Chickens are rarely tenacious; this is more about the world and the people in it. I can’t see myself ever being happy.
J: You should learn how to whistle.
M: Whistle?
J: Yeah, some big-band jazz. Make your hips move like they should.
M: Huh?
J: Girlfriend you gots to let loose. I know this woman, she can peel a grape with her tongue. Man, she fine. I can set up an appointment.
M: John, why do men lie? And stop talking like an Oprah flunky.
J: Men lie because women force them to. Why do women set standards for behaviour? Oprah reminds me of delicious chocolate pudding, 5 feet tall but squawks like a feminist.
M: Seriously why do they lie? Today Todd said I look fabulous, but I know I've gained 2 pounds in the last three months.
J: Whoa Betty, your boobs are busting out!
M: Who’s Betty. Stop with that country twang. You aren’t Merle Haggard and I’m getting fat. Pass me the bottle.
J: Here, North Korean snake liquor. My cousin bought a bottle when he went there to get brainwashed.
M: That’s disgusting. Where’s the shot glass. North Korea? Is he a communist?
J: It’s buried in the folds of your neck. Two whole pounds? Holy crap. No wait, it’s on the edge of the chair.
M: Thanks. Now pour.
J: No he’s more of an international observer. Like Marvin the Martian. He went to Pyongyang to be like Kim Jong Il; to take credit for everything. Did you hear Kim Jong keeps winning the North Korean lottery? So damn lucky.
M: So this is made from snake’s blood? I’ll vomit within the hour.
J: Not from snake actually, just regular awful liquor. The snake adds danger: the venom seeps into the liquid. Too much could paralyse the drinker I'm told.
M: Ugh, I don’t do paralysis. Steve Irwin - he just died from a stingray.
J: Stingray?
M: Sting from a stingray stinger. Stingrays - that shit'll kill you. But let’s talk about you, John. You haven’t got a girlfriend. What’s wrong? You need tips from the expert.
J: Is it because I don't shave my pits? Also I don’t have a real job. Nonetheless, I need tips from you like a werewolf needs hair plugs.
M: Shave your pits, TeenWolf, then get a job.
J: Yes.
M: Isn’t that the 6th commandment?
J: What - Thou Shalt Lay Barren The Underarm?
M: Ha.
J: Moses shaved his pits, I guarantee it.
M: I thought Moses was a picker. You remember – from Seinfeld. I love the one with the Pick
J: "If we pick, do we not bleed?"
M: This Korean shit tastes awful. Snakes don’t do drinky. Tell your cousin I just swallowed Kim Jong Il’s urine.
J: Ok, I have a bottle of vodka, vintage LCBO. Kim Jong’s Ontario counterparts.
M: Got OJ? The throbbing in my soul needs booze.
J: Booze equals depressant. You’re sad because you're drinking
M: I’m sad cuz I’m fat and no one loves me.
J: You're not fat you idiot, and everyone loves you. Todd does, in his weird perverted way. Even though I hate him. Where's that vodka? Ah.
M: You hate Todd? I thought you loathed him.
J: Actually loathe is stronger than hate. I measured it on the Hitler scale. Ok... got it opened!
M: You can’t say 'Hitler', asshole - you just offended half the world.
J: Why not? Do you love him? Who are you – Mrs. Hitler?
M: You’re not Hitler, you’re Shitler. I'm gonna belt you in the nuts. Now pour.
J: A slow comfortable screw. Like in the movies.
M: Which movie?
J: Porky’s 5
M: You idiot.
J: Or is it from Raiders of the Lost Ark. A movie about Nazis coincidentally.
M: Shut up. So, Todd is an ass, but it's ok because I got the new Johnny Cash album.
J: Cash has been dead for three years. Now who’s being cruel?
M: This is posthumous; it’s called A Hundred Highways. Cash laid down the vocals and Rick Rubin’s musicians did the rest, except years later.
J: Any good?
M: Can’t go wrong with Cash. He’s better than real cash, as in dollar bills.
J: The man had skills. Maybe he'll teach you about love.
M: Don’t worry, he teaches me about my soul.
J: You have a soul? I thought you were a Turing automaton.
M: I have a soul.
J: Yes, and a horrendous body mass problem, according to you. But you’re still goodlooking. I’m surprised Todd isn’t ecstatic - two pounds more to love.
M: Shut up. How fat is Kim Jong Il?
J: Huh?
M: Well I figure most dictators are fat and lazy.
J: Not at all. I’ll confirm with my cousin, but apparently Kim works out religiously.
M: They’re communist, John - they don’t have religion. Ideology has taken the place of God.
J: Ain't politics a nutty thing.
M: What do you mean. This screwdriver ain't strong enough. You know what to do:
J: What?
M: Pour.
J: Pour? I mean politics influences our every breath.
M: Pour
J: Only if you say por favor
M: "Pour like a whore with an open door."
J: What?
M: My old bartending roommate used to say that: "Pour like a whore with an open door." Many stupid catchphrases get thought up at the end of a 2am shift. Doesn't make sense.
J: Bartending verbiage, nice. So when are you dumping Todd? I’ll move in on his turf like the Portuguese in Little Italy. You fine, plumpy.
M: Huh? That accent again.
J: You’re too good for him
M: Get a job and I’ll date you.
J: Get some self-confidence and I’ll hug you. If I can get my arms around those two extra pounds that is.
M: Go to hell.
J: I do love you of course
M: Why do we insult each other?
J: We’re bitter about missing the offramp to love.
M: Really. So where are we now?
J: Stuck in the express lane to lifelong loneliness. And you got into an accident at Mile 115 – at the massive Fattass Spinster Monument.
M: And how.
J: You’re locked into that monument with a hypnotic gaze.
M: That is disturbing.
J: We have so much pent-up resentment, alienation, all that shit caused by technology and the postmodern psychosis.
M: Now you’re talkin like wacked out North Korean philosophe.
J: And you’re shakin' like a bowlful of jelly. But I like the way your eyes shine when you smile.
M: That’s the nicest thing you ever-
J: Dammit I say nice things all the time. Just wish you’d listen. Not obsess about your goddamn navel
M: I haven’t even mentioned my navel!
J: You were about to. I could tell, you were massively perspiring. It’s a cry for attention.
M: What, being sweaty?
J: No, writing your navel.
M: Of course. I have to express all that is. The world will admire me for my personality and intellect.
J: The world will admire you more if you could push yourself away from the dessert cart. If we lived in the Age of Miracle Prosthetics I could buy you some longer arms.
M: Longer arms?
J: First I’d have to amputate the existing ones. You averse to gangrenous agents? Chemical Ali used em on the Kurds.
M: The Kurds?
J: Yeah the Kurds. Now there’s a crew that gums up the works. Feisty, admirable bunch.
M: What the hell does that mean?
J: Nothing as usual, now pour.
(to be continued)
(read this only if you are drunk)
Marilyn: Pass the bottle. I’m doing my best fish
J: What’s your deal, why the drinkies?
M: You won’t believe the shitty day I had
J: Did it involve spandex?
M: No – that would have been much worse.
J: What happened?
M: Nothing. Everything.
J: This is something to do with Todd. Cut him loose like a chicken that won’t let go.
M: Chickens are rarely tenacious; this is more about the world and the people in it. I can’t see myself ever being happy.
J: You should learn how to whistle.
M: Whistle?
J: Yeah, some big-band jazz. Make your hips move like they should.
M: Huh?
J: Girlfriend you gots to let loose. I know this woman, she can peel a grape with her tongue. Man, she fine. I can set up an appointment.
M: John, why do men lie? And stop talking like an Oprah flunky.
J: Men lie because women force them to. Why do women set standards for behaviour? Oprah reminds me of delicious chocolate pudding, 5 feet tall but squawks like a feminist.
M: Seriously why do they lie? Today Todd said I look fabulous, but I know I've gained 2 pounds in the last three months.
J: Whoa Betty, your boobs are busting out!
M: Who’s Betty. Stop with that country twang. You aren’t Merle Haggard and I’m getting fat. Pass me the bottle.
J: Here, North Korean snake liquor. My cousin bought a bottle when he went there to get brainwashed.
M: That’s disgusting. Where’s the shot glass. North Korea? Is he a communist?
J: It’s buried in the folds of your neck. Two whole pounds? Holy crap. No wait, it’s on the edge of the chair.
M: Thanks. Now pour.
J: No he’s more of an international observer. Like Marvin the Martian. He went to Pyongyang to be like Kim Jong Il; to take credit for everything. Did you hear Kim Jong keeps winning the North Korean lottery? So damn lucky.
M: So this is made from snake’s blood? I’ll vomit within the hour.
J: Not from snake actually, just regular awful liquor. The snake adds danger: the venom seeps into the liquid. Too much could paralyse the drinker I'm told.
M: Ugh, I don’t do paralysis. Steve Irwin - he just died from a stingray.
J: Stingray?
M: Sting from a stingray stinger. Stingrays - that shit'll kill you. But let’s talk about you, John. You haven’t got a girlfriend. What’s wrong? You need tips from the expert.
J: Is it because I don't shave my pits? Also I don’t have a real job. Nonetheless, I need tips from you like a werewolf needs hair plugs.
M: Shave your pits, TeenWolf, then get a job.
J: Yes.
M: Isn’t that the 6th commandment?
J: What - Thou Shalt Lay Barren The Underarm?
M: Ha.
J: Moses shaved his pits, I guarantee it.
M: I thought Moses was a picker. You remember – from Seinfeld. I love the one with the Pick
J: "If we pick, do we not bleed?"
M: This Korean shit tastes awful. Snakes don’t do drinky. Tell your cousin I just swallowed Kim Jong Il’s urine.
J: Ok, I have a bottle of vodka, vintage LCBO. Kim Jong’s Ontario counterparts.
M: Got OJ? The throbbing in my soul needs booze.
J: Booze equals depressant. You’re sad because you're drinking
M: I’m sad cuz I’m fat and no one loves me.
J: You're not fat you idiot, and everyone loves you. Todd does, in his weird perverted way. Even though I hate him. Where's that vodka? Ah.
M: You hate Todd? I thought you loathed him.
J: Actually loathe is stronger than hate. I measured it on the Hitler scale. Ok... got it opened!
M: You can’t say 'Hitler', asshole - you just offended half the world.
J: Why not? Do you love him? Who are you – Mrs. Hitler?
M: You’re not Hitler, you’re Shitler. I'm gonna belt you in the nuts. Now pour.
J: A slow comfortable screw. Like in the movies.
M: Which movie?
J: Porky’s 5
M: You idiot.
J: Or is it from Raiders of the Lost Ark. A movie about Nazis coincidentally.
M: Shut up. So, Todd is an ass, but it's ok because I got the new Johnny Cash album.
J: Cash has been dead for three years. Now who’s being cruel?
M: This is posthumous; it’s called A Hundred Highways. Cash laid down the vocals and Rick Rubin’s musicians did the rest, except years later.
J: Any good?
M: Can’t go wrong with Cash. He’s better than real cash, as in dollar bills.
J: The man had skills. Maybe he'll teach you about love.
M: Don’t worry, he teaches me about my soul.
J: You have a soul? I thought you were a Turing automaton.
M: I have a soul.
J: Yes, and a horrendous body mass problem, according to you. But you’re still goodlooking. I’m surprised Todd isn’t ecstatic - two pounds more to love.
M: Shut up. How fat is Kim Jong Il?
J: Huh?
M: Well I figure most dictators are fat and lazy.
J: Not at all. I’ll confirm with my cousin, but apparently Kim works out religiously.
M: They’re communist, John - they don’t have religion. Ideology has taken the place of God.
J: Ain't politics a nutty thing.
M: What do you mean. This screwdriver ain't strong enough. You know what to do:
J: What?
M: Pour.
J: Pour? I mean politics influences our every breath.
M: Pour
J: Only if you say por favor
M: "Pour like a whore with an open door."
J: What?
M: My old bartending roommate used to say that: "Pour like a whore with an open door." Many stupid catchphrases get thought up at the end of a 2am shift. Doesn't make sense.
J: Bartending verbiage, nice. So when are you dumping Todd? I’ll move in on his turf like the Portuguese in Little Italy. You fine, plumpy.
M: Huh? That accent again.
J: You’re too good for him
M: Get a job and I’ll date you.
J: Get some self-confidence and I’ll hug you. If I can get my arms around those two extra pounds that is.
M: Go to hell.
J: I do love you of course
M: Why do we insult each other?
J: We’re bitter about missing the offramp to love.
M: Really. So where are we now?
J: Stuck in the express lane to lifelong loneliness. And you got into an accident at Mile 115 – at the massive Fattass Spinster Monument.
M: And how.
J: You’re locked into that monument with a hypnotic gaze.
M: That is disturbing.
J: We have so much pent-up resentment, alienation, all that shit caused by technology and the postmodern psychosis.
M: Now you’re talkin like wacked out North Korean philosophe.
J: And you’re shakin' like a bowlful of jelly. But I like the way your eyes shine when you smile.
M: That’s the nicest thing you ever-
J: Dammit I say nice things all the time. Just wish you’d listen. Not obsess about your goddamn navel
M: I haven’t even mentioned my navel!
J: You were about to. I could tell, you were massively perspiring. It’s a cry for attention.
M: What, being sweaty?
J: No, writing your navel.
M: Of course. I have to express all that is. The world will admire me for my personality and intellect.
J: The world will admire you more if you could push yourself away from the dessert cart. If we lived in the Age of Miracle Prosthetics I could buy you some longer arms.
M: Longer arms?
J: First I’d have to amputate the existing ones. You averse to gangrenous agents? Chemical Ali used em on the Kurds.
M: The Kurds?
J: Yeah the Kurds. Now there’s a crew that gums up the works. Feisty, admirable bunch.
M: What the hell does that mean?
J: Nothing as usual, now pour.
(to be continued)
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