We walked up the hill together, not sure-footedly but dignified nonetheless (I guess). It was our time, the world had been paused and we were about to shock it to speed. As the hill in front of us receded, the gigantic Carolina colonial crested on the horizon as the back of a young man's head emerges from the bottom of a young lady's dress. Simple brown birds chirped and from the gang's view, all was symmetrical, which is a vital detail. Two of us were like me, and the other two were girls. There is odd symmetricality around odd numbers of things, you get a whole median. We stood in front of the large white house and chewed on some dehydrated fungi.
I thought about my new gadgets. She thought about her long-lost love. He dreamt of the day it would be ok. Four eyes followed a purple bug. Great lengths of rope will burn more quickly if they're all bundled together. So we entered the house and marched to the living room. Joanna saw all these little ants on the ground so she ran to the kitchen. Bill put his fingers between his belt and his trousers and wiggled them around. I walked to the window and tried to lie down on the sill but I was too long or something. Anyway the view of the Caribbean was magnificent. I saw all these exotic fruits and a man wearing a bumblebee costume trying to pollenate the flowers (but they had already been pollenated! that's like using a magnifying glass on a tray of grilled cheese sandwiches, Jessie thought.) And speaking of reproduction, Robert forgot about his taxes and started thinking about taking deep breaths of magic vapor. As Jessie was pinning her socks to the hardwood floor, Joanna came back from the kitchen and poured out several gallons of frozen peas. One of the peas rolled into Jessie's sock so I said, "Hey guys, do you think I could get my face on Mount Rushmore?"
And no one seemed to answer me. The day grew warm, the planets moved and the Earth spun. Robert rubbed the back of his arm against Jessie's side, trying to get rich quick, and I jumped awkwardly from the armchair to the coffee table. They decorated this house really nicely, Joanna observed as she chewed on some peas and some frost collected on the sides of her mouth. Bill's wrists red, he said "sing song about the freedom and how nice things are." So we all gathered in the center of the room, socks greened with pea shells, and put our arms around each other, but Robert accidentally punched me in the mouth but I laughed really hard and told him that when the fridge door closes, the light goes off, but I'll always love you, Joanna. Joanna looked at me intensely and thought, "wait, bald eagles aren't actually bald." For a brief minute we all pondered what had just happened, and shrugged it all off, chalking it up to the beautiful day and all the books on the shelves in the living room.
Jessie started taking those books off the shelves to read all of them. I wished Robert hadn't started throwing those mints as hard as he could against the wall. I made Bill and Joanna some Hawaiian punch but Bill looked down and showed me that he had already fixed himself a glass. Joanna walked to the record player, picked it up, and carried it over to Jessie. She reciprocated by placing a book entitled "On Another Chance" on top of the record player. Robert apologized for accidentally punching me in the mouth, I said, "Listen man, we're all from different backgrounds. We are all unique, every footprint and fingerprint is unique. We are so unique. The differences between us and other usses are so big. I am unique from Bill, and Bill is unique from everyone. Do you guys see what I mean?"
I think Joanna fell asleep. I took some curtain and rendered a red inkblot drawing of her sleeping, sometimes I caressed her forehead and hair. Bill looked at me and said, "all the Blackhawks! all the Blackhawks!" and Robert agreed. Jessie put one pea in the bookshelves for each book she had removed, it was beautiful. When Joanna came to we were all sleeping, so she stepped out onto that beautiful front porch. The grass on the hill sat still and these simple brown birds flew back and forth slowly. I had a dream with so much cheese in it and I remember that, in the dream, I was so grateful it wasn't Swiss because of the holes! Joanna had found a basket and now it was covered with leaves. She woke me and Bill up and asked for help. We obliged.
Things really took a turn for the worst when Robert started fighting with Jessie. He called her a "cunt" at one point and we stopped scalping the hummingbirds and offered to help. Jessie said it was too late and that something might be burning in the kitchen. We all walked into the kitchen and stared at Robert on the way. She was right, Bill had turned the oven on when he was tying rope around all the knobs in the house, we didn't want to see what had burnt so we just turned the dial and exhaled deeply. Robert hadn't followed us into the kitchen, in fact, we didn't see him when we returned to the living room. I cleared my throat.
"I've never been a pretzel, and I've never gone para-sailing, does that make me a criminal?" Jessie and Bill shook their heads. Joanna looked down. "Which is why, since you only live once, and since Robert is gone now, we should maybe get to know each other a little better." I don't know where I found the courage to suggest such a thing, but I did, and thankfully (I guess), it mostly blew over.
Showing posts with label daily tail-f. Show all posts
Showing posts with label daily tail-f. Show all posts
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Konijn Grease
[A] lapine creature with grayish fur, a symbol lacking substance to this point, like ribs in a skeleton shaped like a harp, or a calf tattoo thereof, sought to fill some void in the Boney Silence, or at least, to finish off this sentence, bunnyspoke, "my muscles are amber," and steeplechased down a wooden plank or a red tower and [sopped] beer.
Which is to say, had I had it my way when I was cruising around the other day, I would have enjoyed a cold beverage in the hot sun on those old wooden planks down on Rabbit Island, which may soon be gutted. Despite a persistent sideshow, the place booms with life and playful melodies deep-fried in big bass notes from the 70s.
And if one is not moved to write or paint or sing or fuck while or after being there, I doubt they ever will; either that, or they have a serious problem weighing them down, the kind of problem that sits in the middle of their darkest brainroom. It sits there like a spiteful zombie on an aluminum chair. It sits there staring ahead intently, and that's it. No Amazonian river rat, headless pinup, plastic palm tree, mucosal half-shell, frayed-wire amplifier, rubber-wrap butt or boob fat, low-mast lonestar bandera, oily rubber tire, or Atlantic-Pacific pectocranial psychopath can stir an emotion nor budge the problem from its seated position, from its gilded throne pressing down, down, down.
From that skeletal device and its ribbed cords came a beat so bold it thundered out to Marine Parkway, and in the wake of its baritone, it blasted whitewashed paths visible without electricity, and planes flew south a touch two turns before touchdown. Would an outsider, some educated dolt, some landlocked potato five thousand miles from a body of oil, point out the "steep decline of nutritional rigor"? Yes, but even these types have a home here: like teepees on planes. If you look at anything in the sun your depth perception fades and your teepee can be on the planes: to your girlfriend or boyfriend, or whomever you'd like. Down here, there's plenty of room.
Inside Fate's plans for the island dangling by French trains and American crossties there is a freakishly large atlas of diagrams, and they're not really diagrams so much as they're outlines: simplified black ink drawings on what may have been white paper.
Tens of thousands of years ago, two lapine creatures fell into a hole with a box of crayons and some special seeds from the Sky World. A Left-Handed Twin sculpted a long narrow chunk of land, called it Manna-hatta, and plopped it down in a groove between what is today Long Island and the mainland. Dirt scattered all around and settled on top of the atlas. The Twin, who had already moved on to shooting clay disks, left his mess behind for his brother, the Right-Handed Twin, who saw the rubble and inadvertently knocked the two grey rabbits inside the hole along with the atlas. They procreated in an ultrachromatic frenzy beneath the soil for hundreds of years, exhausting the crayons and leaving a raw (and quite colorful), primordial scenery caked on the shorescape.
A chest filled with rubies soaked in hot oil tilted forward as if bound to a rickety old axle, and at a certain point I would have guessed was well after inflection, the whole chest lunged forward, emptied its contents, scorched hair, scalded scales, popped balloons, ignited the Coney underworld, and flash-fried a display cabinet. I saw it with my own three eyes.
Which is to say, had I had it my way when I was cruising around the other day, I would have enjoyed a cold beverage in the hot sun on those old wooden planks down on Rabbit Island, which may soon be gutted. Despite a persistent sideshow, the place booms with life and playful melodies deep-fried in big bass notes from the 70s.
And if one is not moved to write or paint or sing or fuck while or after being there, I doubt they ever will; either that, or they have a serious problem weighing them down, the kind of problem that sits in the middle of their darkest brainroom. It sits there like a spiteful zombie on an aluminum chair. It sits there staring ahead intently, and that's it. No Amazonian river rat, headless pinup, plastic palm tree, mucosal half-shell, frayed-wire amplifier, rubber-wrap butt or boob fat, low-mast lonestar bandera, oily rubber tire, or Atlantic-Pacific pectocranial psychopath can stir an emotion nor budge the problem from its seated position, from its gilded throne pressing down, down, down.
From that skeletal device and its ribbed cords came a beat so bold it thundered out to Marine Parkway, and in the wake of its baritone, it blasted whitewashed paths visible without electricity, and planes flew south a touch two turns before touchdown. Would an outsider, some educated dolt, some landlocked potato five thousand miles from a body of oil, point out the "steep decline of nutritional rigor"? Yes, but even these types have a home here: like teepees on planes. If you look at anything in the sun your depth perception fades and your teepee can be on the planes: to your girlfriend or boyfriend, or whomever you'd like. Down here, there's plenty of room.
Inside Fate's plans for the island dangling by French trains and American crossties there is a freakishly large atlas of diagrams, and they're not really diagrams so much as they're outlines: simplified black ink drawings on what may have been white paper.
Tens of thousands of years ago, two lapine creatures fell into a hole with a box of crayons and some special seeds from the Sky World. A Left-Handed Twin sculpted a long narrow chunk of land, called it Manna-hatta, and plopped it down in a groove between what is today Long Island and the mainland. Dirt scattered all around and settled on top of the atlas. The Twin, who had already moved on to shooting clay disks, left his mess behind for his brother, the Right-Handed Twin, who saw the rubble and inadvertently knocked the two grey rabbits inside the hole along with the atlas. They procreated in an ultrachromatic frenzy beneath the soil for hundreds of years, exhausting the crayons and leaving a raw (and quite colorful), primordial scenery caked on the shorescape.A chest filled with rubies soaked in hot oil tilted forward as if bound to a rickety old axle, and at a certain point I would have guessed was well after inflection, the whole chest lunged forward, emptied its contents, scorched hair, scalded scales, popped balloons, ignited the Coney underworld, and flash-fried a display cabinet. I saw it with my own three eyes.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Empty Are The Fairgrounds
A smile or a smirk thick a downbound chat leaves my blood fuzzy and heartbeats gluggin. I lick it up! The tall brown trunks gallop brisk by the castle. An old English estate roll gently nudge a thick blurry line left to right climbsky, fairground, south border. The downbound border swim a silky slick reptile, stride an old English horse - from America, fly a fruited plane, [exam] pass an ocean too many, you've gone too far.
We watched the dinghy descend with the tide. Some seaweed was visible on its shaft. It looked as if the nutrients had been sucked dry. There was a stiff skeletal breeze on my nose and knuckles. I pocketed my hands and hummed a lunar tune. Flies are 'seabugs' when they live near the ocean. They scratch and crawl and hum lunar tunes. I picked up the news and the top fold whipped in the wind. A headline ran and drops of inky water hit the sand between waves. I heard wood creak and felt insects on the undersides of my ribs and crawling in my earlobes. The bridge of my nose itched interminably and the salty air bit at my eyes. All the wood tunes were lost on me. All the fiery warmth escaped me. And I stood and wished I were leaning. I breathed out and didn't feel like breathing in, because all the goddamn seabugs sang meekly in my ears and slid down little tracks on my scalpstrings.
In a black pasture we groomed and grazed. The man in suspenders sat there thinking about nothing, and alternately, he realized his hunger and the noise his workers made. He achieved this great little equilibrium among the swinging bench, his ass, the sole of his foot, and a porch spindle. He thought, supper bowl grain tax hummer yelluh spring pitch plow sleepy trucker tax chain. I ran up to the aluminum door next to the swing and bashed at it with my skull until blood from the gash ran in the metal crease.
After our ears stopped ringing in the flourolight hellhole, the perpetrator left the room and we gazed at each other. He went down the elevator and bounded down the lobby stairs. He clicked and clacked in his highway shoes. "Until further notice, the answer to that question is 'same shit, different day.'," he replied, but he had no idea the troubles we'd seen. And the troubles mounted tall black steers. Down the highway we escaped, these two tricky chords rapped successively. Rain clapped on the hood and filled the streets.
We watched the dinghy descend with the tide. Some seaweed was visible on its shaft. It looked as if the nutrients had been sucked dry. There was a stiff skeletal breeze on my nose and knuckles. I pocketed my hands and hummed a lunar tune. Flies are 'seabugs' when they live near the ocean. They scratch and crawl and hum lunar tunes. I picked up the news and the top fold whipped in the wind. A headline ran and drops of inky water hit the sand between waves. I heard wood creak and felt insects on the undersides of my ribs and crawling in my earlobes. The bridge of my nose itched interminably and the salty air bit at my eyes. All the wood tunes were lost on me. All the fiery warmth escaped me. And I stood and wished I were leaning. I breathed out and didn't feel like breathing in, because all the goddamn seabugs sang meekly in my ears and slid down little tracks on my scalpstrings.
In a black pasture we groomed and grazed. The man in suspenders sat there thinking about nothing, and alternately, he realized his hunger and the noise his workers made. He achieved this great little equilibrium among the swinging bench, his ass, the sole of his foot, and a porch spindle. He thought, supper bowl grain tax hummer yelluh spring pitch plow sleepy trucker tax chain. I ran up to the aluminum door next to the swing and bashed at it with my skull until blood from the gash ran in the metal crease.
After our ears stopped ringing in the flourolight hellhole, the perpetrator left the room and we gazed at each other. He went down the elevator and bounded down the lobby stairs. He clicked and clacked in his highway shoes. "Until further notice, the answer to that question is 'same shit, different day.'," he replied, but he had no idea the troubles we'd seen. And the troubles mounted tall black steers. Down the highway we escaped, these two tricky chords rapped successively. Rain clapped on the hood and filled the streets.
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.
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