nebraska on queen

Benny’s all bummed out I can tell. I know it’s about the girl, but he would never admit it. it's why i like him. I say, let’s go have a drink at the spot and he lets on like he won’t but he always does.

crassus and the steamcleaner

whether or not crassus ever said "it's good to have goals"* i do not know. I sort of figured he'd have uttered a few bon mots in his time. i mean, pompey had 'who needs laws? i've got guns' and of course caesar with 'men believe what they want' (i paraphrase here, having limited knowledge of latin). so crassus had to have something. maybe it was more like, "watch out for your rivals". who knows. after all, we're talking about a guy who had molten gold poured down his neck in the deserts of mesopotamia. so anything is possible.

anyway, i only picked up on crassus because i wanted to give my appliances a feeling of belonging to something more than just the run-of-the mill society grid. i figured if they felt imbued by the spirit of the roman triumvrate or had a sense of 'the will to power' and all that, it might energize their performance around the house. that's all i meant with the crassus line.

my bissell

is my new favourite thing. bissell is a brand. they make steamcleaners. specifically, the 12 amp proheat powersteamer. even though if you pressed me, i would rank it second behind my washer and dryer for most loved appliance; large or small. I count washer and dryer as a single unit. much as we commonly consider the oven and stove as one. nonetheless, my new excellent 12 amp proheat powersteamer steamcleaner has, thanks in part to the warm weather, overtaken spaceheater as a top contender in the MLA race. in the sub-category of 'small' it has to be number one. i love all my appliances, of course. but i think it makes it more interesting if you have contests for (and between) them. like crassus once said, it's good to have goals.

the culprit

i spotted the culprit
under the sink
stolen morsels
clutched by pink paws.
old fat slow cat
you are not earning your keep

bad analogy

why do you hate me?

i don't hate you anymore than a cat hates a mouse.

so now i'm a mouse?

that's not what i meant. i meant, we're just pre-disposed to this dynamic. it's our vibration. a relationship is like matter. it needs to move to exist. and what we've got here is a dead gravitron.

you're such a jerk, you know that? for a short guy, you'd think you'd be more thankful. and by the way, i thought you said motion is illusion?

look, you can't fight strings. i accept my strings. you're going to have to come to terms with that. get mad at particles if you want, see what good it does you.

let's see what good ripping off woody allen does you.

fine.

fine.

thin gin

another morning meddle
unsigned editorials
scolding, jealous elements
plague her days
with darts and slaps
as if to say
your words today don't
satisfy. but
they're not for you
to claim.

dark stars

i named your wrists
in bed you insisted on
further installments
we could not invent

shit makes bliss

loving you was
like picking flowers
in a war zone

back on the bottle

-you imagine yourself better than you are. it's a typical modern delusion.

really? wow, did you just come up with all this?

-mediated accomplishment appears easy because it disguises the effort. the genius of televised achievement is-

look, mcluhan; sorry to interrupt, but i'm really not interested in talking right now. i'm sure your ideas are great, but i just came here to have a drink and enjoy some empty space. i'm not trying to be rude.

-asshole.

looking up at guitars

awesome or the problem of other minds

it's f.w. calling, the display tells me so. it also tells me i've been sleeping for nineteen hours.

-yeah.

-dude! what happened to you? you disappeared after the van caught on fire...

-the what?

-someone lit the econoline on fire and it spread to the club; three fire trucks came. we were evacuated. a blonde got trampled. it was the insane! she was ok. benny took her home. you don't remember any of that?

-i don't remember. there was a fire? where was i?

-ha. it was awesome.

hud bannon

dunk it stamp

one time there was this kid named stamp and we were up on the schoolhouse roof waiting for him to come along. when he did, we dropped a melon on his head.

once, stamp was saying how he could dunk. so we said, sure show us. he did. he took it to the rim and he dunked it. then he pulled up to showboat and shouted stamp!' but as he went to shake off it, he lost his grip and took three of his front teeth out on the rim on the way down. blood everywhere.

another time becky went to take a drink from the 26er or SoCo and she cracked a piece off her tooth. she spits it out on her hand and goes, 'hey there's a piece of rice in the bottle!'

under white

these rumpled cold sheets
only darken bright dawns
a cotton-swathed coffin
thin gin headaches and arms
all our corners now banks
all those colours bled grey
flaunted failsafes and foolproofs
cast adrift our mainstays
so like perseus* we wreck
our love's temples and halls
let loose mischief and chance,
embrace panic and loss
i've made envy in beds
and sure haunted old haunts
been snarled by harlots
and like pan left to wont
there's no future in lovers
our shared friends fall away
drifting lonely in rivers
plaintive reeds that remain

the fat

every June at my highschool, the seniors were allowed to put on a party on school property that traditionally was known as "the fat". No one really knew where the name came from, or if it meant anything. obviously it could have referred to mardi gras' fat tuesday, but there was never any confirmation of that. Some people, including my mother, thought it was a nasty acronym. though she'd never come out and say it, i figured moms must have thought it meant "fuck all teachers" or something equally youthful. for some reason, she believes that if the initials of your name spell a word, it means you are destined for good fortune in life. only recently did i find out that the mother of my hero, donald e. westlake, also holds the same superstition.

anyway, the best fat was probably the 'olympig fat' of 1990. all fats had to be themed and they began with a series of day-long events, culminating in the friday night 'fat dance'. basically it was an excuse to hang out by the river, get loaded and run amok through the school. for the olympig fat we staged a mock series of olympic-like events. i can't remember them all that well, but among the highlights was the one that involved duct-taping niners to the cafeteria wall and wagering* on who would stick the longest. the contest proved to be an impressive display of duct tape's power. The longest taped person lasted the whole lunch period. we had to cut him down though because he was slipping through the tape to the point where it had noosed around his windpipe and he was turning purple.

*normal school rules didn't apply during the fat.

louisiana purchase

last night i learned that you can't eat as much meat as you think you can. especially when it is smothered in truffles and unpasteurized cheese. however, i would like to point out that sometimes the journey is more important than the destination and this is true also with hamburgers.

parking break cave

peruvian silver, 1968

f.w. calls and says: i just found out about the rat king! look it up on wikipedia!

this feels like straying from the plan, but i do. and it's astonishing.

melba toast

benny was always too proud of that olds. when he had to give it up, that pretty much wrecked him. he really had nothing by the time we got to him. all that was left were the wheels and his crazy old lady. so you couldn't blame him for loving the car; it was a classic ride. hulking four barrel, four speed, dual exhaust, 455 cubic. like a big fucking orange gorilla. we busted him up bad before he agreed to let us take it off his hands. we even had to look at his girl a bit.

of course it would have been better for everyone if he'd just cried himself to sleep after that. lesson learned and all. don't cross the cooperative. but not benny. puckish little fellow.

m theory

jaws

right in the wrong spot

guys, let's just put it back, ok?

here we go again...

for chrissake beans, will you stop with the put it back business. we're in way too deep now for that.

i just don't get why we even needed this thing in the first place. you never said anything about it when we agreed to the plan. what's so important about it anyway? i'm telling you, i've got a bad feeling...

everyone just settle down. benny'll be back in an hour and then we'll start the thing up and get it to f.w.'s garage and then we'll figure out how to deal with the cooperative.

and if benny doesn't come back? what do we do then? what do we do then!?

shut up beans. that dope's got you paranoid. just do it like we said, no one gets hurt, and we'll blow through it like smoke through a pipe.

look, f.w., maybe beans has a point. why don't we just leave the thing here? no one will know it was us.

we can't. benny said we need this thing. otherwise everything is for nothing. all we have to do is just sit tight and wait for him to come back. alright?

benny's not gonna' come back.

jesus christ. shut up beans! shit. why don't you go wait in the car or something.

there are no sparticles...

benny and f.w. as they prepare to eat their take-out meals

Alright, get ready to lose.

It’s not a competition, man.

Sure it isn’t. You know, that’s your problem dude.

What’s my problem?

That’s your problem. That’s why you’re not going anywhere. You don’t get that everything is a competition.

Take-out food is a competition? How are we keeping score exactly? Biggest mouthful? Fewest chews? Most efficient heimlich?

You see, you mock because you don't understand.

Well, maybe we’re just different. You ever think about that?

No. We’re all the same. Until you learn to accept that, you’ll always be a loser.

How come you seem to know so much about me?

You know, while you sit around all day thinking about black holes and gluons and the meaning of nothingness or whatever the fuck it is you think about, I’m out there fucking getting laid and making money and getting it all set up. Why the fuck do you think you’re so unhappy all the time?

I’m not.

You totally are. You’re a fucking drag all the time these days. And you know why?

I’m sure you’re going to tell me.

Fucking right I am. Because you’re not getting fucking laid is why. When’s the last time you had sex?

I don’t know.

You don’t know? You don’t know. How can you not know? You know when’s the last time I got laid? Right before I fucking came over here.

Sure you did.

Fuck off. Look, remember that last girl, whatshername?

Yeah.

What do you think she’s doing right now?

Getting laid.

Exactly. And what are you doing right now?

Not getting laid.

So you see my point young grasshopper?

Yeah, I guess I do. You're saying that everything is meaningless without love.

Jesus christ, you really are an idiot.

billet in time

a featherless affair

pickled and cute a
duke among drunks
no egrets, he would say
by the side of blue pools
no egrets in my heart
they've all flown away.

the unplayable lie

-what am i supposed to do here? benny swiped at some loose twigs and weeds with his wedge.

he and f.w. were standing deep in a tangled copse alongside the fairway of the eighteenth. birds were chirping. They were staring down at benny's titleist that had rolled up against what looked to be the decomposing body of a middle-aged greenskeeper.

-how long do you suppose he's been here? f.w. sucked on his golf tee, evaluating the corpse.

-the more important question f.w. is, Can i consider this an unplayable lie?

-don't you think we should report this? i mean, it is a dead body.

-sure, we'll report it, after the round. i could break ninety.

-you are having a good round.

-good? it's unbelievable! did you see that fade on 15? and the birdie on 12? i'm on fire here. fucking dead body. i'm still counting this round towards my handicap.

the tapir and the badger

one day, badger was out snuffling about when he heard a polite harumph. it was tapir.

-excuse me badger, but you wouldn't by any chance have noticed a little black wallet lying about?

-look tapir, can't you see i'm busy here?
badger had a rep for being terse so tapir didn't take it personally.

-well badger, it would only take a moment... you see, it's my friend's wallet. he lost it during last week's migration and we really need it.

tapir tried to look as endearing as possible, which, if you've ever seen a tapir, is a pretty strange look to behold.

-no, i haven't seen any such wallet, came the curt reply.

badger continued to poke around the tall grass so that tapir couldn't see his lying face. for badger had in fact found the wallet that very morning. he had decided to employ finders-keepers precedent and had already spent the contents of the billfold -- $11 -- on flax seed oil to help with his eczema.

-oh, well then...
tapir trailed off and fixed a sidelong stare at badger. he was, for a tapir, remarkably perceptive and badger's fidgeting set off alarm bells in his prehistoric cranium. still, without any sort of proof, tapir figured, there was no reason to start tossing out accusations. But he would keep an eye on old badger. Count on it.

the squeak brain predicament

i have a ticking sound in my head. it only occurs in my right ear. It could be myoclonus. maybe it's related to how my left sneaker squeaks. no matter how i lace it up, or what socks i wear or how fast i am moving, it squeaks. I tried to return my sneakers as damaged, but when i attempted to demonstrate the squeak in the store, they didn't squeak. Maybe it was the carpeting, but secretly I think the shoes are against me. Also, the sales staff seemed to all have staring problems, so i had to leave without satisfaction. Of course as soon as i stepped outside, squeak, squeak, squeak. I'm warning you shoes: don't cross me.

NB: i'm against current-day bacon packaging technology.

constantly drunk in thrace

i wish i were an alcibiades
a general of full powers
more meteor than man
no loyalties that trap
neither oligarch nor democrat
born fabulous and rich,
discipled by socratic thought
yet free from staid philosophy

citizen of the unknown world
lord of no one land
not athens, not sparta, not persia or thebes
no constraint nor mandate binds
like such that plagued poor pericles

to be alcibiades and laugh
as laconic leonidas would
when came the assassins in the end.
alone, an undefended man
by malignant arrows erased;
perhaps a warlord's last wish then
only to be young and full again
and constantly drunk in thrace


haahahahhaha ahahhahahahahahhahaha

don't disturb my circles

-i don't build war machines.

the generals encircled our friend, as though laying siege, and prodded him to reconsider.

-sirs, i implore you. release my family. these things you ask of me are beyond my powers. i am a man of science and peace. i will not condone the weaponization of ideas.

loaded glances exchanged, they proceeded to murder him on the sands. our mathematical friend. maybe we need fewer scientists, they mused.

maybe.

all zeno paradox

motion is illusion said zeno some time ago. you can't beat the tortoise, might be another way of putting it. all revolutionaries seem quaint and naive after enough time passes. i am embarrassed for them, and ashamed of myself for that. Still, whether it is a lamp or a cat, there is paradox around us, no matter the calculus or any other such debunker. i don't know when a thing comes alive or passes away. i don't know when the lights are on or off. I cannot percieve the moment i fall asleep, nor the moment i wake. i cannot tell when love begins or ends. change is constant it has been said. nothing is certain but uncertainty. all things are and are not at once. or not. it is hard to tell. zeno has been dead for a long time.

the bedazzler is back!

the double envelopment, considered to be the consummate military maneuver, was first executed by Hannibal in the Battle of Cannae in 216 BC – over 2,200 years ago.

the root beer flavour spectrum

PREAMBLE: The Root Beer Flavour Spectrum is an experiment conducted by myself between december 28th 2005 and january 9th 2006 to determine the exact range of flavours contained in the numerous brands of root beer; it also features a breakdown of 'root beer' as a concept (discovery, primary ingredients, evolution) and a cursory exploration into the history of this beverage. ideally this will help clear up any confusions regarding the vast array of choices available to the root beer connoisseur. as far as i can tell, this is the very first experiment of this kind. altho i have not actually really researched this for fear that i may be wrong. don't anybody tell me about any other testings either. don't burst my bubble, dude.

BRANDS TESTED (so far):
Muggs
A&W
Pop Shoppe (contains phosphoric acid!)
Stewart's
Stewart's Diet
Hires
Jones'
Barq's

PREMISE:
I believe that (modern day) root beer exists on a flavour spectrum with Crush Cream Soda on one end, and Dr. Pepper on the other. All root beers contain varying ratios of these two flavours and so I've created the root beer flavour spectrum to reflect these polarities.

METHODOLOGY:
TK

SPECTRUM GRAPHIC:
above right

SUMMATION:
TK

from russia with love

the phone rings and it's f.w. I can tell from the call display. I say:

-'F.W.!'

-I hate it that you know it's me calling, he says.

-why?

-because you always get to say my name first. it takes away one of the few pleasures in life that i have access to.

-what are you talking about? how's moscow?

-fine, fine. it's just that i like the surprise of phoning people and i like the pomp of announcing myself to them. Like, 'Well, hello there. This is F.W. telephoning from russia. May I please speak with C.B.?' That sort of thing.

I don't always understand what F.W. is talking about, but I think that's why I like him. Aside from this revelation, he's called to tell me he and sophia have split, again.

-It's like, she's not a person anymore to me, you know? she's more like, like a mood.

-What? I don't get it. A moo?

-No, mood. With a 'd'. It's like you said the other day. My girlfriends don't seem to have substance, just substances. That's like sophia. She doesn't exist as a person exactly, but more as a demand. I just couldn't take it.

-women.

-exactly.

blue-laced red wyandottes

just like a chicken, i know that a thing still exists even when it is hidden from view. this is what places me on a higher order than other lifeforms, though not all of them. let's say, slightly higher than a bird of curves.

more jack party

everyone says the same things eventually. that new guy you met... the charming one with insights and panache; he's just like everyone else. just like you are. you're not special. the cute bits of knowledge you get from your t.v. watching, the spiritual epiphanies you discover in your whiskey, all that shit is known already. you aren't new. you aren't special. your theories are dull and retread. your ideas are reiterations and you won't do anything with them anyway. you are like that bunny that bangs the little drum. no brains. no anima. no purpose but to repeat your sad task again and again. everyone says the same things eventually.

ides of march

what jack party didn't realize as he left the hotel was that everything was already over. The grand finale just hadn't happened yet. But all the events surrounding these last three hateful weeks had conspired, silently and balefully, to set him up for this very end. For tonight.

It would take another month or so for him to completely bury it, but his plans and hopes were already as dead as God. The last faint beats of possibility softly accompanying his slow steps down the spiral staircase of the Binh Tran Hotel. A metronome to squandered promise.

He slipped into the heavy night, angling through the moto hordes across the close streets. Everywhere horns and barking bells demanding passage, stares and turns appraising his foreign appearance. He loved Hanoi. It was the Left Bank and the Village, but wilder and dingier. He loved how he stood out in the city. Like he never managed to back home. It confirmed to him his belief that juxtaposition was the best.

No one knows what's coming next. So there was no way when Jack woke up that morning and sat on the can, moving out his Pho Bo from the night before, that he could have imagined himself the perpetrator of seven murders by the next day's dawn. Maybe he would have decided to make the flight to Vancouver; instead, like a sap, he let himself on more look at their favourite places. And so, as he saw her seated at their table in Cafe Tung with the meddling French attache, just this destiny crept inside his soul.

box in a cage