standard brawn

balk at all dramas;
ask afar, madcap rants appall.
flashback ballads as bad
as ABBA harrass and
stab, grand mal attacks.
allay a black garland,
para-papal balms craft
grand chasms. (far away yachts)

ufc was on

sat next to the blonde
that caused all the commotion
back alley exit

supermundane

heavy no rain night
ate stew and drank coronas
with our friend cindy

and how

i'm listening to pollard and thinking about how to dispose of my albatross and how i'm going to get fired and how i love that bookstore babel and how i always have to have things hemmed and how paint flakes so fucking fast after you've painted and how you stop growing but life keeps taking more from you.

use your earwax to cut the foam (picked your sister up)

there are 54
steps from the terminal one
window to your spot.

thought you were past this

Try really hard to tell us what happened, please.

oh it’s so exciting and all those awesome people you met who liked everything you like.

And how that place was so great and everyone was so great.

and how they kept telling you how great you looked.

mean a thing

His goal one new
muscle every morning.
No matter what.

I try to equate that
like sit-ups to syllables
or pushups, memorized
fifty : meaning.

I can’t do either
because I have
a lousy, fat memory.

There’s so much
action live action
but here alone

nothing.

(Never add on)

captain vatican

it's smokey and i should have used force instead of humour to secure a pinball credit.

speak fucking english.

what can i do? the dude wouldn't move. i figure that deep down if i really loved Ripleys i would have figured out a way. maybe it was the universe at work...

NB: beware the discounted fashion magazine!

the opposite beer.

you're not going to change your mind or anything?

well, what choice do i have?

see you in ten.

killed by death

i'm not here to debate the merits or whatever of motorhead. i'm no completist. all i'm saying is that there's always another angle. no one's advocating anarchy exactly. i think i like coherence, or. it's just that i'm not sure that's what it's made for. you can like roy orbison AND ozzy. In fact, you sort of have to.

all get beaten down

she comes over so late. there's more to life than impromptu gratification? faith is as important as ______; which is more important than you think. (the rational)

time.

the tennis instructor

he misses courts
like bartenders miss love

bought some new racket
shoddy old batteries roll

from the porch i watch
you teach the things i

taught you. before
[xxxxxxx].

unlike coupons, we're not redeemable.
but you can't arrest a man
for the thoughts in his head.

star at the bar (bar star)

gorevale sting operation

sports

basketball is number three on my holy trinity of sports. it goes: boxing, golf, basketball. extra = baseball. In the old days, in Etobicke, i played tennis religiously. I was never that good but i loved playing and i showed well in the consolations each year. i understood the game but i was a junior just as the power game was coming in. i also couldn't control my emotions during tournaments. (YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS!)and being short, my serve didn't scare anyone. Now it doesn't matter. Play for fun at a good clip. You grow out of illusions, quick if you're lucky. Figure your level out. But i used to get frustrated. Being angry in sport is like blogging; it's embarrassing and doesn't improve your game.

I still play a little here and there in the summer with a couple friends, but less each year. Across from my first house are some ashpalt courts. When i move downtown, maybe ten years ago, there were only two rusty metal fences for nets. On only two of eight courts. The lines were so worn we'd bring chalk to mark the service line 'T' and the baselines but even then you'd have to trust the line calls because you couldn't see it unless you right up at the net. And by that time, I didn't have the legs for much serve and volley.

I'm not sure how we found out that you could buy your own nets. About the time we finally figured out what the cranks were for on the posts. Idiots. Anyway, we got our's at "the merchant of tennis". It was great because you could play anytime, as long as you wanted. For awhile. Then we realized that probably telling everyone who asked where they could get their own nets was counter-productive. By then it was too late. And in a strange way, all because of basketball.

I don't know how to play basketball at all. I mean, i understand the game. I get screen and roll. I understand shortening the bench. And one. I love it so i learn it. But I can't play it in the real world. The few times I played in my thirties in a publich school playground with other men, it was like i was unintentionally humping them. i could not stop from jumping into them, from stepping on their feet. I was like a drunk ballerina trying to box. But that's why i love basketball. Because i can't play it at all. I can't make a shot. I know how to do it, technically. I watch hundreds of highlights and games and i read shooting manuals online. but i'm useless at it. Pretty much every other sport (terrestrial) I can do a little. At least enough to make a game with similar level contestants. Hockey, baseball, skeet shooting, golf. But not hoops.

It seems like the things most foreign and difficult are always more interesting. It also seems that you can admit shortcomings, and often, other avenues to explore your passions offer themselves. Like the invention of video games. Sports games are fantastic. I love to rename every player in the league. That takes weeks. Sometimes, I forget to save and the player freezes. It's brutal. Especially if i was on a hot streak.

Anyway... (i'm off to a party)

guard down (let my)

(or 'keys')

there's this moment
when you entirely remember that
you've completely forgotten
a whole entire thing.

do you know for certain
you can't remember.

can you do it for me?

there was an argument, briefly, over the merits of dancing in the dark. but then she follows it with jesse's girl and we realize she's only playing springsteen for the mass appeal, not the hidden genius (no one would follow springsteen with springfield unless they were really into seasonal compounds). but trying to penetrate the motives of others is dicey. i was more interested in the pulling power of my new white shirt. with the blazer, i really thought it might make the difference. nope.

mathematical equations almost are impossible to use at a bar. i mean, unless you're an expert. but if it's just one of those things you're interested in, forget it.

once again tonight, sin proved more interesting than sentiment.

oh what's the point in being oblique? they say to write something because you seem like you'd be good at it. if you're catholic it's your father that hates you. in this case, you'd hate yourself.

crime

cuz goethe gets it
and we know that it pays, well
make haste, let's rob

...able to make a mistake

doctor, your album is awesome.

i'm a fool to delay you.

goddamn.

i love you doctor. i'll never doubt you again.

everything is prepared (i'll put this up against you)

sometimes a fan can sound like applause.

i mean a mechanical fan. which as i think about it, could mean anything. fans are ridiculous by nature. they're sad things. the sadder manifestation is the object of the fan. people who let themselves be adored are preposterous. though there are many parties for them. everyone loves to be blown.

it's difficult when your friends are these people. what can you do? you're either jealous or bitter or both. there is never really love among them. there is status i guess. or it seems like that.

my best friends have a better sense of humour.

diatribe in effect dude, obviously i'm so fucking bitter. fans as a mechanical for cooling you down are totally ok.

mandelbrot and juliet III

Two gold coronas
Accompany comfort fare
white lilacs eavesdrop

the centipede threat
dispatched summarily by
my rolled magazine

cold porcelain bowl
welcomes the party’s vestige
salmon chunks abound

applicant albert
with a bad case of nerves, was
paler than his shirt

new couples annex
past lovers’ geography
fast as riffled decks

moderation in excess

so, banff can best be summed up i think by employing the title of my favourite Deep Dark United song: Downhill is Downtown. If i have learned anything in my small little life it is that I always trust myself too late; scuttling about the foot of alberta's mountains, this came through to me yet again, clear as the air. sometime as i get older i hope that i will be able to figure out an appropriate blend between conviction and humility.

anyway, i realized too that while i love my neighbourhood and the three generation roots of my home here in hogtown, i prefer even more the feeling of being a stranger in a strange land. Though how strange banff, eh? Laugh if you want but sometimes exotica isn't a requirement for inspiration. Just changing apartments can be enough. I don't want to belabour the whole 'wow are mountains' thing, but when you've schlepped around on the canadian shield for a decade or two, vertical nature can really pop.

a sidenote: I realize of course for DDU purists, 'Downhill' is the poppiest and therefore least trustworthy of the oeuvre. Mr. Lukashevsky I hope will forgive me this populist plucking of his catalogue. Of course, many will not recall DDU; a shame indeed considering the emergence of subsequent local collectives who have parlayed the esoteric genius of Mr. Lukashevsky's quixotic ensemble into mellow, easy festivals and sales catalogue success.

Moving on. Much was made during the conference of 'social networking' and the collectivization of culture, thought and creation, especially via 'the tubes of cybernettick' as my new swiss friend would say. i am not entirely sure i know what she meant by that. I do know that i continue to instinctively doubt the popular. I have explored this contrarian element of mine to determine if perhaps it is more a by-product of envy than an intelligently configured thesis. no verdict. Occasionally you snap awake in the night with the answer to all these questions and more; The Hollingshead-ian 'supreme knowledge of everything'*. But it doesn't last.

As always, at the end of all digital discussions, the big question: what happens then when the power goes out? I hope for all our sakes (most especially bran's sake), we're sufficiently backed up.

*see, Ian Brown's What I Meant To Say

continental kit fake soft top

i forgot how much fun it is to hang out in hostels. i've arrived a day early for the conference i'm supposed to be attending. met a lovely woman en route who it turns out is among the organizing committee. these sorts of encounters make me remember why any kind of travel is always better than sitting still.

i've never seen mountains before. for me it has always been oceans that have wreaked havoc on my convictions. but the cold misty peaks are giving my memory of the aegean and south china sea a run for their salt. tom stoppard is my read on this trip. arcadia, precisely. i'm always impressed by anyone who can drop fermat and claim that newton's greatest error was to omit sex from his laws of attraction. definitely a grevious oversight.

at the moment i'm eavesdropping on a deeply tanned, self-possessed (in that faye dunaway way) spaniard as she endures the tragic approach of a gawky-capped ingenue. she makes me think of bonnie and clyde, how they get done in the end. how perfect it was. or how we all should finally come to accept that hoping for answers in the afterlife is like pretending that the solutions to life's problems can be located in the back of some divine text book. Watching their little frisson, i wonder if maybe it isn't more important to recognize that ultimately in all things we must fail. Not to suggest we should forfeit our hope to schopenhauer (never him!), but because of the comfort there is that we are all limited and frail. Who is not a fool is not alive (here I paraphrase my favourite writer du jour, Mr. Milch). Meaning i think that we should not quit the struggle or fetch as an excuse for indolence the futility of existence.

Anyway, much like the unfolding of all our stories, i did not witness the result of the spied-upon courtship. It's trite (when has that stopped you before cb?) but I wonder -- as my mind shuffles through these strange non-sequitor snap-shots of others' lives -- who out there has pictures of my forgotten moments in their memories? What eavesdropper has relayed with hilarity (or scorn) my own pathetic advances? (or is this gross ego at play? assuming any should attend my presence? christ, another spiral!)

Which leads me to another unfinished thought. For a while now, i have been obsessed (or rather, terrified) by time. Handcuffed by its relentless forward grind. Desperate to obviate its omnipotent sway. However, now that Adam Sandler has bastardized Nicholson Baker's ultimate and delicious exploration of time-control (see: The Fermata) for his own sophmoric purposes, I think my next preoccupation will be to seek out all incidences wherein i have provided 'human background' to stangers' pictorial records. To wit, take a look at some of your own vacation photos. In the background lurk those unidentified extras; the accidentally captured. Playing the part of anonymous hub-bub. Unknown drinkers in bars, meanderers on sidewalks, sunbathers on beaches, or passing motorists who happened by at the moment of exposure. A single moment of their unknown lives caught in our own context.

I'm exhausted.

note, written later... this is so bad i'm ashamed to be alive. it's like a pirate shirt or those continental kits on fake soft top lincolns in florida.

june bugs

unreadable books
prop open cracked windows
like cattle-car slats

denmark

i like how things can come and go. you know, i know because i know, what i mean.

if we had been in this neighbourhood, my neighbourhood i mean, we would be having a lot of fun.

anyway. this note should be had exactly like a martini.

swedgin

smooth balls are cute

--upset at the eviction turn,
and duke has retreated
inside the closet to lick off
what's left of his fur.
my comforting cliche elicits scorn.
don't pull that 'change is inevitable'
bullshit, she writes back.
chastened i relay:
bobby says,
tell duke to throw a party,
invite the neighbourhood
cats. a going away soiree.
chicken will not attend. but she
sends meows and says to say:
hey duke, smooth balls are cute.

vermilion in the wind

her impala themed cruise
pilots acetate ignominy.
such salted standards ripple
unseemly weaves, like drunk
boats or heaving breasts.
crumbled coptic revisions
spur the termites of wooden faith,
the foregone doom of falstaff.

rejected

dude, watching shaq get blocked by ben wallace last night, and then crash to the floor like a giant hock of ham; it felt like seeing your father cry. i'm telling you, it profoundly shook my psyche. i don't think i can ever feel safe again.

III

i love Yevgeny Yevtushenko.

molly

the pinkertons

whether or not you loved her has no fucking bearing.

goddamn it all i wanted was some fucking vague conversation. i didn't mean for the whore to get murdered.

that'll be for a jury to decide. though there are avenues for a man in need of a quick escape. for a man of means.

but i'm fucking innocent!

we're all innocent mr. dailey.

writer's block

-you should be a writer.

white wine splashes punctuate

on the way home

fine, so how am i pathetic?

first, don't give away your last twenty just because she's broke. just because you're sad doesn't mean you have to throw yourself at her.

i'm not!

let me finish. second, please stop making stoned plans with strangers to do great things. i know it makes you feel good, but it's ridiculous.

like you ever do anything. you know, interviewing b-list celebrities and opining on CDs for newsstand rags isn't anything to fucking brag about.

that's not the point. the point is, you talk too much and you never do anything. you define sloth.

...

...

so, are you gonna' let me borrow deadwood or not?

the sharpest card

1000 blown out (candles)

sometimes i think that hiccups were invented by the same Force that created ice cream headache attacks. Some 9th circle bumbling geist, sentenced to the terrestrial plane as punishment for an astral level transgression. doomed to stew their pernicious powers in the tiny tin chamber pot we call humanity. talk about being underused; i imagine their sole pleasure comes in wreaking such minor havoc. I think these may also be the same devilish agents that discovered nails-on-chalkboard, the styrofoam squeak and red wine hangovers. weaklings are always so vindictive after punishment.

arcadia report

in the cab after you loaned me the book, i had to almost immediately roll down the window to vomit. i think the excitment got to me. anyway, the driver right away pulled over and so now i'm on foot and trying to read it from streetlamp-to-streelamp.

i'm really hoping that i'm gonna' be ok for my 10am tee time tomorrow. My plan this year is to count each and every round towards my handicap, and i'm berating myself because i fell for your shanghai routine, again. so i'm reading it like a careening pastor clutches the testament, but then i get to the bit about Fermat. Instantly i feel somehow like my life is a success because i know of the Enigma. Luck makes you. Things find you. Never give up.

I have to read you this part:
Septimus(definitivley): "Not! There are no more than two or three poets of the first rank now living, and i will not shoot one of them dead over a perpendicular poke in a gazebo with a woman whose reputation could not be adequately defended with a platoon of musketry deployed by rota."

i'm just saying that people can get waylaid by anything. still, according to f.w., it never hurts to accept an invitation. after all, if you don't go anywhere, probably nothing will happen. probably.

(note: i shot a 95!)

quarter in a soda can

His shoulders weren’t so thin
to begin with, see
beat soup won't get you
as far as she needs you to get
cuz love can’t be furious
if it doesn’t exist, so full
cool may will seem to green
revolutionaries
wrapped in hot conviction.
once they grow old though
it’s a completely different bet.

'comments'

Fyodor said...
Glad to know things went a little better today at the library, with the exception of the dirty old man. Wait, I could be that very old man soon enough. Ok. He was just a confused old man. Yeah, that's it.

Good luck in St. Petersburg. And do please take lots and lots of snaps.

Octavia said...
Oh dear. Did he leer at you?

Glad to hear things are going better at the library. Have fun in St. Petersburg!

Jaroslava said...
Oh, oh, oh. All I can say is "oh." I had this kind of thing in England, believe it or not...but in infinitessimally smaller scale, apparently. No wonder they like their vodka so much.

Janzer said...
Oh MY. May I suggest earplugs??? They drown out all sorts of unpleasant sounds. Not sure if they'll completely block out a jackhammer, but at least you won't have to hear the old guy's emissions. I guess a little Vick's Vaporub on your upper lip might help with the odor.

I feel like going to my public library and hugging everyone in sight!

Eustace said...
Thank God all the science journals I get information from are online these days (and I don't need to look up ancient information). I think you should sneak in and steal the librarians' due date stamp.

fifty-two

cares about dimes anymore

exiting the sleven there's an old guy sleeping on the steering wheel of a datsun. i'm happy for two reasons. First, because the overnight clerk forgot to charge me for my horoscope and when he realized it, he made an expression and said, pay double next time. i said i meant to steal it anyway and he laughed. And second because i realized that within any fixed space, mathematical properties apply. for example, soccer.

soapy's gang

dead wood philosophy

"Pain and damage don't end the world, nor despair, nor fuckin' beatings. The world ends when you're dead; until then, you got more punishment in store. Stand it like a man, and give some back if you can."

apache kid

the french drop

it's true, you have to work. and not just these sad sporadic bursts. i mean, work. due diligence. committed production. sustained, directed fucking effort. but it's hard not to be waylaid. especially alone. maybe that's why two is better than one. because i love to loll. and, not meaning offense, but women are better at the marathon. meaning, single's a plus and a minus. there's a reason there's two sides to money. i think guys are more burst oriented; they aim for great moments. decisive actions. they don't do well at sustained excercise. maybe olympic marathon records will undercut my drunken social theorizing; or those titans of industry and finance, or philip roth. it has been my experience that i'm pretty much always wrong about everything. but a woman can make you work, i do know that much. however, in the absence of such fairer motivation, i will abide with cards and dice and a guilty conscience.

things we can't have

just for now it looks bad, but you don't need to worry.

looking into her eyes you can tell that the ecstasy is totally kicking in. seems the only positive people these days are high.

you're so awesome you know that? you're so SMART!

she's pulling at her hair and grinding her teeth like they're tiny strippers. i love her when she's fucked up. she'd make a perfect road agent i think.

sunshine, just do what you came here to do. then we can both go home. ok?

don't boss me!

no. 12 on the diamond

donate commodities
relax for an instant
dialogue for love
exhibit nervousness

1934

(fibonacci) migraine

0 : 0
1 : 1
2 : 1
3 : 2
4 : 3
5 : 5
6 : 8 = 23
7 : 13
8 : 21 = 3 x 7
9 : 34 = 2 x 17
10 : 55 = 5 x 11
11 : 89

five$ per mandible

i wish there was a bounty on centipedes because i would make serious money.

i know, they're everywhere now.

hey, i got you a couple of books. want to know what they're called?

totally.

the first one is "the king of swings"--

--wicked!

i knew you'd like it. want me to read you the back cover?

yes.

'...an orphan from the omaha stock yards who started out as a caddie, he was considered too small, too foreign, too poor to play the country club game. but he swore he would prove everyone wrong--'

--wait a second, my other line is going off.

...

ok, i'm back. sorry for that.

no problem. the other book is called "Dream Golf: The Making of Bandon Dunes". It's about one man's quest to build the ultimate golfing experience.

those are awesome finds.

yeah. they're not even published yet. they're advanced reading copies.

which reminds me, i had a crazy dream last night during my migraine.

yeah?

yeah. it starts out that i'm sitting next to the president at a theatrical performance of the lost gospel of judas escariot.

based on the 3rd century coptic manuscript i assume?

exactly. so anyway, after the show, i wind up in the president's limousine but our car deviates from the motorcade's route because it turns out our driver is an assassin of some sort. it falls to me to save the president's life by escaping through a concrete labyrinth below the city. somehow i wind up in a cocktail lounge and i keep trying to call for backup but no one will let me use the house telephone because what i thought was an FBI badge turns out to be my highschool student card. Also my sidearm is actually a purple water pistol and commands no respect. it was very frustrating.

so what do you think it means? aside from the fact that you need to get a cell phone.

i dunno. maybe that i'm a closet republican. and i'll never get one of those devices. they've destroyed the world.

ha. you're impossible. anyway, we've always known you were a republican. we've been discussing it behind your back for years.

really? damnit.

as for the water pistol bit, maybe it's got something to do with Dillinger, or the soap gun thing from Take the Money and Run.

excellent points. i was thinking something more freudian, although the dillinger reference fits perfectly with that. or maybe the water pistol was because i just watched House of Games again.

is that a good movie?

oh yes, it's excellent.

mispotted dice (bad beats)

benny's depressed again. he says: 'i wish i could be funny like you guys.'

it's hard with benny because you don't want to tell him that he's a junkie. he always bragged about how he could handle things and how we were suckers. i don't hold it against him, but i find it ironic that he gets killed by the things he thinks he owns. he'd say this better than i can. except that he can't.

i just say, 'you're funny benny, don't worry about it.'

imperfect things must travel

the blind gardener

...congested, for instance
or foggy is another example.
she calls it fat tongue;
don't like the way that sounds,
but it's accurate

curriculum complaints follow
portions of every generation,
those who learn too late
how to monetize their thing.

one hundred and two

her desperate attempt to escape the rock
unlike roy gardner or the plight of
the apache kid,
had nothing to do with island prisons.

klondike kate

shakey with beans

scrunched up napkin
walnuts and pecans
plus spinach clipped in chopsticks.

.38 special

even though it's one year gone, he still talks about it. i want to say to him that there's other things, that at forty-one, come on, he ought to be able to get on with it. but he can't. he's a wreck. pisces. it's like they're asking for it.

anyway, what's a friend's responsibility after a certain age? i mean, i have my own debacles to manage. but the dude is losing his shit.

folding laundry?

no thanks, i can't handle that stuff.

i shouldn't. it keeps me in the house.

it would make me vomit.

maybe you didn't know how to do it. were you swallowing it?

i don't remember. probably.

coincidental jam jar

that world beyond droll

...i'll go if you pay for my ticket.

how about you buy your ticket and if you decide you like it there, i'll reimburse you twice over.

so obviously you know it'll suck. in which case, i really fail to see why i would go.

well, look at it like it's a gamble. you like to gamble?

sure. but not on bad bets. although, what's to stop me from just saying i like it there, even if i don't?

you're telling me you're of such weak moral character that you'd dissemble for $100? like some swindling mudlark?

fine, big words. does ricky jay know you're stealing his act?

guilty. so what do you say?

let me get this straight: i buy my ticket. i tell you i like the place. you pay me back double. and no polygraph. no wonder reno killed you.

think about it this way: if you get there and it doesn't knock you out of your dirty grey sneakers, then $1000 or 1000 times $1000 won't ever change the fact that ____ ____ _____ because obviously you're ______ ____ ______ __-____ ______ of the morlocks. I'm speaking to you as a friend.

i have no idea what you're talking about.

so you're in?

the kindness of fists

believe me! i tell you i have
only best intentions.

but the results are killing me.
are there any other choices?
those with means see meanness,
complacency that deserves no pity

ask me to the hot show
you can't understand
my antipathy, you think
i am maladjusted. de-looped.

this isn't so. there is
more at play than you know.

but what choice is there for
an average fellow?
just to shake and stir in
locked closets. to endure
accusations, a-poetic arrows.

nope. better beaten by knuckles
than dithered among soft,
mediocre pacifists.

from a motel 6

she's listening to schubert on the tv. sonata in 'd', she tells me.

how do you know that, i ask?

because it tells you on the screen.

what's your favourite tv radio station?

channel 476. it's the nature station. it's just the sound of thunderstorms and birds and wind and things.

the sound of things. i like it.

now i'm listening to a partitas. i don't even know what that is.

how do you spell it?

partitas.

gambling with cats (plus wells)

i swear i need to get duke some valium. he's licking at his fur so hard there are bald spots. i think he's got massive anxiety.

cats are a crapshoot. hey, did i loan you The Time Machine?

No. ... wait a minute, you have a time machine?

aimless through bushes

please give up (you're no good)

I know I saw you today.

I don’t care if

I wish ...

stars aren’t exactly available

these days.

gathering concern

just before sunset, sunshine finally shows up. almost three hours late. alone.

she slides in across from me at the picnic table and roots around in her purse; all pastey and shakey curtained by liquored-out hair.

'so, where is he?' i finally have to ask.

'not coming.'

'not coming. this is unbelievable.'

she gives me the sideways death stare.

'what went wrong?'

'you don't want to know. light?'

no. i quit.'

'i liked you better when you smoked.'

'what's the difference?'

'all the eye contact.'

'you know, there's an envelope to all this. to their patience.' i try to make it even-handed, 'everyone is aware you're under pressure sunshine, but there is gathering concern...'

no reaction unless you count the predictable stonewall. a heavy silence crept over the deserted parkette. mastering my panic ins't one of my strengths and she knows it. i crack as per usual.

'we're fucked now, you realize that? it's complete calamity. are you registering this sun? please, tell me what you think my options are.'

'yes!' flourishing a found match she ignites her 100. 'don't be so dire siggie. it makes you unattractive. life is a comedy remember? you used to say that.'

'please, just tell me what went wrong. tell me something i can tell them.'

she laughs. 'tell them it was food poisoning.'

sunrise seven ago

(world of darkness)

"Damned reborn from the Thousand Hells, the Kuei-jin dance a razor's edge between enlightenment and the powers of the Demon. At the dawn of the Sixth Age, will these vampires redeem the world or feast upon it as it dies?"

ground and pound

i mean, who wants to be beaten to the brink of death?

it's not who wants to be beaten, it's those that want to beat.

but someone has to be the loser...

but the great thing about it, about those guys, is that no one ever believes that they're going to be the loser.

that's sort of the sadness of the whole thing. ugh, it's barbaric. men are such animals.

ha. women aren't?

we don't beat each other to the brink of death for entertainment.

no, you starve yourselves to the brink of fashion.

E.B. has a girl to set you up with.

no.

(be calm) how involved are you?

god, the corners i bang into i deserve.

if you can't write it, you don't know it.

i don't think that's true. what if you can say it?

[redacted]

you can really edit things to death.

yeah, nothing is ever complete.

so you retract the premise?

no, i deserve my pain.

bundling (board or otherwise)

i'm on the trail of the bundling board. what is it? why is it? what greater significance might it have? was it victorian? quite likely colonial. i first heard it mentioned on deadwood. i could google it. but i'm taking a break from looking things up. i'm not against learning. i'm against faux learnin'. whatever the fuck that means. jesus, the quality of my thought is diminishing as i think about it. i should maybe stick to linking to smarter things.

so, a bundling board, basically a wooden slat, was used to physically separate two people laying together in the same bed. when seth bullock's wife -- previously married to his brother, who was killed [fighting the comancheros in Texas] -- arrives in deadwood he installed a bundling board along the median of their bed. she says to him at the end of episode 14 that she removed it. this further complicates seth's burgeoning relationship with alma garrett, a recovering opium addict whose claim he reconnoitered. ha.

bundling (no board) as a practice was the convention used by unmarrieds when no other option but sharing one bed was available to them. it simply means to sleep together with all your clothes on. this i think would be a perfect abstinence campaign these days. not that i'm for it, abstinence. or against it. i suppose you can make a case for anything. i just mean that bundling would be fine angle to take. old is new again, right?

malevolent rubble

this morning i was walking to work when a chunk of cement fell from the sky and landed right in front of me. i could taste the dust it was that close. i felt it whoosh by my head an instant before it crashed down on the sidewalk and for that split second i thought it was a bird dive bombing me. but then the crack sounded and the fragmented bits scattered around and i totally got all shaky and, once across the steet, i had to lean underneath a shop doorway to pull myself together. was it an ambush? i heard no rustling on the rooftops above. there were no dodgey silhouettes. was it just failing architecture? i don't know. but coupled with the dog that attacked me two weeks ago, i'm terrified of what's gonna happen next. things come in threes, right?

amended, april 12: i fully suck. basically i should have just fucking said: today, a chuck of concrete fell from above, narrowly missing caving in my skull, and crashed onto the pavement in front of my nearest foot. that's it. that would have sufficed. fucking over-writers. hate them, hate myself. ha.

the lethargists

one afternoon, back in '88, I was smoking outside the school's cafeteria when a couple of kids wearing burgundy berets and fu-manchus* sauntered up to me. i expected they were trying to score some hash. i'd been empty since f.w.'d got pinched six weeks previous and was ready to put them off. instead they said, 'are you benny craft?' I was and still am, so i nodded and they said, 'some of us are meeting tonight at the kingsway billiards. we think you should come by.'

i had no idea who these cats were. Jameson Collegiate Institute held about 800 kids, not including the evening adult courses. i knew most of them either from river parties, classes or my extracurriculars, but these ones i'd never seen. i said, 'who are you guys?'.

'i'm thurston and this is siggie.' the speaker was the shorter of the two and the prescription intensity of his buddy holly spectacles presented a frightening, owlish cast. siggie was a real tall knob. like if larry bird was a grocery store bag boy instead of an all-star nba genius. neither of them once took their hands out of their overcoat pockets.

'do we know each other?' i asked, as it dawned they might be [xxxxxx].

'i doubt it,' thurston said and his partner shrugged an ambivalent. 'Just be there. Nine o'clock.' They turned and crossed away over the football field. I smoked the rest of my navy cut and watched them take the tracks across the river.

'what was that all about?' my lab partner becky locks spoke to me through lighting up a smoke.

'don't know. something about meeting at the pool hall tonight. you know those guys?'

she exhaled, 'never seen them before. i don't think they go here.'


*only the berets were burgundy. the fu-manchus were normal colours.

titles are easy

this isn't how it happened:

she exhales and says, i'm very close to spitting in Pat's eye. If I didn't already. Pat looks at me and says: women are like the [self-censored], man. did i ever tell you that?

yes you have, i say. it's good we're among friends. pat's presentation has humour, but it's dangerous. he pitches his cigarette and the rest of us do the same. some old boogie woogie is playing as we come back inside.

there's two of them hipsters at the end of the bar. they're in the middle of him lobbying her for a new beginning. he's pushing his porkpie cap back on his head, like he's fed up. she catches me looking at her and sends it right back at me. i was in a richer place than usual tonight and even there, people have drinking problems.

meanwhile, Pat's arrayed a slew of booze against any possibility of a functional tomorrow. I know he's got no money and i look this at honey and she mouths, i only gave him bar scotch.

then he tries to tip his tip-out. she pushes it back to him. everyone promises each other how great they are.

all these fucking human tragedies, she says to me in particular, and bangs down a round of carbombs. what am i supposed to do with love like this?

pajanners logo

calamity jones

you sure how to fuck shit up for yourself, don't you?

seems that way.

what excites me the most about your self-destruction bent is how creative you are about it. you're like the ricky jay of disaster.

thanks. that means alot.

well, be seeing you.

yeah. see you.

terminate the pan

...the problem of other minds

we're both at work on the phone, talking low, when she asks, 'how do other people's minds operate?'

'i don't know,' i say. 'you should ask the Philosopher that question.'

'i mean, how many containers of thought can your mind hold? at the same time? do you ever think about that?'

The Meridian's display says we're going on 53 minutes. I want to say, of course i think about that. I think about shit like that all the time and it's totally driving me crazy. i want to say how sometimes i almost know everything. but i know she'd recognize it as hollingshead, who said it better than i ever will. i honestly think i'm going insane these days.

i say, 'i think i'm going insane.'

'you know what our problem is?' she tells me, 'it's that we consistently confuse our gifts for limits.'

'isn't that just another way of saying we want what we don't have?'

'i'm making us an appointment with the astrologist, okay?'

'what about the tenth planet? have they incorporated that yet? am i still a pisces? what good can come from astrology anyways?' i sound more desperate than i thought i was.

'oh shit,' she says. 'i got another call. call you later.'

(it's like saying) neils bohr was good with numbers

i keep hearing that heart song in my head, magic man. and though it's got nothing to do with magic, i'm obstinately using it as the soundtrack for my imaginary conjuring career. naturally, when one makes a statement like that,.

trying hard to avoid lifting more lines from Larry David...

the truth is, i'm not really qualified to write or talk about very much at all. there is a modern phenomenon, or maybe pandemic is the better word, in play. it's the idea that if you've read something, perhaps a critical review of a concert or a biopic of a well-regarded writer or painter, there is a tendency to pass this knowledge off as though you actually gained it through some direct experience with the subject itself.

see the ornette coleman review...

so what do i say about ricky jay? obsession does not beget coherence; it tends to further obscure the subject. drowning in proximity or whatever. my learning is like sunshine through rippled windows.

picsces: our blessing and curse. instant understanding and empathy. the ability to free associate. no idea or concept or emotion exists as a constant for us. BUT, we find it impossible to stop time long enough to completely encompass and codify our ideas. this lack is an ultimate frustration. so we lash out. keep trying to make nothing into something.

(ricky jay!)

.

the favourable lie

ok. today's the day i break out the clubs for 2006. as i mentioned at the end of last season, this year my in game focus will be to become a wedge assassin around the green. i will have NO FEAR! i'm sick of giving up strokes because i yip my pitches and chips. it feels like when you realize you've locked your keys in the car.

also, I have set the following goals, though not neccessarily as ordered:

1) control the rage.
2) practice relentlessy.
3) break 100.
4) reduce handicap by 6 strokes.
5) predictable fade.
6) get lessons.
7) shotmaking.

man, can't you just feel the excitment!?

we are ratios

i'm almost too tired to write anything. but tonight i was in the market and with it raining and the fight i got in, i figured i had to try a little at least.

actually, this is impossible because i don't really remember anything. except that she bit me on the face, and that's the most action i've had in a while. also, it seems i have a large rip in my pants.

small case

so i'm trying to pour f.w. into a cab but he's resisting rescue, plus he's devolved into paranoid maniac mode.

'you're mocking me! i know you're mocking me!'

'i'm not mocking you. you make good sense. but it's time for you to go home.'

he's giving me the patented anxiety glare: 'you know how i am! i just can't take that kind of misappropriation in public. they just shouldn't be allowed to represent like it's first-hand knowledge when they weren't even born then!'

i lean over to the driver's side window and tell him the address. through the rearview, i catch his eyes flicker between f.w. in the backseat and me. still he takes the bill i'm offering.

'you only think you know the pain!' f.w. yells* out at a strolling uptown couple. oncoming headlights glint off his waxy skewed lenses. 'how the hell are you supposed to buy a suit on sneaker wages!?'

their pace didn't change. utterly no reaction. as if they knew we would all be leaving soon anyway.

i say, 'f.w., inside voices dude.' then to the driver, 'he won't puke, don't worry.' he looks resigned.

just before i close the door f.w. whispers: 'you'll never see me again.'

he was both right and wrong.

the ladder and the gutter

--then the union was locked out, remember?

that's right. i left for ethiopia that day i think. was that the 26th?

the 26th, yeah. i think so... because of 'forgone collisions'.

ha. i forgot about that.

...

...

she saw how he was looking past her. he glanced at her crossed arms and pale hands.

--are you?/have you?-- they both started and stopped. he shaded his eyes against the long fall sunshine.

i heard you've got a show in the market.

she brightened and softened, yeah. how'd you hear?

you know, i'm around. he meant it as in neighbourhood news, but she took it as an offer and her eyes hit the pavement.

well, it was good to see you.

yeah, you too.

coffee pot sunday III

skinny bitch duel

can't buy a fight

amazing christian magic

it just dropped (it didn't break)

groper and dirty c had a big plan but it was derailed. typical. actually not so much derailed as forgotten and slept through. still the perogies, dead like me, and the seven drink selection turned out to be nice.

past, the porch

i will probably stay

'dude, i gotta get the hell out of this place.' benny's hunched over, looking around his shoulders, sloshing his stout into his shirt cuffs. he's got that frantic look and i really don't have the patience for him tonight.

'let it go benny, you're not going anywhere.' sometimes when you're sick of someone you just push their buttons automatically.

his eyes glow like pinballs and he pulls out his exacto knife. 'that's the problem f.w. I'm not going anywhere.'

honey sees this happening from behind the bar but we both know benny's just dramatic. she's still in love with him i can tell. he doesn't even notice her anymore. it drives her crazy. i can't stop thinking about her, but i'm not benny and that's that.

'you guys want to do a shot?' honey says and bangs down three tumblers in front of us.

'how about a car bomb?' benny looks at me and i shrug sure. it's all going to turn out the same again anyway.

latino kings II

last night i saw the gangster again. i tapped him on the shoulder to say hello, remember me and he almost cut me with an industrial exacto knife. quickly, i showed him the magic trick and that defused him. close call though.

life is great

i'm thinking while i'm running out of the hospital that no matter how much blood i lose, i won't be sorry. it doesn't take long until i'm shaking and i have to lean against this lady. immediately she starts yelling something about warren beaty or the cops so i force myself into the future. i don't know what god's plan is for me, but i'm happy for anything i can use.

way to ruin it

your reach is as good as a spill right now. i can tell.

watch it. i'm a magician.

no you're not.

yes i am.

yeah, one trick.

ok, bring me a diet coke.

carbombs?

i'll meet you there.

(for these two kids, there was never any reason for reason. they never saw an ugly moon in their lives.)

come on put it on (take it off)

[redacted]

you don't belong (and then you did)

-don't make me reget this benny.

even now she made me nervous.

-just let me show you my magic trick.

-oh god benny. get serious. everyone's sick of you.

ill between naps

we'll [***] blackberry.

high enough to concentrate

[no] going mobile

i was thinking, the payphone is like the vinyl of telecommunication.

good one. have you read that DFW article, about the inhumane murdering of lobsters? how the hiss you hear when you drop them in a pot of boiling water isn't just air escaping, it's the lobster's death cry?

no. you really have to be something to worry about lobster screams though.

i guess. why do you think there are so many boxers nicknamed 'sugar'?

maybe it's because it's the 'sweet science'.

yeah, maybe... maybe it's standard appellation for fighters named 'ray'.

maybe. there's no 'sugar bob', or 'sugar carl'?

um, not that i know of anyway. oh wait, there's a sugar shane. he's a contender i think.

huh. so, have you seen your crush lately? you talk to her yet?

no, not yet. i think i should just kidnap her iraqi style.

you're so good sometimes with your language. i have the feeling that it would work for you. the kidnapping thing.

you're a medium. and by that i don't mean average.

you're gifted and by that i don't mean retarded--

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