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.
9/29/2006
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)
9/01/2006
Word Shouts
Tightass like swollen buttocks in a bottle
volatile gasflicker, cigarette-boat throttle
turkey-wattle blather, emotional motion detector, dictionary holler. Collar attention, rabid rottweiler, foaming froth, diasporic and discordant inkblotted fodder. Frown. You, word - weapon - double-edged sword, veil, wicked wife, knife, semantic slice to no avail.
volatile gasflicker, cigarette-boat throttle
turkey-wattle blather, emotional motion detector, dictionary holler. Collar attention, rabid rottweiler, foaming froth, diasporic and discordant inkblotted fodder. Frown. You, word - weapon - double-edged sword, veil, wicked wife, knife, semantic slice to no avail.
8/31/2006
8/30/2006
Gatto notes
The owner doesn’t trust me
my hair not slick enough
or perhaps it’s my laptop
keeps peering at my plugged in AC adaptor like I'm about to
burn down his restaurant
-who would rather type than smoke cigarettes?
Gatto Nero swimming with thirtysomething concubines
hangers on
Gatto been around for decades
new life every five years (this is why people have children?)
regulars congregate at the bar and wait for something exciting
this is old-world flavour in Toronto?
The edge of Little Italy, beside the statue of Camoes the one-eyed Poet of Portugal. Tension simmers. Even the Mod Club attempts an ethnic overthrow.
Gatto plays the two Lucios - Dalla and Battisti - and other tricolore classics, bulwarks against dehegemonization (it rankles me so I'm forced to invent words).
Already the shoe-repair guy on the opposite corner, and now the Dominion only sells Portuguese sausage – no capicollo, cacciatorre or prosciutto. Creeping fading glory. Good thing we never saw an all-College Street World Cup; I’d need a passport to go west of Ossington. Italy vs Portugal. Both sides subverted by the stupid as rocks College Promenade, a wild card, a yuppie gambit, it’s divide and conquer as the Mediterraneans go at each other allowing the Vietnamese grocers and Vegetarian sippers to team up, sneak in from the West and instill communist values all the way to Euclid.
Back at the Gatto-
a damn fine cappuccino I admit, plus pane cioccolato
lunchtime penne is tops for four blocks in either direction
packed day to night.
high quotient of goodlooking people in their forties
more mature than the Sicilian at the end of the block, haven for younger Ginos, St. Clairites and 905ers with small children, relatives of the owners, real Sicilians, famously closed in to the world (where else would you get an answering machine in dialect?)
I run into my colleagues:
the teacher/writer looking to organize a Toronto bike tour, asks my advice;
and the artist who teamed up with me for charity, recommends an even better place with an even better cappuccino but
I can hardly keep up with Gatto
also a blonde bimbo in tennis shorts who swears she's met me but no no I'm nothing if not
inconspicuous and yet my attention pricks and my glands are
stirring. Ah the hormones, that distasteful attraction, wreaks havoc on my dispassion...
If there’s one thing I know it’s coffee shops. I'm not a natural street scenester but inspiration must come from somewhere and it’s ‘write what you know’ and I know I don’t know much but fly on the wall gets the best dirt. You dig too deep then you to begin to empathize and there goes that smartass air of superiority and your audience turns on you and soon NOW magazine won't return your calls...
my hair not slick enough
or perhaps it’s my laptop
keeps peering at my plugged in AC adaptor like I'm about to
burn down his restaurant
-who would rather type than smoke cigarettes?
Gatto Nero swimming with thirtysomething concubines
hangers on
Gatto been around for decades
new life every five years (this is why people have children?)
regulars congregate at the bar and wait for something exciting
this is old-world flavour in Toronto?
The edge of Little Italy, beside the statue of Camoes the one-eyed Poet of Portugal. Tension simmers. Even the Mod Club attempts an ethnic overthrow.
Gatto plays the two Lucios - Dalla and Battisti - and other tricolore classics, bulwarks against dehegemonization (it rankles me so I'm forced to invent words).
Already the shoe-repair guy on the opposite corner, and now the Dominion only sells Portuguese sausage – no capicollo, cacciatorre or prosciutto. Creeping fading glory. Good thing we never saw an all-College Street World Cup; I’d need a passport to go west of Ossington. Italy vs Portugal. Both sides subverted by the stupid as rocks College Promenade, a wild card, a yuppie gambit, it’s divide and conquer as the Mediterraneans go at each other allowing the Vietnamese grocers and Vegetarian sippers to team up, sneak in from the West and instill communist values all the way to Euclid.
Back at the Gatto-
a damn fine cappuccino I admit, plus pane cioccolato
lunchtime penne is tops for four blocks in either direction
packed day to night.
high quotient of goodlooking people in their forties
more mature than the Sicilian at the end of the block, haven for younger Ginos, St. Clairites and 905ers with small children, relatives of the owners, real Sicilians, famously closed in to the world (where else would you get an answering machine in dialect?)
I run into my colleagues:
the teacher/writer looking to organize a Toronto bike tour, asks my advice;
and the artist who teamed up with me for charity, recommends an even better place with an even better cappuccino but
I can hardly keep up with Gatto
also a blonde bimbo in tennis shorts who swears she's met me but no no I'm nothing if not
inconspicuous and yet my attention pricks and my glands are
stirring. Ah the hormones, that distasteful attraction, wreaks havoc on my dispassion...
If there’s one thing I know it’s coffee shops. I'm not a natural street scenester but inspiration must come from somewhere and it’s ‘write what you know’ and I know I don’t know much but fly on the wall gets the best dirt. You dig too deep then you to begin to empathize and there goes that smartass air of superiority and your audience turns on you and soon NOW magazine won't return your calls...
8/28/2006
Monday self-analysis
Let me bore you with details:
6:30am woke up, showered, dressed
6:55 vitamins, juice, newspaper
7:00 rode Mario to physio (pilates) appt in Fashion district
7:30 physio with Karen
8:30 on bicycle, looking for Zanta for Punshine shoot, did not find him (my white whale - I must persevere)
9:00 more breakfast at new trendy College St spot; read 'Conde Nast' and wrote in journal
9:45 rode Mario to Harbord/Crawford bike shop to locate new bungee cords. Guy in shop says "I don't know what to charge - no one ever buys these...". We settle on $2.20 for the pair.
10:00 bike to Bloor/Gladstone library to find 'The City in History', classic by Lewis Mumford I always wanted to read; place 'hold'; return home
10:30 on bicycle with camera; photograph Alexandra Park neighbourhood (Bathurst-Spadina, Queen-Dundas), for 'TorontoGuy'
12:15pm back home, wrote personal ad for online classified site, one joke, one serious; surfed Craigslist and sighed at the mass futility
1:00 leftover pizza
1:15 email former boss; keep in touch for new job possibility
1:45 sweaty from physio and biking, so shower again, shave; apply aftershave and cologne (the goodlooking people I run into on my bike!)
2:00 Mario to Linuxcaffe on Harbord, read investment book in accordance with idea to take Canadian Securities Course in autumn; reach p. 124 (pretty good!)
3:30 online banking/investment checkup
3:45 spot yet another 'copywriter' position; note to self - 'write cover letter' (it could happen)
4:00 post on FIAC
still to come:
5:30 ride Mario to sketchy east end
6:00 volunteer with national political campaign
9:00 bike home in the dark from sketchy east end
9:45 cook asparagus before it goes bad, maybe thaw frozen burger
10:15 wash dishes, drink tea
10:45 email friend re Labour Day plans
11:00 attempt silly post for FIAC - use bungee cords as inspiration?
12:00midnight sleep
now it's after 4:30, and I've got less than an hour. What should I do?
Easy: ride my bike. (need at least 3 hours/day)
6:30am woke up, showered, dressed
6:55 vitamins, juice, newspaper
7:00 rode Mario to physio (pilates) appt in Fashion district
7:30 physio with Karen
8:30 on bicycle, looking for Zanta for Punshine shoot, did not find him (my white whale - I must persevere)
9:00 more breakfast at new trendy College St spot; read 'Conde Nast' and wrote in journal
9:45 rode Mario to Harbord/Crawford bike shop to locate new bungee cords. Guy in shop says "I don't know what to charge - no one ever buys these...". We settle on $2.20 for the pair.
10:00 bike to Bloor/Gladstone library to find 'The City in History', classic by Lewis Mumford I always wanted to read; place 'hold'; return home
10:30 on bicycle with camera; photograph Alexandra Park neighbourhood (Bathurst-Spadina, Queen-Dundas), for 'TorontoGuy'
12:15pm back home, wrote personal ad for online classified site, one joke, one serious; surfed Craigslist and sighed at the mass futility
1:00 leftover pizza
1:15 email former boss; keep in touch for new job possibility
1:45 sweaty from physio and biking, so shower again, shave; apply aftershave and cologne (the goodlooking people I run into on my bike!)
2:00 Mario to Linuxcaffe on Harbord, read investment book in accordance with idea to take Canadian Securities Course in autumn; reach p. 124 (pretty good!)
3:30 online banking/investment checkup
3:45 spot yet another 'copywriter' position; note to self - 'write cover letter' (it could happen)
4:00 post on FIAC
still to come:
5:30 ride Mario to sketchy east end
6:00 volunteer with national political campaign
9:00 bike home in the dark from sketchy east end
9:45 cook asparagus before it goes bad, maybe thaw frozen burger
10:15 wash dishes, drink tea
10:45 email friend re Labour Day plans
11:00 attempt silly post for FIAC - use bungee cords as inspiration?
12:00midnight sleep
now it's after 4:30, and I've got less than an hour. What should I do?
Easy: ride my bike. (need at least 3 hours/day)
8/27/2006
massive template failure
...results in emergency makeover.
My template suffered the html equivalent of a gruesome threshing-machine accident, resulting in massive hemorrhaging of links, amputation of all body text, and ultimate failure.
If you don't like this new look please tell me. I'm not married to 'Rounders 3'.
My template suffered the html equivalent of a gruesome threshing-machine accident, resulting in massive hemorrhaging of links, amputation of all body text, and ultimate failure.
If you don't like this new look please tell me. I'm not married to 'Rounders 3'.
8/25/2006
out of words
Need to recharge. Rethink. Readjust mindset. Get ready for Nonsense. It ain’t easy being funny. It’s an inexact science. Like astrophysics on rollerskates down a hill of ice, covered in spiderwebs and juggling a fistful of draidles. No wait that’s my Hallowe’en costume. Hallowe'en yeah, I'm a sucker for candy.
I need new ideas. Reading to get inspired. Right now it's Language and Consciousness by John Searle on the nature of thought. Ever think about thought? It's all in his book. Funniest thing in the book: "Nobody will look at a single molecule of water and say - 'don't touch it, you'll get wet!'" [i'm paraphrasing] Something about emergent properties ie consciousness comes from the neuron and synapse. A table is solid, water is wet, both are empty space, mostly. So what gives? Not the table. We don't know how thought arises from brain processes but we know that it happens so we may as well try to figure it out [another paraphrase]; let's demystify this thinking crap.
Whenever I begin something silly, I think about waffles - nature's most ridiculous dessert?
1) Become a stock broker
2) become a graphic designer
3) Italian lessons
4) seriously consider the Triathlon
8/23/2006
Hope is a Piano
Here it is, 6 days late but full of tuneful melodies. Enjoy!
Next up on the Cupcake anthology circuit? Nonsense.
As in, Nonsense Is A Bumblebee. Will hit virtual shelves hopefully by June 2007. Our most ridiculous collection yet!
Next up on the Cupcake anthology circuit? Nonsense.
As in, Nonsense Is A Bumblebee. Will hit virtual shelves hopefully by June 2007. Our most ridiculous collection yet!
8/18/2006
ChickenEgg.org?
I hear the Gents are up to their tricks again - tackling the touchstones of metaphysics with their trademark recklessness; this time at ChickenEgg.org. Modern philosophy trembles, as the masses finally take control of Truth. Read more c/o Angry Brown Man.
8/14/2006
Ask me anything
You know you want to.
Except if it's that one thing. I refuse to answer.
Go on. Ask.
(he is booed off the stage)
Except if it's that one thing. I refuse to answer.
Go on. Ask.
(he is booed off the stage)
8/09/2006
Please stop smiling
(...and let me finish my crossword?)
Dear Smiler,
Quit smiling when I’m trying to finish my crossword! Your smile makes me want to rush over and kiss you, but my face is smudged with brown sweet stuff from this morning’s chocolate croissant. I don’t know what the French (or maybe it’s Portuguese here in west end Toronto) put in their croissant-filling but you don’t want it on your face – but that’s what’ll happen when I kiss you.
The crossword is my reason to get up in the morning: I think of ‘15 across’ and my inner thighs grow taut and twitchy. Have you ever completed the Globe and Mail’s Whango-Superbo Saturday Special? It requires the genius of 11 professors. So imagine how your smile must be interfering, if I'm impelled to throw down my pencil and slather your lips with my chocolate-stained labials whensoever you smile. A croissant fetches approximately $1.35 at a decent café. You’ll have to share in that expense: this is a house of crosswords, not of chocolate gratis. You must learn etiquette, for this is a place of accomplishment and well-considered verbiage. Therefore cease smiling and undertake a crossword of your own! I recommend the TV Guide's ‘Cross-Tease’ for starters, because while your grin is notorious your wordcrossing experience is probably near zero.
That smile - the reason it bewitches me so – is first, what goes on at the level of the tooth. Many have said (and I include in this generalization the great Coco Chanel and his assistant Velhimna) that teeth are ‘the bouncer to the soul’. Your mouth may keep me out, but I line up for hours in my well-coiffed suit to glimpse your shineys. Your pearly whites are more like Pearly Gates; does St. Peter loan you an ivory toothbrush? I am agog.
Next: the lips themselves, ruby red with a hint of Citrus Splash lipliner, which was purchased from a drugstore, one of the nation’s finest. ‘Like a drug’ is right: your succulent pneumatic mouth-hearts are narcotic vis-a-vis their intoxication of my soul! Those lips could withstand months of industrial testing to verify their bouncy resilience, their glistening moistness.
Also, the dimples: as part of the smile as Shemp was part of the Stooges – quite often absent, from uglier people that is, but when they do appear it is a grand comic farce that liquefies my soul into butter at the mere thought of your lactic succulence. In short, your dimples connect me to a higher plane of existence and nonsensical hyperbole.
Finally, it is the combination of all the above. Your smile has many variations but a single theme, that of smiliness, and those smiles, while magnificent and rival to Michelangelo’s David in baring the sheer beauty of the human form - they also mess with my ritual crossword! A man with a crossword is a creature of purpose, un wordsmith nobile to quote the French (only partly in their language); a crossword is a test of diligence, gateway of curiousity, the fruit of hours of newspaper content-related decisions…. So, please stop your torture and let me finish what I have begun!
Dear Smiler,
Quit smiling when I’m trying to finish my crossword! Your smile makes me want to rush over and kiss you, but my face is smudged with brown sweet stuff from this morning’s chocolate croissant. I don’t know what the French (or maybe it’s Portuguese here in west end Toronto) put in their croissant-filling but you don’t want it on your face – but that’s what’ll happen when I kiss you.
The crossword is my reason to get up in the morning: I think of ‘15 across’ and my inner thighs grow taut and twitchy. Have you ever completed the Globe and Mail’s Whango-Superbo Saturday Special? It requires the genius of 11 professors. So imagine how your smile must be interfering, if I'm impelled to throw down my pencil and slather your lips with my chocolate-stained labials whensoever you smile. A croissant fetches approximately $1.35 at a decent café. You’ll have to share in that expense: this is a house of crosswords, not of chocolate gratis. You must learn etiquette, for this is a place of accomplishment and well-considered verbiage. Therefore cease smiling and undertake a crossword of your own! I recommend the TV Guide's ‘Cross-Tease’ for starters, because while your grin is notorious your wordcrossing experience is probably near zero.
That smile - the reason it bewitches me so – is first, what goes on at the level of the tooth. Many have said (and I include in this generalization the great Coco Chanel and his assistant Velhimna) that teeth are ‘the bouncer to the soul’. Your mouth may keep me out, but I line up for hours in my well-coiffed suit to glimpse your shineys. Your pearly whites are more like Pearly Gates; does St. Peter loan you an ivory toothbrush? I am agog.
Next: the lips themselves, ruby red with a hint of Citrus Splash lipliner, which was purchased from a drugstore, one of the nation’s finest. ‘Like a drug’ is right: your succulent pneumatic mouth-hearts are narcotic vis-a-vis their intoxication of my soul! Those lips could withstand months of industrial testing to verify their bouncy resilience, their glistening moistness.
Also, the dimples: as part of the smile as Shemp was part of the Stooges – quite often absent, from uglier people that is, but when they do appear it is a grand comic farce that liquefies my soul into butter at the mere thought of your lactic succulence. In short, your dimples connect me to a higher plane of existence and nonsensical hyperbole.
Finally, it is the combination of all the above. Your smile has many variations but a single theme, that of smiliness, and those smiles, while magnificent and rival to Michelangelo’s David in baring the sheer beauty of the human form - they also mess with my ritual crossword! A man with a crossword is a creature of purpose, un wordsmith nobile to quote the French (only partly in their language); a crossword is a test of diligence, gateway of curiousity, the fruit of hours of newspaper content-related decisions…. So, please stop your torture and let me finish what I have begun!
8/07/2006
The Meaning of BlogLove
(this comment is about 4 years too late, and I actually wrote it a year ago on a friend's blog - but whatever)
I've never really explained this even to myself, but it took me about a week of posting to realize that the point of a blog is not about me at all; it's all about the internet, and all about my wondrous fickle audience and whoever the hell happens to pass by on a random google search that day. The medium is the message or some completely relevant old chestnut like that.
Blogging is a test of remaining fresh/interesting in a merciless flea-circus of text and imagery and hypertext links that rewards the competitors not with cash or prizes but with aggregate attention span. I've posted some highly experimental and wacky things, and I've taken my lumps in readership fer sure. But ultimately we do it to be loved and almost only to be loved, and a few seconds of attention is all the love there is out here but that's good enough. Individual commments of praise are nice but they don't stick in your head; like all these virtual KB they get sucked down the cognitive drain. Keep an archive for yourself and your diehard fans, sure, but otherwise it’s 'what have you done for me lately' and if you can't deal with that immediacy, if you try to draw attention back to what you wrote a week ago, a month ago, whatever, it's sayonara. The only real 'old school' arguments go on inside the comment box, but those exercises in logic and reason are kept hidden from the casual visitor's view by the the owner of the blog, who is a lot like the wizard of oz. With blogs linearity and cohesion is irrelevant and actually distracting (readers on the web don't read posts all the way through but scan first for words or phrases that catch their attention), time is essentially meaningless (eg you can write in whatever time or date you want on the post when you make em). Editing posts after the fact means that all posts are in the eternal present. As a blogger your powers to cover your own tracks are enormous, and they can and should be used to enhance your ability to be loved. Only google will remember what you wrote - the secrets are in the cold hard cache. As for love, if we don't get enough love from our statcounter on any one particular day, then there is always hope, limitless and seductive hope, for our audience is potentially as vast, democratic, curious and instant as it is (most of the time) moronic, apathetic and vindictively anonymous.
I had to learn to serve the medium; it's changed me as a writer, but not in a bad way. The bottom line is entertainment and enlightenment. I have no particular loyalty to writing on the net vs as a poet-guy or as a fiction writer or columnist. If I could 'find my Pelican Man' by blowing up beachballs and tying them to trees or building a canoe out of tangerine wedges I'd do that too.
Good luck to all writers-turned-bloggers who try to remain pure to any particular craft or style; the pressure to change and be flexible in your approach is enormous, and with good reason. Ironically life ain't easy when there's nobody holding you back but your 'publish' button, when you have make your own rules and decide for yourself who the rest of the world will decide you are. All things can and should be said but of course watch it don't make you batty. Freedom is a cupcake but true unabashed cacophonous freedom of speech will wear you out. I speak from my borderline crazy and damaging-to-any-'real-writing-career' experiences on FIAC. Oh yes this bloggin is a whole new ball o wax.... agh, I am slain
I've never really explained this even to myself, but it took me about a week of posting to realize that the point of a blog is not about me at all; it's all about the internet, and all about my wondrous fickle audience and whoever the hell happens to pass by on a random google search that day. The medium is the message or some completely relevant old chestnut like that.
Blogging is a test of remaining fresh/interesting in a merciless flea-circus of text and imagery and hypertext links that rewards the competitors not with cash or prizes but with aggregate attention span. I've posted some highly experimental and wacky things, and I've taken my lumps in readership fer sure. But ultimately we do it to be loved and almost only to be loved, and a few seconds of attention is all the love there is out here but that's good enough. Individual commments of praise are nice but they don't stick in your head; like all these virtual KB they get sucked down the cognitive drain. Keep an archive for yourself and your diehard fans, sure, but otherwise it’s 'what have you done for me lately' and if you can't deal with that immediacy, if you try to draw attention back to what you wrote a week ago, a month ago, whatever, it's sayonara. The only real 'old school' arguments go on inside the comment box, but those exercises in logic and reason are kept hidden from the casual visitor's view by the the owner of the blog, who is a lot like the wizard of oz. With blogs linearity and cohesion is irrelevant and actually distracting (readers on the web don't read posts all the way through but scan first for words or phrases that catch their attention), time is essentially meaningless (eg you can write in whatever time or date you want on the post when you make em). Editing posts after the fact means that all posts are in the eternal present. As a blogger your powers to cover your own tracks are enormous, and they can and should be used to enhance your ability to be loved. Only google will remember what you wrote - the secrets are in the cold hard cache. As for love, if we don't get enough love from our statcounter on any one particular day, then there is always hope, limitless and seductive hope, for our audience is potentially as vast, democratic, curious and instant as it is (most of the time) moronic, apathetic and vindictively anonymous.
I had to learn to serve the medium; it's changed me as a writer, but not in a bad way. The bottom line is entertainment and enlightenment. I have no particular loyalty to writing on the net vs as a poet-guy or as a fiction writer or columnist. If I could 'find my Pelican Man' by blowing up beachballs and tying them to trees or building a canoe out of tangerine wedges I'd do that too.
Good luck to all writers-turned-bloggers who try to remain pure to any particular craft or style; the pressure to change and be flexible in your approach is enormous, and with good reason. Ironically life ain't easy when there's nobody holding you back but your 'publish' button, when you have make your own rules and decide for yourself who the rest of the world will decide you are. All things can and should be said but of course watch it don't make you batty. Freedom is a cupcake but true unabashed cacophonous freedom of speech will wear you out. I speak from my borderline crazy and damaging-to-any-'real-writing-career' experiences on FIAC. Oh yes this bloggin is a whole new ball o wax.... agh, I am slain
8/03/2006
What makes you so special
(pure gushing)
I was thinking about what made you so special. Now I don’t want these words to be pure sugar, as that nauseates every tongue. But I was thinking about why for example the sun parts in rays just for you. And what power you hold over the weather, and always so dramatic every time you arrive it’s either lightning and soaked skin or cherryblossom breezes drying dewdrops off toenails; you don’t get caught in in-betweens. Something fascinating about extremes, not that we get so bored with moderation, maturity, mediums or every other kind of M (the exact middle of the alphabet). That weather, or the tone in your voice - it’s the way you exhaustively answer the most mundane question, as though no one else in history has ever asked it. You turn the razor attention of that mind on my eyelash, and my stomach turns in knots. If a poem could be written about swatting a fly with a Buick, well … oh there I go again about extremes. But I’m avoiding my initial problem, that of your peculiar quality. Is it your teeth – such fine teeth. Why is there so much emphasis on this planet about beautiful teeth? I’d rather have a cast-iron femur, guaranteed never to snap (something about certain death from massive internal bleeding). I’d rather have skin like a rhinoceros. I can eat meals through a straw if I have to, I don’t need shiny teeth, pearly whites, gate to your mouth your weapon of expression, your voice constant and reassuring like waves lapping against my cottage dock in mid July.
But no, it was never anything physical. And that too is cliché. I can’t call you special if I describe it in clichés. No, I need different phrases, like big pointy purple things, large orang-utan bands playing the banjos and hell maybe a fruit smoothie so damn smooth it’s like someone kicked me in the nuts with a half-litre of banana-pureed nutritional delirium – those kind of images could possibly be a start; though it’s ridiculous I can find therein the sublime, the underlying ne plus ultra of your speciality. I can’t resort to nature, the weather, physical footnotes or any other kind of archaeological cluebook the romantics fall back on. Give me my orangutan band and a ticket out of the solar system – there’re comets passing through every 86 years that don’t get worn out by this planet’s hackneyed explanations. Just passing through bearing gifts from Proxima Centauri, so much travelling you’ve done, just want to learn from your latest adventure.
Sometimes I wonder if you actually exist. Remember that game we played as kids – when we turned our back to the room and wondered if it was still there behind us? These were epiphanies – entire philosophies - disguised as hide-and-seek. I get that feeling when you’re gone from my life; not quite sure it was just a trick, not sure whether what I believed left any indelible meaning. And maybe I should apologize for my lack of faith – but if I could count on miracles they’d stop being miracles, and it’s pretty predictable where you’ll find me: in death valley. Then you come back and the universe has wheels again, clocks resume ticking, the entire dictionary reads like a single shop-sign declaring ‘open for business’. Church bells repeat your name and I spend all morning going gaga, spilling ink for cappuccino froth with cinnamon and a saucy wink from somebody’s long-legged sister - and that’s as close to heaven as I need. Did I mention the wink from that waitress? Thank you thank you–she’s smokin hot but also witty, warm, and she actually knows how to read.
I can sketch a series of images, I still won’t capture it: I gotta slice you up, section by section, trap you on a microscope slide (the goal of science is to use genius to eliminate all possibility for imagination, and oh the sad ingenuity that requires, the dedication to explanatory blandness; I don’t have it). I’m afraid I don’t want to reach my intended destination. Much too much of a digression, I’m completely guilty of procrastination.
So -
What makes you special – you turn each of us into a complete fool.
Plus – there’s that delicate flip of your rose-scented wrist, casting light in a tunnel and glowing in my iris. Pointing the way with a chuckle, halfway between a slap and a kiss.
What makes you special is your cast and crew, this insane retinue, and I’ve gone black and blue cataloguing everything they do. Sometimes they blindside me, other times I am grateful to borrow their eyes, step outside my shell and float. Out of body experience? Fuck no – I’m clearly out of my mind, and what I mean is that I get to be in someone else’s. An honour and a privilege.
What makes you special is that 883 days ago I dedicated everything up here to you – and somehow you keep pulling me – I’m pulling it - through. I don’t just feel like I’m showing off, because I know I’m really humble and besides – it was you who asked me to.
Pelican man, I [heart] you.
I was thinking about what made you so special. Now I don’t want these words to be pure sugar, as that nauseates every tongue. But I was thinking about why for example the sun parts in rays just for you. And what power you hold over the weather, and always so dramatic every time you arrive it’s either lightning and soaked skin or cherryblossom breezes drying dewdrops off toenails; you don’t get caught in in-betweens. Something fascinating about extremes, not that we get so bored with moderation, maturity, mediums or every other kind of M (the exact middle of the alphabet). That weather, or the tone in your voice - it’s the way you exhaustively answer the most mundane question, as though no one else in history has ever asked it. You turn the razor attention of that mind on my eyelash, and my stomach turns in knots. If a poem could be written about swatting a fly with a Buick, well … oh there I go again about extremes. But I’m avoiding my initial problem, that of your peculiar quality. Is it your teeth – such fine teeth. Why is there so much emphasis on this planet about beautiful teeth? I’d rather have a cast-iron femur, guaranteed never to snap (something about certain death from massive internal bleeding). I’d rather have skin like a rhinoceros. I can eat meals through a straw if I have to, I don’t need shiny teeth, pearly whites, gate to your mouth your weapon of expression, your voice constant and reassuring like waves lapping against my cottage dock in mid July.
But no, it was never anything physical. And that too is cliché. I can’t call you special if I describe it in clichés. No, I need different phrases, like big pointy purple things, large orang-utan bands playing the banjos and hell maybe a fruit smoothie so damn smooth it’s like someone kicked me in the nuts with a half-litre of banana-pureed nutritional delirium – those kind of images could possibly be a start; though it’s ridiculous I can find therein the sublime, the underlying ne plus ultra of your speciality. I can’t resort to nature, the weather, physical footnotes or any other kind of archaeological cluebook the romantics fall back on. Give me my orangutan band and a ticket out of the solar system – there’re comets passing through every 86 years that don’t get worn out by this planet’s hackneyed explanations. Just passing through bearing gifts from Proxima Centauri, so much travelling you’ve done, just want to learn from your latest adventure.
Sometimes I wonder if you actually exist. Remember that game we played as kids – when we turned our back to the room and wondered if it was still there behind us? These were epiphanies – entire philosophies - disguised as hide-and-seek. I get that feeling when you’re gone from my life; not quite sure it was just a trick, not sure whether what I believed left any indelible meaning. And maybe I should apologize for my lack of faith – but if I could count on miracles they’d stop being miracles, and it’s pretty predictable where you’ll find me: in death valley. Then you come back and the universe has wheels again, clocks resume ticking, the entire dictionary reads like a single shop-sign declaring ‘open for business’. Church bells repeat your name and I spend all morning going gaga, spilling ink for cappuccino froth with cinnamon and a saucy wink from somebody’s long-legged sister - and that’s as close to heaven as I need. Did I mention the wink from that waitress? Thank you thank you–she’s smokin hot but also witty, warm, and she actually knows how to read.
I can sketch a series of images, I still won’t capture it: I gotta slice you up, section by section, trap you on a microscope slide (the goal of science is to use genius to eliminate all possibility for imagination, and oh the sad ingenuity that requires, the dedication to explanatory blandness; I don’t have it). I’m afraid I don’t want to reach my intended destination. Much too much of a digression, I’m completely guilty of procrastination.
So -
What makes you special – you turn each of us into a complete fool.
Plus – there’s that delicate flip of your rose-scented wrist, casting light in a tunnel and glowing in my iris. Pointing the way with a chuckle, halfway between a slap and a kiss.
What makes you special is your cast and crew, this insane retinue, and I’ve gone black and blue cataloguing everything they do. Sometimes they blindside me, other times I am grateful to borrow their eyes, step outside my shell and float. Out of body experience? Fuck no – I’m clearly out of my mind, and what I mean is that I get to be in someone else’s. An honour and a privilege.
What makes you special is that 883 days ago I dedicated everything up here to you – and somehow you keep pulling me – I’m pulling it - through. I don’t just feel like I’m showing off, because I know I’m really humble and besides – it was you who asked me to.
Pelican man, I [heart] you.
best useless sentences from the past month
Never trust a squeaking mouse, always lock the back door when exiting the house.
Please sir I must keep you integrated. Always switching points of view, one minute a salamander the next the ocean floor. I like the concrete and you love abstract thinking, wait a minute, this sixth sense: thought or seeing dead people and always with technique and never truth. Dear me I bypassed logic getting to your insane orgy.
Bring my old scarecrows back to life in the guise of remembering my childhood. I don’t remember if it was that I hated him or that I needed something to hate.
“Our town is founded on the principles of ‘Gutter Trash for the Masses’ We are a latter-day Vegas.” Nutznougat said it was impolitic to mock the midgetry. “I said ‘latter’, not ‘ladder’.” And he rolled his eyeballs.
Faster than the speed of definition, always at the edge of the unmentionable, a pioneer of epistemology. Outraced classification, but I’m not here to show off for the girls at the bar. Far far too subversive, and I don’t want glory and I don’t want money and I want you to believe in love again and I don’t -
I don't want to tell time. I want to build clocks.
Please sir I must keep you integrated. Always switching points of view, one minute a salamander the next the ocean floor. I like the concrete and you love abstract thinking, wait a minute, this sixth sense: thought or seeing dead people and always with technique and never truth. Dear me I bypassed logic getting to your insane orgy.
Bring my old scarecrows back to life in the guise of remembering my childhood. I don’t remember if it was that I hated him or that I needed something to hate.
“Our town is founded on the principles of ‘Gutter Trash for the Masses’ We are a latter-day Vegas.” Nutznougat said it was impolitic to mock the midgetry. “I said ‘latter’, not ‘ladder’.” And he rolled his eyeballs.
Faster than the speed of definition, always at the edge of the unmentionable, a pioneer of epistemology. Outraced classification, but I’m not here to show off for the girls at the bar. Far far too subversive, and I don’t want glory and I don’t want money and I want you to believe in love again and I don’t -
I don't want to tell time. I want to build clocks.
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