last year this day

f.w.

bedouin
curveball
helix
catapult
cutlass

don't kiss the nuts

benny

Aw, wicked man, look! It's fuckin' Benny!

Nice! Yo Benny!

Hey guys.

Hey Benny, you going to the _______ concert tonight?

Naw, that band sucks.

control groups

so, what does it tell you, your big thought?

exactly.

so in walks the pink blonde, snowflakes like suitors swirling her past his swiftly tilting view. if it wasn't for the body cast, benny might have welcomed the impact. last day this year, he kept thinking. last year this day.

argon! the detective realizes in chapter thirteen. he puts the book down immediately. argon was their element. Atomic number 18, her pet name for him. when you think about it, science is all about the impossible. a conspiracy of empty signs.

in the gallery they cooed and fluttered. bundled up for the weather, eyes glittering in the dark depths of parkahoods, apprehending the works. it was a proud moment for everyone. except benny. for him it felt like the end of the world. he couldn't stand the pressure of critics. he couldn't stand his own self-loathing. he couldn't stand how desperate he was for affirmation. he was a lot like me, benny was. that's why i had to eliminate him.

after they crowds dispersed, we arranged to burn all the evidence, including the blonde. she was the hardest to get past. but we did what we had to. just like you would. just like benny would have wanted us all to.

going for doubles

the problem was execution

the other day Morton tried laying down on the couch with his position reversed from the usual east-west supine orientation. in a flash, his head-toe inversion seemed to spark a spontaneous new universe! The old man paradigm supplanted by a galaxy of vital possibility; howling winds were blowing. Morton locked his fingers behind his head and wondered if he had indeed succeeded in upending the dismal polarities of his life. was this the beginning of an epic embarkation to new and wilder frontiers? would this one fell manoeuvre entice the psychic and emotional renaissance he'd been desperately seeking this last decade?

no. none of that. all that happened was the cushions seemed a bit fluffier on the previously under-used side of the sofa and this new angle of approach -- and the sunbeams arcing through the front window -- revealed a massive buildup of dust on the television screen. Sadly for poor Morton, it was, as they say, 'same same but different'.

the goth kid

bewildered cowboy

jolene and alabama ordered $200 of silk underwear and shipped it to garland's hotel room in NYC. marshall was uptight and fidgety so they gave him a shot of hendry's whisky and that settled him some.

duke el carlos

cindy sweet
like deep peat
moss or cedar
chips make me fat.

five over

apologia

petty criminals, liars, the unfaithful, looters, the diseased, the malcontent, users, hypocrites, two-timers, the debased, the vain, egomaniacs, the self-absorbed, maligners, solipsists, mongers, the myopic, the sanctimonious, the pious, vandals, buffoons, scofflaws, dilettantes, the indolent...

an oxford education

you're not seriously going over there are you?

why is it that whenever I decide to regress, you've got to get your paws all over it?

hey, easy. i'm just trying to save you from yourself. can't you see that? no amount of tarot cards, or planetary alignments or de-molecularization or whatever is going to change the truth that i've been trying to drill into your bleak little mindscape-

-which is what exactly? and by the way, it's not de-molecularization, it's 'psychic-organic transference'.

whatever. the fact remains that going over there is basically like you deciding to eat your own vomit. is that what you want? a vomit sandwich?

nice. very nice.

...

ok, fine. you win. happy? now can we at least get lunch?

certainly.

don veil // dawn vale //

hole punch action

is this the wetnap you were thinking of?

back dated

3-17

that's it. cs is the winner. unfortunately cs was unavailable for comment. ... this was all really sort of a letdown.

futilitarians II: one hole punch

Ok, so after tonight's overtime loss in Washington, the Barney's record, after 19 games, stands at 3 wins, 16 losses. These are the wagers on their win/losses after 20 games as recorded on tuesday november 8, 2005:

bp: 2 wins, 18 losses
cb: 5 wins, 15 losses
jz: 4 wins, 16 losses
s69: 0 wins, 20 losses
cs: 3 wins, 17 losses

So, as we can see, cb and bp and s69 are all out. cs and jz each have a shot. Raps win tomorrow night, jz has it. if kobe's show wins, cs, you're the big winner.

But i know the question we're all asking ourselves is: why do i care? here's why sportsfans:
that's right, a one hole punch (with handy chad catcher) and a wet nap for when you're done. alright!

i know you'll all be watching tomorrow night! after the game, a profile of our winner will be featured on the idiot parade (if they like, they may submit a photo -- 260x260 pixels max, please!) and then we'll figure out how to get you your one hole punch plus wetnap.

go raps!

van dusen boulevard

Julia. Benny. A couple of otters in the sun. the bike ride between their houses took nearly all day. It was a disney adventure all those sideroads, lefts and rights by memory not signs, through family parks and farmer's fields, down over the bridge, along the river finally to the shady cul de sac. They baked cakes together. Had a secret language. practised mind control techniques on each other. They'd take one glove off each to hold hands in the middle of winter. in '77 he left town and later she got married. Once years ago and years after the last time, benny ran into her in the subway; she was leaning on the tiled wall with a guy, smoking. Like a rocker guy. she maybe said they were on the way to an Aerosmith concert. neither could process how much there was going on. And then the subway came and she was gone. That's it.

the hack

The magazine was my best job, outside of the cemetery. I learned a lot. Like, the day we had a special Sunday meeting so we could discuss what had become an acrimonious division within the ranks: The Beck Cover.

Half the staff thought the best picture of Beck was the one where he was wearing the wayfarers. He looked cool, he had wanted to wear the sunglasses at the shoot -- this was widely circulated as verified, but no one knew exactly by what source -– and they felt having him behind shades was like a statement against brand recognition or star-status... or whatever. Who knows, something like that anyway. The other half, including the publisher, our editor-in-chief and the "brand builders" they hired, had a different idea. We pick up the conversation, everyone standing at this point, and the speakers are leaning at each other over the elliptically stylish boardroom table.

Marketing Consultant: 'Look it’s a known marketing fact that consumers respond well to eye contact on magazine covers.'

Staffer: 'Uh, eye contact? It’s a picture, man.' He turns around to confirm everyone is mystified. 'Anyway, we’re talking about identifying with an attitude, with integrity, with our convictions. It's about the alienation of the artist, the the, what's that album where Dylan's wearing the shades?' He’s losing it. 'I mean, I thought we all agreed when we started this thing that the day we hired marketing gurus to tell us how to do this, we should fire ourselves.' Nods, but some terrified looks.

Marketing Consultant: 'The idea is that the consumer likes to feel like the celebrity is ‘seeing’ them. It’s been proven in marketing studies. People want celebrities to love them back. And making eye contact with them in pictures actually boosts their self-confidence. They feel beautiful too. The celebrity is attainable. That’s why you shouldn’t have anyone in sunglasses on a cover. It’s elitist.'

Staffer: 'Dude, sunglasses are the opposite of elitist.' Ticking off: 'James Dean, Peter Fonda, Stevie Wonder, Rik Ocasek, Corey Hart...'

Marketing Consultant: “They used to be. Think of it like this: sunglasses are like cigarettes. They are designed to separate you from the world. They are elitist.”

Awesome silence.

Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t an uptight place at all. When you came to work it was understood that there was a two drink minimum. Anyway, we went with the no sunglasses picture and the issue bombed. They all bombed though. These debates were awesome for how little whatever we were talking about mattered. Imagine, we hired consultants to debate this shit until finally they’d talk us out of doing what we wanted to. But it was a fabulous job. More of a clubhouse, really. Good music, civilized hours, catering some days. Stocked beer fridge. Connections, tickets, passes, ideas, access. Some good people got a start there and we all got on pretty good with each other. That’s the only place I ever worked where I wanted to hang out with my coworkers. You would have wanted to hang out even if you didn’t work there. We’d just sit around drinking, talking about it. Smoking, arguing. It was great. You can imagine. And then we went bankrupt.

fat bobby

viet nam

chicken

scared that everyone is playing a trick on me.
scared that i believe in non-existent things.
scared i took the wrong path.
scared of my habits.
scared of living without them.
scared to go to sleep and scared to wake up.
scared to be left behind.
scared of where everyone is going.
scared i've wasted the best parts of me on the worst parts of life.
scared of how much i want her to come back.
scared i'm out of control.
scared that i sabotage myself.
scared of being found out.
scared of the doorbell.
scared we're the same
scared of love
scared of sex
scared i don't care
scared of
scared

our jealous pace

Those Gotti kids are so spoiled.

Yeah, they’re like veal.

Exactly like veal.

The waiter comes back and says, 'Anything else?' He’s got that hangover sheen.

I shake my head and pretend not to notice their eye contact.

-secret courtesy-

goose and the caps

i collected caterpillars and beer bottle caps when i was a kid. Then i would make race tracks with the bottle caps as the edges of the trackway and I'd race the caterpillars* along the course. My sister would throw gooseberries at me through the fence.

*meaning, i would race the caterpillars against each other. I would not race against the caterpillars. That would be ridiculous.

the demo attended

1) I can’t believe it starts with my favourite. I like this song the same way I like getting wasted. This one and 7 were all I listened to this summer. It replaced Atlantic City as my go to. Totally sets the tone for the whole record. The end of the halcyon, gold days gone sinister.

2) Slightly your Pollard? This one all the indie-girls will know the words to. But by then it’ll all be too late, won’t it? We can laugh.

3) Lead on Captain. Ah, revenge. I take back my initial comment on the phone to you. There’s definitely growl all over the place. The lead coming in about 2:12 is so ridiculous I had to stand up and yell your name at my cats til their ears pinned back. I can’t stop laughing.

4) I love the big ride/soft crash for Job. It always picks up my posture. We’ll never make this time up now. We could before. Yep. It’s exactly what’s been killing me lately. That’s what makes this an adult’s record. It’s why kids will aspire towards it. It will always be just out of reach for them. Like how I remember all the best things being. And the Mellencamp lift. Sly.

5) Back to blame again. (Check past records) You use blame like Alex Lukashevsky uses totem poles. Who’s the girl on this one? It’s strange to hear you with a woman. (By the way,Is this your BSS contribution?)

So far, this album is freaking me out.

6) Now your Walrus. I love how God wanted both lean and fat things. You’re so weird. I can imagine you in Dunnville hunched, your hand curling through some little green notebook building this crazy arsenal of words. This one is definitely my favourite. This is the only real tc song I can hear.

7) Now Dive. My total favourite. It stops my breathing. Like watching things collide. Or a siren. It could garner a bauble or two. Anyway, it makes me want to drive a car off a cliff.

8) Ah Scientists. Feels like hearing the atom. Then it almost... I don’t know. Like old man winter meets the power cosmic.

9) New one? Negative. I know it. Even the words. Or just behind them anyway. This one is the one I listen to with my head in the oven. By that I mean, Perfect. Like when you find out all the coke is gone. ... What the hell? Sleighbells? ? Genius. Like my grandfather used to say to me and my sister: Even a typewriter needs a bell. ... Then late sun on the river.

10) this one is murder. Really the favourite. I stand on my bed and sing this one. Under my breath while walking home from work, a mantra. Over top of other songs, against television programs, instead of conversation. I love this one. It makes me remember Palmerston for some reason. When he came through the second floor window. Pavement. Kit Kat Lights. Wrecking Yard. That night you looked over your collar at me and said, “you ready to go wild tonight?” Then you laughed your brains out. Yes, you did. I miss smoking alot. When I quit, it was like my best friend died.

The album holds no holes.

mandelbrot & juliet II