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.

be the monolith

when you quit a thing, all the other things that you used to do that involved the quitted thing must be relearned or abandoned. In my experience, I have found that, more or less, that this process takes one full year.

There used to be plenty of years laying around so I wasn't bothered so much. But not anymore. Now I would like to find a way to accelerate this process, as a whole year is too much time to spend quitting anything.

So I turned, as I always do in times of crisis, to astrology. However, there isn't much in the way of praxis-based solutions on this subject. There are only warnings and omens and soft prophecies. Which I fully love, for sure. But what I'm after here is a way to collapse the withdrawal phase to a few short weeks. Philosophy quells somewhat the panic; either by confirming that there is utterly no hope to existence anyway, or by making me so confused that i forget about the problem i was originally attempting to alleviate. But again, I need to utterly extinguish all longings and temptations.

So I realized that I could look to no outside agency. It's up to me. So I came up with an idea called:

Temporary Psychic/Organic Transference, aka: T-POT
Basically what this involves is the complete transfer of all mental, psychic, and motor control to a trusted, trained, expert proxy. The timeline for control return obviously is agreed upon prior to the transaction. I'm not sure how much this would cost. It works like this, I think: Using some sort of transfer architecture/technology (like that saliva/hydro sucky thing that dentists use to suck the spit out of your mouth) a trained professional would connect the two parties -- the patient and the proxy -- and, like osmosis i guess, the patient's 'life control system' would be vaccuumed out of their body/brain and stored in optimal conditions (say like a sanitized mason jar in a cool place) for its return. Then the proxy's 'will' would be 'uploaded' into the patients emptied compartments. The proxy then would assume full and complete control over the patient, assuming completely all stored knowledge (memory, personality, ticks, etc) but would retain autonomous decision-making power over the host. The host would have monitoring capabilities, but no ability to at all influence the proxy's piloting of their body.I think that the proxy would not be able to control themselves at the same time they are controlling a patient, so their body would have to be stored and supplied with nutrients and evacuation systems pending the return of themselves to themselves.

So, now that I've been able to surrender myself to another person totally, they get to go through all the shit I don't want to. And because they don't have the same issue that I'm enduring (of course, a screening process would be neccessary to ensure that this is true. I can forsee some complications here.) and because they aren't emotionally or psychologically attached like I would be, they can manage to do all the usual things I would do during my day, but without the anxiety, pressure and pain I experience due to all the associated, vestigial issues surrounding the quit. For instance: I quit smoking, but can't seem to shake the need for a cigarette when I drink. I sure don't want to have to stop drinking just because I quit smoking. So, with my proxy, they could take my body out to the bar, have drinks and laugh it up (totally just like my personality, no one would ever know that I was actually in stasis in a mason jar somewhere) and everything and never feel the need for a smoke! I believe that this could work for almost anything. For example, if you broke up with someone and you see them all the time because you have common friends and they won't stop hanging around your spots, so why should you right? Well, sign up for T-Pot for a month or so and you can still do all those things, but via your proxy. So you never feel any of the usual breakup pains or awkwardness. You're able to acclimatize yourself, via the proxy, to this new dynamic and then when your 'life system control' is returned to you, everything is totally no problem. I mean there are tons of applications.

shit, more later...doorbell

And even once people become comfortable with the process and it actually works reliably, you'd even use it to like, zone out for a day. Like a spa, but even better because someone can do the workout for you. Unless you like working out. Even so, everybody's got their own particular fence to whitewash.

Challenge To Myself: Determine what possible negative side-effects, collateral damages, possible malfunctions, existential crises, quantum impossiblities etc... may occur.

The O.C.

Ornette Coleman, Massey Hall. Ok, but first, I have to tell a story about O.Coleman that I don't know myself. I heard it from D while we were walking out of Massey Hall after the show, and I read another part of it later on. So I'm second-hand here. Anyway, so Coleman was playing at a place called the Five Spot in NYC in 1959. It was like 'a turning point in history' and everyone is totally going to this show and Ornette is freaking them out. Miles Davis said after catching his set that he thought Ornette must be "all screwed up inside". Dizzy Gillespie supposedly walked up to the bandstand after a performance and said "you're fucking kidding me, right?" Also, another night, Max Roach got so mad at what he was hearing that he punched Coleman in the mouth at the show, then showed up in the middle of the night at his home and yelled for him to come down so he could kick his ass some more. So, what have you seen like that? Know what i mean? But I'm just repeating shit everyone already knows.

telephone call. more later

ok. so there were two double-bass players - Greg Cohen and Tony Falanga -- and his son, Denardo, on drums. Ornette played saxophone and violin for one song (he dropped it at the end and it broke) and also a trumpet briefly. He wore a black wizard suit with gold symbols all over it, shiny pointed black shoes and a plain porkpie hat. When they came out on the stage, the audience errupted and applauded and yelled out for a long time; then Ornette whispered hello and then they played and noone spoke after that.

It was tremendous. It was crazy. I couldn't stop laughing at times it was so outrageous and good. I swear, it seemed to me like they just played whatever they wanted to play, i mean, individually. Just random progressions and notes from who knows where they got them. Though, slowly you could tell they had certain phrases they'd return to. Like thin anchors in the storm. Oh yeah, and the double-bass pizzicato player, his plucking hand turned beet/beat red by the second song he was going so fast. Thinking about how it would throb made me feel sick for a while.

The songs, which I didn't know a one, were like strings of digressions or falling down stairs or like walking by turning in a new direction for every step. But it made sense if you looked at it like it was a longer thing. And it was mesmerizing. They'd seem to shift you around somehow so you'd hear each instrument just slightly featured; and it was great because the crowd would float in appreciative applause after these features, sort of like a gentle awakening. And then you'd sort of reset to the next adventure. Travelling around the stage, inside each player, until then you'd feel like you were outside the Hall, maybe back in time, or thinking of a thing you want to have happen. Transported. That's how it felt. But so random and even out of tune and sometimes I couldn't connect at all together what each player was playing. It was like different songs at the same time. Sometimes it seemed that they couldn't actually play their instruments. I mean, they were unbelievable musicians, but it came off liked they resolved to not at all pay attention to anything about scales or harmony or whatever and make like that's how they wanted music to be. Like studied savants. Still, they played at times from sheet music, so you know at least some of the chaos has order. And also, Coleman came up with a name for how and what he plays, 'Harmolodics'. So that's what I'm hearing I guess. Even though I have no idea what it means when I read the explanations of it. It's like if you decided you'd play poker by showing everyone your cards, but still you beat them. Ornette Coleman, man.

blah blah. telephone again

let the sleeping dan lie

some more 'favourites+hated', courtesy of catalina and stout:

eradicate
linoleum
acrobat
crotch
trundle
milky
anomaly
licorice
petulant
tomorrow is the last golf day of the year for me. i've been fading the driver so i'm a bit worried about hitting the fairway off the tee. and lately the short game is my murderer. still, i'm confident in my putter (as should we all be) so we'll see. I think I have a good chance to break 100. (Also, I am going to Ornette Coleman. I will try to remember it enough to tell some of it.)


PS: “captain, we believe that they're using their phonetic skills to attack new words.”

cohen's

come down to my room
i was thinking about you
and i made a pass at myself

...

i am punished when i do not sweat
or when i try to invent something
i am one of the slaves
you are employees
that is why i hate your work

my favourite words list

rabbit
twirls
dunk
mammoth

e.e.

2 little whos
(he and she)
under are this
wonderful tree

smiling stand
(all realms of where
and when beyond)
now and here

(far from a grown
-up i&you-
ful world of known)
who and who

(2 little ams
and over them this
aflame with dreams
incredible is)

to know it is to kill it

Is it true that you'd have to cut down a tree to find out how old it is? when does life as a tree begin exactly? From the seedling? Sprout? I don't know.
sidebar(a):
A list of words i've never said out loud (or only recently):

digestif.
non pareil
sensual massage
agape
physiognomy
riposte.

sidebar(b):
A (short) list of words that gross me out:

pantyhose
pork
yoghurt
moist
yeast

jesus creased