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

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

i put the finger on you

the old man likes his cannoli

K was the kind of woman who preferred to be on the receiving end of hors d'oeuvres. Anyone who has ever catered would understand, was her line. There were many things to admire about her, not least was her staggering array of tops. I rarely have ever owned more than say four shirts at any given time; half her house was a closet. The other half, mirrors.

She was no intellectual, true. A magazine reader. You know, glossy ones with airbrushers instead of editors. The only string theory she was concerned with involved thongs. She identified with television characters. Believed that shopping was something to put on a resume. No qualms, you know? When she was younger, she might have shown her tits for one of those wild girls videos. She'd get drunk at cottages and claim to want to be a porn star.

So she was attractive -- in that replicant hot way -- and managed to skate through life pretty much unscathed. Impeccably shifting tastes. Taking and dropping jobs or guys or convictions, as it suited her. Always got what she wanted so she always wanted more. You know the type. Leggy Gatsbys. The tempting empty. But sharp. Once I asked her if she really thought the world needed a new line of handbags and she just stared at me like I was a grey sneaker. 'That's not the point,' she said.

When I knew her, we both smoked. She had her teeth whitened for the limelight. I kept my lips pressed together whenver i met new people. If cell phones had not been invented, I wonder if she would even have existed at all. Still, she got things done, and she wore high heels while doing them.

Her father was a Judge or a Lobbyist and her mother took pills, played bridge and drank manhattans with her ladyfriends all day. Twice divorced apiece. It was a pedigree for trouble well earned out. K could steal anything, except after a while, everyone just gave it to her anyway. Hard not to admire her. A Machiavelli in Blahniks.

we blame the carbombs

tdwk

TK... christmas eve at the funeral home, circa '93

the crack-up

demics
blondes
psychological dysmorphia
whisky
love
personality
mathematics
faith
regret
blame
telepathy
atomic constancy
reds
memory
zelda
god

gold sounds and the horizontal rays of fall

what i like is when songs creep up on you from the backs of bars. there are songs that were playing when you and i were together that i never noticed until later. everywhere, secret soundtracks lurk.

yes, i'm still obsessed with figuring out how to remember all that i've forgotten. i'm sure it would change things. i try not to be a sore loser about my mind. But it's strange how, no matter how many pictures or colours or smells, all remembered narratives seem to be compartmentalized and fragmented. Loss is implied. It's pretty much impossible to recall a full day in detail. All the words of a conversation. All the strands of hair that fell into your eyes.

I suppose there is some comfort that outside stimuli - songs, say, or the quality of light - can trigger dormant memories. which makes me think we do keep everything in us somehow. it's just that we can't purposefully access our entirety for some reason. maybe for our own good. i can imagine living in my memories for long stretches without bathing or eating or opening my eyes. i can imagine disappearing into these perfect holoworlds. Perfect because there are no choices in memories. There is only what happened. Completeness. Though, I am not certain that you can always trust your memory. Why it would betray you, I don't know. Memory as far I as I know has no motive. Or does it?

symptom of the universe

they all quit drinking recently. Doesn't it seem neccessary? so then he finds this baudelaire bit called "Get Drunk". Ask me what it means cause I don't know. Maybe the universe is trying to tell us something. I hope not. The universe has been nothing but trouble the last little while. Like that damn cat. What do you want cat? What do you want!

Always be drunk.
That's it!
The great imperative!
In order not to feel
Time's horrid fardel
bruise your shoulders,
grinding you into the earth,
Get drunk and stay that way.
On what?
On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever.
But get drunk.
And if you sometimes happen to wake up
on the porches of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the dismal loneliness of your own room,
your drunkenness gone or disappearing,
ask the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock,
ask everything that flees,
everything that groans
or rolls
or sings,
everything that speaks,
ask what time it is;
and the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock
will answer you:
"Time to get drunk!
Don't be martyred slaves of Time,
Get drunk!
Stay drunk!
On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever!"

more massive baryons

No, there's actually over a dozen different types of kryptonite. These are the most powerful, conventionally: Green, red, black and silver. Green is probably the most identifiable to the general public. Its properties weaken and will eventually kill Superman. Red is nuclear fission for superman's Id. It morphs him into a glutton for whim and cruel mayhem. Black: schizophrenia in mineral form. Silver is my number one. It's like Superman's personal Hitchcock-of-the-mind. When exposed to it, he devolves into fractured paranoia. He becomes the irrational. This is the superman I can identify with. The bewildered man.

I guess I should make honourable mention of white kryptonite. It has the power to destroy all plant life. Designed, one supposes, to agent the schemes of garden haters.

eliminate the painful

book dreams

what's the equivalent in publishing of blowing your knee out in basketball? that's what happened to me. i was like a playground publishing star. i had a wicked crossover, could nail the three and displayed flashes of a jordan-esque touch in acquisitions. But circumstances prevented me from making it in the big leagues*. now i work for public broadcasting. which is like the same as the broken athlete who opens his own used car lot.

But things have changed. Call it a comeback if you want. See, I have always been confident that I'd make an all-star caliber sixth man. Sort of like a Kevin McHale-meets-Gary Fisketjohn type. Picture it. Like, the editor-in-chief would be your starting center; they're good for banging and rebounding and intimidation. The face of the team. You need the double double from this position. From there, the editor-at-large would function as your high-flying two guard. Lots of scoring, but little in the way of defense. Though they shine at launch parties. The point guard is your managing editor. Must be organized and know how to distribute the rock. The senior editor is the veteran power forward. This spot supports and covers for the center and produces 20 and 10 a night, plus a half-dozen strong selling non-fiction titles over the year. I guess at the three spot you've got the slightly intoxicated yet charming imprint editor. Sort of a freelancer within the system. Usually has a specialty, like perimeter defense or new-young-mind fiction, but you can't really depend on them to carry the entire list/team. Then you've got the bench players. A slew of associate editors, publicists, copy editors and the like. The coach of course is the publisher.

But the sixth man. The sixth man is like the wildcard. The magic that gets you through the first round of the playoffs and then makes the wizard buzzer-beater to send the team to the Giller Awards. He's playing for the team because he's all heart, but he also knows his contract depends on making the most of his minutes. Maybe the Small Forward is too deep into his cups this season. Hasn't had a bestseller, his shooting percentage is down. Whatever. But he's off his game this year, the Coach is cutting his minutes, and thus arrives the opportunity that the Sixth Man has been waiting for. You know, he's in his thirties now. Not many seasons left in the old dog. He squandered chances on bigger teams under brighter lights, but now he's matured. He's the silver fox. The golden bear. He's ready. He's re-hab'd. He wants the rock. He's feeling it again. Book dreams.

*more like, not exactly...

super-symmetry

You are the scientist and the matter,
the theorist and the quark.
You are the simplest subatomic particle
that when examined
reveals only complex and auxiliary mysteries.
Like the quark you exist in six varieties:
up,
down,
top,
bottom,
strange and charm.
Like the theorist
you construct and deconstruct
the building blocks of your hadrons
endlessly, like Sisyphus.
You are your own elegant universe.
You are quantum incarnate.
zee

coffee pot sunday II

A traitor, a dictator and a redactor walk into a bar...

lie down cub

I’m trying to make you a CD, right now. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks. Slowly assembling the bits of music I have. It’s a frustrating limitation. And for this CD, there can be no limits. I want to put everything on it. All songs. Not just the ones I’ve got. All of them. It would be the complete mixed CD. It would last forever but still have endings. We'd never have to make up our minds.

I can’t stand how good I Walk The Line is. So resolved. The inmates howling. Then later, ‘I shot a man in Reno/Just to watch him die’.

Now I’m on the phone with you and you just said “I can’t wait !”

I thought a good way to arrange the songs would be ascending, then descending, order of key. Aminor, Bmajor, Cmajor etc. Or whatever. I’m not sure how keys work exactly. I’ve always just put my fingers where it sounds good.

We floated the idea of going to Dunnville. But I can’t decide on even one song yet. Each one is a doorway, each one is the veldt. Without the lions. Ok, with the lions too.

It seems I’ll just have to copy Nebraska in its entirety.

Sorry, the key thing is out of reach. I really wanted it to happen. But that’s what makes me average.

The CD should be about you, but right now it’s a huge struggle. The fog of me. Maybe I’m too concerned about plot here. And what will be the hidden track? And what about songs I know you already know? Do they go on as clever tugs, the shared stories you forgot I knew? Or is it a combo CD? A challenge, then a balm. Definitely Fade to Black goes on. But this first one is killing me.

I got the first one. Now I’m staring out the long window imagining you're driving on the highway with this song playing. Awesome. There’s no way to follow it. ... I’m gonna’ try.

Christ, this is like Fermat’s Enigma. Just reeled off six in a row and then my proofs collapsed.

It’s criminal that I don’t own any Credence. Not even a Greatest Hits. Shame. And my Roy Orbison is scratched and I don’t have the Kings of Leon. Or Iron Maiden.

Thirty, desultory minutes have expired, and then suddenly a wave of purpose. If only you knew the bold move I am considering!

Finally, I had to just bear down and get it done. So this is it. This is the CD. Full-on 80 minutes. Maxed it out, for you. I hope you like it. I’m working on the second volume as I write this. The first song is killing me. You’ll be here any minute. Maybe we can listen to it in your car...

seven down

it's not if they are

l'amour

the darkness

.[redacted].

papen was a girl in my mind...

it was really great. but if i could, i would have had charles lose the gun in a struggle; it goes off severing richard's femoral artery. henry comes up with it and immediately plugs francis in the gut and in the neck. charles and henry talk about it; charles admits to sleeping with his sister but camilla seems detached. Richard is bleeding slowly to death. Then henry, to doubly spite charles, puts two in camilla and then the last one for himself. Charles, stark mental, strangles the rest of richard, seals himself in the garage with the running sedan and slips away on monoxide.

but the way she had it happen was really great too.

pushes for disaster

No new pictures today, though that was the plan. Forgot the camera at home. Batteries do not 'die' in other languages. A Czech girl told me so over lunch. I really like English when it arrives by translation. Afterwards, I bought laundry detergent, dishwasher detergent, brown paper bags, a bottle opener and incense called "guilty". Premium incense.

At home, I thought for awhile about what modest mouse song i like the best. Cowboy Dan? Dark Center of the Universe? As far as I know, Isaac Brock has not had his teeth whitened. Whatever. I downloaded an email from FW who was recently assigned to Krackow and can't get over the fact that his apartment has square pillows. He's eating a lot of beets, the note said. There's not much else. FW thinks the random is charming. Since my grandparents died, I haven't eaten beets or borscht or any of it. A whole food culture died with them. They were Ukranian; the old country. They washed all their clothes by hand. When my dad bought a washer and dryer we would wash their clothes at our house every Sunday. My mom can speak Ukranian. I cannot. I can only say "Good day missus", "I don't want any" and "I don't know", plus a few foods. But I can't spell them.

masada

roasting folks in the valley

...
...
...
...

...
...
...
...

...
...
...
...

the impossibilists

hey.

cough.

you high?

yeah, you?

yeah.

troglodyte.

i'm the oracle, don't you know that by now?

yes, but you understand why i needed to see him right?

no, not really. i gave you the facts. why do you always insist on the irrational? this isn't mathematics. there's no solution.

you don't understand. i know he's lying to me. i just want to know what he's lying about.

well, look. you're ten years between accomplishments. you're up, what did you say? 15 pounds. you look like shit. you cut your own hair. what do you want from me? you keep asking me the same questions expecting a different answer. that's pathological. you know that right?

i'll get back to you.

looking at guitars

...he sees himself as the jeremy irons character in The Mission.

i haven't seen that movie.

oh. well, it's like, every guy has an angle or a gimmick. his is the 'reluctant priest/warrior' thing.

i have no idea what you're talking about.

...

are you hungry? let's get lunch.

anisotropic texture filter

cardophagus
wombat
purgatory
fossilize
merdivorous
prod

futilitarians

now accepting wagers on the raptors' record through the first 20 games:

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

prizes to be announced.

no messages

All you do is write down random words.

What’s your point?

Well, anyone can do that.

Sure.

Don't you read McSweeney's?

No.

janalysis

there are no planets in my house of intellect these days.

you're a good man, charlie brown

If even just once I could remember to close the top cupboard door before i bend down to pick something up. my head is killing me. i am so angry! argh! stupid cupboard door! Right on the corner!

be my prescription

i wish you were a pill, she said
i would take the whole bottle!

...the par in party

Golf is pretty much finished this year. The last round, 113. Honestly, I was a little disappointed. Not in the course. Copper Creek, great. But I had high expectations of myself. I really wanted to shoot 110 tops. Instead, a nervous 54 on the front, and then the blow up on ten – errant tee shot, OB; subsequently dump the third into the pond and then a couple of toppers (lifted my head) and a three-putt (anger). Didn’t regain my composure until the 14th(though on the 12th I got lucky and got out with a bogey, which I'll take). So, 113. A terrible score, but not one of those angry 113s. It was great. Even with five lost balls. Two on one hole. In the same pond. I don’t really keep GIRs, fairways, or putts on my card. It’s enough right now just to keep track of the number of strokes, there are so many. As evidenced*:But, as far as the overall game, this was a good year. Sixteen-and-a-half rounds. Seven different courses. Three countries. One new golf bag. Plus, the new woods, that, as long as I remember to choke up to control the fade, will really help us hit more fairways, with distance, than ever before. When I look at them even, they just fill me with fierce happiness. And my butter knife putter, too, should get a bit of a mention. I know there has been miraculous innovation in putter technology, but i feel strong with the old-school blade. I will admit that I lipped a few out at first, and i admit there have been doubts. But together, we one-putted the first three holes at Copper Creek, didn’t we my friend? Yes we did.

Anyways, to say goodbye to the season, one last fling with the clubs, we drove out to Andy Bathgate with C a few days later. Most of the range has been closed down but we hit a couple hundred on the remaining piece. Gusty conditions, but mild with top-shelf visibility. The soothing thrum of traffic off the 410.

Felt real easy with the high irons, even rusty gap wedge. I don’t know why, but there is a tendency to chicken out with the wedges around the green during play. The same shots (we visualize them in our mind when we practice) come off the club soft, with sober distance at the range. But then on the course we don't trust it, and so it dies or flies. It's hell. So, that’s my goal for next year: become deadly, in close around the green. I’m sick of giving up strokes because of my short game. This should be my specialty.

Afterwards, we went through the carwash. Improved Regular Wash, $8.99. There’s also The Basic and The Works. But there's just something about the phrase “Improved Regular” that feels comfortable to me. Maybe it has something to do with the drinking. Or second-hand jean jackets. I'm not sure.

*card unsigned!

one is the loneliest number

XXX XXXX X XXX XX XXX XXXXXX XXXX XXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXX XX XXX XXXXX X XXXX XX

cellular memory...

I think if i was a doctor i would explore cellular surgery as an answer to curing sadness. Because I think that our emotions create, or adhere or somehow are physicalized (?)into our cellular structure; especially feelings like loss and love and anxiety, the hard and strong emotions. Sort of like how my friend TJ won't eat meat because he believes that animals retain a cellular memory of the awfullness of their cooped and wretchedly farmed lives. And when you consume this tortured flesh, he told me, you consume all the pain and anguish the creature carried inside it. Just like mercury or PCPs. So, I think that if you could isolate the cells that are causing the sadness or pain inside a person, you could then excise them under the knife. Because you sure can't think your way out of this shit.

pace of asses

tonight, i intercepted an agitated lady attempting to steal a lawn chair from my backyard. our conversation was entirely random. it reminded me for some reason of a little while ago, i was crossing a street when a bouquet of flowers slapped down in front of me. I looked up and there was a woman on a balcony pointing at a man with raised hands, about four floors high. She clambered over the railing in her heels, holding onto it, but lolling out and obviously distressed. People around me stepped over the flowers and didn't look up. There was an exchange and then he went for her arms and she caved and they went inside together.

the magic spot

casual, yet turbulent.

jar head

the big bad dog

plus, new favourite words...
murder
parsnip
dingbat

three tilt warning

There's an artform to pinball. It involves more than just dropping coins and pressing the bumper buttons. You've got to know how to handle the tilt. You've got to understand how to lag shots and cradle and fight the side sewers. You've got to be able to hit consistent jackpots, roll the ramps, repeat the loops, knock down pressure shots and generate multi-balls on demand. You need intensity, focus. Pure being. You got to feel slices. These things are self-evident to anyone who has played enough. But for the uninitiated, pinball can seem like an archaic, almost luddite-esque experience. No nuance, garish, loud, heavy. Not at all like an i-pod.

While I can't deny that these things are true, I will say that pinball has more soul and more jazz than playstation or xbox ever will. I've been p-balling for about two years now. I mostly play at one place; which isn't so bad because they change the table often enough. NASCAR is the game of the moment. I like it. It's very kinetic, very fast. And you can really bounce the thing around without danger or tilts. I play hard on the table. I like to kick the legs and bang it forward. I'm not a table breaker or anything. I know what it is to lose a bonus on a tilt. It sucks. But I'm willing to take the chance to save a ball, you know?

stranger dynamic

I have only ever asked of God one thing: to make my enemies ridiculous. And he did.

Voltaire wrote that. I couldn't. Maybe it's not related, but i have always preferred funerals over weddings. At least with funerals, there's no need to pretend the future is bright.

...with envy

winner's blues

activate force shield.