sub-better versions (fake swings)

benny throws another armful of my clothes into the drum and says, ok pass the gasoline. i hand him the red plastic gascan and he soaks the barrel's contents -- most of my wardrobe, some letters, books; the sundry evidence of a near past -- and then we both step back aways.

you want to say anything? he says, a redbird between his fingers.

nope. burn it already, i say.

he strikes the match off his thumbnail and tosses it into the drum; the works erupt. through the warbled air and hissing embers, his rictus grin makes me think i've been played. i like it about benny that you never really know whose side he's on.

there's a crowd down the street milling like geese. benny says he can get us past the line. I'd rather watch the stuff burn but that's not part of the deal. you've got to show her, he says and fake golf swings again. head down, like a shortstop, he mantras. i hate golf. goddamn bourgeois. but i like it when benny does his fake swings.

we go to see the band. they're written up in the ny times magazine so it's all pretension to me and i can't stand them. benny says that nothing a person likes or doesn't like is ever really totally about the thing. i think it's not so complicated. when you hate something, you hate it. it should be like that.

way past last call we leave for nowhere. the fire's burned out and it's colder outside than i thought, even though it's february. it's because we haven't eaten since friday. and also because i just burned all my clothes.

perilous whisky

...The first taste affects all the members of the body. Two spoonfuls of this liquor is a sufficient dose and if any man should exceed this, it would presently stop his breath and endanger his life...
explorer Martin Martin, 1695

deep sea anxiety

i guess all i'm saying is that i wish i had some kind of purpose.

where would you keep it?

keep what?

your porpoise.

no, purpose.

oh.

...

...

i hear the club sandwich here is nice.

agent 289

they don't call it dope for nothin', she says

i'm turning cold blue, but there's one last thing...

let it go benny, you aren't moses. not unkindly she's watching me fade.

don't tell frenchie... the words are softer than breath but she blinks. i wish there was a finer way to hurt her.

would you like to know the secret of the universe? she's teasing me now. i can't tell the difference between the sky and her eyeshadow. her teeth are tiny tombstones.

what do you know about it? my voice is as small as a molecule. i thought you were a bartender.

when she smiles it is beyond anything i ever thought possible.

oh benny, you fall in love too easily. another recrimination stolen from my archives. i hate it how she always knows a little more about everything than i do.

you're like the ugly girl in the playground. you give it away to anyone who comes along. don't you know that it only matters when they can't have it?

words have become ropes now. i suddenly remember every book i've ever read. every letter i ever wrote. clutched tighter by them than any armed embrace. our blinks are slow heavy honey. motes of wisdom hang in the space between our lives.

so long benny. we're the exact opposite of each other, you know that?

she turns about on her heels as quick as a lifespan. i try to breathe her in as she steps away but my lungs are dead fishes. i'm too tired to do this anymore, i realize. i know everything now. I know how wrong and right i am and i no longer care about the dissonance. how people can turn from everything to nothing is no longer a mystery i need to resolve. yes, we are all opposite.

acid eyes

f.w. is telling us about the time he got maggots in his eye. they fell out of an old ham sandwich he scrounged from the alley. it was awful, he said.

i'm only half listening because i'm flashing back to an acid trip i had in highschool. I was with the band, side-stage at the annual Star Search. The Lords of Metal. Right before we went on, Zia had asked me in a whisper if I was dropping chemistry. I had no idea what she was talking about; my grades were straight A's. But everything Zia said to me sounded like 'I love you'. So I said, sure. To be cool. She pale palmed me a mchit and told me to put it under my tongue. After the show all I remember is floating in her pool listening to 'give me another chance'. i never went back to school. which is why i guess we're eating from cans.

disarm you

you gave me a present today and it was unexpected and undeserved.

yes.

so you know that--

--yes

ok.

grasshopper

i sometimes feel like i can't carry a thought through to its conclusion.

that's a terrible thing.

exactly.

do you ever have those times when you're introduced to someone you already know, but you don't want to see them again?

yes.

do you ever have those times where you're introduced and then you have to eat shit just to be socially even?

you can't win.

i know.

needs make maps

i was wrong about Denmark. Let's get that out there first. I need a mapmaker and one that can predict the future as well. Lay out my roads that i might avoid incident. I keep giving up pinball. Especially since it went and got that push-button trigger. Why does God care about posture? I'm not speaking of hunching. I believe we were meant to act on hunches.

fake meat place

why is everyone biting everyone? i have been bitten twice now. and so have my friends*. why?

*not neccessarily twice

erasers and negs

i had the dream again. i'm an eraser. my job is to track and neutralize the 'negs'. these are like proto-humanoid zombies designed by 'scripts' to cull humans for some dark purpose. i have not yet in the dream been able to determine the ultimate design guiding these agents in their nefarious commissions. i have not percieved either the controlling mind behind the scripts and the negs, nor its agenda, though in each occurence of the dream i feel somehow that i am getting closer. the actions of the negs seem to be more panicked, less coherent and discrete. only i seem to be able to identify a neg. i am armed with some kind of anti-matter disrupter. i don't know how i came to possess it, nor the science behind it. it is certainly advanced technology. notwithstanding this opacity, i am an expert with it and the negs have learned to fear me. the scripts -- which seem to be of a more intelligent and malevolent order -- have begun targetting those around me in an attempt to isolate and eliminate me. this last dream i scrambled to prevent disaster but they managed to destroy my house and almost murdered my parents. i cannot explain to anyone what is happening because how could any of them believe me? so i find myself with narrow escapes based on preposterous concoctions. luckily i managed to convince my parents to spend some time up north at the cottage. this safely allowed me to engage in a full-out combat with three separate negs disguised variously as a chauffeur, my boss (who tried to seduce me into complacency. it almost worked!) and my 'best friend' F.W. I suspect they (the scripts) actually terminated these people and replaced them with 'negative replicates'; hence 'negs'. but i can't be sure. i can trust no one. i have found no allies. i don't know how long i can hold out. but what choice do i have? i am the eraser.

300 plus keepers

you'll think i'm crazy but if my dreams of becoming a professional mentalist don't pan out, i may turn to crabbing. i just really like the lingo. and the boat mothers.*

*liar. i reference here television; i am humiliated. deadliest catch.

post christmas cupcake hand grenade

my date's been eyeing my fries and i say, do you want a fry? she says no and then, you know what your problem is? i say, sure.

split marbles

whenever i bend
... down to pick a thing up
and crack fore
heads with you i
know we were meant to
be.

defined by nickels

it's easy to carry around a bottomless bucket, but you can't put anything in it.

majudo

I, demon (negative)

ricky jay is still my number one magician... [xxx]

flow with the go

you don't want
the squeaky chair
at the bar unless
it's in the corner spot.

street chips

jimmy the greek once said that the only feeling that even comes close to the thrill you get from gambling and winning is the plummet you get from gambling and losing.

the unthinkable

the restaurant just opened and they haven't yet put out the rollups. my date whispers, 'there's no one here', in a tone that suggests we're surrounded. the onion rings arrive hanging from a little metal piece of art, which also cups two shallow dipping bowls filled with what tastes like ketchup, shrimp cocktail sauce and horseradish. Our waitress' name is Lex. I make no jokes, though she looks like the type that would open other people's lockers in high school. she's got nothing to say to me either except the basic specials. my utensils are magnetized and i use the knife to draw out some loose change and nails from my pockets. my date is duly impressed.

when we're done rearranging the frites and slaw, i ask Lex to wrap it up and she advises us to do it ourselves. Wouldn't want them to touch my food, she says of the kitchen staff. we depart without leftovers, but i pocket a fork.

Stepping out into the mall is a business of etiquette. Too few appreciate the giving qualities I bring to my pedestrian ambles, but i am always aware of traffic and flow. I am like a river among rocks. So it is a short step to madness for me when oncomers disdain to appreciate the delicate art of passingby. too many times i have tasted murder on my teeth as a parcel or elbow is delivered into my path by an oblivious walker. learn to merge! i choke back the scream. this is what happens in the mall. if you are not a survivor, you should not come here.

not for the first time, my date compliments me on the parking spot i secured. and she is right. it is a fine parking spot. but all things end.

low dragging knuckle fellows

benny says, i realize my problem is that i am fucking jealous of everyone. i can't even remember how it was before. I mean, i never gave a fuck about whose girlfriend it was, or your car or fucking shoes or what the fuck. And now i fucking can't stand it. the world of guys is after my chick and i can't afford to fight them off. it fucking sucks. i should have gone to law school.

that's the truth.

later she's wrapping my scarf around her neck without thanks and she says: i just don't like how you do things.

i think of benny and i think of how i don't like how we do things either.

pictures at 11

steady

steady drinker
unsteady

the weak force

dark matter confides
a truth about us
held tight by the weaker
produced against doubt
lit up like an eyeball
beguiled by gems
stoned pasts and dimensions
ideated by M

varmint and stout

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

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