Stunning in its Understatement
I actually watched this video for the entire 4:06. I can't tell you, I just, I - what would POSSESS someone to post this! I mean it's useful. Please imagine for a second the person behind the camera. They stood over a bowl of clams, one of nature's most inanimate living objects, for FOUR MINUTES. Arresting.
Inspired by the best linguine white clam sauce I've ever tasted (prepared by the Golden Goddess, she of Legend fame), I give you my recipe for spaghetti and Manila clams. As a soup fiend, I love it when my sauces collect at the bottom of the bowl and wait for me to finish the pasta before I tuck in for a delicious, passionate, saucy finale. Slurping sauce off a fork for ten minutes is the reason I love food, and in turn, life.
This is not linguine white clam sauce, the Italian-American standby. That's a simple recipe too, but I would use bigger, littleneck clams for that. Whereas linguine white clam sauce is most delicious with each component cranked to 11 (garlic, clam juice, cheese, parseley, butter, olive oil), my spaghetti Manila clams relies on a more delicate harmony of flavors.
The idea with this dish is to let each component impart its freshness onto the just-undercooked spaghetti (which I prefer to linguine because it's lighter). I leave the clam shells right in the bowl because I want the essences of the clam juices to mix with the pasta as much as possible. I use tiny pieces of crispy diced bacon and hope that they find their way to some nook in the clam, because everytime you eat cured pork meat and shellfish in the same bite, a baby stops crying.
z911spaghettiManilaclams
Serves 4 as a first course
Serves 2 if you're a close friend of mine
1 lb. Manila clams (2 or 3 dozen), scrubbed under cold water
6 strips of bacon, trimmed of fat and diced
1/2 lb. good spaghetti (like DeCecco), split in half lengthwise
2 cloves garlic, 1 razor-thinly sliced, the other cut in half
small baguette, cut into half inch slices
extra virgin olive oil
parseley, chopped
red pepper flakes
1. Fill pot with water, salt aggressively, transfer to stove on high heat
2. Bring water to a boil, drop in the pasta, stir immediately.
3. Pour a glug or five of olive oil into a saute pan and heat slowly, drop in the garlic halves. Just as they turn golden, throw the bacon in the pan. Bring the heat up slowly so the bacon crisps up. Remove the garlic.
4. Lightly dunk both sides of the baguette pieces in the garlic/bacon oil, place in a broiler pan or some tin foil and broil/toast until crispy.
5. Meanwhile, in the saute pan, introduce the clams and the thinly-sliced garlic. Splash the pan with a some pasta water to coat the surface of the pan, or, if you're so inclined, use white wine here. Cover the pan so the steam circulates and cooks the clams' muscles into submission (causing them to open).
6. Once the pasta is about two minutes shy of recommended cooking time, transfer it to the saute pan using tongs. You definitely want some of the pasta water to hit the clam juice/bacon/garlic/olive oil mixture. Cover the saute pan again and cook for a minute more.
7. Take a crostini piece and place one in each serving bowl.
8. Add a pinch of red pepper flakes and a pinch of parseley to the pasta and clams, and mix well. Serve the pasta over the top of each crostini, making sure you portion out the sauce evenly.
Notes and Tasty Substitutions
You can definitely purchase premade crostini or croutons at any supermarket. They'll work fine. To that point, if you don't add enough of the pasta water to the oil mixture, you won't get enough liquid to soak the bread and make it taste delicious. At the same time, if you drown everything in salty water the subtlety of the clam juices and garlic/bacon oil will be lost. You're going for a greyish solution with globs of olive oil to coat the bottom of your saute pan. I would top the dish with a quick drizzle of olive oil.
In my mind, Manila clams are the poor man's cockles. I get my Manila clams on Grand Street for about $3.99/lb. That means you can easily pull this dish off for under $10.
Cockles are these vibrant, symmetrical, uniform little clams. If you can find and afford cockles, more power to ya.
Substitute pancetta for bacon? Definitely. In general pancetta has a more subdued flavor, and the theme of this dish is to remove knock-you-over-the-head-ingredients.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Winter Wind
Would you say it's more ethno- or anthro-, Missy?
Frankly, it's more anthro.
Two friends marched towards a clearing in the woods. They were three or four thousand feet above sea level, and the lack of precision was getting to both of them. In statistical parlance, Nick was a 3SD kind of guy. Steven, a 2SD. They both enjoyed the outdoors in precisely these circumstances: accompanied and armed. Once they reached the clearing, they each allowed themselves a romantic turn at the vista.
Nick imagined a moment when the terrain had all its flora skinned bare, exposing the game to unfettered glassing and gravity. He imagined deep red soil and a fiery seat at the base of the upper stratosphere, watching comets and satellites rush past him. In the distance stood tiny marking stations and plush red curtains. He lept off the clearing, holding his shotgun with both hands, cushioned by the Protagonist Buoyancy Clause. He landed back among trees, standing in the front seat of a vintage old Buick. He hopped beside the muscle. The sky swirled around him like highway headlights in a thousand anonymous photos. Only this wasn't some lame bridge shot. It wasn't some deep last chance. Nick's mind cycled through it all, and took it all in: the smell of things that don't really have a smell like "this night," and he heard the "symphony" of creature noises harmonized by Missy's gradually softening sighs. He'd rather this than anything else.
Steven rolled down the clearing onto a mattress of dried leaves. When he looked up, the sky flashed dusk and the stars at him. He raised his arms above his head and clutched his shotgun in his right hand. Maybe the river flowed past him. He spotted a doe at about fifty yards among the brush and gently set his weapon on the ground. He crept towards her. She sensed him. He took a knife from his ankle holster. She heard it being unsheathed. A chipmunk stammered, "You, you don't have the guts to use that." A fox ran up a tree and caught Steve's attention. As he followed the fox up the tree he caught a glimpse of a highway sign. He must've been standing on the county line. She turned and looked right at him. He froze. They both ran towards the shotgun, he swinging his knife, she bobbing her white tail. He got to the spot about twenty seconds after her, and she had run past it, oblivious. He scoped her back side as she fled, and fired off a shot. Her right hind shank exploded and her momentum tore her rib and crown roasts.
Then the two friends followed the ridge line farther up to a designated glassing area. They reached it and glassed the landscape. Nick tweaked the focus but still couldn't see anything. Steve's binoculars had better technology. He glassed from left to right, looking for anything moving, but he also saw nothing. "It stayed hot too long again this summer." "Yeah."
Later that day they marched home with nothing to show for all their hiking, glassing, and good decisions. Nick hung up his mountain coat, Steven opened a bottle. They sat at a wooden table and said something like...
"What do you think of her Nick?"
"She's great buddy you know I like her."
"I know I know just checkin'."
"I'm in it. I'm really in it."
"Oh yeah?"
"I really am, and I'm thinking about really going for it."
"You should if you think it's right."
"I don't care whether or not it's right you know?"
"You'll never know if you don't try it."
"I hate that saying, it's so vacuous."
"Yeah."
Nick asked Steven for a pour, he obliged. They sat there thinking about her for a second. Their rifles rest against some cold stone formation in the cabin's living room. Nick remembered the best way to protect against the cold, the heat, and a variety of other things vaguely removed from instinct. Steven got off first. He thought about his accounting, his career, and his education.
"What do you think of Vitaly?"
"Ah I don't know the guy does what he wants. He's a little unhinged."
"I guess, but he's made a lot for himself, and he's honest enough."
"There's nothing wrong with it, but to each his own, you know?"
"I hate that saying, Nick. Why don't you just explain your judgment instead of admitting that you're judging someone and you're too tight-assed and afraid to say it out loud? How long have we been friends?"
"Allright. I respect that. I think Vitaly is a hard-working guy who knows what he wants and knows how to get it."
"Yeah."
"You know the truth of it, Steve, you know my tight ass can't wrap itself around something so risky."
"Then keep your mouth shut about Vitaly, and anyone else that doesn't meet your outdated standards."
They looked at each other for a second and then both clicked their recliners back. Nick looked out the great room's window and out at the imminent twilight. He thought he saw something moving in the distance. Then it got a bit closer and he confirmed it. It was a deer. Steven saw it too. They followed it across the landscape. Steven's parents had hung some knit quotations on the wall above the window before the ceiling. They said stuff like, "It takes hands to build a house, but only hearts can build a home." Nick thought of something to give it a little edge, but either couldn't say it out loud or couldn't come up with anything clever enough.
Nick looked up at the vaulted ceiling, the crossbeams and the logs' symmetry, "Listen man you're right about Vitaly I shouldn't say anything, and you're right about that retarded saying, it's a total cop-out."
"Ah whatever I'm just pissed about Teresa as usual."
"What's going on with that?"
"Same as always: nothing, and then blips of gold-plated nothing."
"Bullshit man. She's not worth your energy."
"Ah! But who is, Nick? When do you just go for it? You know?"
"Yeah I'm having trouble with that myself."
"You're fine just go for it, you already said you're in it."
"I don't know. I don't want to be left standing out there naked and all alone."
"Seriously, you say go for it with Teresa but what do I even say? It's a complete dead end at this point."
"I think you need a kamikaze mission, I do that now and then."
"What's that?"
"Just, go all out recklessly."
"You've never done that, Nick."
Night fell, the lights in the cabin completely obscured the outside. It was a scene - the two of them, wrapped in blankets, Nick's off-white, Steven's navy blue, sitting in recliners looking up at the ceiling and the beams. Joke. Their boots had dried over by the front door over the cheery "Welcome Home" mat.
"Yeah. I've never done it. Never had the probability of success where I need it."
Frankly, it's more anthro.
Two friends marched towards a clearing in the woods. They were three or four thousand feet above sea level, and the lack of precision was getting to both of them. In statistical parlance, Nick was a 3SD kind of guy. Steven, a 2SD. They both enjoyed the outdoors in precisely these circumstances: accompanied and armed. Once they reached the clearing, they each allowed themselves a romantic turn at the vista.
Nick imagined a moment when the terrain had all its flora skinned bare, exposing the game to unfettered glassing and gravity. He imagined deep red soil and a fiery seat at the base of the upper stratosphere, watching comets and satellites rush past him. In the distance stood tiny marking stations and plush red curtains. He lept off the clearing, holding his shotgun with both hands, cushioned by the Protagonist Buoyancy Clause. He landed back among trees, standing in the front seat of a vintage old Buick. He hopped beside the muscle. The sky swirled around him like highway headlights in a thousand anonymous photos. Only this wasn't some lame bridge shot. It wasn't some deep last chance. Nick's mind cycled through it all, and took it all in: the smell of things that don't really have a smell like "this night," and he heard the "symphony" of creature noises harmonized by Missy's gradually softening sighs. He'd rather this than anything else.
Steven rolled down the clearing onto a mattress of dried leaves. When he looked up, the sky flashed dusk and the stars at him. He raised his arms above his head and clutched his shotgun in his right hand. Maybe the river flowed past him. He spotted a doe at about fifty yards among the brush and gently set his weapon on the ground. He crept towards her. She sensed him. He took a knife from his ankle holster. She heard it being unsheathed. A chipmunk stammered, "You, you don't have the guts to use that." A fox ran up a tree and caught Steve's attention. As he followed the fox up the tree he caught a glimpse of a highway sign. He must've been standing on the county line. She turned and looked right at him. He froze. They both ran towards the shotgun, he swinging his knife, she bobbing her white tail. He got to the spot about twenty seconds after her, and she had run past it, oblivious. He scoped her back side as she fled, and fired off a shot. Her right hind shank exploded and her momentum tore her rib and crown roasts.
Then the two friends followed the ridge line farther up to a designated glassing area. They reached it and glassed the landscape. Nick tweaked the focus but still couldn't see anything. Steve's binoculars had better technology. He glassed from left to right, looking for anything moving, but he also saw nothing. "It stayed hot too long again this summer." "Yeah."
Later that day they marched home with nothing to show for all their hiking, glassing, and good decisions. Nick hung up his mountain coat, Steven opened a bottle. They sat at a wooden table and said something like...
"What do you think of her Nick?"
"She's great buddy you know I like her."
"I know I know just checkin'."
"I'm in it. I'm really in it."
"Oh yeah?"
"I really am, and I'm thinking about really going for it."
"You should if you think it's right."
"I don't care whether or not it's right you know?"
"You'll never know if you don't try it."
"I hate that saying, it's so vacuous."
"Yeah."
Nick asked Steven for a pour, he obliged. They sat there thinking about her for a second. Their rifles rest against some cold stone formation in the cabin's living room. Nick remembered the best way to protect against the cold, the heat, and a variety of other things vaguely removed from instinct. Steven got off first. He thought about his accounting, his career, and his education.
"What do you think of Vitaly?"
"Ah I don't know the guy does what he wants. He's a little unhinged."
"I guess, but he's made a lot for himself, and he's honest enough."
"There's nothing wrong with it, but to each his own, you know?"
"I hate that saying, Nick. Why don't you just explain your judgment instead of admitting that you're judging someone and you're too tight-assed and afraid to say it out loud? How long have we been friends?"
"Allright. I respect that. I think Vitaly is a hard-working guy who knows what he wants and knows how to get it."
"Yeah."
"You know the truth of it, Steve, you know my tight ass can't wrap itself around something so risky."
"Then keep your mouth shut about Vitaly, and anyone else that doesn't meet your outdated standards."
They looked at each other for a second and then both clicked their recliners back. Nick looked out the great room's window and out at the imminent twilight. He thought he saw something moving in the distance. Then it got a bit closer and he confirmed it. It was a deer. Steven saw it too. They followed it across the landscape. Steven's parents had hung some knit quotations on the wall above the window before the ceiling. They said stuff like, "It takes hands to build a house, but only hearts can build a home." Nick thought of something to give it a little edge, but either couldn't say it out loud or couldn't come up with anything clever enough.
Nick looked up at the vaulted ceiling, the crossbeams and the logs' symmetry, "Listen man you're right about Vitaly I shouldn't say anything, and you're right about that retarded saying, it's a total cop-out."
"Ah whatever I'm just pissed about Teresa as usual."
"What's going on with that?"
"Same as always: nothing, and then blips of gold-plated nothing."
"Bullshit man. She's not worth your energy."
"Ah! But who is, Nick? When do you just go for it? You know?"
"Yeah I'm having trouble with that myself."
"You're fine just go for it, you already said you're in it."
"I don't know. I don't want to be left standing out there naked and all alone."
"Seriously, you say go for it with Teresa but what do I even say? It's a complete dead end at this point."
"I think you need a kamikaze mission, I do that now and then."
"What's that?"
"Just, go all out recklessly."
"You've never done that, Nick."
Night fell, the lights in the cabin completely obscured the outside. It was a scene - the two of them, wrapped in blankets, Nick's off-white, Steven's navy blue, sitting in recliners looking up at the ceiling and the beams. Joke. Their boots had dried over by the front door over the cheery "Welcome Home" mat.
"Yeah. I've never done it. Never had the probability of success where I need it."
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Half Purple, Half Black & White
Next time we goin' east side. East side. I heard. I'm gettin' squeezed she said, I mean...he said...to her, and she didn't really get it. Well, that's what she gets - he said. Later on, when the candle ran out but the track had plenty left, I left - cuz I was gettin' squeezed from both sides. And each time, I turned to my side - tried to create a little friction, you feel me? I asked. She rubbed my side - tried to create a little friction. She asked, did you hear me? I heard. Next time, east side.
I really am gettin' squeezed though...it's tough to get up. Mornings are hard. Evenings ain't much better. Two sides meet, get the job done. In a manner of speech, of childish dreams obliterated, the side of my head - tryin' to create a little friction - is my heart made of stone? Hand me a saw, it'll get the job done.
So there I was hangin' tight on the handles beside the open sliding doors. A pill dropped from my mouth and fell 18,000 feet onto the desert floor. Against everything I knew, I thought about jumping. The thought, crossed my mind, it took a while. It came in from my left ear actually, and it juked for a while. And for a while, I stood there bracing myself with both arms outstretched - no intention of jumping.
I really am gettin' squeezed though...it's tough to get up. Mornings are hard. Evenings ain't much better. Two sides meet, get the job done. In a manner of speech, of childish dreams obliterated, the side of my head - tryin' to create a little friction - is my heart made of stone? Hand me a saw, it'll get the job done.
So there I was hangin' tight on the handles beside the open sliding doors. A pill dropped from my mouth and fell 18,000 feet onto the desert floor. Against everything I knew, I thought about jumping. The thought, crossed my mind, it took a while. It came in from my left ear actually, and it juked for a while. And for a while, I stood there bracing myself with both arms outstretched - no intention of jumping.
Friday, October 24, 2008
From Whitestone Road
Santa Anna's guilt leather black beard mausoleum.
Brothers' town pocket dragged'n'bound forgotten trust.
Oklahoma baby bridge yellow painting hanging.
Your mother's cuffs slip fall slowly beneath pipes.
Friends seeping dream under Angie Beck neck pain.
Reading olive frustration tomorrow account low.
Payment canyon carrot stars above the campsite.
Mesquite road abbreviation tearful lake fire.
Santa Anna's golden hair, a campfire backpack ridge.
Brother carefully limns; watched forever.
Oklahoma museum tickets airport architecture.
Your mom's quiet march through the church.
Friendly exchanges for now slip, chuckle, pop.
Reading peacefully until a thought rises.
Payment unnecessary she told me, kneeling.
Mesquite brush can't light up - no moon.
Santa Anna, like the morning's last dream (for once!).
Brother like the blood we share, bones and clothes.
Oklahoma at night stirs us up - twists and churns.
Your mom wore a pin to the demonstration.
Friendly bets about the depressing occasion.
Reading stopped and the pig's snout crumbled.
Pay as you play but play all you want.
Mesquite highway burial, the lights and the bridge, the snares and the sounds after. The ghosts in the breeze held tight against the wind. Two figures moved up the line and the moon stayed behind the one cloud in the sky, and I thought to my brother, "how did we end up here?" And he thought back, "we're standing still." So I addressed the situation 42 Whitestone Road: "ha-d'ya mean it cheerp?" I had never heard this accent before so I had to ask for another swig of it. "Kai get anoffer?" and kind of raised my bottom lip a touch. "Ayyh"
Sigh, of course, I couldn't hear anything over the roar of the CHP choppers. I know, I should've given you that information up front. Sometimes I get all clandestine on ya. Oooh, shady like a how-does it sound? I stood quietly because I wanted the moment to last. I expected it would - "much obliged" I muttered, "much obliged." I thought of these things and I thought how weird stuff feels.
Something's so easy about the oldern days. It's as if they weighed so little and there were no hardships, right Peter P.? I missed that decade and now the days are porky messes, spooky bass notes all the way down in the scales at the end of the piano where I let my cousin sit and see the crumbs under the keys, and inside: God's light. Inside: it was cold but verdant, the opposite of temperature, colored green and alluding unequivocally to Fridays when I wore shorts out in the blustery evening air. These precautions are for you own good, everyone yelled. Everyone's always yelling and if they're not than I am on the inside.
"Me and Frankie, livin' and drinkin', nothin' feels better than blood on blood.
Takin' turns dancin' with Maria, as the band played Night of the Johnstown Flood."
Brothers' town pocket dragged'n'bound forgotten trust.
Oklahoma baby bridge yellow painting hanging.
Your mother's cuffs slip fall slowly beneath pipes.
Friends seeping dream under Angie Beck neck pain.
Reading olive frustration tomorrow account low.
Payment canyon carrot stars above the campsite.
Mesquite road abbreviation tearful lake fire.
Santa Anna's golden hair, a campfire backpack ridge.
Brother carefully limns; watched forever.
Oklahoma museum tickets airport architecture.
Your mom's quiet march through the church.
Friendly exchanges for now slip, chuckle, pop.
Reading peacefully until a thought rises.
Payment unnecessary she told me, kneeling.
Mesquite brush can't light up - no moon.
Santa Anna, like the morning's last dream (for once!).
Brother like the blood we share, bones and clothes.
Oklahoma at night stirs us up - twists and churns.
Your mom wore a pin to the demonstration.
Friendly bets about the depressing occasion.
Reading stopped and the pig's snout crumbled.
Pay as you play but play all you want.
Mesquite highway burial, the lights and the bridge, the snares and the sounds after. The ghosts in the breeze held tight against the wind. Two figures moved up the line and the moon stayed behind the one cloud in the sky, and I thought to my brother, "how did we end up here?" And he thought back, "we're standing still." So I addressed the situation 42 Whitestone Road: "ha-d'ya mean it cheerp?" I had never heard this accent before so I had to ask for another swig of it. "Kai get anoffer?" and kind of raised my bottom lip a touch. "Ayyh"
Sigh, of course, I couldn't hear anything over the roar of the CHP choppers. I know, I should've given you that information up front. Sometimes I get all clandestine on ya. Oooh, shady like a how-does it sound? I stood quietly because I wanted the moment to last. I expected it would - "much obliged" I muttered, "much obliged." I thought of these things and I thought how weird stuff feels.
Something's so easy about the oldern days. It's as if they weighed so little and there were no hardships, right Peter P.? I missed that decade and now the days are porky messes, spooky bass notes all the way down in the scales at the end of the piano where I let my cousin sit and see the crumbs under the keys, and inside: God's light. Inside: it was cold but verdant, the opposite of temperature, colored green and alluding unequivocally to Fridays when I wore shorts out in the blustery evening air. These precautions are for you own good, everyone yelled. Everyone's always yelling and if they're not than I am on the inside.
"Me and Frankie, livin' and drinkin', nothin' feels better than blood on blood.
Takin' turns dancin' with Maria, as the band played Night of the Johnstown Flood."
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
No Flowers
I would like the cross-section of a piece of Sicilian Easter pie, taganu d'aragona, as a tattoo on my arm, and I'd like to have a stained old piece of parchment paper with the recipe. When I make mini-quartered ones to test it out next spring, I'm going to substitute a (slightly) more common sheep's milk cheese, like caciocavallo. I'm sure I'll make the meatballs too tough, so I'll try not to. I'm probably going to use ditali instead of rigatoni because I'd rather fall from a green awning on a quaint little cobblestone sidestreet trying to fix a gutter. The ice from the winter made it that way, screamed an old aunt. Everyone rushed around holding towels. Rosa knocked over a wooden chair as she lunged for a box of bandages. A few jars of lentils spilled out onto the floor. One of them fell off the table and shattered. All the men tried to straighten me out on the ground, it made sense I guess.
I had broken my neck though, so in some ways bandages and a makeshift gurney really didn't help. All the blood from my heart gushed into places blood doesn't belong in the human neck because a couple vertebrae had punctured a major artery and tore half a dozen muscles and fat tissue. I coughed and squirmed unconsciously, and my blood started to trickle onto the street. At first it filed dutifully around each stone in the recessed paths that outline each stone. After a few seconds the blood poured over onto the (mostly) smooth surface of the cobblestones. I have B negative blood, and I don't recall but I don't think blood type affects the color of blood, it's probably all the oxyhemoglobularization and whatnot.
My brain let me think of a few things as I lay there about to die. For one, it let me think about the situation, which I quickly accessed as quite bad. Under less severe circumstances, I think the pain and the realization would've knocked me out or caused me to lose control of my bladder. But this was a difficult time. I had about twenty seconds of thoughts before I passed. As I mentioned, I spent the first twelve seconds panicking about all the blood and the frantic people and the feeling of complete detachment from everything below my chin. In retrospect it was foolish to spend 60% of the rest of my life worrying about dying. I mean I think 10-15% would've been a more reasonable portion.
That way, I could've used nine whole seconds thinking about [my most basic pleasures: soup, egg sandwiches, listening to loud music, gingerbread lattes, relaxing with [the golden girl of my dreams], etc.]. Then! I could've used about three seconds to think about things I've never done, like climb Mt. Everest, watch Star Wars, figure out why people believe that soccer is fun, or take a picture with Bruce/Rafa/Jamie/Dave.
I don't really know how the last five seconds would play out. I don't think you can plan that. My guess would be that I'd think something idiotic like, "hey I never gave so and so a chance." Or, "Rosa is so stupid what is that stupid towel going to do my backbone is sticking out of my shoulder." Or, "Dear God, please send me to heaven even though I [the big sins]."
I'm a big fan of "what went on while" another event happened. I guess it's a little ironic. That presupposes that I would've described something like, ahem, then the blood trickled down the small street in the direction of the coast, where [XX] and [XY] embraced serenely.
I should take this out now. It's almost ready.
I had broken my neck though, so in some ways bandages and a makeshift gurney really didn't help. All the blood from my heart gushed into places blood doesn't belong in the human neck because a couple vertebrae had punctured a major artery and tore half a dozen muscles and fat tissue. I coughed and squirmed unconsciously, and my blood started to trickle onto the street. At first it filed dutifully around each stone in the recessed paths that outline each stone. After a few seconds the blood poured over onto the (mostly) smooth surface of the cobblestones. I have B negative blood, and I don't recall but I don't think blood type affects the color of blood, it's probably all the oxyhemoglobularization and whatnot.
My brain let me think of a few things as I lay there about to die. For one, it let me think about the situation, which I quickly accessed as quite bad. Under less severe circumstances, I think the pain and the realization would've knocked me out or caused me to lose control of my bladder. But this was a difficult time. I had about twenty seconds of thoughts before I passed. As I mentioned, I spent the first twelve seconds panicking about all the blood and the frantic people and the feeling of complete detachment from everything below my chin. In retrospect it was foolish to spend 60% of the rest of my life worrying about dying. I mean I think 10-15% would've been a more reasonable portion.
That way, I could've used nine whole seconds thinking about [my most basic pleasures: soup, egg sandwiches, listening to loud music, gingerbread lattes, relaxing with [the golden girl of my dreams], etc.]. Then! I could've used about three seconds to think about things I've never done, like climb Mt. Everest, watch Star Wars, figure out why people believe that soccer is fun, or take a picture with Bruce/Rafa/Jamie/Dave.
I don't really know how the last five seconds would play out. I don't think you can plan that. My guess would be that I'd think something idiotic like, "hey I never gave so and so a chance." Or, "Rosa is so stupid what is that stupid towel going to do my backbone is sticking out of my shoulder." Or, "Dear God, please send me to heaven even though I [the big sins]."
I'm a big fan of "what went on while" another event happened. I guess it's a little ironic. That presupposes that I would've described something like, ahem, then the blood trickled down the small street in the direction of the coast, where [XX] and [XY] embraced serenely.
I should take this out now. It's almost ready.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Alert! New and Full of Intrigue
So there they was. They sat and laughed and made blow-up noises. And little tires screeched and glorious people operated machinery and we laughed so heartily. I haven't laughed so hard in a long time, even though I laughed harder when I recollected all the jokes. And I thought, "This is a daydream."
So the man with the plan said to me, "listen, man. You gotta keep walkin, keep movin' on and on and along." A wind like none other filtered through my decrepit little screen and brushed my stubble and I thought, "this is a fantasy." A wind like no other said, "you did that last time and look where you ended up."
And I thought, "this is rich. Now I'm walkin'." I walked past a few stores that didn't have anything in stock that I would buy. They had plastic brooms and these tall plastic buckets of cleaning brushes. I saw a girl wearing a short skirt on the corner and sneakers on her feet. What a deal! So I thought, "I need to get my things organized."
So the man with the plan said to me, "listen, man. You gotta keep walkin, keep movin' on and on and along." A wind like none other filtered through my decrepit little screen and brushed my stubble and I thought, "this is a fantasy." A wind like no other said, "you did that last time and look where you ended up."
And I thought, "this is rich. Now I'm walkin'." I walked past a few stores that didn't have anything in stock that I would buy. They had plastic brooms and these tall plastic buckets of cleaning brushes. I saw a girl wearing a short skirt on the corner and sneakers on her feet. What a deal! So I thought, "I need to get my things organized."
Saturday, September 13, 2008
The Stories Are All True!
I love this sentiment:
Ma nooooo !!! L'uovo lo devi far cuocere almeno un pochetto... :(
Peccato perchè sarebbe stata veramente ottima...
Manca poco dai :)
And this one:
These pages are brilliant:
http://www.thepauperedchef.com/2007/03/pasta_carbonara.html
http://www.gennarino.org/carbonaraen.html
My take on carbonara:
There's not much to debate about carbonara having something to do with coal in Italy around the world wars in the 20th century. It was either a dish that became popular within coal-miner communities and/or a dish that reminded the Italians of coal miners. The word's root is definitely "coal," and "alla carbonara" means "in the style of the coal miners."
Some say that the black specks of pepper look like coal, thus the name. Others say coal miners got bacon from the Allied troops as they rolled up the Italian peninsula in WWII. Others conflate the two theories, and I'm down with that too.
I appreciate the spirit of the dish on many levels. First of all, it's one of those great peasant concoctions that carries with it all kinds of dignity and innocence and simplicity, and I eat that stuff right up. It's also quite challenging to get just right. For a pasta recipe with only four ingredients, this is a really tough one to pull off. Plus, my formative years in carbonara-making include late-night weekends in college and that's always a pleasant nostalgia.
I've made it for as many as ten people and I've made it a ton on my own. I've made it with bacon and pancetta and guanciale. I've made it with all different types of onions. I've made it with sweet sausage, with deep-fried zucchini, with peas, with scallions, with chives, with arugula, with asparagus, etc.
Anyone who serves you pasta, pork, and egg with cream is not serving you carbonara (this sentiment is repeated all over the Internet, as it should be). Carbonara is pink, yellow, and black.
Steve's Spaghetti Carbonara
Properly serves 4
Serves 3 if you're a close friend of mine
1 lb. bacon, diced a thumb's width at a time
2/3 lb. spaghetti
1 egg per serving
salt
black pepper
grated pecorino romano
extra-virgin olive oil
1. Fill pot with water, salt aggressively, transfer to stove on high heat.
2. Bring water to a boil, drop in the pasta, stir immediately.
3. Over medium heat, place bacon in a large pan with a little olive oil, stir occasionally.
4. Once the bacon looks a little crispy on the edges, turn the heat to its lowest.
5. Meanwhile, separate the eggs, keeping the yolks whole in one small mixing bowl, and letting the whites fall to the bottom of each serving bowl. Season the whites with coarse salt, black pepper, and pecorino.
6. Once the pasta has cooked about 2 minutes less than the package instructions, crank the heat in the bacon pan to high. Begin transferring the spaghetti to the bacon pan using tongs. Stir briskly, flip it around, stir some more. Distribute the spaghetti and bacon to the serving bowls, create a small nest in the center of the spaghetti in each bowl, and drop a yolk in it.
7. Quickly top with a shower of black pepper, a little grated cheese, and a splash of olive oil.
8. Instruct your guests to stir the yolk into their bowls, and enjoy!
Some words on my recipe (from original post):
I use bacon because it's the easiest to get and because it's delicious. It's much better with thick chunks of pancetta, and it's absolutely majestic, and truest to the original dish, with guanciale (pig's jowl/cheek meat).
The egg will cook, I promise. The water is boiling at 200+ degrees, and the pasta is well above 160 degrees (the federally recommended temperature for cooking "egg dishes"). You're taking a single yolk, breaking it up, and mixing it with boiling water and strands of piping hot noodles, it's going to cook! Also, this is why you use tongs to take the spaghetti out of the water - so you reserve some of that delicious boiling water.
You need a big saute pan/skillet for this operation. If the pan with the bacon is heaped up in more than one layer, it will just steam cooked and you'll lose the layer of flavor that comes from slightly browned meat. Consider cooking the bacon in batches if necessary.
I got the egg yolk nest idea from Mario Batali, and it really works the best. I always used to whip up some eggs and then pour it on top of everyone's dish at the end, but this often left egg yolk soup at the bottom of the dish and it's really easy to overcook the eggs this way. The egg yolk nest is really impressive and captures the spirit of the dish wonderfully.
This ratio of pasta-to-pork involves the absolute smallest acceptable quantity of pork. Any less pork (or any more pasta) will yield a dry-heaving mass of carbs and cheese - not ideal.
More words about the recipe (updated 4/8/09):
I had the great fortune of preparing this recipe in Italy, with ingredients from an Italian market. I bought great eggs, spaghetti, olive oil, fresh black peppercorns and beautiful, thick slices of pancetta. The results were a bit earth-shattering: the porkiness of this dish is much more pronounced when using real pancetta instead of bacon or the cured pancetta you get in American markets. I like it, and I believe this explains why grated cheese is in the original Carbonara recipes and seems a tad overkill when using bacon - because real pancetta/guanciale is not as naturally salty.
Ma nooooo !!! L'uovo lo devi far cuocere almeno un pochetto... :(
Peccato perchè sarebbe stata veramente ottima...
Manca poco dai :)
And this one:
These pages are brilliant:
http://www.thepauperedchef.com/2007/03/pasta_carbonara.html
http://www.gennarino.org/carbonaraen.html
My take on carbonara:
There's not much to debate about carbonara having something to do with coal in Italy around the world wars in the 20th century. It was either a dish that became popular within coal-miner communities and/or a dish that reminded the Italians of coal miners. The word's root is definitely "coal," and "alla carbonara" means "in the style of the coal miners."
Some say that the black specks of pepper look like coal, thus the name. Others say coal miners got bacon from the Allied troops as they rolled up the Italian peninsula in WWII. Others conflate the two theories, and I'm down with that too.
I appreciate the spirit of the dish on many levels. First of all, it's one of those great peasant concoctions that carries with it all kinds of dignity and innocence and simplicity, and I eat that stuff right up. It's also quite challenging to get just right. For a pasta recipe with only four ingredients, this is a really tough one to pull off. Plus, my formative years in carbonara-making include late-night weekends in college and that's always a pleasant nostalgia.
I've made it for as many as ten people and I've made it a ton on my own. I've made it with bacon and pancetta and guanciale. I've made it with all different types of onions. I've made it with sweet sausage, with deep-fried zucchini, with peas, with scallions, with chives, with arugula, with asparagus, etc.
Anyone who serves you pasta, pork, and egg with cream is not serving you carbonara (this sentiment is repeated all over the Internet, as it should be). Carbonara is pink, yellow, and black.
Steve's Spaghetti Carbonara
Properly serves 4
Serves 3 if you're a close friend of mine
1 lb. bacon, diced a thumb's width at a time
2/3 lb. spaghetti
1 egg per serving
salt
black pepper
grated pecorino romano
extra-virgin olive oil
1. Fill pot with water, salt aggressively, transfer to stove on high heat.
2. Bring water to a boil, drop in the pasta, stir immediately.
3. Over medium heat, place bacon in a large pan with a little olive oil, stir occasionally.
4. Once the bacon looks a little crispy on the edges, turn the heat to its lowest.
5. Meanwhile, separate the eggs, keeping the yolks whole in one small mixing bowl, and letting the whites fall to the bottom of each serving bowl. Season the whites with coarse salt, black pepper, and pecorino.
6. Once the pasta has cooked about 2 minutes less than the package instructions, crank the heat in the bacon pan to high. Begin transferring the spaghetti to the bacon pan using tongs. Stir briskly, flip it around, stir some more. Distribute the spaghetti and bacon to the serving bowls, create a small nest in the center of the spaghetti in each bowl, and drop a yolk in it.
7. Quickly top with a shower of black pepper, a little grated cheese, and a splash of olive oil.
8. Instruct your guests to stir the yolk into their bowls, and enjoy!
Some words on my recipe (from original post):
I use bacon because it's the easiest to get and because it's delicious. It's much better with thick chunks of pancetta, and it's absolutely majestic, and truest to the original dish, with guanciale (pig's jowl/cheek meat).
The egg will cook, I promise. The water is boiling at 200+ degrees, and the pasta is well above 160 degrees (the federally recommended temperature for cooking "egg dishes"). You're taking a single yolk, breaking it up, and mixing it with boiling water and strands of piping hot noodles, it's going to cook! Also, this is why you use tongs to take the spaghetti out of the water - so you reserve some of that delicious boiling water.
You need a big saute pan/skillet for this operation. If the pan with the bacon is heaped up in more than one layer, it will just steam cooked and you'll lose the layer of flavor that comes from slightly browned meat. Consider cooking the bacon in batches if necessary.
I got the egg yolk nest idea from Mario Batali, and it really works the best. I always used to whip up some eggs and then pour it on top of everyone's dish at the end, but this often left egg yolk soup at the bottom of the dish and it's really easy to overcook the eggs this way. The egg yolk nest is really impressive and captures the spirit of the dish wonderfully.
This ratio of pasta-to-pork involves the absolute smallest acceptable quantity of pork. Any less pork (or any more pasta) will yield a dry-heaving mass of carbs and cheese - not ideal.
More words about the recipe (updated 4/8/09):
I had the great fortune of preparing this recipe in Italy, with ingredients from an Italian market. I bought great eggs, spaghetti, olive oil, fresh black peppercorns and beautiful, thick slices of pancetta. The results were a bit earth-shattering: the porkiness of this dish is much more pronounced when using real pancetta instead of bacon or the cured pancetta you get in American markets. I like it, and I believe this explains why grated cheese is in the original Carbonara recipes and seems a tad overkill when using bacon - because real pancetta/guanciale is not as naturally salty.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Accordion Breath
"Oh! You startled me!" said the woman with perfect skin to the man who couldn't feel his arms. He zig-zagged closer to the front of the queue at the bus stop. A relatively big guy with child-bearing hips felt like a little baby in his body, and he walked into a corner deli. The skinny-sideburned skinny guy behind the counter had the same name as the guy in the adult shell, and he was standing on a platform behind the counter. (This is a simple and effective tool to deter any kind of funny business in a corner store. Heh.) The shell moved quickly out of sight into an aisle with diapers and pet food. The guy behind the counter was exchanging pleasantries with an associate wearing a Chicago Bulls jumper.
The shell grew sad. The kind of deep sadness that doesn't have an equivalent because it's not really that bad. The kind of sadness that stems from indecision - not bad decisions. The sadness of sitting all alone and accepting that the inside of the shell is made of worthless, pathetic composite.
"I feel like a bug, a useless firefly, a pointless insect (which is a remarkable word)," oh come on you're being too hard on yourself! Remember when you used to fly high? Yeah, remember all that flying you did, remember all of it? "No, it was worthless, look at my shell." Stop it, everything going to be ok! Everything is delicious, everything is inexpensive. Everything is a breeze.
The shell grew sad. The kind of deep sadness that doesn't have an equivalent because it's not really that bad. The kind of sadness that stems from indecision - not bad decisions. The sadness of sitting all alone and accepting that the inside of the shell is made of worthless, pathetic composite.
"I feel like a bug, a useless firefly, a pointless insect (which is a remarkable word)," oh come on you're being too hard on yourself! Remember when you used to fly high? Yeah, remember all that flying you did, remember all of it? "No, it was worthless, look at my shell." Stop it, everything going to be ok! Everything is delicious, everything is inexpensive. Everything is a breeze.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Sinister
The itch came early in the evening, and even earlier in the day now that the summer was behind us. You see, we enjoy these kinds of things now that the sun goes in so much earlier. The temperature and the seasons and whatnot. So I decided to traverse from my naked state to my clothed state: I picked up some gray socks. One of them was balled up in the other so I had to undo it with my dominant hand. Then I put the socks on, first my right foot then my left foot. I was naked except my light gray socks. Then I walked over to get my boxer-briefs. I thought about how annoying this election was.
Does anyone really know what's going on? I mean does anyone, ANYONE, claim to know what 56% of 300,000,000 people are thinking. It's kind of misleading. Heh. You can't research this stuff as with Consumer Reports. No one is "informed." No one has any idea what goes on behind closed doors or what politics is really all about or has a remotely "expert" understanding of the "demographics." I don't think ANYONE actually knows what's best or what will work out better or anything. Despite this, the outcome is actually really important. It's like when you pull out a board game and can't find the dice. You either have the right dice or you pull some dice from another game and it just doesn't work the same. At the end of the day though, you're picking dice.
I picked out my favorite boxers because I thought someone might see them today, why else do you wear your favorite underwear? You either do it deliberately, or you do it when you go out with no prospects. So they're light blue. Light blue boxers and gray socks. I started thinking about food again: $17 for a po'boy in NYC in August? Actually, if it's any good that's probably a decent price. Starting now.
I want to be crisp but I want to be real. I want to be slick but I want to be understated. I'm going for professional and blue-collar. I want to stand out among the conformers I hang out with enough that I'm lavished with attention but still subdued enough to come across earnest and humble.
There's this sign on Houston Street, it's a fun little sign, hehe, hoohoo ha ha. I rolled around and autumn leaves fell on top of me and it was amazing. It. was. surreal. I found America. After these two minutes of daydreaming, I lost myself. I lost myself. When I go outside, WAY outside, the risk is still so small. It's like turning your headlights off in the Pennsylvania backwoods for a second with every intention of turning them on a second after. I mean, what would I do if the lights didn't click back on? I'd slow down quickly and stop, right? And then a giant moose would be in front of my car like Jumanji.
I put on my white undershirt and that was fine. It was crispish. I was stretching my knees out and dancing a little while seated.
Does anyone really know what's going on? I mean does anyone, ANYONE, claim to know what 56% of 300,000,000 people are thinking. It's kind of misleading. Heh. You can't research this stuff as with Consumer Reports. No one is "informed." No one has any idea what goes on behind closed doors or what politics is really all about or has a remotely "expert" understanding of the "demographics." I don't think ANYONE actually knows what's best or what will work out better or anything. Despite this, the outcome is actually really important. It's like when you pull out a board game and can't find the dice. You either have the right dice or you pull some dice from another game and it just doesn't work the same. At the end of the day though, you're picking dice.
I picked out my favorite boxers because I thought someone might see them today, why else do you wear your favorite underwear? You either do it deliberately, or you do it when you go out with no prospects. So they're light blue. Light blue boxers and gray socks. I started thinking about food again: $17 for a po'boy in NYC in August? Actually, if it's any good that's probably a decent price. Starting now.
I want to be crisp but I want to be real. I want to be slick but I want to be understated. I'm going for professional and blue-collar. I want to stand out among the conformers I hang out with enough that I'm lavished with attention but still subdued enough to come across earnest and humble.
There's this sign on Houston Street, it's a fun little sign, hehe, hoohoo ha ha. I rolled around and autumn leaves fell on top of me and it was amazing. It. was. surreal. I found America. After these two minutes of daydreaming, I lost myself. I lost myself. When I go outside, WAY outside, the risk is still so small. It's like turning your headlights off in the Pennsylvania backwoods for a second with every intention of turning them on a second after. I mean, what would I do if the lights didn't click back on? I'd slow down quickly and stop, right? And then a giant moose would be in front of my car like Jumanji.
I put on my white undershirt and that was fine. It was crispish. I was stretching my knees out and dancing a little while seated.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Red Vodka Room
"What would you like?"
After placing the plastic glass down, a young woman with bright blonde hair and a Redskins cap sat over the top of her glass and watched the Shiraz vibrate until it stopped. So that's when this incredible turn of events happened in the basement: Two guys had to replace one of the kegs, it was a two-man job after all. They had gone to remove the spent keg but the contents were under pressure or the pipe had some compressed air or something like that. Anyway one of them held the tense object and the other had to roll the spent keg out and roll the fresh keg in. I'm not really familiar with these processes so my description is lacking. So the smaller guy who held the tense object — with two hands — wasn't particularly strong, or tall, or confident, or experienced. As he unfastened the yolk...
"Gingersnap wheatgrass avocado Maldon pan-braised sepia." A man with a guitar stood looking at the rest of us and he picked the guy standing next to me out: "Oh god that guy needs to get laid." I was watching the sound equipment in that moment so I missed the look. Usually I can read that kind of thing. I am ashamed, he thought I thought, but I wasn't thinking that. In that moment I was only thinking about the audio stack. I mean I may have been thinking, "it would be cool to be the lighting guy or a stage hand or the guitar-tuner."
"A steady." So I looked at my 8-bit color reflection in the window and wasn't that pleased. In God We Trust. A little girl was exposed to brutal physical treatment at home and brutal emotional treatment at school. It was a tragedy.
"The kids were so bad this week, may I have a vodka tonic?" Slam and slam and slam and slam it must be Friday. Two kids knew the deal and they prepared for the event. They had this friend who promised one of them something and they had quietly competed for the lead. They were friends and they didn't need this complication. This is life. "Stoli."
And then it happened...he told her what he'd not wanted to say and what she didn't really want to hear.
After placing the plastic glass down, a young woman with bright blonde hair and a Redskins cap sat over the top of her glass and watched the Shiraz vibrate until it stopped. So that's when this incredible turn of events happened in the basement: Two guys had to replace one of the kegs, it was a two-man job after all. They had gone to remove the spent keg but the contents were under pressure or the pipe had some compressed air or something like that. Anyway one of them held the tense object and the other had to roll the spent keg out and roll the fresh keg in. I'm not really familiar with these processes so my description is lacking. So the smaller guy who held the tense object — with two hands — wasn't particularly strong, or tall, or confident, or experienced. As he unfastened the yolk...
"Gingersnap wheatgrass avocado Maldon pan-braised sepia." A man with a guitar stood looking at the rest of us and he picked the guy standing next to me out: "Oh god that guy needs to get laid." I was watching the sound equipment in that moment so I missed the look. Usually I can read that kind of thing. I am ashamed, he thought I thought, but I wasn't thinking that. In that moment I was only thinking about the audio stack. I mean I may have been thinking, "it would be cool to be the lighting guy or a stage hand or the guitar-tuner."
"A steady." So I looked at my 8-bit color reflection in the window and wasn't that pleased. In God We Trust. A little girl was exposed to brutal physical treatment at home and brutal emotional treatment at school. It was a tragedy.
"The kids were so bad this week, may I have a vodka tonic?" Slam and slam and slam and slam it must be Friday. Two kids knew the deal and they prepared for the event. They had this friend who promised one of them something and they had quietly competed for the lead. They were friends and they didn't need this complication. This is life. "Stoli."
And then it happened...he told her what he'd not wanted to say and what she didn't really want to hear.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
White Road
There was a little girl who wanted something from the gourmet bakery. Her stupid dad hollered at her, loudly and quite publicly, "I am sick and tired of negotiating with you!" Another guy walked over. He had curly brown hair and very circular sunglasses. He had been waiting to pay for "what seemed like an eternity." There were two young men with lightish skin with tight t-shirts on, they were waiting for a table-for-five to clear up at the bakery company shoppe. Their friend had not arrived yet — he had been napping but would be there five minutes after the table became available. A crazy not-that-old woman with dry hair pushed a shopping cart down the street and around each hand were two leather leashes attached to four medium-sized dogs. She felt strongly about being vegan, and even suggested that other people on the street consider becoming vegan too. A large man wearing a backwards baseball cap and a dark-colored warm-up suit with white stripes had red sneakers and a black goatee. He was slowly spinning around my favorite street in New York City, unable to take his eyes off his friend. She buzzed around him, wearing a baseball jersey herself, smiling as the entire crowd watched the magnetic carousel on the quiet street. There was an old man who walked deliberately to a park bench. He was wearing a very nice Sunday outfit and was holding onto an oak cane. He sat down and looked straight ahead, through the trees, through the little dog run, through the parks department sanitation station, through the farmer's market, through the anonymous burrito shop. He began feeding the pigeons. There was a young girl wearing a stretched-out cable knit sweater and a checkered hat. Her smile was so wide and playful, it forgave everyone who stared at her. Sometimes a chubby mother brought her developmentally-challenged daughter out for a walk. I had to reach around the poor girl to grab some potato chips. Outside my apartment I saw a couple fighting and when I got closer I heard one of them say, "what do you want me to say?" I noticed a man wearing a baseball cap backwards and a blue t-shirt and he told me that I can't sit on the rock. There was a man with baggy pants and a grin. He preferred when the sun stayed at home behind the clouds. The guy with sad eyes and the guitar looked longingly at the young little girl with the makeshift drum set. She was pounding out a Great Little Beat when an older woman accidentally stepped on some pirated DVDs on a carpet. Someone offered the therapeutic services of someone the pedestrians can't see. A woman with dark skin emerged from one of those bead curtains that had a print of an owl on it. A well-off older man walked home and thought about nothing. I sat down. I thought I saw the glimmer of the side of a gun, it was just a cell phone. I asked my buddy what the difference between a hubcap and a rim was, and he told me that hubcaps don't really exist anymore. He looked at me. A smelly young man finished another book. A sweet girl pulled her hair out at night and wondered what she was doing with her life. A type-A personality thought about walking down Avenue A, but decisively decided against it. Another man with a goatee did curls at the gym and thought about the missionary position. A beautiful woman continued to study and her less beautiful friend could not stop stopping her work to look around or talk or surrender to some other distraction. An executive pressed 'L' in the elevator and looked up at the screen. A large old woman addressed the back of a lobster's head with a sharp knife. I wanted a grilled cheese sandwich. A little boy put his hand in the cold river water and didn't realize that what he was doing was what other people dream about doing. Another little boy tripped on the curb. Linda died. Sometimes the man with the cart would not be there and he didn't have to tell anyone; he would just sit on his really comfortable wool chair and watch his old tv in his ground-level apartment and drink Hennessey and shuffle cards all day. These two sisters walked by and one of them yelled, "Now you want to go, you never want to go." This stockman sauntered behind a customer wearing a dress with the colors of the Jamaican flag — he said to her: "Those ain't church clothes." She replied, "God just happy my ass was there, he don't care what I wear." I agree with her.
Friday, August 8, 2008
At Peace
i will bring you water, if you will bring me wine.
we will sit together, until the end of time.
and you will call me yours, i will call you mine.
and we will stay together, until the end of time.
i will call you mine.
---
i will bring you water, you will bring me wine.
we will be together, until the end of time.
you will call me yours, i will call you mine.
we will dance forever, until the end of time.
i had to walk a long way to get to the cloudy dwelling of the Legend, and at the end of my trip i was sweating a great deal. there were nice little shrubs and these odd-shaped, fragrant roots all along the side of the road. i couldn't take my ipod because of some provincial regulation, but that actually worked out fine because when you walk around in heaven there are all kinds of interesting things to listen to anyway.
you'd expect that daylight lasts forever up there but each little province has its own solar regimen. actually the occupants of each province select it themselves. there's a form you can fill out when you get your place, it's a neat little interactive chart that can be as detailed as you want, and since time and bladder considerations don't really exist, new occupants typically spend quite a while detailing the atmospheric conditions of their plot.
it's a cool setup, i have to say. they really thought things through. i heard they used IBM for all the operational stuff and they use Microsoft Surface now for the adminstrative tasks and bookkeeping. i'm not surprised that the Legend chose the environment he did: a sort of perpetual golden blue just-before-twilight, juuuuuust shy of overly humid, and no breeze. he did choose — as many do — to have a few hours of random weather generation every now and again.
you can restrict the types of random weather. for example, you can say, "random weather but nothing worse than 50 mph winds and nothing better than the nicest day i ever experienced on the earthball." the Legend did not put any such restrictions on the weather in his province, he didn't mind patching up his home if something happened, these were the pleasures he missed since he arrived, and he actually welcomed a palm tree or two falling through the roof of his garage.
i walked confidently along the dusty road and felt my heart fill up warmly and comfortably. i would love to join Him there for longer but I had to go back to the city after I spoke with Him, oh well, I'll definitely visit Him a ton when I get up there.
...
"i don't know, sometimes i take such a huge step forward and then i see them and they grab at me and pull me back. it's a little upsetting but i guess that's part of life." He told me to relax and not think about it so much. he told me a story about a dream he had. i smiled the entire time. As he told it, i mouthed some of his words if he elongated them or when he would emphasize a point with his hands or his electromagnetic eyes:
"I was watching my son play baseball near the airport and I saw a woman with a child down by the bay. She was hunched over with the little guy between her legs and he was splashing around with a red plastic shovel. I walked over to her and along the way I thought about lying down on the side of a road. I looked up through leaves and saw airplanes and the sky and the golden hair of my wife. I loved when she rode with me. She'd say things to me as we drove and I'd feel a little sad or a little happy. I felt admiration and jealousy, but what mattered when I stopped the bike was not my own emotions, but the beauty of where we were, how we were together, how beautiful she was and how comfortable the dirt was against my back."
...
then He told me a classic story about Him and His golden goddess. i told Him i wouldn't tell anyone about it even though He said He wouldn't mind. one of the things i always admired about the Legend was his understated dignity. in the most extraordinary way, his mannerisms conveyed epic dignity. sometimes i do things so wretchedly devoid of dignity and i am ashamed to even consider what He would think, how He would gaze at me. that memory alone should keep me from the rock-bottom. i don't want to go there again.
...
the blue light at the edge of the golden flame reminded me of the pavement — our city. the dusk and aromas and alcohol reminded me of argentina and motorcycles. i remember alternately the sterile white houses and the hangar-car-garages. we sat in these ungodly comfortable lounge chairs and looked around, over the fire, at the fire, at the harmless little flies. gorgeous creamily rigid jungle leaves relaxed there too. we all listened to Him. He told stories that made your hands recall an index of touches and shapes and feelings that your fingers may not have ever experienced. He cast my face into an uninhibited, effortless smile, and i miss that now. the glow must have been visible in the other provinces.
rest in peace Friend.
August 8, 2007
we will sit together, until the end of time.
and you will call me yours, i will call you mine.
and we will stay together, until the end of time.
i will call you mine.
---
i will bring you water, you will bring me wine.
we will be together, until the end of time.
you will call me yours, i will call you mine.
we will dance forever, until the end of time.
i had to walk a long way to get to the cloudy dwelling of the Legend, and at the end of my trip i was sweating a great deal. there were nice little shrubs and these odd-shaped, fragrant roots all along the side of the road. i couldn't take my ipod because of some provincial regulation, but that actually worked out fine because when you walk around in heaven there are all kinds of interesting things to listen to anyway.
you'd expect that daylight lasts forever up there but each little province has its own solar regimen. actually the occupants of each province select it themselves. there's a form you can fill out when you get your place, it's a neat little interactive chart that can be as detailed as you want, and since time and bladder considerations don't really exist, new occupants typically spend quite a while detailing the atmospheric conditions of their plot.
it's a cool setup, i have to say. they really thought things through. i heard they used IBM for all the operational stuff and they use Microsoft Surface now for the adminstrative tasks and bookkeeping. i'm not surprised that the Legend chose the environment he did: a sort of perpetual golden blue just-before-twilight, juuuuuust shy of overly humid, and no breeze. he did choose — as many do — to have a few hours of random weather generation every now and again.
you can restrict the types of random weather. for example, you can say, "random weather but nothing worse than 50 mph winds and nothing better than the nicest day i ever experienced on the earthball." the Legend did not put any such restrictions on the weather in his province, he didn't mind patching up his home if something happened, these were the pleasures he missed since he arrived, and he actually welcomed a palm tree or two falling through the roof of his garage.
i walked confidently along the dusty road and felt my heart fill up warmly and comfortably. i would love to join Him there for longer but I had to go back to the city after I spoke with Him, oh well, I'll definitely visit Him a ton when I get up there.
...
"i don't know, sometimes i take such a huge step forward and then i see them and they grab at me and pull me back. it's a little upsetting but i guess that's part of life." He told me to relax and not think about it so much. he told me a story about a dream he had. i smiled the entire time. As he told it, i mouthed some of his words if he elongated them or when he would emphasize a point with his hands or his electromagnetic eyes:
"I was watching my son play baseball near the airport and I saw a woman with a child down by the bay. She was hunched over with the little guy between her legs and he was splashing around with a red plastic shovel. I walked over to her and along the way I thought about lying down on the side of a road. I looked up through leaves and saw airplanes and the sky and the golden hair of my wife. I loved when she rode with me. She'd say things to me as we drove and I'd feel a little sad or a little happy. I felt admiration and jealousy, but what mattered when I stopped the bike was not my own emotions, but the beauty of where we were, how we were together, how beautiful she was and how comfortable the dirt was against my back."
...
then He told me a classic story about Him and His golden goddess. i told Him i wouldn't tell anyone about it even though He said He wouldn't mind. one of the things i always admired about the Legend was his understated dignity. in the most extraordinary way, his mannerisms conveyed epic dignity. sometimes i do things so wretchedly devoid of dignity and i am ashamed to even consider what He would think, how He would gaze at me. that memory alone should keep me from the rock-bottom. i don't want to go there again.
...
the blue light at the edge of the golden flame reminded me of the pavement — our city. the dusk and aromas and alcohol reminded me of argentina and motorcycles. i remember alternately the sterile white houses and the hangar-car-garages. we sat in these ungodly comfortable lounge chairs and looked around, over the fire, at the fire, at the harmless little flies. gorgeous creamily rigid jungle leaves relaxed there too. we all listened to Him. He told stories that made your hands recall an index of touches and shapes and feelings that your fingers may not have ever experienced. He cast my face into an uninhibited, effortless smile, and i miss that now. the glow must have been visible in the other provinces.
rest in peace Friend.
August 8, 2007
Monday, August 4, 2008
ayla_napoli
The idea is to have a set of rotating images with words beneath them. The page will scroll horizontally in the middle. There will be definitions and more images to accompany the main one to refine the text that accompanies each primary image.
I have a list of personal requests, and I'm not sure how to attack the work left: "rocket scientist," "psychedelicatessen," "flavor," and "chicken." I'm pretty sure one of those will be first. I also would like one on "brooklyn," one on "cooper," one on "american football," and one on "blog."
Don't spill the beans, this is going to be tremendous.
I have a list of personal requests, and I'm not sure how to attack the work left: "rocket scientist," "psychedelicatessen," "flavor," and "chicken." I'm pretty sure one of those will be first. I also would like one on "brooklyn," one on "cooper," one on "american football," and one on "blog."
Don't spill the beans, this is going to be tremendous.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Shutters
Pour some arancia directly into the sauce you'd been preparing, that's what they told me. That's what I had to work with. I figured, "Hey I gave it my best." I analyzed the curve. Indeed, there was a steep scale on which infatuation turned into disrespect, which caused me to open the window over the urban backyard.
I had been thinking of that green hose a few times more recently. I thought about shattering that garage light with the little basketball. I guess that's in my past. What would a mental mirror show? Yuck, I don't even want to picture it - even that's flattering terminology.
So the window opened, and I looked out. Things looked pretty normal. I saw little ants, gravel, chlorinated water, some slick pavement. I saw a barbecue and a ladder, a fence and a man. That's that I thought. My heart felt empty knowing I'd never get to be in that same setting again. That was behind me. That is gone now. It sits about six feet under a nicely manicured lawn. It is sad. I am sad.
It's an odd vacancy because I remember those moments most fondly. That's incongruity. I saw a picture of a girl H.H. who looked great on paper. That is a kick, this is a kick, I don't think I'm flexible enough to kick the window back up. To keep it up without letting it close for a few more years. It is depressing to be honest. It is sick and filled with regret.
It's borne of some kind of resentment for other people. They are on the other side of my forced mannerisms. From them obligation turns to resentment. From the source comes obligation and from me comes resentment and with that the scale. Is everything doomed, am I stuck as a master of white lies and scorecard credit? It's an odd situation. There's so much time? Right?
There aren't many things that could prevent me from the stupid window. But that's a lie and I know it. There are things that necessarily prevent it, and they are pathetic. They are thoughtless and inane. I am a subject on the manor of perception and narcissism. I obey my master, and my master wears boxer-briefs but would like to switch back to boxers in the near future.
That's the way it is. Duh. Seems like a rotten deal doesn't it? Well it's not too bad. It's sort of standard, I can see it dates back at least to Madison Avenue in 1960. We'll see what happens next. I'm sure it'll be a real hoot. I'm sure the window will go up and down and nothing will change. Or maybe they'll stick it to me. Maybe they'll slam the fucking shutter down on my hand and break my bones into a thousand pieces. Maybe they'll take turns turning salt against me and slapping my face. Maybe that's what's in store. I need help I scream out the closed window and the submarine is submerged. Oh it's eternally submerged. Too soon. It's over. The legend has left his backyard.
I had been thinking of that green hose a few times more recently. I thought about shattering that garage light with the little basketball. I guess that's in my past. What would a mental mirror show? Yuck, I don't even want to picture it - even that's flattering terminology.
So the window opened, and I looked out. Things looked pretty normal. I saw little ants, gravel, chlorinated water, some slick pavement. I saw a barbecue and a ladder, a fence and a man. That's that I thought. My heart felt empty knowing I'd never get to be in that same setting again. That was behind me. That is gone now. It sits about six feet under a nicely manicured lawn. It is sad. I am sad.
It's an odd vacancy because I remember those moments most fondly. That's incongruity. I saw a picture of a girl H.H. who looked great on paper. That is a kick, this is a kick, I don't think I'm flexible enough to kick the window back up. To keep it up without letting it close for a few more years. It is depressing to be honest. It is sick and filled with regret.
It's borne of some kind of resentment for other people. They are on the other side of my forced mannerisms. From them obligation turns to resentment. From the source comes obligation and from me comes resentment and with that the scale. Is everything doomed, am I stuck as a master of white lies and scorecard credit? It's an odd situation. There's so much time? Right?
There aren't many things that could prevent me from the stupid window. But that's a lie and I know it. There are things that necessarily prevent it, and they are pathetic. They are thoughtless and inane. I am a subject on the manor of perception and narcissism. I obey my master, and my master wears boxer-briefs but would like to switch back to boxers in the near future.
That's the way it is. Duh. Seems like a rotten deal doesn't it? Well it's not too bad. It's sort of standard, I can see it dates back at least to Madison Avenue in 1960. We'll see what happens next. I'm sure it'll be a real hoot. I'm sure the window will go up and down and nothing will change. Or maybe they'll stick it to me. Maybe they'll slam the fucking shutter down on my hand and break my bones into a thousand pieces. Maybe they'll take turns turning salt against me and slapping my face. Maybe that's what's in store. I need help I scream out the closed window and the submarine is submerged. Oh it's eternally submerged. Too soon. It's over. The legend has left his backyard.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
"They Hadn't Made It Yet"
"Beautiful day out today..."
"Yeah, 73 now..."
"What a good year!"
"You said it!"
It's too soon to have an all-out retrospective - we need a subtle, archival revival instead. Indeed, we should probably shoot for something more low key. What I propose is a web featurette - some nice art, maybe get Missy to narrate over it - and then depending on the response have some kind of user-generated recap in print. It's Tuesday now, we can wrap this up by Sunday. What does everyone think?
I think auto companies should offer gas incentives up front - putting a ceiling on the price per gallon that the consumer must pay given on-time payments or more money down. It's almost like a rebate system, you work it.
It's a balancing act dude, you have to introduce these kinds of initiatives slowly, almost... ... ...silently.
"Softly right?"
"Yeah, nothing big..."
"I need to make some cuts."
"Don't we all!"
The recommended method for cleaning these creatures is to truncate the three-dimensional ellipse around the eyes (the face), remove the two-layered translucent flaps (the gills & testes), and (this is optional) remove the yellowish glandular pieces (hepatopancreas and various cartilages) towards the center of the animal.
Let's have a race! Ok, I will watch a litre of ice melt, you watch 2 sticks of butter melt, and DD (disappointed dunesky) over there will watch some dead grass grow. So we started. The bars of Breakstone stood tall and strong, but my bowl of ice was already on it's way - everything was going according to plan. There was a small puddle of butter forming at the base of the towers; I got a little nervous (and a little hungry).
"I caught one!" - he raised his hands up.
"Where's it headed?"
"Towards New York!"
"Like the other one?"
The smallish man watched his dead grass grow: and through it he imagined glorious fields and blue skies. Who maintains this beauty, he wondered. Who tends to this beautiful natural lawn. The small man stood in a black and white outfit, he uneasily raised his hand towards his foe. Sun glimmered off the crevices of his weapon. It was a classic triangulation showdown, how tense!
"Give me the crane."
"Sir, we're on the crane."
"Then raise it up!"
"Sir, this is not advisable."
Two reckless hawks at full throttle plummeted into the scene. They carried only their maniacal spirits and pointed their talons back behind them to reduce drag. Apparently they learned this technique in the tropics. The three men stood in the meadow, and I was one of them, and you were too.
The small man pulled the trigger first. The bullet flew for your face, it was a remarkably accurate shot - suspiciously accurate. I turned to you (I had been aiming at the small man), and took a shot as well. Impact meant death, and the bullet struck just within your left eye socket, then my bullet grazed your neck and persisted for a decent time. The small man took the opportunity to fall on his back for protection and fire another shot in my direction this time. Your face had exploded and the flap of skin that had come off your neck was relatively pathetic. The dunesky's bullet headed for my face and I crossed my eyes on impact. Certain flashes overcame me in that instance:
The basketball game on that beautiful day...the empty parking lot...pounding the steering wheel, the rain and its discussion...the accident in the snow...sitting on nature smoking...the brick wall painted white...emotion - saliva. It's a little grotesque to compare our deaths to something like that, but that's how it happened.
I had a jukebox graduate for a [first] mate,
she couldn't sail but she sure could sing.
"Yeah, 73 now..."
"What a good year!"
"You said it!"
It's too soon to have an all-out retrospective - we need a subtle, archival revival instead. Indeed, we should probably shoot for something more low key. What I propose is a web featurette - some nice art, maybe get Missy to narrate over it - and then depending on the response have some kind of user-generated recap in print. It's Tuesday now, we can wrap this up by Sunday. What does everyone think?
I think auto companies should offer gas incentives up front - putting a ceiling on the price per gallon that the consumer must pay given on-time payments or more money down. It's almost like a rebate system, you work it.
It's a balancing act dude, you have to introduce these kinds of initiatives slowly, almost... ... ...silently.
"Softly right?"
"Yeah, nothing big..."
"I need to make some cuts."
"Don't we all!"
The recommended method for cleaning these creatures is to truncate the three-dimensional ellipse around the eyes (the face), remove the two-layered translucent flaps (the gills & testes), and (this is optional) remove the yellowish glandular pieces (hepatopancreas and various cartilages) towards the center of the animal.
Let's have a race! Ok, I will watch a litre of ice melt, you watch 2 sticks of butter melt, and DD (disappointed dunesky) over there will watch some dead grass grow. So we started. The bars of Breakstone stood tall and strong, but my bowl of ice was already on it's way - everything was going according to plan. There was a small puddle of butter forming at the base of the towers; I got a little nervous (and a little hungry).
"I caught one!" - he raised his hands up.
"Where's it headed?"
"Towards New York!"
"Like the other one?"
The smallish man watched his dead grass grow: and through it he imagined glorious fields and blue skies. Who maintains this beauty, he wondered. Who tends to this beautiful natural lawn. The small man stood in a black and white outfit, he uneasily raised his hand towards his foe. Sun glimmered off the crevices of his weapon. It was a classic triangulation showdown, how tense!
"Give me the crane."
"Sir, we're on the crane."
"Then raise it up!"
"Sir, this is not advisable."
Two reckless hawks at full throttle plummeted into the scene. They carried only their maniacal spirits and pointed their talons back behind them to reduce drag. Apparently they learned this technique in the tropics. The three men stood in the meadow, and I was one of them, and you were too.
The small man pulled the trigger first. The bullet flew for your face, it was a remarkably accurate shot - suspiciously accurate. I turned to you (I had been aiming at the small man), and took a shot as well. Impact meant death, and the bullet struck just within your left eye socket, then my bullet grazed your neck and persisted for a decent time. The small man took the opportunity to fall on his back for protection and fire another shot in my direction this time. Your face had exploded and the flap of skin that had come off your neck was relatively pathetic. The dunesky's bullet headed for my face and I crossed my eyes on impact. Certain flashes overcame me in that instance:
The basketball game on that beautiful day...the empty parking lot...pounding the steering wheel, the rain and its discussion...the accident in the snow...sitting on nature smoking...the brick wall painted white...emotion - saliva. It's a little grotesque to compare our deaths to something like that, but that's how it happened.
I had a jukebox graduate for a [first] mate,
she couldn't sail but she sure could sing.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Luana Ambivalence
I sat buffing my monument of nobility that appeared in my dreams. A mirror shine, as always. A faint buzzer went off in my room. The walls were coated in morning light. The radio clicked on and (as it turns out) I interrupted a major turning point: "Time of death: 7:20AM, Cause of death: 'Weather-related electrocution' - well that's it doctor, we did all we could - you should be commended for your effort."
The doctor hung his head and closed his eyes, his hand still holding a bag of oxygen - he felt as if he had given up. A nurse reassured him that this would not impact his status as chief resident. "How does she know," he muttered as he pulled off his gloves. He had flashes of nature in an overexposed state: blades of grass poking through the soil, butterflies emerging from their ugly wrappings, a bird diving down and gliding for the first time, an apple falling from a tower. Image flashes such as these propelled him forward forcefully. Call it 'delusional' if you must.
"We interrupt this broadcast to bring you a special announcement from the Coast Guard: As of 0730, gale-forced winds may shake things up near the gulf. Clipper ships, consider yourselves warned!"
I stepped out onto the deck, I noticed some of my crew had eaten breakfast already. "Good morning you wild taxonomists of the Southern half of our earthball. Did we name anything last night?" I looked around and no one really noticed me. "Yeah we actually saw a two-of-sixteen trichordate and named it." I thought of Gaia and knew she'd be pleased, so I guiltily filled out some forms for her and filed them away. Gaia was simply stunning, long hair...flowin' down, on the ocean...waves splashing down (against an enormous land mass).
"What did you name it?"
"Luana."
A sharp wave crest slammed the side of our ship, and then a few smaller ones followed. We really took off after that. Blazing down the shoreline, a powerful, frothy wake erupted behind our clipper ship. In a display of unanimous strength, the bow raised slightly out of the water and the wind whipped in then around the vacuum and howled so loudly men working on the docks stood up and shed tears of awe. I cried a little too, but mostly I gripped the wheel with one hand and held her steady. I pushed the throttle to its limit, knowing full well that any added velocity at this point came from the whims of the winds, tides, and fortunes.
Below the deck, I scribbled some personal thoughts on a notepad I bought back on mainland. Sheesh.
The doctor hung his head and closed his eyes, his hand still holding a bag of oxygen - he felt as if he had given up. A nurse reassured him that this would not impact his status as chief resident. "How does she know," he muttered as he pulled off his gloves. He had flashes of nature in an overexposed state: blades of grass poking through the soil, butterflies emerging from their ugly wrappings, a bird diving down and gliding for the first time, an apple falling from a tower. Image flashes such as these propelled him forward forcefully. Call it 'delusional' if you must.
"We interrupt this broadcast to bring you a special announcement from the Coast Guard: As of 0730, gale-forced winds may shake things up near the gulf. Clipper ships, consider yourselves warned!"
I stepped out onto the deck, I noticed some of my crew had eaten breakfast already. "Good morning you wild taxonomists of the Southern half of our earthball. Did we name anything last night?" I looked around and no one really noticed me. "Yeah we actually saw a two-of-sixteen trichordate and named it." I thought of Gaia and knew she'd be pleased, so I guiltily filled out some forms for her and filed them away. Gaia was simply stunning, long hair...flowin' down, on the ocean...waves splashing down (against an enormous land mass).
"What did you name it?"
"Luana."
A sharp wave crest slammed the side of our ship, and then a few smaller ones followed. We really took off after that. Blazing down the shoreline, a powerful, frothy wake erupted behind our clipper ship. In a display of unanimous strength, the bow raised slightly out of the water and the wind whipped in then around the vacuum and howled so loudly men working on the docks stood up and shed tears of awe. I cried a little too, but mostly I gripped the wheel with one hand and held her steady. I pushed the throttle to its limit, knowing full well that any added velocity at this point came from the whims of the winds, tides, and fortunes.
Below the deck, I scribbled some personal thoughts on a notepad I bought back on mainland. Sheesh.
Cheap Buttons
Three years ago there was at the very least a hope, an inspired confidence that at the very least enabled the ability to hope, even if so recklessly. Now we have an uninspired gig offering a paltry wake. It's a shame...it's a boomerang feather. This has happened before, in the desert with the shades, in the jungle, in the back garage! i wonder if you'll think of me, holding you tight in the hall, at the back end of an awful gathering - prodding you on.
When I see I thought it, I thought it, I dreamed, I listened and we kept talkin' and on...and on...and on to the dreams to the reckless dreams of their ancestors between worlds, every family had been known for every virtue, for every vice. I frowned. I felt fine, but I was not smiling. Hey, I lost my place. What's it like? Probably when people keep it clean and don't bring up it's verb half-sibling. It's a loft isn't it.
"Yeah, Long Island City, it's dope man."
"Dude, I hear it's really inex...inex...chchchchc..."
I am anxious. I'm rattled now, Rhesus. Cuh cah. Juhjeejee oh ahead. Carbon. Sinister. Fula, prepare for the end of days. So I said, "Haha, the real end of days?"
"Dude, this is retarded."
And it was, it was inane. Especially since one of the closest members of the inner circle had fallen like this. I ripped the foil off the food. Oh god.
When I see I thought it, I thought it, I dreamed, I listened and we kept talkin' and on...and on...and on to the dreams to the reckless dreams of their ancestors between worlds, every family had been known for every virtue, for every vice. I frowned. I felt fine, but I was not smiling. Hey, I lost my place. What's it like? Probably when people keep it clean and don't bring up it's verb half-sibling. It's a loft isn't it.
"Yeah, Long Island City, it's dope man."
"Dude, I hear it's really inex...inex...chchchchc..."
I am anxious. I'm rattled now, Rhesus. Cuh cah. Juhjeejee oh ahead. Carbon. Sinister. Fula, prepare for the end of days. So I said, "Haha, the real end of days?"
"Dude, this is retarded."
And it was, it was inane. Especially since one of the closest members of the inner circle had fallen like this. I ripped the foil off the food. Oh god.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Beside the Promenade
The fire in their hearts sm[o]ldered to mutilation, and I watched it from the fire escape. I literally saw everything, it was an afternoon of clarity. So all the animals got really scared in unison. It sounded quite heinous, as animals yelp at different pitches. A tint here, a slap and a dab there, a few goodfellas wherever the lovely ladies were hiding upstairs. Everyone was about sixteen 'cept the late summer babies. All the chaperones had driven pastel-colored Cadillacs down the road in front of the city centre, the towl hall - beside the bell tower, where the future socialites had their first co-ed dance - to drop their packages onto the streettop.
Sitting....over there, next to the fire, I heard something real Classical come heat-seeksliding through the satellite bases into my ears. So I turned to it and paid it its due attention. Overloss post-syndrome - arrowshot hits the board but bullseye umbrella held by the Caribbean pirates. Slip me a crystal, I cried out. The tall man with the dark black hair leaned over and breathed a mighty salt-water breath: fffuuuaaahh. So, dignified.
Sitting....over there, next to the fire, I heard something real Classical come heat-seeksliding through the satellite bases into my ears. So I turned to it and paid it its due attention. Overloss post-syndrome - arrowshot hits the board but bullseye umbrella held by the Caribbean pirates. Slip me a crystal, I cried out. The tall man with the dark black hair leaned over and breathed a mighty salt-water breath: fffuuuaaahh. So, dignified.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Centurion
The LED flicks on for a second, "there are hundreds of good lawyers out there." It snaps to half-power, and then it quickly shuts off. And until it flicks on again, good night...good night. Good night orange and lime lights, good night camera shutter. The noise subsides for a time. "The world will do without me for a while." For now...good night. Clasp again to will a new message. Till it comes again...good night. Neck swivel left eye shiver, arpeggio after arpeggio after hours...have a good life.
"Settling in I see?"
Why yes, Ma'ma! Spike spike river flow river flow river flow spike bridge spike river flow, instructions: say goodbye. It's special for us tonight. Good bye. Mute mute arpeggio downwind. Mute arpeggio whistle flourish whistle flourish! The joy the joy the joy neck swivel, resolve. And resolve. Good night. T-t-t-t-t-take your time. For now...have a good life. And then, stay right.
"Sounds a bit tinny, no?"
Certainly! So blow some air into your upper lip pocket and clench your lips around some crossy eyes, then close them. See what I meant about the noise? Rest your weary head, my good friend. Down eye-liner on the river tonight. We all stay awake all night. Wood floors slow ship driftin' down the wide windy river. Got my arms over the rail limp like a doll, blowin' air into my upper lip and twisting my entire leg, a little river jig. A little river time. A warm...river night. Steeply up - leisurely down, if your heart's right. If your...mind's fine. Sleep it off, fill it up, but on our side. Say good night. For now...good bye.
"There's a treasure here for you tonight!"
That's. That's just fine. I continued to let my body spasm with every note in the score and tried to assign each instrument a different muscle group, together it was very relaxing even though to the outsider it looks like I was having a hard time. It was relaxing because I wasn't thinking. Time enough...good night. Time's right..."good bye."
Fire.
"Settling in I see?"
Why yes, Ma'ma! Spike spike river flow river flow river flow spike bridge spike river flow, instructions: say goodbye. It's special for us tonight. Good bye. Mute mute arpeggio downwind. Mute arpeggio whistle flourish whistle flourish! The joy the joy the joy neck swivel, resolve. And resolve. Good night. T-t-t-t-t-take your time. For now...have a good life. And then, stay right.
"Sounds a bit tinny, no?"
Certainly! So blow some air into your upper lip pocket and clench your lips around some crossy eyes, then close them. See what I meant about the noise? Rest your weary head, my good friend. Down eye-liner on the river tonight. We all stay awake all night. Wood floors slow ship driftin' down the wide windy river. Got my arms over the rail limp like a doll, blowin' air into my upper lip and twisting my entire leg, a little river jig. A little river time. A warm...river night. Steeply up - leisurely down, if your heart's right. If your...mind's fine. Sleep it off, fill it up, but on our side. Say good night. For now...good bye.
"There's a treasure here for you tonight!"
That's. That's just fine. I continued to let my body spasm with every note in the score and tried to assign each instrument a different muscle group, together it was very relaxing even though to the outsider it looks like I was having a hard time. It was relaxing because I wasn't thinking. Time enough...good night. Time's right..."good bye."
Fire.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Structual Integrity
In a distant land that was equally (if not more) civilized than our own, a wise old man tripped down the stairs of his apartment and broke his neck. After surgery and the physical therapy sessions with Sumako, he promised himself to think about his youth more often and write parables for his children and grandchildren. Below, please find a passage from his writing. As you will see, his writing has been affected by the trauma he suffered when he fell down the stairs. Still, the man's wisdom is quite evident, through the rhetorical spasms and mangled prose:
...for in this impossible period, which the doctors told me came from my relentless cognitive dissonance, I was unable to channel the vivacity of my earlier years. Still a young man combing the darkness, I was unable to reach the stop lever, I was unable to stop - utterly helpless. Inert for what was then the foreseeable future. Livid inside, hearing my body's sirens yet smiling on sunny days. I knew how to rid myself of this awful addiction, there were substances. So on the outside, I stopped everything, and started telling the inside: "we must stop."
It is hard to imagine a more elegant expression of the hopelessness of addiction. When I read this prose, it throbs within me, and my mind is blown.
...for in this impossible period, which the doctors told me came from my relentless cognitive dissonance, I was unable to channel the vivacity of my earlier years. Still a young man combing the darkness, I was unable to reach the stop lever, I was unable to stop - utterly helpless. Inert for what was then the foreseeable future. Livid inside, hearing my body's sirens yet smiling on sunny days. I knew how to rid myself of this awful addiction, there were substances. So on the outside, I stopped everything, and started telling the inside: "we must stop."
It is hard to imagine a more elegant expression of the hopelessness of addiction. When I read this prose, it throbs within me, and my mind is blown.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Cracked Steps
Yoão met up with Charlie at the ballgame and they met Ingrid (Joanna). They hung out together in the peaceful times, and, innocently, Yoão fell in love with Joanna, and Charlie had to watch that shit. So they walked, no, let's be clear, they strolled down the street: they saw some blonde skinny ostrich of a lady walk by wearing one of those flat shiny fabric coats in old-person beige, and they overheard: "Yoaoh, Clement man, you still high?"
How can they serve that stuff on the street isn't it illegal to sell - wait, it's not really liquor it's just those pourer caps on some working-class, ethnic juices. We waited to cross the street because a car got stranded in the intersection but some bright light with flattened black hair and a blue blouse decided to scamper across and fuck the whole scene up, because then the floodgates opened and the car actually got stranded and all the way up the bridge honks reverberated and shook the girders as the afternoon sun split, centered, and eclipsed the massive rigid structure. Her whole body seemed flat now like a blue cracker, she couldn't be less of a Cracker but in terms of two-dimensionality, let's go with "cracker."
So the yesmen followed the leader and the leader had money on his mind. They could probably take a shortcut but let's not tell them about it - it distracts from the point of the story, which is that Charlie fell in love with Joanna but Yoão did too - only Yoão was more forward about it. And while Joanna wasn't exactly available, the advantage on this one had to go to Yoão, because his desire had contaminated his body language and released all kinds of mammalian particles into the afternoon air and maybe everyone got a whiff.
Maybe the blonde starlet on the billboard with her legs spread open caught a little whiff, or maybe some yesmen thought about the shortcut for a second. Either way the gasses found their way to Joanna from Yoão, like pollen finds its way from stamen to pistil or whatever. So while all this stuff was swirling around, a train emerged from the tunnel and lumbered over the bridge, and at the same time the girl wearing blue caught up with the leader and his yesmen and she jumped up and gave him a smootch. So the yesmen said something to each other along the lines of, "yeah..."
When Charlie got home it was Night. He went to his room and turned everything off and realized that he felt a little dirty. The sheets were just washed, he thought, so he went to the washroom and splashed some water on his face and rubbed some soap on his hands and gave each side a thorough once-over. He kept thinking about the sheets and how clean they were. The coarse city kept at its howling, and the bridge girders shuddered as cars passed over beam intersections. We closed the door to his room and felt much better. He was ready to retire.
Yoão and Joanna went to Joanna’s together, they exchanged smiles over a conversation and a sleeve of crackers and Yoão even invented a game where he would play a ringtone on his phone and say, "guess" and she would curtsy her perfect little face (in profile) over to the speaker and shout the name of the song with a big smile. This went on until Yoão ran out of songs, he played every song he had except the song he used for when his old girlfriend would call. Yoão was one of those guys who came out of womb on a sunny day.
"Tomorrow morning, everything will be different."
An arrestingly attractive woman dressed in a silver suit and a light purple blouse flicked her tall black sunglasses down onto her eyes. We never got a look at her eyes but if we had to guess, they shone. Her dark skin precluded her from many conversations, and that really got us thinking. "Well, does it?"
"Once he passes you, I want you to get ready for the next guy aight? You put your hand under your shirt and hold the handle of the gun, show him that you for real. The man walked innocently by the kid and the kid showed him his gun. The man stopped in his tracks and stammered backwards, his life flashing before his eyes, his organs collapsing within; his vocal chords scrambling around trying not to be fried by the nervous frenzy his brain had showered upon them. The kid laughed and the guy played it off like there weren't that many feces in his pinstriped pants. The guy turned away and started taking longer strides towards his front door. He saw two men strolling towards him across the street and he looked to their faces attempting to use them as rear-view mirrors.
"No, no. Back...then...things like that...didn't...."
All these people think the same thing when they walk into a fast food place, am I going to go all out or am I going to just put it off until the next time I go all out. The dark-skinned girl in the silver suit thought something along the lines of, "chicken $6.49 that's a little steep for fake chicken." I want to emphasize something - she is the be all and end all. She makes Joanna look like Charlie's trembling heart.
The clean man climbed into his clean bed and the moon shone through his light curtains and illuminated the nighttime and the bedroom with shadows and a wise white light. He spread his legs out to the sides and folded his hands on his waist as he lay on his back. He thought about death. He thought about how everyone's plans, especially Yoão's, could be brought to a grinding halt if any of the universe's fluctuations left him out of the Mission. He could be murdered in an alley, for instance, or he could develop melanoma. His parents could die or there could be a natural disaster. A train could derail or he could reverse over a little kid with his Audi. Anything could cut short his life and he doesn't even have a will or a note, all that would be left of him would be varyingly intense (mostly) fond memories by the people he interacted with while he was alive, or rather, while Yoão was alive because Charlie was really pondering his friend’s death, not his own. Well, in terms of carpe diem, he thought of himself, in terms of "reasons and treasons" he thought of Yoão.
Through it all he thought of Joanna. In conversation, in bed, in marriage, in parenting, in old age, at the wake, standing over each other's corpse, saying "thank you for coming." Maybe they'd die together in a car filled with CO - wills on the kitchen table and suicide notes in the mail.
Yoão and Joanna didn't do anything, so he walked home, and Joanna thought about Charlie. Joanna thought of Charlie, "Why does he seem so weak?" She thought of the pyramids and the heavy white marble stones. She thought that with patience, she could extricate herself from Yoão and Charlie, and maybe move to California - clean slate, men with some well-directed testosterone, not to mention the weather.
"Squint a little harder, maybe then you'll see how selfless I am."
He sat there thinking about Joanna. The wind swept on inaudibly - a comment on Charlie's thoughts. The darkness you know? All that solitude before bed with the pressure points caused by metal springs can’t be good for the heart. How can "Gold" be the middle, shouldn't it be the top? Yoão had struggled to compose a very serious e-mail message to Joanna, something similar to: "Hey, tonight was really great. I really enjoy spending time with you. I hope we can hang out together again sometime soon." 23 words, 23 minutes. The "I hope" construction is essentially an expression of self-doubt, but in this context, it is the least presumptuous phrase he used - an effective counterweight, a charming touch. She removed one of those black hair ties from her perfect ponytail and went to bed. She hadn’t washed off all the makeup around her eyes.
Charlie rose. He put on some music. “Eight Miles High,” The Byrds – Fillmore East, New York, NY, 1971. He leaned out his apartment window and looked down at the street. He saw an engraving on the lamppost. It was white. In the shower he remembered one of his dreams from the previous night. His mouth was open and he was rocking downward, sort of shaking his thighs rolling his eyes back a little…getting lower as the bassist raised his hand higher.
Joanna had gotten up earlier and passed an enormous mannequin in a store window. She had to do some errands. “He’s got it coming to him,” some construction guy said as he motioned with his hands. “Well, Bill told me I had to stay here but he didn’t say nothin’ to Jim so I don’t know why he’s still here.” “I am listening.” “Gimme a scoop of mango and a scoop of cherry,” a hard man asked the ice cart guy frozen in a permanent squint.
Yoao met Charlie at the park around 11:30, “I went home with Joanna last night.” “Oh yeah?” “Yeah man, I don’t know she’s all right.” They walked to a bench, Charlie looked up at the magazine store. He wondered where they manufactured the white letters above the storefront. “She’s actually really nice C.” “Definitely.” “Yeah we hung out for a while last night, just talking you know?” “Yeah.” Charlie looked down at the ground and saw an ant that didn’t have much longer to live. “But I think I’m over it dude, she’s no big deal.” “What’s it?” Charlie squeezed the ant’s insides out with his foot. “I don’t know, yesterday I kind of had a thing for Joanna.” “Really?”
How can they serve that stuff on the street isn't it illegal to sell - wait, it's not really liquor it's just those pourer caps on some working-class, ethnic juices. We waited to cross the street because a car got stranded in the intersection but some bright light with flattened black hair and a blue blouse decided to scamper across and fuck the whole scene up, because then the floodgates opened and the car actually got stranded and all the way up the bridge honks reverberated and shook the girders as the afternoon sun split, centered, and eclipsed the massive rigid structure. Her whole body seemed flat now like a blue cracker, she couldn't be less of a Cracker but in terms of two-dimensionality, let's go with "cracker."
So the yesmen followed the leader and the leader had money on his mind. They could probably take a shortcut but let's not tell them about it - it distracts from the point of the story, which is that Charlie fell in love with Joanna but Yoão did too - only Yoão was more forward about it. And while Joanna wasn't exactly available, the advantage on this one had to go to Yoão, because his desire had contaminated his body language and released all kinds of mammalian particles into the afternoon air and maybe everyone got a whiff.
Maybe the blonde starlet on the billboard with her legs spread open caught a little whiff, or maybe some yesmen thought about the shortcut for a second. Either way the gasses found their way to Joanna from Yoão, like pollen finds its way from stamen to pistil or whatever. So while all this stuff was swirling around, a train emerged from the tunnel and lumbered over the bridge, and at the same time the girl wearing blue caught up with the leader and his yesmen and she jumped up and gave him a smootch. So the yesmen said something to each other along the lines of, "yeah..."
When Charlie got home it was Night. He went to his room and turned everything off and realized that he felt a little dirty. The sheets were just washed, he thought, so he went to the washroom and splashed some water on his face and rubbed some soap on his hands and gave each side a thorough once-over. He kept thinking about the sheets and how clean they were. The coarse city kept at its howling, and the bridge girders shuddered as cars passed over beam intersections. We closed the door to his room and felt much better. He was ready to retire.
Yoão and Joanna went to Joanna’s together, they exchanged smiles over a conversation and a sleeve of crackers and Yoão even invented a game where he would play a ringtone on his phone and say, "guess" and she would curtsy her perfect little face (in profile) over to the speaker and shout the name of the song with a big smile. This went on until Yoão ran out of songs, he played every song he had except the song he used for when his old girlfriend would call. Yoão was one of those guys who came out of womb on a sunny day.
"Tomorrow morning, everything will be different."
An arrestingly attractive woman dressed in a silver suit and a light purple blouse flicked her tall black sunglasses down onto her eyes. We never got a look at her eyes but if we had to guess, they shone. Her dark skin precluded her from many conversations, and that really got us thinking. "Well, does it?"
"Once he passes you, I want you to get ready for the next guy aight? You put your hand under your shirt and hold the handle of the gun, show him that you for real. The man walked innocently by the kid and the kid showed him his gun. The man stopped in his tracks and stammered backwards, his life flashing before his eyes, his organs collapsing within; his vocal chords scrambling around trying not to be fried by the nervous frenzy his brain had showered upon them. The kid laughed and the guy played it off like there weren't that many feces in his pinstriped pants. The guy turned away and started taking longer strides towards his front door. He saw two men strolling towards him across the street and he looked to their faces attempting to use them as rear-view mirrors.
"No, no. Back...then...things like that...didn't...."
All these people think the same thing when they walk into a fast food place, am I going to go all out or am I going to just put it off until the next time I go all out. The dark-skinned girl in the silver suit thought something along the lines of, "chicken $6.49 that's a little steep for fake chicken." I want to emphasize something - she is the be all and end all. She makes Joanna look like Charlie's trembling heart.
The clean man climbed into his clean bed and the moon shone through his light curtains and illuminated the nighttime and the bedroom with shadows and a wise white light. He spread his legs out to the sides and folded his hands on his waist as he lay on his back. He thought about death. He thought about how everyone's plans, especially Yoão's, could be brought to a grinding halt if any of the universe's fluctuations left him out of the Mission. He could be murdered in an alley, for instance, or he could develop melanoma. His parents could die or there could be a natural disaster. A train could derail or he could reverse over a little kid with his Audi. Anything could cut short his life and he doesn't even have a will or a note, all that would be left of him would be varyingly intense (mostly) fond memories by the people he interacted with while he was alive, or rather, while Yoão was alive because Charlie was really pondering his friend’s death, not his own. Well, in terms of carpe diem, he thought of himself, in terms of "reasons and treasons" he thought of Yoão.
Through it all he thought of Joanna. In conversation, in bed, in marriage, in parenting, in old age, at the wake, standing over each other's corpse, saying "thank you for coming." Maybe they'd die together in a car filled with CO - wills on the kitchen table and suicide notes in the mail.
Yoão and Joanna didn't do anything, so he walked home, and Joanna thought about Charlie. Joanna thought of Charlie, "Why does he seem so weak?" She thought of the pyramids and the heavy white marble stones. She thought that with patience, she could extricate herself from Yoão and Charlie, and maybe move to California - clean slate, men with some well-directed testosterone, not to mention the weather.
"Squint a little harder, maybe then you'll see how selfless I am."
He sat there thinking about Joanna. The wind swept on inaudibly - a comment on Charlie's thoughts. The darkness you know? All that solitude before bed with the pressure points caused by metal springs can’t be good for the heart. How can "Gold" be the middle, shouldn't it be the top? Yoão had struggled to compose a very serious e-mail message to Joanna, something similar to: "Hey, tonight was really great. I really enjoy spending time with you. I hope we can hang out together again sometime soon." 23 words, 23 minutes. The "I hope" construction is essentially an expression of self-doubt, but in this context, it is the least presumptuous phrase he used - an effective counterweight, a charming touch. She removed one of those black hair ties from her perfect ponytail and went to bed. She hadn’t washed off all the makeup around her eyes.
Charlie rose. He put on some music. “Eight Miles High,” The Byrds – Fillmore East, New York, NY, 1971. He leaned out his apartment window and looked down at the street. He saw an engraving on the lamppost. It was white. In the shower he remembered one of his dreams from the previous night. His mouth was open and he was rocking downward, sort of shaking his thighs rolling his eyes back a little…getting lower as the bassist raised his hand higher.
Joanna had gotten up earlier and passed an enormous mannequin in a store window. She had to do some errands. “He’s got it coming to him,” some construction guy said as he motioned with his hands. “Well, Bill told me I had to stay here but he didn’t say nothin’ to Jim so I don’t know why he’s still here.” “I am listening.” “Gimme a scoop of mango and a scoop of cherry,” a hard man asked the ice cart guy frozen in a permanent squint.
Yoao met Charlie at the park around 11:30, “I went home with Joanna last night.” “Oh yeah?” “Yeah man, I don’t know she’s all right.” They walked to a bench, Charlie looked up at the magazine store. He wondered where they manufactured the white letters above the storefront. “She’s actually really nice C.” “Definitely.” “Yeah we hung out for a while last night, just talking you know?” “Yeah.” Charlie looked down at the ground and saw an ant that didn’t have much longer to live. “But I think I’m over it dude, she’s no big deal.” “What’s it?” Charlie squeezed the ant’s insides out with his foot. “I don’t know, yesterday I kind of had a thing for Joanna.” “Really?”
Thursday, April 24, 2008
What Comes Out of a Cake [1st revision]
A relatively tiny fly expertly navigated some neon tubing on his way to [well let’s be honest the fly doesn’t really care where he’s going]. Still he weaved in and out of the fiery green cursive like it was nobody’s business [when, clearly, someone owned the place; someone paid for the words ‘Miami BBQ’ to be written in gaseous script]. All this fancy wingwork had little value when the legend turned the corner on a humid city night and submarined down the street – not even vaguely self-conscious – holding his bold weapon down below his waist like the protagonist in a Western or the good guy in a sci-fi or the tattooed guy in a porno.
Splat went the fly after being fried against the non-lit tubing extending to the dot in the i. The legend stepped on its remains and inhaled deeply. The night was humid but the temperature was just right. Neon green always made the legend happy, always made him feel distant in a good way. The neon green air allowed his spirit to roam around about 3 feet outside his body in all directions, and sometimes he’d tell me this in no uncertain terms: “Let me tell you man when the light is [light neon green], I feel like a machine that just got lubed up real good or just got simplified you know? I feel like I had a thousand working parts and now there’s only fifty and everything is running smoothly, no kinks, no rust, no friction you know? I feel bigger than myself, not you know fat or anything but I feel my spirit come outside of me and just roam around like I’m more flexible or something; like I’m a force outside of my body.” His eyes got so big as he spoke about the spirit escaping momentarily; I felt something just listening to him. I tried to duplicate the feeling then and there and my attention to his words wavered slightly. I tried to feel what he was talking about but we were just sitting in his kitchen and I guess both of us were pretty rusty rickety machines.
I liked the feeling of my bare elbow cocked and leaning against the shiny plaid tablecloth. He did the same with his arm as we sat there chatting. The table had been cleared and Missy came by with a sponge to pick the crumbs up and take the paper plates and the plastic forks.
“I didn’t want to lose that feeling you know? So I stopped in one of those little bars on the street – nothing fancy nothing new and artificial.”
What I took this to mean was that the bar hadn’t anticipated outdoor seating or the luxury of beautifully bracketed windows that could be removed when the weather got nice so people could look in and it’d be all upper middle class and spineless.
[happy birthday brother]
Splat went the fly after being fried against the non-lit tubing extending to the dot in the i. The legend stepped on its remains and inhaled deeply. The night was humid but the temperature was just right. Neon green always made the legend happy, always made him feel distant in a good way. The neon green air allowed his spirit to roam around about 3 feet outside his body in all directions, and sometimes he’d tell me this in no uncertain terms: “Let me tell you man when the light is [light neon green], I feel like a machine that just got lubed up real good or just got simplified you know? I feel like I had a thousand working parts and now there’s only fifty and everything is running smoothly, no kinks, no rust, no friction you know? I feel bigger than myself, not you know fat or anything but I feel my spirit come outside of me and just roam around like I’m more flexible or something; like I’m a force outside of my body.” His eyes got so big as he spoke about the spirit escaping momentarily; I felt something just listening to him. I tried to duplicate the feeling then and there and my attention to his words wavered slightly. I tried to feel what he was talking about but we were just sitting in his kitchen and I guess both of us were pretty rusty rickety machines.
I liked the feeling of my bare elbow cocked and leaning against the shiny plaid tablecloth. He did the same with his arm as we sat there chatting. The table had been cleared and Missy came by with a sponge to pick the crumbs up and take the paper plates and the plastic forks.
“I didn’t want to lose that feeling you know? So I stopped in one of those little bars on the street – nothing fancy nothing new and artificial.”
What I took this to mean was that the bar hadn’t anticipated outdoor seating or the luxury of beautifully bracketed windows that could be removed when the weather got nice so people could look in and it’d be all upper middle class and spineless.
[happy birthday brother]
Monday, April 21, 2008
Pest Control
The cows shuffled in the fields and summer dew coated blades of summer grass and made tiny rainbows for tiny insects stuffing their faces in the dirt searching for culinary treasures in a pesticide minefield out in my meadow. All this was boxed in by a water-logged wooden fence built long before the most recent batch of cows swept over the fields. So the lightshow persisted. The sky turned grey and the vista wasn’t even close to where the Old Guard had set their lowest expectations. Such is the lament of the downtrodden technology chief as he comes out of the ‘pen, camera flicker-flashes assaulting his eyes, cable news sitting in the cat[fish]bird seat. They salivate with half the story in one hand and half the story whirling around in a pesticide-saliva monsoon that washes all the little vermin back into their holes (hopefully cracking their necks and killing their dreams) ruining their afternoon scavenge under the dew rainbows. in. my. meadow.
We are all profane, she exclaimed – so I spun her around and dipped her down and then we released for a time and did a little jig with our hands to the whitest beat in the tune and maybe moved our feet a little and swung our hips in a measured manner to the right to the left and back again and since we’re advanced, we would spice it up with a right-right here and there; then we clasped hands again and pressed against each other and maybe mouthed the words but I didn’t sing out loud because that would kill the moment and she sang out loud and we both loved it for reasonably different reasons. The sky quicktimed in a glorious gradient of blue to yellow orange red purple and the climate followed suit from pleasant to warm cool summer-night and still.
A long walk to the long table with the one microphone in the middle took the cows by surprise. They pecked at the ground and meandered towards it solemnly, agents in tow. The cow who had it the worst, we’ll call her “Sam,” had black eyes and on this awful day, Sam’s eyes hurt a ton. She approached the microphone and nudged it with her nose, a low feedback puff filled the air. She sighed. Her tear ducts swelled. She nudged the mic again. Blood pumped viciously through her veins. Then she regurgitated the scandal in most uncertainless terms: there was the cheating, the lying, the late nights, the gambling…the whoring…the fraud, the gluttony, the pain, the psyche, the mortar, and the incidents of larceny.
After the press conference everything went back to normal: bees flew around and the army of insects scattered in the dirt in the grass forest and it rained and everyone spit and moist hairs sloped down everyone’s backs and the mud mixed with the pesticide and everything went down all around her but without her she’d been cut out – excised for being too ambitious, for letting her naively-formed dreams transform her permanently. Now she’s gone to far to go back, and gone to far to go forward.
We are all profane, she exclaimed – so I spun her around and dipped her down and then we released for a time and did a little jig with our hands to the whitest beat in the tune and maybe moved our feet a little and swung our hips in a measured manner to the right to the left and back again and since we’re advanced, we would spice it up with a right-right here and there; then we clasped hands again and pressed against each other and maybe mouthed the words but I didn’t sing out loud because that would kill the moment and she sang out loud and we both loved it for reasonably different reasons. The sky quicktimed in a glorious gradient of blue to yellow orange red purple and the climate followed suit from pleasant to warm cool summer-night and still.
A long walk to the long table with the one microphone in the middle took the cows by surprise. They pecked at the ground and meandered towards it solemnly, agents in tow. The cow who had it the worst, we’ll call her “Sam,” had black eyes and on this awful day, Sam’s eyes hurt a ton. She approached the microphone and nudged it with her nose, a low feedback puff filled the air. She sighed. Her tear ducts swelled. She nudged the mic again. Blood pumped viciously through her veins. Then she regurgitated the scandal in most uncertainless terms: there was the cheating, the lying, the late nights, the gambling…the whoring…the fraud, the gluttony, the pain, the psyche, the mortar, and the incidents of larceny.
After the press conference everything went back to normal: bees flew around and the army of insects scattered in the dirt in the grass forest and it rained and everyone spit and moist hairs sloped down everyone’s backs and the mud mixed with the pesticide and everything went down all around her but without her she’d been cut out – excised for being too ambitious, for letting her naively-formed dreams transform her permanently. Now she’s gone to far to go back, and gone to far to go forward.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Warm Soil
the option[s] stretch out before me, I shuffle into the huddle - well, the back of the huddle, and I think, I'm not really part of this team. i'm into such a position, seriously. I wanted time to myself in the sense that if I have time for myself I can spend it however I like. That kind of thing is liberating, thinking, "this could be the peak of my life." realizing, "this is it, this is why I'm alive." thinking, "there's no doubt..."
and then I snap out (in?). I think, it's good to see you back again. it's been such a long long time. we were walking in the city streets, haha, no we weren't we never did that that much at all. seen you cry. actually i missed alot of it. I missed too much of it to justify a comeback. that's conservative. Hehe, I saw the little sea change, haha, you know what? let's compare how contaminated we've become: I go to the brick walled, I have to ask you? where did you stay exactly? When I listened to the national anthem in my ears off the subway, why do I think of you whenever I think of how much I love cities? why do I think of you whenever my subconscious is in a remotely unhysterical state? That's when you dream, I'm instructed.
talk about fresh starts. I wish I could script this a little: that's what it would take at this point, some hollywood theatrics, girl. Laughter fills the air. I'm dreaming all I can right now. I know it's silly, I know it's pointless. It's just really dumb. I can't help it you know? I just, need another chance. I would prefer not to deal with the periphery at this point. I'd like not to think about those comments. and then in the early hours, the city gets it's 2 hours. yeah even new york. Even here in my hometown. it sleeps, trust me, so they go down to this place we like, alone. and we order something good, something excessive right out of Ernest's head.
and then I snap out (in?). I think, it's good to see you back again. it's been such a long long time. we were walking in the city streets, haha, no we weren't we never did that that much at all. seen you cry. actually i missed alot of it. I missed too much of it to justify a comeback. that's conservative. Hehe, I saw the little sea change, haha, you know what? let's compare how contaminated we've become: I go to the brick walled, I have to ask you? where did you stay exactly? When I listened to the national anthem in my ears off the subway, why do I think of you whenever I think of how much I love cities? why do I think of you whenever my subconscious is in a remotely unhysterical state? That's when you dream, I'm instructed.
talk about fresh starts. I wish I could script this a little: that's what it would take at this point, some hollywood theatrics, girl. Laughter fills the air. I'm dreaming all I can right now. I know it's silly, I know it's pointless. It's just really dumb. I can't help it you know? I just, need another chance. I would prefer not to deal with the periphery at this point. I'd like not to think about those comments. and then in the early hours, the city gets it's 2 hours. yeah even new york. Even here in my hometown. it sleeps, trust me, so they go down to this place we like, alone. and we order something good, something excessive right out of Ernest's head.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Telescopic Project
Deskside, where I hold court in the evenings and weekend afternoons, my spectacular IQ denominator presides, holding itself in contempt, loving every minute of it, and, like the little symbols for whales and birds, it eagerly anticipates the migration back North. Evidence precedes me, my old friends know me well. I scatter my one, benign secret into other secrets, and then type them into password boxes on the Internet. If password boxes could talk they’d bore you to tears, but if you could somehow monitor their dreams…I bet you’d find out a lot about people.
But besides all that, there is this word I know. I have literally met the word and extended my hand to it. It was a firm handshake. I can’t tell you what an impression it made on me the first time I met it – and sometimes, I think back to that first meeting: “what’s the use in worrying?”
The legend knew the word well and somehow never entered the arena of public disdain. It’s interesting because to me he transcends the spectrum of society that I grapple with all the time. So I test myself with that, the Legend’s Paradox.
But besides all that, there is this word I know. I have literally met the word and extended my hand to it. It was a firm handshake. I can’t tell you what an impression it made on me the first time I met it – and sometimes, I think back to that first meeting: “what’s the use in worrying?”
The legend knew the word well and somehow never entered the arena of public disdain. It’s interesting because to me he transcends the spectrum of society that I grapple with all the time. So I test myself with that, the Legend’s Paradox.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Wurst - Delicatessen
Soldiers march towards my castle, I ignore them they follow me to the master bedroom. So we mix I see cracks and smoke-filled limelights. I recently trembled, I fell I fall. I live alone with the film reels. I sing sometimes...with my urban metronome. Flashes of dreams spark my lonely film reels. So they click and spark and cloud up like a powderball, a French memory a recent regret.
And at nighttime...
Carving up the streets rodeo-railroad-style, slicing the sidewalks, slow-dancing firelight. Reflective marble tiles the green, the gold, the squeaky chairs. The friends, like the refreshing water on the first day of summer. Remind me of home of slavery, lately I think of my emancipation...honestly, I have faith in it. I worry she'll stammer towards me, I'll find myself stranded looking lazily down at the hardwood floor, a stain, another, a sliver of my own armaggedon - rushing to privacy, forgot the secret ingredient, hehe, gotcha. In a slicked out, metal shell, yeah, the one you shot under my chapped lip healer.
So the plan has to be...try again tomorrow while there's tomorrow.
And at nighttime...
Carving up the streets rodeo-railroad-style, slicing the sidewalks, slow-dancing firelight. Reflective marble tiles the green, the gold, the squeaky chairs. The friends, like the refreshing water on the first day of summer. Remind me of home of slavery, lately I think of my emancipation...honestly, I have faith in it. I worry she'll stammer towards me, I'll find myself stranded looking lazily down at the hardwood floor, a stain, another, a sliver of my own armaggedon - rushing to privacy, forgot the secret ingredient, hehe, gotcha. In a slicked out, metal shell, yeah, the one you shot under my chapped lip healer.
So the plan has to be...try again tomorrow while there's tomorrow.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Blastoff Especial
The modern, upper-class post-graduate type is given to hyperbole when discussing his/her interests. Members of this demographic have been lavished with attention by caretakers with psychological issues of their own. They're pitted against each other in all phases of childhood. Extremes are enticing because they distinguish a single superlative, like one's position in the upper strata. Surely, predatory corporations, predatory entrepreneurs, and predatory top advertisers have capitalized and refueled this phenomenon, aided immeasurably by the emergence of the Internet as a cheap, massive distribution platform. These types are surely not boomerangs.
Below, please find a list of events that occurred in 1973. As you can see, this is the single most significant calendar year ever:
September 11, 1973 - The Wild, The Innocent, and the E Street Shuffle, Bruce Springsteen's second album, released.
October 2, 1973 - Mean Streets, director Martin Scorsese's first feature film entirely of his own design, released.
March 24, 1973 - The Dark Side of the Moon, Pink Floyd's landmark, 15x platinum, eighth album, released.
January 27, 1973 - Paris Peace Accords signed - ended direct US military involvement in Vietnam. (Burst of Joy).
June 9, 1973 - Secretariat wins Belmont Stakes by 31 lengths, completing triple crown.
Below, please find a list of events that occurred in 1973. As you can see, this is the single most significant calendar year ever:
September 11, 1973 - The Wild, The Innocent, and the E Street Shuffle, Bruce Springsteen's second album, released.October 2, 1973 - Mean Streets, director Martin Scorsese's first feature film entirely of his own design, released.
March 24, 1973 - The Dark Side of the Moon, Pink Floyd's landmark, 15x platinum, eighth album, released.
January 27, 1973 - Paris Peace Accords signed - ended direct US military involvement in Vietnam. (Burst of Joy).
June 9, 1973 - Secretariat wins Belmont Stakes by 31 lengths, completing triple crown.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Cart Ere Horse Especial
Illegal aliens have always been a problem in the United States. Ask any [Native American] - Robert Orben - don't be afraid to care. I need me. We need us. Stars and monuments. Dig that hole, get the sun. Paralysis girder metronome, legato. Backdrift girder metronome, largo. Simpleton feather metronome, impossible!
Run run run run through the halls. Greasewise headspin. Dynasty karaoke fire soldiers run through no man's land screaming, "I wanna be Bob Dylan!" V. et. nam. Backdrifting, sideshifting, the fire soldiers have reached the barracks of the enemy. They tug and pull, singe and burn, run and sweat - for the foe's gates are mighty tall, mighty strong. Turn to the right! Speaking of the promenade, let's arrange something for you to eat: I took three green onions of various species and chopped them to allow for a sauté procession. You missed the starting gun!
Run run run run through the halls. Greasewise headspin. Dynasty karaoke fire soldiers run through no man's land screaming, "I wanna be Bob Dylan!" V. et. nam. Backdrifting, sideshifting, the fire soldiers have reached the barracks of the enemy. They tug and pull, singe and burn, run and sweat - for the foe's gates are mighty tall, mighty strong. Turn to the right! Speaking of the promenade, let's arrange something for you to eat: I took three green onions of various species and chopped them to allow for a sauté procession. You missed the starting gun!
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Lint Linea Especial
Adam's apple skybound, I waited for the crossing the guard to say something funny with her hands. Ha, she did. Let's check the sleepcam for more conclusive evidence. Yep, there he is, ok, notice he's got the mouth completely shut, breathing through the nose. Ok, we have some strained neck muscles, ok, good. Let's have a look inside:
Visiting hours have commenced. It's visiting time. If you preface a conversation with "I may be reading too much into this, but...," is the conversation really worth having? I mean, then again...oooh, that reminds me mind of a song I learned while buffin' me shamrock!...Oh, we ole hacks, have donned the caps, spun sticks in mugs, and with shovels plugged, forging songs of our father's cries. Fat man's fabled cane, to the grave he limps, rolls o'er the pitch, slows down to catch, and sings songs of his lonely nights. In the blacklit hall, his soul leaps out, yes it kneels then crawls, to the room of gold, recalling songs o' the ancient band. Just. Like. Matterhorn high, where lightning hides, a summit's sigh! The blare of man's deep chords! The heartbeat's song of pride!
Meaningful interaction with humankind still pending...progress, Congress - pros and cons, are you seeing what I'm seeing? Agape! I'll have a run then smoke, it's a twisted crime. Surrender, surrender, you're in a tunnel now, there's no way out we've got both exits covered, you have nowhere to go, give yourself up. Never! Lo, a moist puddle at his feet. Dopa. Po' Mitah Rajah Clemens. Meina.
Someone once taught me that the phrase, "To be honest," is an empty and borderline subversive preface. When we say it, it's like, at its most benign (even, productive), "Listen, I'm about to take my pants off in the cold and let you aim darts at my crotch." To the extremely cynical, paranoid listener, however, "To be honest" signals some kind of cue that previous statements did not fall under the honest umbrella. We can disguise this problem by using phrases like, "frankly" or "candidly" or "with all due respect."
Reina, reina de los niños. Cielo, arriba de mi vida. Cuerpo, sin fuerza y sin razon. El 'bullet' tren, de Francia al San Sebastian. I saw something funny earlier but it's kind of mean-spirited and the wrong person could take it the wrong way, but uh...maybe I read too much into it. I saw a young man, a colleague of mine in information technology, a South Asian with scraggly black hair, wearing a white shirt and a red tie, stirring some sugar into a cup of Dunkin' Donuts brand coffee in the cafeteria. With all due respect, there's nothing humorous about that scene at all. You can eat anything you want! You can eat anything you want!
What they told me I could keep...puh...I thought it meant I could actually keep those things, you know? But no, they came in and took everything, they broke all my statues, they tore down my drapery, they broke my glass cabinets...puh...I'm just beside myself on this one...uh huh huh huh. Hush little Lacey don't say a word, Papa's gonna buy you a pit bull, and if that pit bull's mind doesn't work, Papa's gonna buy you a gated community with 24 hour surveillance, and if that gated community has a narcoleptic security guard, Papa's gonna buy you a sharp chef's knife, and if you can't get to the knife in time, Papa's gonna read his monthly, $119/yr, business school magazine.
I've got it, we'll do a pilot - ouch is that a spear in my neck? What do you mean "Get over here?" Stop bugging me. Ouch, I think you've speared my neck with your harpoon throw. Ouch, oh, are you dragging me towards you? Uh, you're an animal, and that javelin thing is vaguely evocative of, of...(galactic tone) - pretty pictures of pretty people on the mantle of my home, in the great room, with the molding so gaudy and dust-prone, my little kiddies play with CAD software and say, "Daddy daddy, 'look what we built!'" A giant fortress, with great stone walls, and a moat strong 'neath the tower, they have instincts...that they've adapted, and I'm proud to be their, ahem...a partner!
[censored anecdote]
A small desert fox approached the lip of the canyon, the little fellow looked towards the sky and placed himself among the stars. "I need to fasten my little safety belt while I'm up here taking in the river fumes." When the little guy jumped he instinctively curled into a foxball (ball 'o fox). The higher he jumped the more forward flips he performed. There was a specific formula for this animation, and I'm sure the developers at Sega could fill you in. When he jumped into the canyon, however, the foxball did not touch the river at the bottom for a good seven minutes, you see, the foxball is quite light.
Visiting hours have commenced. It's visiting time. If you preface a conversation with "I may be reading too much into this, but...," is the conversation really worth having? I mean, then again...oooh, that reminds me mind of a song I learned while buffin' me shamrock!...Oh, we ole hacks, have donned the caps, spun sticks in mugs, and with shovels plugged, forging songs of our father's cries. Fat man's fabled cane, to the grave he limps, rolls o'er the pitch, slows down to catch, and sings songs of his lonely nights. In the blacklit hall, his soul leaps out, yes it kneels then crawls, to the room of gold, recalling songs o' the ancient band. Just. Like. Matterhorn high, where lightning hides, a summit's sigh! The blare of man's deep chords! The heartbeat's song of pride!Meaningful interaction with humankind still pending...progress, Congress - pros and cons, are you seeing what I'm seeing? Agape! I'll have a run then smoke, it's a twisted crime. Surrender, surrender, you're in a tunnel now, there's no way out we've got both exits covered, you have nowhere to go, give yourself up. Never! Lo, a moist puddle at his feet. Dopa. Po' Mitah Rajah Clemens. Meina.
Someone once taught me that the phrase, "To be honest," is an empty and borderline subversive preface. When we say it, it's like, at its most benign (even, productive), "Listen, I'm about to take my pants off in the cold and let you aim darts at my crotch." To the extremely cynical, paranoid listener, however, "To be honest" signals some kind of cue that previous statements did not fall under the honest umbrella. We can disguise this problem by using phrases like, "frankly" or "candidly" or "with all due respect."
Reina, reina de los niños. Cielo, arriba de mi vida. Cuerpo, sin fuerza y sin razon. El 'bullet' tren, de Francia al San Sebastian. I saw something funny earlier but it's kind of mean-spirited and the wrong person could take it the wrong way, but uh...maybe I read too much into it. I saw a young man, a colleague of mine in information technology, a South Asian with scraggly black hair, wearing a white shirt and a red tie, stirring some sugar into a cup of Dunkin' Donuts brand coffee in the cafeteria. With all due respect, there's nothing humorous about that scene at all. You can eat anything you want! You can eat anything you want!
What they told me I could keep...puh...I thought it meant I could actually keep those things, you know? But no, they came in and took everything, they broke all my statues, they tore down my drapery, they broke my glass cabinets...puh...I'm just beside myself on this one...uh huh huh huh. Hush little Lacey don't say a word, Papa's gonna buy you a pit bull, and if that pit bull's mind doesn't work, Papa's gonna buy you a gated community with 24 hour surveillance, and if that gated community has a narcoleptic security guard, Papa's gonna buy you a sharp chef's knife, and if you can't get to the knife in time, Papa's gonna read his monthly, $119/yr, business school magazine.I've got it, we'll do a pilot - ouch is that a spear in my neck? What do you mean "Get over here?" Stop bugging me. Ouch, I think you've speared my neck with your harpoon throw. Ouch, oh, are you dragging me towards you? Uh, you're an animal, and that javelin thing is vaguely evocative of, of...(galactic tone) - pretty pictures of pretty people on the mantle of my home, in the great room, with the molding so gaudy and dust-prone, my little kiddies play with CAD software and say, "Daddy daddy, 'look what we built!'" A giant fortress, with great stone walls, and a moat strong 'neath the tower, they have instincts...that they've adapted, and I'm proud to be their, ahem...a partner!
[censored anecdote]
A small desert fox approached the lip of the canyon, the little fellow looked towards the sky and placed himself among the stars. "I need to fasten my little safety belt while I'm up here taking in the river fumes." When the little guy jumped he instinctively curled into a foxball (ball 'o fox). The higher he jumped the more forward flips he performed. There was a specific formula for this animation, and I'm sure the developers at Sega could fill you in. When he jumped into the canyon, however, the foxball did not touch the river at the bottom for a good seven minutes, you see, the foxball is quite light.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Rhon Dar Especial
"Mmm, doesn't that look good? Gimme some of that..." So he ladled some broccoli florets into the frying pan and the creamy yellow shit started to simmer. Nestled in the village of butryic acid and its northwest environs, I noticed that Felippa hadn't greased her hair up today, I think I'll tell her to "have a good day" on the days where she doesn't slick that shit. "Hi, buttered bagel, thanks, have a nice day." Shit, "nice?" That's what I come up with, argh, I planned it. Smiling fine, suddenly, I feel your oily skin, oh holy uprights, maxillary performance to a leather cushion near you.
Sadly, we awoke in a communal sit-up across the city. In other cities, people slept in their DeMarcus Ware jerseys thinking, "we were a very vanilla team out there, if he runs through the ball, we win." Here's who comes out the best for the boys: Jason Witten, flak-free, got to hang with Jessica. Legendary quote from a literate fan: "Who's Jessica Simpson? Is that the bitch O.J. killed?"
"I've been looking for women at the grocery stores, but I never expected to meet one at the polls." Riveting. "Tom Brady and Giselle, locking lips at Nobu, the new Morimoto joint" "Hey didn't he have a game that weekend?" Actually Morimoto has nothing to do with Nobu Next Door, and Giselle has a last name, Cart. You are despicable and your partner is a choke artist. "And now the Cowboys are headed for vacation, even though their quarterback got a head start."
Gallop, whoo ha look at all this sawgrass, how much you think there is? The tall (6'4") Cowboy took off his hat and said, "39% switchgrass, 28% sawgrass, 23% bahiagrass, 10% ryegrass, with a 5% margin of error." I mean, "hats off to us, ya know?" I know Randy, I know. Oh Nick in Huntington, what are you talking about man, Terry Glenn? "It's simply not my style" - interrupt, here's how Chris would've played it: "Listen, Jessica, we'll go down there February 4, T.O.'s treat." T.O. can't be into that kinna girl can he? Yes.
Left hand to the doorhandle, rotate wrist clockwise, the latch retreats, pull the handle towards yourself to open the door. Darkness floods the hall, except for a strip of light under the curtained doorway. Poor soul, burning the midnight oil again. Maybe I'll learn all about grass, and switchgrass, and wonton soup. It would be useful to commemorate this nondescript Monday in a way that is both dignified and entertaining. But let's shoot straight, cowboy. Utilitarian writings, not my style (whimper whimper tear tear).
Maybe I'll look up corn starch. Oh one more thing to add about the whole doorknob issue: I have pretty dexterous hands for a non-amylophagic technician. Maybe I'll look up corn starch, see what it's all about: apparently it can also be used for making highly flammable and explosive jellies. All the food of the day has been devastating for my tired soul. I need to start eating healthy, no more pasta. As soon as you use a word like pasta no one takes you seriously. It comes off like a lamely-contrived colloquialism. You know, this dude's tryin' it. He throws in the ethnic word, look his writing is so grassroots, I can get behind that. I can stand tall behind that. We're solid sometimes but liquid other times. We thrive on an underabundance of heat.
All day, without her, my beautiful Maria. Wise man in the alley says real raspy: "Ohhh, son, focus focus, retrain your brain like Chris Kaman." So I say, "this morning I started getting bored with the New York Times columnists soI tried out some other ones, stumbling finally upon Cynthia Tucker, who writes clearly. Why do shitty writers get shitty copy editors? We'll come gunnin' down the sidestreets when we come, we'll be gunnin' down the sidestreets, we'll be gunnin' down the sidestreets, we'll be gunnin' down the sidestreets when. We. Come."
The wise man in the alley stoped paying attention when I repeated the same thing over and over again and he knew how it would end. I understand where he's coming from, it's difficult to stay focused on something that is really repetitive for the sake of getting to a long foreseen conclusion. It's like being a landscaper, you mow the lawn you trim the hedges, and what's on your mind? Nothing, or at least, nothing for long. The repetition consumes everything and you can't think of an escape plan. That's insensitive. You're insensitive, always pickin' apart my shit. You try it, you try trance jobs and then you try getting out.
"Wow..." What is going through these people's heads? A reply-to-all, ferociously lame comment. Do you have any idea the last time calling out your own indifference to bureaucratic correspondence got a laugh, a smile, or anything but unmitigated disdain? The pain! Maybe this is how Willy works the ladies. Maybe he leans his meaninglessly-toned frame back against some midtown booth and has the world he covets wrapped around his dork-ass fingers. He goes home and subconsciously reinforces his behavior because of the rabid self-assurance that some petty courtesy smiles have earned him. He might even do a few pushups, maybe take his shirt off and do something faux-gangster with his hands in the mirror. Maybe he'll cross the line and realize to himself that he should tone it down, and even in that moment of retreat, a tool survives, multiplies and thrives.
I am suggesting it's genetic. Yes, like an affinity for sesame oil or something. If I were Wikipedia, and I'm not, I would throw together a GUI team and work on something portable, extremely user-friendly, and highly derivative of the primary-colored bullshit that sells today, and sell it. Imagine Wikipedia in ten years, it's borderline scary, you know? If we don't equip humans with the ability to easily access Wikipedia at any moment, some hacker-type will develop a robot armed with the knowledge of Wikipedia, and deploy it in the American midwest. I thought a lot about children this weekend, it's going to be essential to have some kind of portable Wikipedia access. I won't have kids without it.
Oh here we have it, after seven and a half hours - an insider look. I've been flooded with clarity and the desire to perform at a high level. Cha cha cha. Maybe I should learn this stupid stuff, after all, it's the biggest market on earth, and assuming we make contact with intelligent life outside Earth, what do you think, don't be a jerk, will be the first thing we'll set up? Obviously, some kind of marketplace. Now, what could be more useful when talking to actual aliens, besides some kind of proper indentification system, than knowledge of Earth's largest marketplace, one that requires knowledge of ancient bartering systems and the Bretton-Woods agreement.
"If Tom Brady's the Golden Boy, Antonio, what's Brett Favre?" Without skipping a beat, "GOAT." "Oh well, that's right, he is a bit of a goat..." "No, no, man don't be confusing what I said, GOAT like, 'Greatest of All Time' not like on the farm." Gotta be up on that boys, that's been around the block.
Cynthia...no one knows your number, no one knows where you live. You walk down to the grocery store where none of the attendants cares about what you're purchasing, they just care about extraoccupational activities. See, that must have been beautiful, even "unremarkable" jobs were at least dignified. You had your little shop going, you know the customers, you say nasty stuff under your breath about new customers, and as difficult as it was to get up in the morning, there's a life, there's life-based interaction with people. You know their names they knows yours. Now everything is just a "Careers" link or a hookup. You know what? Metricize that, lifecycle that, stage that, test it throughout each lifecycle stage, tabulate the data and report it.
I really lost touch with my mathematical side once all those stupid Greek symbols got into the mix. Especially the capital E, you know, the sum sign. See other symbols just represent something, but the sum sign is a function with an exact prescription for variable inputs. What's most frustrating, of course, is the tendency to deviate from the conventions outlined in textbooks. So what happens? You try to figure out what the E thing means, you get the definition somewhere, and then no one does it like that. So you bootstrap, but you don't really get it. "It's a unique, Monique." Yeah and it cost me $850 so why don't you keep your dumb little jokes to yourself.
Sadly, we awoke in a communal sit-up across the city. In other cities, people slept in their DeMarcus Ware jerseys thinking, "we were a very vanilla team out there, if he runs through the ball, we win." Here's who comes out the best for the boys: Jason Witten, flak-free, got to hang with Jessica. Legendary quote from a literate fan: "Who's Jessica Simpson? Is that the bitch O.J. killed?"
"I've been looking for women at the grocery stores, but I never expected to meet one at the polls." Riveting. "Tom Brady and Giselle, locking lips at Nobu, the new Morimoto joint" "Hey didn't he have a game that weekend?" Actually Morimoto has nothing to do with Nobu Next Door, and Giselle has a last name, Cart. You are despicable and your partner is a choke artist. "And now the Cowboys are headed for vacation, even though their quarterback got a head start."
Gallop, whoo ha look at all this sawgrass, how much you think there is? The tall (6'4") Cowboy took off his hat and said, "39% switchgrass, 28% sawgrass, 23% bahiagrass, 10% ryegrass, with a 5% margin of error." I mean, "hats off to us, ya know?" I know Randy, I know. Oh Nick in Huntington, what are you talking about man, Terry Glenn? "It's simply not my style" - interrupt, here's how Chris would've played it: "Listen, Jessica, we'll go down there February 4, T.O.'s treat." T.O. can't be into that kinna girl can he? Yes.
Left hand to the doorhandle, rotate wrist clockwise, the latch retreats, pull the handle towards yourself to open the door. Darkness floods the hall, except for a strip of light under the curtained doorway. Poor soul, burning the midnight oil again. Maybe I'll learn all about grass, and switchgrass, and wonton soup. It would be useful to commemorate this nondescript Monday in a way that is both dignified and entertaining. But let's shoot straight, cowboy. Utilitarian writings, not my style (whimper whimper tear tear).
Maybe I'll look up corn starch. Oh one more thing to add about the whole doorknob issue: I have pretty dexterous hands for a non-amylophagic technician. Maybe I'll look up corn starch, see what it's all about: apparently it can also be used for making highly flammable and explosive jellies. All the food of the day has been devastating for my tired soul. I need to start eating healthy, no more pasta. As soon as you use a word like pasta no one takes you seriously. It comes off like a lamely-contrived colloquialism. You know, this dude's tryin' it. He throws in the ethnic word, look his writing is so grassroots, I can get behind that. I can stand tall behind that. We're solid sometimes but liquid other times. We thrive on an underabundance of heat.
All day, without her, my beautiful Maria. Wise man in the alley says real raspy: "Ohhh, son, focus focus, retrain your brain like Chris Kaman." So I say, "this morning I started getting bored with the New York Times columnists soI tried out some other ones, stumbling finally upon Cynthia Tucker, who writes clearly. Why do shitty writers get shitty copy editors? We'll come gunnin' down the sidestreets when we come, we'll be gunnin' down the sidestreets, we'll be gunnin' down the sidestreets, we'll be gunnin' down the sidestreets when. We. Come."
The wise man in the alley stoped paying attention when I repeated the same thing over and over again and he knew how it would end. I understand where he's coming from, it's difficult to stay focused on something that is really repetitive for the sake of getting to a long foreseen conclusion. It's like being a landscaper, you mow the lawn you trim the hedges, and what's on your mind? Nothing, or at least, nothing for long. The repetition consumes everything and you can't think of an escape plan. That's insensitive. You're insensitive, always pickin' apart my shit. You try it, you try trance jobs and then you try getting out.
"Wow..." What is going through these people's heads? A reply-to-all, ferociously lame comment. Do you have any idea the last time calling out your own indifference to bureaucratic correspondence got a laugh, a smile, or anything but unmitigated disdain? The pain! Maybe this is how Willy works the ladies. Maybe he leans his meaninglessly-toned frame back against some midtown booth and has the world he covets wrapped around his dork-ass fingers. He goes home and subconsciously reinforces his behavior because of the rabid self-assurance that some petty courtesy smiles have earned him. He might even do a few pushups, maybe take his shirt off and do something faux-gangster with his hands in the mirror. Maybe he'll cross the line and realize to himself that he should tone it down, and even in that moment of retreat, a tool survives, multiplies and thrives.
I am suggesting it's genetic. Yes, like an affinity for sesame oil or something. If I were Wikipedia, and I'm not, I would throw together a GUI team and work on something portable, extremely user-friendly, and highly derivative of the primary-colored bullshit that sells today, and sell it. Imagine Wikipedia in ten years, it's borderline scary, you know? If we don't equip humans with the ability to easily access Wikipedia at any moment, some hacker-type will develop a robot armed with the knowledge of Wikipedia, and deploy it in the American midwest. I thought a lot about children this weekend, it's going to be essential to have some kind of portable Wikipedia access. I won't have kids without it.
Oh here we have it, after seven and a half hours - an insider look. I've been flooded with clarity and the desire to perform at a high level. Cha cha cha. Maybe I should learn this stupid stuff, after all, it's the biggest market on earth, and assuming we make contact with intelligent life outside Earth, what do you think, don't be a jerk, will be the first thing we'll set up? Obviously, some kind of marketplace. Now, what could be more useful when talking to actual aliens, besides some kind of proper indentification system, than knowledge of Earth's largest marketplace, one that requires knowledge of ancient bartering systems and the Bretton-Woods agreement.
"If Tom Brady's the Golden Boy, Antonio, what's Brett Favre?" Without skipping a beat, "GOAT." "Oh well, that's right, he is a bit of a goat..." "No, no, man don't be confusing what I said, GOAT like, 'Greatest of All Time' not like on the farm." Gotta be up on that boys, that's been around the block.
Cynthia...no one knows your number, no one knows where you live. You walk down to the grocery store where none of the attendants cares about what you're purchasing, they just care about extraoccupational activities. See, that must have been beautiful, even "unremarkable" jobs were at least dignified. You had your little shop going, you know the customers, you say nasty stuff under your breath about new customers, and as difficult as it was to get up in the morning, there's a life, there's life-based interaction with people. You know their names they knows yours. Now everything is just a "Careers" link or a hookup. You know what? Metricize that, lifecycle that, stage that, test it throughout each lifecycle stage, tabulate the data and report it.
I really lost touch with my mathematical side once all those stupid Greek symbols got into the mix. Especially the capital E, you know, the sum sign. See other symbols just represent something, but the sum sign is a function with an exact prescription for variable inputs. What's most frustrating, of course, is the tendency to deviate from the conventions outlined in textbooks. So what happens? You try to figure out what the E thing means, you get the definition somewhere, and then no one does it like that. So you bootstrap, but you don't really get it. "It's a unique, Monique." Yeah and it cost me $850 so why don't you keep your dumb little jokes to yourself.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Small Cap Vacation
The mailman came down the faux-marble stairs into the basement and said, well I'm not sure what he said because I don't understand Mandarin. But whatever he said, it must've been funny, or maybe the person he said it to was just being friendly. I thought for a second maybe they were making fun of me, but that's pretty typical, you know. I remember lots of scenes from back then, from back when the legend settled in to plastic jungle and went down on some pork and seafood like the world stopped to cheer him on.
Shit. I wish I hadn't been such a little bitch back then. I wish I could've given him a high five, nah that wasn't his style, put an arm around him, yeah. Loss comes from your heart, it's weird ya know how the heart has nothing to do with emotions but it's associated most closely with them. Fuck man I miss that guy, I really do.
They sell all these ripoffs down there, ya know, "no, uh, refahnd." yeah i know no refund. believe me, i'm not comin' back here anytime soon. all the knockoffs. all the cheap plastic stuff they make down south east. everything's a trading company, we trade fake shit and then sell it. but some of it's good ya know? some of that shit ain't bad. Here's a knock-off that's just so fuckin' good:
"I'll be proud, ooooooooh, i want ah ah, to run away! Street tonight baby where there's the sound, take me in my arms. tonight on the street tonight, on the street bring the sound, and it's hey little stranger, lookin' like your lost, you're just some crazy, runnin' crazy in the streets, i know a place maybe we could go, nobody knows it, and it's hey little stranger what ya doin' tonight, you just some crazy, runnin crazy through the streets, baby i know a place where we can go, it's warm and dry, it's safe there, nobody ever goes there, nobody ever goes there, nobody ever goes there, nobody'd know us there, i just got this new stereo, i painted the place, i mean hey little stranger what ya doin' tonight lookin like you lost, and uh standin in the rain in the street, and that joker's standin on the corner sellin dreams that can't come true, i laughed at you baby, i laughed, but at night i bought 'em too, i bought em too, down and down and down we gooo crawlin' down the street, pushin buttons in the alley, I laughed at you baby. Down, down and down, down down and down and down. Round and round down and down and down we go. TV, tv's the one with the sound turned on, tv's tv's on with the sound turned on, Johnny Carson, down and down down and down we go sittin' on the couch and the couch, down and down oh inside down and down we go, hey little stranger, what'chya doin' tonight? down and down, such a good girl tonight, Honey, outside the cops sittin' on the corner drinkin' coffee in the squad car, down and down, on the corner sittin' on the corner, honey outside the girls on the street comin' up to you, hey mister, you got a girlfriend, hey mister, wanna go out tonight? down and down and down, inside down and down, down, down and down, mmmmm, baby, baby we could slip away. we could slip away, we could steal away, we could slip away, oh that's the thing i'll take all my money outta the bank, and uh, baby we could slip away, baby we could slip away, hey little stranger what'chya doin' tonight, wanna steal away, baby we could steal away, baby we could steal away, don't tell your mom your pop, baby we could slip away, oh baby, baby we could slip away, we could slip away, baby we could slip away, baby we could steal away, we could steal away, oh baby we could slip away, i got my car parked outside, pack your bags baby, oh, baby we could, we could shake this city life, we could - quit your job, baby i can make it, tonight, baby we could slip away, baby we could, shhhhhhh, shhhhhhhh, down and down, shhhhh, ha! slip away! slip away! SLIP AWAY! SLIP AWAY!! whoooooaaaaaooohhhoooohh! whoooooaaaaaooohhhoooohh!"
So they sent some clown around to the back and I said "leave me here." Then I left the bar, drove through town in the wrong lane caught the cops sped through Harvard square. In the sun, that's where the fun, oh, that's where the fun is. That's where the fun is. Ooooooh, tiny pieces of growin' up.
Shit. I wish I hadn't been such a little bitch back then. I wish I could've given him a high five, nah that wasn't his style, put an arm around him, yeah. Loss comes from your heart, it's weird ya know how the heart has nothing to do with emotions but it's associated most closely with them. Fuck man I miss that guy, I really do.
They sell all these ripoffs down there, ya know, "no, uh, refahnd." yeah i know no refund. believe me, i'm not comin' back here anytime soon. all the knockoffs. all the cheap plastic stuff they make down south east. everything's a trading company, we trade fake shit and then sell it. but some of it's good ya know? some of that shit ain't bad. Here's a knock-off that's just so fuckin' good:
"I'll be proud, ooooooooh, i want ah ah, to run away! Street tonight baby where there's the sound, take me in my arms. tonight on the street tonight, on the street bring the sound, and it's hey little stranger, lookin' like your lost, you're just some crazy, runnin' crazy in the streets, i know a place maybe we could go, nobody knows it, and it's hey little stranger what ya doin' tonight, you just some crazy, runnin crazy through the streets, baby i know a place where we can go, it's warm and dry, it's safe there, nobody ever goes there, nobody ever goes there, nobody ever goes there, nobody'd know us there, i just got this new stereo, i painted the place, i mean hey little stranger what ya doin' tonight lookin like you lost, and uh standin in the rain in the street, and that joker's standin on the corner sellin dreams that can't come true, i laughed at you baby, i laughed, but at night i bought 'em too, i bought em too, down and down and down we gooo crawlin' down the street, pushin buttons in the alley, I laughed at you baby. Down, down and down, down down and down and down. Round and round down and down and down we go. TV, tv's the one with the sound turned on, tv's tv's on with the sound turned on, Johnny Carson, down and down down and down we go sittin' on the couch and the couch, down and down oh inside down and down we go, hey little stranger, what'chya doin' tonight? down and down, such a good girl tonight, Honey, outside the cops sittin' on the corner drinkin' coffee in the squad car, down and down, on the corner sittin' on the corner, honey outside the girls on the street comin' up to you, hey mister, you got a girlfriend, hey mister, wanna go out tonight? down and down and down, inside down and down, down, down and down, mmmmm, baby, baby we could slip away. we could slip away, we could steal away, we could slip away, oh that's the thing i'll take all my money outta the bank, and uh, baby we could slip away, baby we could slip away, hey little stranger what'chya doin' tonight, wanna steal away, baby we could steal away, baby we could steal away, don't tell your mom your pop, baby we could slip away, oh baby, baby we could slip away, we could slip away, baby we could slip away, baby we could steal away, we could steal away, oh baby we could slip away, i got my car parked outside, pack your bags baby, oh, baby we could, we could shake this city life, we could - quit your job, baby i can make it, tonight, baby we could slip away, baby we could, shhhhhhh, shhhhhhhh, down and down, shhhhh, ha! slip away! slip away! SLIP AWAY! SLIP AWAY!! whoooooaaaaaooohhhoooohh! whoooooaaaaaooohhhoooohh!"
So they sent some clown around to the back and I said "leave me here." Then I left the bar, drove through town in the wrong lane caught the cops sped through Harvard square. In the sun, that's where the fun, oh, that's where the fun is. That's where the fun is. Ooooooh, tiny pieces of growin' up.
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