Bored for Now

My nuts

2008-02-15T12:26:00.002-05:00

me and my nuts are a real def team
Not cool with my nuts when they give wet dreams
last night had to change my sheets about a quarter to three
Didnt feel like turning on the lights but had to pee
every three months shit interrupts my z's
In relational space bust my nut on the count of three
Wish i could enjoy it seems I have a disease
but just bust fast dont mean my dick cough and wheeze
so for the next lady who visit in my wet dream
I apologize for my impending stream of heavy cream

To Mike

2007-12-27T14:16:00.001-05:00

The man who calls me
once a month at work
to cheer me up.

Rules to live buy if you are me (Draft, can't keep eyes awake)

2007-12-16T01:47:00.000-05:00

1. Don't give a shit about weather predictions. First of all you don't know how weather works. Just because you hear the weather man describe in it some bull shit scientific discourse that he learned in a textbook produced to condition the masses to think a certain way, doesn't mean that his or her description of the nor'easter is apriori. As the weather person, no fuck it weather man, why try to be politically correct and mask the social relations that are taking place, uses a model that was created by a Norwegian dude who had no way of measuring things in a way we might consider scientific. When these readings were taken, well the measure worked, the same goes for Eratosthenes, who was able to surmise the circumference of the work, being part of the same tradition, our scientific measures come to similar results. Ok, so yes our very categories for knowledge, their construction, the way we quantify, conceptualize, and measure, solid supposed unchanging things in (not of) space, comes out of this tradition or epistme. So, anyway this way of seeing the weather is but one way of course. I will not here about the fetishization of technology and what it tells us, because as we practically know, the weatherman is usually wrong, he whines about how complex this thing the weather is. But weather is a process ofcourse that is physical, but also a constructed measure linked to our expectations (are floods or snow storms normal), and ofcourse our mode of production or the economic superstructure. That being, in a system in which the production of surplus labor is paramount, and our function is two be a productive force in this process, weather becomes something important in certain conditions. Freezing rain and black ice, are not only connected to the automobile, which ofcourse are produced out of the coercive laws of capitalist competition, which simultaneously attempt to give profit to the individual capitalist while lowering the value of labor power. The latter gets complex, when we start discussing the size of a commuting area, and a metropolis. The erasure of time by space is rampant, as we worry about the commute home. If the worker cannot home, how will he reproduce himself for the next works day?

2. In general, the older people get the lest trust worthy they get. As, I struggle with one alot, because I feel more fluid with knowledge as I age, I specifically talk about being co-opted by dominant or hegemonic forces. These forces, go ahead shit on me for being abstract, but ideology and general weighs you down after a while. Like at the radical left movement that development during the depression, and how they turned into the conformism of the 50s, and hippies who became professionals or just poor. As the zeitgeist of your generation is rationalized and basically figured out, your identity is used against you and co opted into this particular ideology. It gets to a point that you must change, to keep out of the grasp on capital, which is very difficult. Admittedly, I must elaborate on this one.

3. Never own a home. As I may read this in a future life, and get depressed, I would recommend subtracting yourself from reproducing this aspect of private property, i.e. the spatial reproduction of the social relations that encapsulate capitalism. Why? Whats the difference between renting? Your flexibility is punished, as your identity is reified as home owner. When put in this situation, it is logical to preserve the value of your home. This may mean making unethical choices, such as exploiting Mexican laborers, super intendenants, and other service workers, to maintain your property. Don't forget about the exclusionary functions that are implicit in this institution. How can I blame you if you don't want certain people if your neighborhood. You have no choice! You must protect your investment. If you don't care about it you would have not bought in the first place. Ok so you don't care about these actions, or you don't think that the money you pay in property taxes, or the way you keep your community doesn't affect anyone else... guess what, you probably don't own home. Unless you have reached your mid fifties or later. Down payment on houses, interest rates, and the number of years of a mortgage do vary geographically, by market etc, but the trend since world war 2 has been for low down payments and long term debt financing. This is a good thing right? More people can own homes, well yes in theory, but the only thing guaranteed over the long term (30 years is a long time) is that more people can be fed to the jaws of financial capitalism. For example, in the last 30 years, we may take a look at the people of color who actually have gone on to own the homes they have taken mortgages out. While i do not have this empirical data at hand, and we are assuming certain things when we drop persons of color as a category or identity, i could tell you the sauces rates aren't that great. For example, who do you think was most affecting by the latest mortgage crash. It is important that we don't see this as just cats like Mui trying to get rich off someone elses plights, it is built into the housing industry, the credit system, and financial capitalism as a whole. Also, as you are in the quest to make these mortgage payments, which probably now adays involves your partner working the same amount of hours, you must produce surplus value! What does this mean? You probably won't leave your job because your unemployment check won't pay your mortgage. Also, if you don't live in the right neighborhood (read black), you wont be able to refinance your loan, or only at a very costly price. I'm talkn white slavery, and this ain't some funny necro shit, but you working fifty hours for the rest of your life, rarely getting any fulfillment.

4. to be continued...

Fuck Hip Hop

2007-09-21T09:53:00.000-04:00

Hip-hip (or this kind of hip-hop) has officially been officially co-opted by capitalism. No, no, no many of you may argue that hip hop in the last ten years or more, has been nothing but ideology to oppress black folks, but now that imaginary threshold has been crossed. Yes, i am reifying it, but this latest fiasco really represents a process or transformation that hip hop has fully gone through. You may tell me that Eric B and Rakim had song back in the 'golden era' called paid in full, and isn't that Milk on the hook of the 50 cent track saying 'I get money, money I got'. Making dough and getting paid out the asshole has always been part of hip hop. No one here is against African Americans accumulating use values. I can even deal with this fetishization of money, as long its not the focus of an image or a persona.

Fucking Forbes dude. Forbes, the publication that comes out with its top 400 wealthiest person every year. Now you have to have over 3 billion dollars to make into this club, (Now if this isn't proof that the gap between rich and poor is widening in this country I don't know what is) Are we supposed to feel bad for those who didn't make it this year, who dropped out. These billionaires are portrayed as guys, and by guys I mean white males, who are just like us, but used some kind of hard work or savy to get where they are. Only if these million dollar men would act like the million dollar man and be dicks. Everyone would hate em. I heard ted debiase is coming back, but now as the billion dollar man. God, even virgil has millions now a days.

Anyway class is erased, and if its maintained, its celebrated as an achievement of a quantitatively roll for broke system. While Emelda Marcos could only collect a couple of thousand pairs of shoes, the universal equivalent can be accumulated forever.

Anyway, fuckn 50 cent. In a lot of ways a guy who is on the vanguard of a new breed of rappers. Hell it was only 2003 since he broke into main stream radio. His newest incarnation of capitalist ideology the 'I get money remix' is featured on the Forbes website. Doesn't anyone else see the fucking hypocrisy in this move. Someone who in many cases, not all of course, represents the streets, or what I would gingerly called economically oppressed black people is side by side with the people who have made their empire off the surplus labor/sweat off the people represents (or people like them). Of course fifty didn't ask for this, but he did give a free shout out to Forbes in the title of his song.

I am apprehensive to group 50 or actually say his identity. I won't take that away from Curtis. Who knows he might have the identity of a white man. He does live in a fortress out in Connecticut somewhere, he is paranoid about traveling in the streets (yeah he did get shot, but stop being such a god damn pussy), he has fetishized money to the point where it makes me want to throw up, and he really cares about record sales. Sounds like pathologically white behavior to me.

I would have more respect for 50 if he advertised for whitening cream, god damn it. At least we would know where he stands, that he was transmitting ideology that was in someway racist and harmful, but this mother fucker comes out with a song glorifying Forbes. I don't think I've ever seen capitalist idea logy work so well. What an inner contradiction, so fuckn juicy. How will it resolve itself? On one hand capitalist enslavement, and an urban reserve army which is maintained largely by the state, and on the other a culture of alienated value (i.e. fetishization of money) (See the prison diaries of Antonio Gramsci for further reading on the formation of common sense in capitalist society and the interplay between culture and bourgeoisie ideals). We don't know where this value or money comes from. Record sales, way to abstract. How does value get generated in this process. Who knows? Where is the cash in these videos coming from? Whose labor made it? And now white critics can unite against hip hop culture telling us that it has no values, and how it keeps black people poor, while they are most likely oppressed in a similar way on a more basic level.

I'm stopping here
'I like being around money' THANK YOU P DIDDY. ALSO, jay z is in this song, go figure going back to his volume 2 days.... sigh!

Is this shit dead

2007-08-08T23:43:00.000-04:00

They said it was done but I started a new, I'm too live for your crew, learned how to life it from nancy drew. The hop hop vocabulalry doesn't help but neither does your breath, feel the pain in my breast, as I caress. every one of my breaths. I'm alive and no force can contain, the dude with a such a big brain, that conservatives say its a shame, that i dont rep for them on the front lines, my telepathy is like proximity mines, you get near me and I'll make your insecurity shine, like bonds son when daddy did his deed, Im not here to give you what you need, but Ill still save the day like Willis Reed, come through in the clutch like robbert fuckn horry, when I hear your sob story, I forget it quick like the brother of joe torre, takn you into the next age Im a digital feed, they nick named me the iron steed, cause not even broken bones can slow down my ultra hyper speed, pretty please... can you slow down and stop being the worlds greatest living entity, ill have you blind foldn like 'i dont know where they sendn me', youll get it good plenty, when I burst cats at the scene like bruce Lenny, the fourth side to the double album got you playn sitar, Im a rock star and I smash guitars!

A Very Artistic Video that I Made

2007-05-01T14:31:00.000-04:00

Procastinating

2007-04-26T15:41:00.000-04:00

Got some work to do. Got a lot of work to do. Dug myself a hole, and I am trying to get out. TIme ticks, it erases. Why couldn't things be easy, like when my dad broke both his wrists in the snow storm of 98. I stayed home all day and played donkey kong country 2. 7 hours of laboring on a paper. I think not. 7 hours of Donkey Kong 2, fuck yeah. THey asked me if I had been doing that the whole time. I said no. I said that I had stopped for a period. I did go to the bathroom atleast once. Running down the hall. Could I run down the hall now? Wow, I remember playing till I just couldn't take it anymore, like I was going to shit my pants. It was torture. But golly, it felt better the more I waited. I would here "don't worry its not going anywhere" but why. After a dehydrated day of social inadequacy, what could be better than drowning your sorrows in a fistful of keebler cookies and hours upon hours of video games. I was a good student I guess, but I don't remember studying, just doing homework occasionally on the kitchen table after dinner. Nintendo would call my name. Games like River City Ransom, prevented me from concentrating in class on some days. I faked sick so I could go home and play Mario Kart for Supernintendo. Ah that perfect comfort space. On my couch with shoes off, sipping soda, and eating popcorn. Tv and video games were everything to me. Its easy to see why I would sometimes prefer to sit home on that saturday night, or find a guilty pleasure in playing old video games, eating cookies, or watching that hour of family matters on a sunday afternoon. To say that those games didn't significantly alter my subjectivity would be ridiculous. As a matter of fact, I can see that in a rather overdetermined world, where cause and effect is always a bewildering process, megaman and Donkey Kong influenced me more than my teachers. I fed into the exoticism of Thailand when M Bison smashed me through a native woman's statue. I learned gender roles from the princess, and sexuality from Chun Li. Let me not reify, they probably just helped either justify or reject my father's opinions on the subject, but beating up homosexuals, women, Latino gang members, and the homeless in Final Fight had to have reinforced some exogenous hegemonic influences. And yes, on the bay stage, there are dudes in yellow jackets sleeping on the bench, which you often beat up unprovked. And ofcourse there was that message, stay off drugs. And not only did you stay off drugs but you beat up potential drug users. Regardless of the exact elements and processes we can safely say that beat em up side scrollers, especially final fight, were of a revanchist nature. Cody Hagger, and Guy, took the city back for the decent, heterosexual, white, male haggar. So the leader of the gang was a guy in a wheel chair, not a Jamacian drug dealer (see Seagal). It really didn't matter. Yes, yes, at the end you climbed a penthouse and avoided falling chandiliers (an icon of the rich), but realistically what most people would probably remember is the first stage or two where you kick the living shit out of people hanging out on street corners in a city plagued with urban blight. Everything is boared up. These people aren't human (well neither is your character), but the punching off the screen phenomenon that these games were often crticized for is pretty signficant. Why even see your opponent, when you can kill them off the screen. Another interesting thread is the lack of blood, pain, or permancy your enemeies experience when you smash them with a weapon such as a pipe. Your enemies, your other, simply gets knocked down and pops back up. The fading phenomenon of the mad gear gang is especially intersting. You have injured, and killed someone, but no you don't have to deal with the body, or contemplate what you have just done, they dissapear in seconds. No dead body disposal. This gang member is an insect, literally indistinguishable from the rest of his kind, ready to respawned at the next possible moment. When the city is saved, you are faced with the same task again. The city is never safe. A constructed demon is always out there to kidnap your girlfriend, wife, or daughter. Life in fear and stick to consumerism. Keep on pumping those quarters into the machine.

I hope to do this more completely at a later date

A Whale and a Seagull

2007-04-26T14:28:00.000-04:00

A whale and seagull
are spending time together
in the sea, the one
with whales and seagulls,
when the whale groans,
"I've a thorn in my fin."

"How'd you manage that?"
asks the seagull.

"Building a swingset
for the little ones,
the little whales. Can you
pluck it out?"

In the sky, the sun
is tired out. The sea
is too big to heat.

"No, I can't pluck it out.
I stand on your back
all day, scratch you
wherever there's an itch.
Isn't that enough?"

"It hurts," cries the whale,
freshwater rolling down
his blunt whale head,
disappearing like a leaf
on an autumn forest floor.

"Besides," gulls the gull,
"it's too dangerous. I'll be dragged
under when you turn over,
or slapped comatose
if you flinch."

"I will be so still"--
the whale.

"No thanks."

"Fine, could you scratch
around my blowhole, please?"

"What are friends for?"

There is no wind. All the seaweed
swimming on the surface gossip
about the good-for-nothing kelp.
A bottle floats by, a bee
inside tapping on the glass. And
when the seagull scratches his buddy's hole
he is blown straight up
into and through a cloud, right
to the face of the tired sun,
who feeds and dresses his wounds
and joins in when the seagull
points and laughs at the grumpy,
thorny whale.

Whatever's happening beneath our feet

2007-04-12T14:34:00.000-04:00

Grass grew up to our waists,
tickled my thighs and the hair
on my calves, while you stood,

bent in half, touching your toes
and letting the green blades
lick and taste your soft face

like they were tongues of the soil,
or the Holy Ghost planted itself
and hit an underground vein.

In this dream, you only bend
and I watch. You let the grass
slip inside your mouth

and now you can taste it,
whatever's happening beneath
our feet, deep down,

and I wonder why
six eight and four
are suddenly consecutive, and how

a blade of grass won't cut your gums.

The thing about independent wrestling shows

2007-03-28T15:36:00.000-04:00

The ring was square
in the middle of the hall,
red white & blue ropes
letting us know where we were
lest we forget. The boys
and their fathers cheered
the Patriot, masked
in the colors of the ropes,
handing out miniature flags
to the lucky ones
in the front rows. They giggled
at the fat brown man's
hairy back, and when our hero
slapped the villain's flabby ass
the crowd flared
like an office fire.

"Terrorist!"
the children screamed
at the fat man, stage-named
after a spider-hole dictator.
They were seconds from spitting
at his foreign flag.
"You stupid Americans,"
he declared
in a fake accent.

The thing about
independent wrestling shows
is that there's always
a retarded boy
a foot taller and twice as old
as the ones around him,
waving a flag in the air,
believing it's all real.

After Mass

2007-03-21T14:43:00.000-04:00

The car won't start after Saturday Mass.
Before, it rumbled to its spot
but now we see: it's out of gas.
Mom taps my shoulder. 'Take this can,
or canister, whatever it's called,
to the Exxon down the highway.
Be careful down the icy hill--
it's dark--wish you had a lighter coat--
lighter in color, not weight, I mean.
So, walk there, take your time,
try to stay beneath the trees
and their skinny limbs, away
from the road's shoulder. Or better yet
take the side streets, the backroads,
as much as you can--because that coat--
no one will see you until you're on
their windshield. You know what?
Wave your hand as you walk,
in the air like to a song that's slow
and full of joy. That way you'll be safer.
That way people will see. Here's five bucks,
we only need a gallon or so
to get out of this lot. Let the man
there fill the can. Try not to breathe
the fumes, or get any fuel on your hands.
You hear me? Let me give you a kiss.
Take your time. We'll be waiting, just like this.'

There's a Hess, I'm surprised she doesn't know,
half a mile closer. That's where I'll go.

Supple Tees

2007-03-13T14:29:00.000-04:00

Would it be a sin for a christian
to be a millionaire or billionaire
and keep the money to themself?
and not tide? But spash
their money away, away
in like a mattress they sleep on?
Or in a flour jar, or in the whole
that is sunder the wood-working table,
write beneath the vice? Would it hurt
the christian's sole if they put the money
in a bath tube and pretended the bills
was the water, and the coins
was soap? Would he go to hell
if they took the millions dollars
and bought a golden bell
to live in? With a gold doorball
and even gold couches? What if he lived
in New Jersey? If he bought a whore
with all the money, and used like
silver condemns, and even if
she became his wife, yes, he is dammed,
but I'm having trouble
with the supple tees.

(Adapted from this message board post.)

I think I almost died

2007-03-06T11:21:00.000-05:00

The lighting was off in the lunch room,
in one corner;
I could tell with one eye
and thought I had cataracts
spontaneously forming.
Anna straightened my change
so the bills fanned rigidly.
My wrist was tight. I snapped
my watch off, rubbed the skin
with a wet hand: sweat or tea?
Tea the puddle told me
next to the sugar shakers
and milk dispensers. Only tea
for now, but still my mind felt stifled,
smothered with a pillow. That shade
inside, though I saw the overhead glow
of electric light, remained until I sat
at my desk, by the wall windows,
by the morning light
reflecting off of everything
I'm hidden from.

A blank look

2007-03-01T15:48:00.000-05:00

All I ever wanted
was a blank look, a curious gesture,
a Parkinson'd knee,
an adjustment of posture,
a spot of blush below the eye
glowing like a firefly,
a quaking breath
uncontrolled and muffled,
an ankle bouncing in place
like a dropped superball,
a sweat scent, foggy,
condensing on the window panes,
a fingernail tapping the beat
to some jazzy bloodsong,
a heartbeat I'd never see
but hear above the slushy street,
maybe feel if I had the nerve
to reach out a hand
and confirm what I'd always suspected.

Words are flat

2007-02-22T15:19:00.000-05:00

Today I'm feeling shallow
my buddy-old-pal-o
and words are flat
as the paper they stick to.

What a thick Jew,
that man who robbed me
of my place in queue for the loo.
I hope the toilet seat

is uncomfortably warm
and full of angry invisible crabs
and his balls turn red from claws
and pinches, miniscule grabs.

I don't have to go anymore.
I think I'll sit on this curb,
watch that puddle, count the cars
that roar past, that don't disturb

it's placid face. A lake for ants,
that's what that is. If I were rich
I'd make waterskis by the tri-pair
and little flaming hoops to jump through.

Bees have no need for waterskis.
They could be the lifeguards,
if they get certified, of course.
Running an ant lake can be hard,

and we don't need a lawsuit.
That's the last thing. Shit.
That Corolla has no tact,
just plopped its tire right in it

and splashed me right in the nose.
And me without a hankie.
And me with a sock around my toes,
and me taking off my Newbies

and me with a sock on my face,
no, why did me do that, strange,
me is disgusting and dirty
and me will probably die from the plague

now. This curb has gotten old
fast, like how I was young once,
slow and to the point. Goodbye
is all I can say and forget, let it die.

Do you mind if I wait?

2007-02-20T14:44:00.001-05:00

Do you mind if I wait? That wind,
I've never felt so cut up. My fingers
are hardly there, can't even bend
to meet my palm. Ten little integers,
I mean digits, frozen like fudgecicles.
Well, vanilla pudding pops, I guess.
My own fault. Riding my bicycle
on a day like this. I'm not the blessed
type, to hold on to homemade mittens
when I really need them. It's like
what happened to my Uncle Olet.
Drunk in Duluth, took home the wrong bike:
turned out to be owned by Mr. Tom Bodet.
I've got another you'd hardly believe...
Warm enough? I suppose. I'll just leave.

Snow is the color of our skin

2007-02-14T13:57:00.000-05:00

Drunk on a futon
at four in the morning
can never be boring.

Your fingers shine in the dark
and your eyes gleam
like little ghosts,
or so it seems

from where I'm looking,
my head on a pillow
and yours in the air
like a sparrow,

like something light
and precious--I know;
your eyes aren't ghosts
but flakes of snow.

Snow is the color of our skin
when we're in from the sun,
and red is something else
altogether.

Red can be anger, I've read,
or courage, and of course
it means "Stop!" but for me
it's the color that bores

blissfully into my eyes
when we kiss
in this darkened state of grace,

and though I may nod off
like an addict in a corner,
the fact is the blood I see
through my thin eyelids
is moving this fast
because of you.

Palmful of phallus

2007-02-09T14:44:00.000-05:00

Crispin Ennvict
hardly had a chance
with such God-given wrists,
limp and sloppy
and homoerotic,
and the disposition
of a foggy mirror. The man
who shook his hand
could be forgiven
a blush or flustered cough.
He'd put his twiggy fingers
tight together, his skin
always soft and warm
like he had a mini-spa
in his pocket. You'd reach
for a manly grip
and instead grab a palmful
of phallus. Not exactly,
but you get the point.
No one gets ahead that way,
except maybe in the fashion world
or dark tennis locker rooms,
rarely in business where
a man's strength and potential
is judged in those seconds
when he's touching another,
and today all I know
is where Crispin isn't.
I'll never forget his handshake,
his dead eyes blurred
from generations of Sicilian inbreeding,
how his dried-out lips curled
at my reaction, how my bones
could startle at something so soft.

Carelessness

2007-02-06T12:33:00.000-05:00

That is true,
now that i think about it. And the increase
in earthquakes and bombings,
and the fact that a lot of countries want
the United states destroyed, and The U.N.
wants to tax globally. And Israel wanting peace.
WW3.
I do believe it is true
what all of you
have said here. It is somewhat a cop-out
to quit your job, and not take care of daily things
when it hasn't happened yet.
It's the expectation
(potentially miscalculated)
that brings people into a state of
carelessness. Carelessness
is not a Godly trait, by any means,
no matter the age of the world.
It's over when it's over, and we
cannot know when. But God
wants us to have faith in Him today.
God lives Today!
You can Experience God today!

The Bible tells us to watch and pray.
It also says that a fool folds
his hands and ruins himself,
but the wise man (something)
works in (something).
Proverbs.

It's very late, i'm going to bed.

*(Poem adapted from this message board post)

Co-worker on a Thursday Afternoon

2007-02-01T15:45:00.000-05:00

She stretches her arm
and makes it do loops
like a trick plane
over her empty inbox
and mountain of butterfly
clips and mugs full of pens
and pens and markers,
the occasional highlighter
hiding like a suitor
who can't replace
a former love's smile
on his woman's face.

She streches up and out
toward her god, the one
that is not Mohammed's
because her god has a son.
Her hand is a fist
but not angry, just a ball
at the end of a dumb limb
that stiffens during
non-ergonomic keystrokes.

Both hands now, fingers
finishing the puzzle, bending
palm-first to the overhead
flourescence, bowing
like a tree in the wind
in her three-walled cubicle,
the final cracks of her knuckles
a deadened Amen.

Arcade Monsters

2007-01-30T10:38:00.000-05:00

Sebastian's parents decided at the end of a three-hour dinner that they should renew their vows. They were in Vegas, after all, and it would be fun to have their own son serve as the ring bearer. Sebastian was darkening in a wizard on his children's placemat when they told him the plan, and after they finished their vodkas they were walking down the strip to the nearest chapel.

The chapel they found was small and triangular. A woman played the organ as Sebastian's mother walked down the aisle with a crooked smile, which was nice. Sebastian had her ring and his father's in his hands. They were wet now, his hands and the rings. The air conditioning wasn't working.

A tall man presided over the couple. He was white and had the seedlings of a beard poking through his chin. Sebastian's father was a man and his mother was a wife, and they kissed for a long time. The organ woman struck a chord, then swiped their credit card, and the renewed family was back on the smoggy sidewalk.

At the hotel Sebastian's mother sat on the edge of the bed, leaning back on her hands and supported by her bare arms. His father gave him two rolls of quarters. "This is for being a good ringboy," he said, and patted Sebastian on the shoulder. "Go play in the arcade. Try to beat all of the games, if you can." His father's breath burnt his nose, but Sebastian didn't care. He was happy to see his father happy, and he had quarters now. There was so much he could do with a roll of quarters, and now he had two. It was like having a chest of gold coins. He hugged his father and kissed his mother, and then his parents kissed each other, and that's how he left them.

*******

The hotel arcade wasn't the biggest he'd been to, not even close. It had about ten games, five lining each side wall, and an air hockey table guarding the wall opposite the entrance. No one was playing; all the other kids were probably asleep. Sebastian felt like an adult for being up so late. He walked around the room, reading the titles and watching the game demos. In front of Wrestlefest he kicked away a milk crate, the kind of thing he needed a year ago, and started playing, standing on his own two feet.

The Million Dollar Man was jawing away when he heard soft footsteps behind him on the thin carpet. He could see a silhouette in the screen, small at first and walking across the room, then bigger and stationary. He heard a man's voice from behind him: "Hey, you're pretty good." He was pretty good; Sebastian knew it. He was the fastest tapper he knew. His fingers were like lightning. He liked to call himself Merlin in his head.

"You like Mr. Perfect, huh?" the man said. Sebastian nodded and kept his eyes on the screen. "Do you know how to do the Perfect-plex?" Sebastian nodded again, but the man reached over him and took his hands. "Here, let me show you." The man's hands were big and white, and there was hair all over them, even on the knuckles. They were warmer than Sebastian's, like they'd been holding a mug of hot coffee, but they hit the buttons clumsily, and Mr. Perfect was pinned for a three-count.

"No!" Sebastian cried. He ducked beneath the arms around him and looked for another game.

"You could always add more quarters for energy. Hulk says so." Sebastian ignored him. "Have you played The Simpsons game?" the man asked Sebastian's back. Sebastian nodded. "I wish I could play it. But I ran out of money. Could I borrow a quarter?" Sebastian took a quarter out of his pocket and softly tossed it at the man's stomach. "Thanks, kid. You're a really nice boy. Most people aren't very nice to strangers."

There was a game called Ghosts 'n Goblins which Sebastian had never played. He put his quarter in, and he controlled a man in armor. He threw a lance at zombies and other colorful monsters. Sebastian wished his character had magic powers, because that's the only way to really kill monsters.

Sebastian died, as everyone does. He walked around and came to a basketball game in the corner. It was the kind with an actual hoop and actual balls, and the game counted how many shots you made. He couldn't reach the balls, though, so he walked past it, looking for the spurned crate.

"Did you want to play that?" the man said. He walked over next to Sebastian. "A big boy like you doesn't need a crate. I can lift you up if you want to play." Sebastian squeezed a quarter in his sweaty palm. He nodded and stood in front of the game. The man put his hands in Sebastian's armpits and lifted him until he was standing on top of the machine. There was a gate ahead of him, which locked the balls up until he put his money in. Then they would roll to his feet.

"Here, I'll use the quarter you gave me." The man started the game. There were digital notes playing "Charge!", and Sebastian got excited.

"I'm really good," Sebastian said. "I'm gonna be the next Michael Jordan."

"I bet you are, kid. Now shoot some hoops."

Sebastian bent over to grab a ball. It was huge in his hands, not like his child-size one at home. He chucked it at the hoop, brushing the bottom of the net. The man was holding him at the waist so he wouldn't fall, and he shot some more, getting closer every time. He must have been moving a lot, because the man held onto him by the waist of his sweatpants. "Don't want you to hurt yourself," the man said. Sebastian shot rapid-fire, then took his time. He threw a ball up with all his strength, and it felt like he was watching in slow-motion as it bounced off the rim and through the hoop. Sebastian pumped his fist in the air, and the man yelled "Yeah! All right!", and then Sebastian felt funny, like he was getting his temperature taken. He felt an evil presence in the room. He put his hands down and spoke in a low voice, chanting a spell he had written to kill monsters, and then the man stepped back, and the feeling went away. Sebastian jumped down on his own and walked out of the arcade.

"Where are you going? You didn't finish the game."

Sebastian cast a spell on the arcade entrance, and then on every third tile he stepped on. When the tiles became carpet, he enchanted the green boxes, but left the red ones alone. He took the elevator up to his family's room, and put a curse on the floor buttons. The curse was only meant for evil fingers, so he didn't feel bad. The door was locked when he go to the room, and he could hear his dad snoring when he put his ear against the hallway wall. He knocked and no one let him in. He was tired, though, so he sat with his back against the green door, took off his sneakers and put one on each side of him, because he had a spell that would create a forcefield between them, and he knew he would be protected.

A wizard with a purple coat and starry hat

2007-01-23T15:37:00.000-05:00

It's called a 'window.' It's smooth
and flat and made of glass
and it's called a 'window'
because that's what it's called.
Don't call it a 'wind-no,'
despite all the logic
you want to conjure
to convolute the fact
that a window is named so
because it let the wind in.
This was in a former time,
of course, before we got clever
and melted our beaches
into see-through panes,
when there was nothing
to press your nose against
besides stone and metal,
dirt and grime, and not even
Merlin's magic could stop the cold
from penetrating your bones.
You've heard of him? A wizard
with a purple coat and starry hat.
That's as much as I could name.
That doesn't change the fact that
coughing all over this 'wind-no'
and drawing in the surface mist
is not itself a magic trick.
It's only hot and cold and moisture
and a million other things
we could measure
if we had the time, the tools,
and the reason of adults.

Lust on a Bench

2007-01-17T16:18:00.000-05:00

A clown is throwing trash away
around the corner from a kissing couple
whose cold fingers cling to each other
and fit like a flesh pangea,
and it will only be a time until
their saliva begins to crystallize
and their lips fuse together
like braced pre-teens
kissing in a closet
among the oldsters' smoky trench coats
while their friends stand outside
giggling and watching a stopclock;
when will they learn
that lust is not a fire itself
but needs a flame below it
like a kettle or a popcorn popper,
that the cold can seep in
and freeze the blood,
crack the veins
and the foundation, even,
that the clown has it right,
as his red wig bobs
and makeup comes off
on everything he touches,
as he places the discarded
in metal bins
like his actions are a panacea.

A blinding shine

2007-01-12T16:10:00.000-05:00

Rumor has it
a farmer once found
Happiness
at the bottom of a well
in a damp leather attaché case
wrapped in rusted iron chains.
It was there when
he pulled up the bucket
so his thirsty retriever
could lap from it,
and he had planned himself
to maybe splash some water
onto his tongue
with his soil-caked palms.
So he threw it back down
not knowing what he'd found,
and lowered the wooden bucket
for his companion, and rested
it on the well's stone surface
so he could sate himself.
As you've already guessed,
the sun was a blinding shine,
and if you told him now
he'd be hard-pressed
to discern the difference
between that moment
and what was in the case.
He might even
give you a quizzical look
and scratch some soil
across his brow,
but it's not something
one talks about, as if
you could ever explain.

She's got legs

2007-01-11T09:51:00.000-05:00

She's got legs
and a terrible habit
of bumping into corners.
Such brilliant bruises
appear overnight,
blue and hazy, swirly
like a galaxy.

My rabbit died from neglect.
There was a summer storm,
and while my dinner was warming
in the oven, or maybe while
my brother and I
played tic-tac-toe
on the kitchen tiles,
poor Penny's hutch blew over,
and the metal gating broke loose
and punctured poor Penny's gut.
He was still alive, shivering,
you know, shaking off
that extra energy,
and he wouldn't blink,
his eyes were frozen black holes.
I wasn't even the one to find him.

Sometimes I'll find the marks
on her legs before she does,
and she won't remember
the culprit. I can't criticize.
My hands have secret slits
from sorting sheets of paper,
and I won't even notice a new one
until I see a red splotch
in the white above a signature,
or a streak across a manila folder.
It's really impossible to erase
that kind of stain. But at least
bruises heal, evaporate
in the skin, and at least
there are other parts
that won't bump a wooden desk
or car bumper. At least she has lips
and she knows how to use them.

An Adequate Opening?

2007-01-08T14:31:00.000-05:00

The infant crowned through a red mess. The doctor reached inside and pulled him out in relative silence, only the beeps of machines around him and the nurses and the father looking down at the spent mother. The infant cried, dripping in umbilical disarray, and was shown to his father, who glanced once and nodded, his eyes drawn back to his wife whose eyes were closed, as if she were only sleeping.

They asked him for a name later, the father. A name for the survivor. It's likely the thing that had transpired was still on his mind. She had to have been on his mind, her name ringing "Judith" like church bells. The nurses knew he was grieving, too, and knew he would continue for, they hoped, an appropriate amount of time. The question was meant to provide stasis: grieve for your wife, but here, there is tangible joy. But he was not ready, not yet. So when they came upon him, not with forms, out of respect, just an index card and a pen and said, "Mr. Newbell, a name for your son?" he took the card and pen and leaned against the smooth but imperfect concrete hospital wall and wrote: Judas Newbell.

Shitface is having a party

2006-12-29T17:27:00.000-05:00

Shitface is having a party tonight.

That statement begs so many questions. What is a Mcstevens party like? Will they serve dogshit on a bagel? Will the furney be plentiful? There's a rumor that he put a sign outside his door reading, "Your piece must be this thick to enter," but that's false. I stopped by the other day to check out the preparations.

Shitface really took me off guard. Really, he really really did. I can't stress it enough. I was really really off guard, as that was how he took me. First of all, he met me at the door in a velvet smoking jacket. I couldn't help wondering if Shitface had turned his back on scumbaggery. Inside his apartment, the floors were clean, lemony even. His walls were covered in classy Betty Boop prints. Mozart's Fifth Fugue for the Skin Lute was pleasantly pouring from his speakers. Even the dead rats/dart boards were gone. I couldn't believe it.

He sat me down and offered me a snifter of brandy. While he was gone I had a chance to search for the Shitface I knew. I looked for his collection of panty clippings(he likes to collect the crotch of women's underwear), usually stashed in a chinese food carton under the couch. Not there. Neither was the Jar O' Piss, or his beloved Stretch Armstrong. I'm sure I looked perplexed when he came back from the kitchen.

We chatted a little. The brandy hit the spot. I was about to ask him about his life-size cutout of Craig T. Nelson when he cleared his throat. I held my thought back. He raised his hand, and in a cockney British accent told me: "I 'ope you don't mind, guvner, but I stirred your brandy with me Uncle Bob."

I was overjoyed. Shitface hadn't changed at all, he'd just gotten weirder. I spit out the brandy that was still in my mouth and shook his hand like I was the mayor of Happyville.

I'll try to let whoever reads this shit know how the party went. Maybe pictures. Whatever.

Domain

2006-12-27T11:21:00.000-05:00

You came into the world with your eyes shut, Mary's mother tells her, and that's how you'll go. Her mother keeps a Bible by her bedside next to her Luckies and arthritis medicine. Mary doesn't sleep well.

Life is becoming harder to reconcile for Mary. Mr. Penns taught her in Biology that she is full of cells, covered in them, and she has domain over them, on a certain scale, movement and such. On the largest scale, though, those cells came from other cells, were begotten, divided, transformed into her, and will be taken away from her. She is Mary now, was perhaps a bumblebee or a compost heap, further down the line a sperm and egg, then Mary, and eventually an insect's wing or ash sucked through a marlin's gill.

She doesn't understand, how she is made of things she can't see with her bare eyes, how she is made at all, her body doesn't feel like a real thing, it's the voice in her head that's real. An inner voice that she doesn't really hear, not traditionally, with her ears. She doesn't get it: movement, emotions, pain, hunger, saliva, disease, thoughts. It's why people believe the things they do, she thinks.

Everything turns to ashes or dust, her mother says, so when the sun lights up her living room and gives shape to the stuff in the air, Mary holds her breath.

New Year's Eve

2006-12-27T09:25:00.000-05:00

I was a heady mess
on New Year's
the beer
the water bottle vodka
left me graceless
I paced and grieved
oddities
gum on the sidewalk
I remember
tasted like old snow
your eyes
I remember
punctured like bee stings
and gravel in my treads
would not come loose
it was uncomfortable
there are more things
sadder still
emotions and
ethereal ethics
gradually I forget
what tears are for
they lubricate nothing
but stumbling
I will say this
it was a cold night

Waiting for the First Snow

2006-12-20T12:05:00.000-05:00

She wakes before the radio
alarms us of the day.
She turns off the timer
and escapes from the fetters
of my heavy arms. She's gone
for a time, until I hear, "tres bon!"
which could mean a number
of things: that wayward plumber
has finally shown, or the scale
is agreeable, or an overnight gale
has made the weather something
worth a French blurting.

She always seems to know
when it will snow. Her hand
out a window is precise
and I trust it: Why dress
for work, or eat, or shower
at such an awful early hour
if the highways close
before my car's unfrozen?
Why leave this warmth
'cause, god, it's like the earth
and I'm comfortably below a boil
underneath a layer of topsoil.
She will join me soon, after
peeking in with a voice full of laughter,
singing, "Snow," and I'll keep
my eyes closed in pretend sleep.
I'll hear her pick up the phone
and the attendant dial tone
in my ear humming: "Responsibility."
But it's silly of me
to keep predicting immediacy.
She will join me soon.

I Loves Me a Milkshake

2006-12-19T00:16:00.000-05:00

Chocolate, mostly, in a large glass
and thick like cream of chicken soup,
no, thicker;
thick like a lazy fog, fat and opaque
and challenging you to keep walking;
thick like the upper mantle;
thick like your illiterate uncle
who really likes Two and a Half Men;
thick like the wax from a candle
balled between your fingertips;
thick like your neighbor's age-old moustache,
which in itself is thick as a forest
of evergreens, and that's where
you can find the lazy fog
and where you fall asleep
against a dank Silver Fir,
waiting for morning;
thick like a sandwich from
a neighboorhood deli,
no, that's too thick;
thick like a chick on Soul Train;
thick like a kitten's hungry purr;
thick like a thought that won't go away,
like tar, like a bloated corpse,
like a blue summer sky that seems
to have so much depth that you're stuck,
you're sucked from your steps,
and all the beauty in the world
won't save you from the fear
of being pulled up against it.

I guess I mean a high density, and
smooth, too, but in normal terms
I can't overstate it:
my milkshake should be thick.
And chocolate.

Whats my mother fuckn name

2006-12-14T01:36:00.000-05:00

My name is shit face?
You know why, cause I take shits on peoples faces?
Do you do that shit for a living?
Na. I didn't think so?
You think I was an arrogant prick in the past?
Well, I'm back and I'm here to stay. Yeah!
I just ate an envelope dogs, that shit tasted like garbage
Ya ever tasted dog shit?
I did! and I liked it! and I want to taste it again!
You know how sick I am? I once watched Vanderbilt drink a chocolate shit shake!
He thought it was milk shake.
Vanderbilt loves milk shakes
Kick you in the uterus see what happens, i can rap and rap, till i stop rappin
went to the pre-school with harold ramis' niece, she made me lick her boots. I didnt like that experience. I didnt like the time when will wonka dressed up in a rabbit suit and stomped my Hess toy truck. I feel lost sometimes. Tears comes to my eyes, I fantasize about nanny from the muppet babies sometimes. Leave me alone. Stop, Rolph you god damn black dog. Give me back my toy boat. Lets race, I'll win and then smack youre head into a drawer. You'll cry I'll laugh, and we'll move on.
P.S. I'm French

Elevator Etiquette

2006-12-13T15:19:00.003-05:00

This elevator doesn't stop between floors one through nine
and doesn't stop on one or nine either, which is efficient
but awkward in those silent seconds without floor beeps.
I always hope to travel alone, but here comes one fellow
right before the doors slide closed, and another at his heels.
So there are three, three men, and strangely all our hands
are in our pockets. I'm in one corner that feels like the shallow
end of the swimming pool, next to a a bald gentleman
whose stomach hangs over his belt like a dog's head out a window,
behind another man whose moustache-tips I can see peek out
from around his craggy face, even though I'm glancing into
the back of his head. That's a class moustache, indeed,
curled off the lip and pulled out; I can picture his faceless wife
kissing the ends as she does a thread
before aiming for the needle's hole.

The carpet is checkered. Not like a checkerboard, just some boxes
and other more elongated rectangles of white and brown and black,
and this I call checkered. I've seen some "foxes" in here before,
some real "knockouts" whose slippery figures send my eyes falling
to trace the carpet. Even with these men, my eyes hit the floor,
though, and I can tell by peripheral neck angles that we share a view.
It's elevator etiquette, to me, like holding in your flatulence
or hitting the "close door" button after each stop. I've broken these rules
and others. I hate holding the door, and there have been many times
when I've seen an angry face appear when the closing door gap
is a couple of inches, even though my eyes are examining the skirting
or looking at myself in the warped mirrored ceiling.
Then the door is closed and I feel excused.

We stand in this elevator, the walls a shiny gold and paneled with
fake wood, waiting for our floors to light up and ring us through.
The doors are gold, too, and I leave first. It is pure chance
that my number is lower, and I walk as always with my hands hidden
into the steady grey of the 13th floor hallway,
knowing their eyes are still on the ground.

Scientific Proof that Jesus is a Myth

2006-12-11T12:06:00.002-05:00

It seems we've been "tagged" by Heather, a funny young woman who Madison and I once met and tried to write comedy with, until I became my lame self and moved on to other projects I will never finish. She's pregnant(congrats!), and I guess the hormones in her body put her in such a foul mood that she's cursed us(me) with having to post 5 items about ourselves(myself), and then "tagging" other blogs. Here are 5 things that might or might not be true:

1) When I was younger I really wanted a box turtle. Then I got older and just wanted box.

2) Shitface's last name isn't really Stevens. His fullname is actually Shitface Lutenberg Lowell IV. He prefers Stevens so the common-folk will relate to him.

3) My first car was a yacht.

4) Funny story: I went to dinner last night with my family. My parents got their food and started eating, and the waiter told me mine would be out in two minutes. I didn't get my chicken fingers for seven minutes!

5) Every pair of brown shoes I've ever bought make noises. The heel of the shoe always smacks the heel of my foot when I walk. I blame the color of the shoes rather than the size. Story of my life!

Blogs that are now "tagged":

The Porch Light
John One Five
A word on the Word

Dumb Stub

2006-12-08T13:34:00.000-05:00

Let me see your hands.
How'd you get that tiny scar?
Is that a cigarette burn on your palm?
My left hand is fine, but my right,
it's half-missing, from the door of a car
that slammed a bit too fast. I stayed calm
even when Mrs. McGuire fainted
and Teddy ran out of sight,
into the house to call someone.
I laughed, the way his funny frame
bounced up the three-step entrance.
I could see the crack of his ass,
framed above the curving waist of his pants
and below a shirt a size too small.
And his breath, I could hear him struggle
with his nostrils clogged, such sorry passages.
I never once thought myself lame
like a beggar, not like a teenager
who can't call back his girlfriend.
I still don't think that, even though
typing's become a chore, I'm always
mashinunk,ijk.ml- see right there?
Dumb stub.

Water Bottle

2006-12-05T11:54:00.000-05:00

She held a water bottle
	and I could see the water
through the clear plastic,
	and how it stormed as she jogged
past me and down the fallow road
	(fallow because it was flat
and empty; fallow for ambience)
	and I remember jogging myself,
once, when I was live and younger
	and saw horizon instead of gravel,
my sneakers slipping in slick toad,
	flattened, crushed, torn asunder
(asunder for violence; asunder
	for drama); no wonder
I slowed my pace, if you can never
	know exactly where your feet
are going. She knew her way, though;
	I saw she held a water bottle
because that was all she held.

Today's Word is 'Antecedent'

2006-12-01T15:57:00.000-05:00

Check your watch, mine enemy.
The time has come for you and me
to find the path to Gethsemane.

Not that one. The one in my backyard.
It's a pit I dug with a single shard
of glass, and filled with bent playing cards,

a Jenny McCarthy poster,
ladybug corpses, a still-working toaster,
an old bucket from Kenny Rogers' Roasters

full with dried-out breasts and thighs,
a pair of used panties, hollow apple pies,
and a porcelin doll that won't close its eyes.

You've got to get in, too, mine friend,
so I can cover it up, and maybe pretend
I never broke this soil. Maybe you'll blend,

your bones and blood and memory cache,
and somehow mix with this trash
to create a seedling, stinking of ash

and compost steam. I really hope not.
There's a reason I chose this flat plot,
so when asked of atonement, I can point to this spot

and say, "This is where I've buried the past.
Dig it up if you like. It's all there, cast
in hardened mulch to the very last."

Night's Natural Shadows

2006-11-29T15:41:00.000-05:00

Joshua is sitting home alone. What Joshua doesn't know is what is outside his front door.

Air in a common plumbing pipe, or an air vent, can make a sound, like a thud. And it does. Joshua looks out his window to see nothing but night's natural shadows.

A strong wind can knock branches about, and if circumstance are just right, can bump them into stationary things, like houses. And one strong wind does. Joshua curls up in his blanket, praying for his mother.

But God speaks. "You are the son of none," He says. "You were born of this house."

But there is no God, so He doesn't really speak. An over-carbonated can of Coke can kick about made-up voices.

Joshua will not sleep. He does not know this yet, but he will breath and tremble, awake until his mother is standing on the front stoop fumbling with her keys. Until then, he will jerk with every cold draft. But after, when she's passed through the doorway and calls his name in tired monotony, when the sun toys shadows through his tightly shut blinds, then his trembling will cease. He will be able to sleep.

free write in a flash

2006-11-24T12:22:00.000-05:00

Circumscribing the events of last evening with a seasoning found as secret in katsup
distracted my attention from real issues, like lying on the floor throwing focus into the air, almost fan shaped, like a heteroscadastic residual pattern.
I loathed myself for acts of immaturity, which were wrought quite violently on the bodies around me. They felt my punishment and better yet my supreme authority over the events that were to transpire.
Like Galactus this is how I perpetuate myself, without a morality, with out a care for the bunny rabbit, or other various creatures that I have begun to consume at alarming rates.
Voices raise and I refuse to swallow my pride. Visions of religious institutions being destroyed, nation states enveloped in clouds of mistrust, to thick to ignore.
Claiming ignorance does not work in certain settings.
One's proper place is situated in a mess of time, where a visit to Comp USA could bring back ten years.
The air numbs my fingers, my face. My body like an image of a rape victim, soft and vulnerable. Muscles built by counting fade in regards to robustness while lungs collapse with self esteem. Push push push for pride. I have nothing to prove. The rain and the cold continuous, fully controlling.
A testament to my ignorance? Perhaps? My greatest fear tied up my impossible penetration into another's existence.
Forgetting how to count is a serious offense. Scrambling for a fixed moment is futile. Reliving the past is a necessity. Activities range but they stay the same. Move over, I'm finished now.

A Lighter Thanksgiving

2006-11-22T15:32:00.000-05:00

An early evening binge, this is,
on conversation, football, family relations.
There's the uncle still bitching
about Clinton and still insisting
Nixon got the shaft. There's the mother
sipping her wine in the kitchen,
sweating from oven heat and anxiety.
Here's the child learning to walk,
pushing books from their shelves,
leaving half-chewed pretzels for the dog
to gag on. And there are the men
watching football, whose eyes are glazed
like the optional ham.

When we were young, we were pilgrims
the day before Thanksgiving. At least I was.
Others were the Indians,
with manufactured feathers of unnatural color
sticking out of construction paper headbands.
That was kindergarten, and that's when
Allison the native
remembered me and my name,
though I couldn't place her face.

Did I forget the food? I won't use
that silly C-word, the one with five syllables,
but regardless, the counter is covered
with bowls and plates like an early snowfall,
blanketed, and, oh, so quick.
It's a lesson really. Eat it, swallow it down,
the meats and carrots and store bought stuffing
until your stomach is unsettled. Drink goblets
of milk and beer like they're bonus rations.
Go for a run around the house,
perhaps the block. Now watch!
The turnips, the turkey, the mushy peas,
they all come up warm, melted together.
Put this in a pot, you've got America.

A Thanksgiving

2006-11-22T14:31:00.000-05:00

I hitch-hiked a mile, all uphill,
one Thanksgiving Eve. I couldn't see
the cracks in the sidewalk, the branches
of the trees, a twenty from a dollar bill,
but I was going in the right direction.
All that alcohol is like a bucket of paint
on a finished canvas--that is, to memory--
but I wrote out song lyrics on a plastic cup,
spilling like a child; lit the wrong end
of a cigarette, and coughed the cotton smoke
up like vomit; picked a girl, tried to pretend
I'd loved her in whispers; then started to walk
against the wind and gravity, until my lungs broke,
and my body shivered sad songs. I thumbed it,
cliche I was, and he stopped and let me in.
It was a pickup. He wore glasses,
and was prematurely balding. I talked
and talked in glossolalia. He stopped,
I said good night in English. It was a non-event,
really, save for the next morning, my stomach
empty like a popped balloon, burning
like a dying fireplace. My arms were weights,
my legs were dried-out twigs. And my conscience
ground my face into my pillow.

Something like a whisper

2006-11-15T16:59:00.000-05:00

Something like a whisper
soft and airy
warm breath and
silent bluejays
sitting on a fencepost
between the cows
and you
and I
and the nickel sun
and my hand can tell
cordoroy from cotton
otherwise confuses easily
can't find the spot
it started from
but your hand
your dungy fingers
how your hand just hangs
like an unwanted neighbor

November Tenth, Two Thousand and Six, Anno Domini

2006-11-10T22:13:00.000-05:00

To be a man
is to shut your mouth
and suffer. You will open it
to kiss with a snaking tongue,
to provoke, to deny,
to curse yourself
under your own breath. But
a man does not complain,
even as time drains his life
like a leak
in an abandoned swimming pool.

The torture of life
is that time crawls
when you're disconsolate
or indifferent. It'll seem
like days, the time it takes
to shower, sputter to work,
struggle at an empty desk,
mindlessly tango with your feet
to a B-side in your ears,
wait on a line to cash a check
that measures you, eat breakfast
for supper alone in a booth
for two, fight to keep your eyes
open enough to spy
a digitized smile
or flash of skin.
Some will have snuck a cigarette
in the idle moments, others
will have used that time to pray.
But it will only have been one day,
and at the end of it,
Jack Palance will still have died.

Stan

2006-11-10T16:05:00.000-05:00

Stan the man, he cooked a can. Made that shit into butter, my mind equals gutter when I go to the train station, I look up clocks like you lick up cock. Forget about those notions, we went to the ocean and I dumped a pound of squid in your ear. You forget what it was like to hear the ocean. I put my balls to your ear to get the vaccum sound out. Left you in ya muthas black hole. It was damp, a breeding place for all kinds of diseases including dying of twisted skull. To continue lets emphasize your rolo roll. the creamy caramel made dinner enticing. Be on time, or die death. ear pies with a hand tied behind your back and forget your name is William. If a moment I will bite the hand of art carney deceased mother. It tasted like carrot mold. You fuckn idiot. We run this cube. find a position and Ill predict it, through the old Chinese lad from the cloud with his lemon head suitcase. I laughed and drueled simultaneouusly like the play I got from Super C. Rings grow in the niether region of a cave counting features of justine batemans third pregancy. Forget about linear time, a jumped your randoplh hearst's bones. Left em a giant stadium to be sold next to mario pong. Creating my soup of life requires a skill that 99.9 percent of the population can do. Let me jump on orange mushrooms while you play friction burns on my balls. I ll take your brain and bash it in xylem mallets. The floam follows closely in second. I through the treasure chest of the bridge, attached your first cat's paw. Call me Shitface mcgraw. Im bigger than health cliff and I have no problem playing xmen for gensis all night. Challenge me Ill choke on your pubis. You play with me I just get like rubix. Alexander Von Humboldt ate the last piece of cake. What a crumb. I use 4c to produce declacies. I was stuck in the Alladian when I challenged Theorodre ruxpin to a contest. Who could belch seamen bubbles at a moderate rate. Well who can. Its fast in slow, the binary nomenclature weighs you down after a while. Spent to much time shareping pencils and not enough time massaging honey into the duke. You forget what it might feel like to feel hard rocks rub up against the suceptible tip of your promethius piss maker. I dont run with my mouth full, cause I have the tendency to take shits while listening to old country boys plan their next baby sitting appointments. I got skin stretched over your head and its tight like my W. Turn it upside down and uretha will be stolen by peter faulk and his associates the jew boys. Cant say i remember who actually freed the slaves. I think his name was T Scrizzle. Its private like taking stereo shits ac slater style in the old pre school. Took a jog to the masonic lodge, started a fire and ate corn on the cob. Got stuck in my teeth watched a dirty film, watch keenan ivory wayans get pritty trill. Kicked the tree to kick your wound. Fuckn mother nature until she swallowed the spoon. I had a babysitter and his name was duke, he sold my daughter in a slavery for the price of puke. DOnt laugh the shit happened, christmas came early and I took the non working red pencil and forced you to place it on your future neighbors toliet bowl. Coal burned until you gave me my kent hrback 87 topps. What happend, whats going on. My relations improved with the stuff that gave life to gremlins. The one man gang advanced without facing an opponent what a bunch of shit. He gleaneld the perspective from reading the floor.

FROM READING THE FLOOR!

'wild' fires

2006-11-10T11:10:00.001-05:00

This topical review is devoted to natural hazards, and more specifically, wild fires. In the last month or so there have been a number of fires in Ventura County, California that have had deleterious effects on human settlements. A significant amount of resources have been mobilized to combat these fires. This topical review explores the issue of wild fires through a lens of hazard conceptualization, the social construction of nature, and the inevitable politicization of what Mark Pelling calls a humanitarian disaster with a natural trigger (Pelling 2002, CNN 2006).

The recently deceased Gilbert White originally conceptualized the term natural hazard in the 1940’s. His physical oriented position laid down an ideological infrastructure in which technological fixes could operate fluidly. In this manner, natural hazards or disasters were usually met with narrow technological solutions. This external view of nature was fresh in the minds of policy makers who looked towards engineers for quick fixes to complex problems (Pelling 2002).

In the last few decades there has been a resistance to this physical paradigm in the form of a more socially based approach. It has been acknowledged that some of the intrinsic or unchanging aspects of hazards (i.e. the physical) may be aggravated or even caused by humans. These harmful anthropocentric processes include global warming, deforestation, and even hazard prevention itself in the form of man made structures such as dams. In recent years, there has been an increasing effort to examine human activities and their relation to vulnerability and risk (Castree 2002, Pelling 2002).

Mark Pelling’s conceptualization of the hazard as a humanitarian disaster with a natural trigger is significant. The degree of risk that a hazard creates is directly related to the levels of preparedness that a given human population may have. Pelling’s vulnerability assessments of exposure, resistance, and resilience provide insight into current manifestations of wild fires in Ventura County, Ca. (Pelling 2002).

I have also chosen to utilize the social construction of nature lens to view wild fires. This point of view is a radical departure from the ‘human-environment’ model that many social scientists rely on. The human environment model has three fundamental components. These tenets present nature as an entity external to humans, as unchanging or intrinsic, and as all encompassing or universal. The social construction theory posits that definitions of nature not only differ by a particular society or culture, but also are likely to be formed by power with hegemonic intentions (Smith 1996a, Castree 2002).

Cronon illustrates this point by showing that definitions of nature have often contrasted with time, even in the same society. He sees a bifurcation of the natural and civilization in western culture. When nature is an obstacle to expansion or lies beyond the frontier of civilization, it is viewed as primordial and dangerous. However, more times than not, it has been viewed as a virgin territory ripe for exploitation by capitalist needs. Contrasting with the past, in current times, nature is often viewed as something sublime to be enjoyed by the upper classes. This brief outline of the social construction of nature aids us in expounding problems associated with wild fires (Cronon 1996, Smith 1996a, Proctor 1998).

In the case of wildfires, the middle class and wealthy are put at risk along with the poor. Hazardous areas can be attractive to rich clientele. In the case of areas vulnerable to hurricanes, waterfront ambience can be viewed as a consumer amenity. For wildfires, the topic at hand, those with exurbian lifestyles are particularly at risk (Davis and Nelson 1994).

According to Davis and Nelson, the exurbs are characterized by their spatial position between the established suburban and the rural. This situating of an exurbian landscape is quite vague. However, regardless of exact spatial orientation, this term does represent a significant residential shift. Though the exurbs are usually explained in terms of consumption desires, i.e. desire to get away from the city, larger estates, and cheaper land, it is important to look at this trend in the midst of urban restructuring (Garreu 1991, Davis and Nelson 1994, Smith 1996b, Smith 2002).

In terms of transportation, one must situate exurbia in the spatial locus of emerging edge cities. Employment in the Central Business District has significantly declined. Occupations in edge cities allow shorter commutes for exurbian residents. Exurbia must also be framed in the context of continued suburban expansion. In case of exurbia, developers may have simply chosen to leap frog over areas adjacent to existing suburbs in hope that returns on investment would be greater. Through advertisement to potential consumers, those desiring a ‘rural’ lifestyle are solicited (Garreau 1991, Davis and Nelson 1994, Smith 1996).

The very existence of exurbia, which in many cases spatially coincides with rural/poor settlements, is emblematic of contradictions that arise in the environment and the people perspective. Exurbian consumers bring many of their ‘urban’ consumption patterns to ‘rural’ space. This move to the rural is very much couched in the idea of an intrinsic nature. The ideology of untouched nature resonates in the producers and consumers of this space. By bringing their consumptive habits to these areas, they are fundamentally altering the space they live in. An unchanging view of nature elides this reality. It is reasoned that nature ceases to exist in a concrete urban locale, but can be found in a less densely populated rural area. From a social construction view of nature, this is clearly not reality (Proctor 1998, Castree 2002).

Keeping these factors in mind one may still inquire about the economic viability of building in potentially hazardous areas. Withstanding certain exceptions, (charging high insurance rates, manufacture of buildings, and use of raw materials), persons do not wish to have their houses burnt down. There is something to be said about scientific conceptualizations of natural hazards and their relation to risky settlement patterns. In other words, what has mainstream scientific theory done to alleviate or exacerbate this problem? (In a constructivist point of view, science is socially constructed as well) (Proctor 1998).

Ultimately, like many phenomena in geography, current views of fire hazards can be traced back to Davis’ geomorphological cycle. Influenced by Darwin and Lyell, he introduced incrementalism into Geography. In this paradigm, there is little room for catastrophic or rapid time events. The ideology behind incrementalism was created as a polemic to biblical tales such as the great flood. This principle has had a strong foothold in the physical and social sciences for years. Strict adherence to this slow or gradual approach has hindered the development of dynamic theories pertaining to events caused by catastrophic action, such as dinosaur extinction (Davis 1954, Sauer 1956, Stoddart 1981).

In the last section of this review, I will localize the problem by exploring some data taken from the Census and expound the political nature of these wild fires.

As mentioned earlier, human vulnerability to hazards is important. These wild fires, though occurring at relatively regular time intervals, are not broad reaching in terms of their effect on human populations. Despite their absolute numbers, persons in Ventura County have access to resources at many scales. In fact, governor Arnold Schwarzenegger declared a state of emergency for Ventura County in September. This action allowed state funds to be funneled into the area. According to a CNN article, as of September 26th, 43 million dollars were expended and 350 fire fighters were employed to fight this particular blaze (CNN 2006).

Only five hundred people were given voluntary evacuation advice when the fire reached within a mile and a half of a small community named Lockwood Valley. Depending on ones definition of metropolitan, the northeast part of Ventura County that these fires are located in can be considered part of the L.A. metro area. They lay only a few hours drive from downtown L.A. The Census tract, which encompasses these fires is 65 miles across and covers most of Northern Ventura County. According to the 2000 Census, this area only contained 843 persons, 92 percent of which were white. The median household income was close to 60,000 dollars (Census 2000, CNN 2006).

The previous was a very brief demographic profile of the area, but nonetheless, it is very telling. The number of fire fighters trying to contain this blaze is comparable to the number of people living in the surrounding communities. These examples show how political natural hazards really are. The ability to garner protection from hazardous events seems to be a question of resource distribution. Persons with power are able to mobilize resources to significantly lessen their level of risk.

The governmental and scientific commitment to preventing, and in this case containing fires is a case of egregious political bias. Definitions of hazards and disasters have real connotations for the groups affected. The governor’s decree of ‘state of emergency’ is certainly selective. Chronic anthropocentric hazards caused by localized uneven development in the L.A. metropolitan area are evidently not acknowledged by the state as emergency worthy. The state in the form of hazard response cannot be acknowledged as an institution or body that equally responds to humanitarian plights. The state plays a significant role because it controls the resources that can be used to combat or eradicate certain hazards (Pelling 2002, CNN 2006).

Governmental support in the form of fire fighting encourages developers to build in these areas. This process continually puts more people at risk from fires. By providing assistance, the government is essentially subsidizing further development. Coupled with an increased desire for the consumption of exurbian spaces, this ‘hazard’ will only become more pronounced in the future. More than likely, the response will be continued investment into technological fixes. It is easy to see how this cycle of development and increased vulnerability perpetuates itself. It is also clear that the state’s resources are often allocated to decreasing the vulnerability of the few and powerful, while the masses are continually put at risk from hazards that may or may not be defined as natural.

Works Cited

Castree, N., “Socializing Nature: Theory, Practice, and Politics,” in Noel Castree and
Bruce Braun, eds., Social Nature: Theory, Practice, and Politics. Oxford:
Blackwell Publishers 2001, 1-22.

Census Bureau. American Fact Finder. 12 Oct , 2006. Census Bureau. 12 Oct 2006
http://factfinder.census.gov/home/saff/main.html?_lang=en

Cronon, W., “The Trouble with Wilderness, a Response,” Environmental History 1,
1996, 47-55.

CNN: Ventura County Fires. Wildfires. 26 Sept, 2006. CNN.com. 15 Oct 2006
< http://www.cnn.com/SPECIALS/2006/wildfires/index.html>

Davis, W., “The Geographical Cycle,” in Davis, Geographical Essays. Dover, 1954 eds.,
248-278.

Davis, J., and Nelson, A., “The New ‘Burbs’: The Exurbs and Their Implications for
Planning Policy,” Journal of the American Planning Assocation 60.1, 1994, 45-60.

Garreau, J., Edge City, New York: Doubleday, 1991.

Pelling, M., “Natural Disasters?,” in Noel Castree and Bruce Braun, eds., Social
Nature: Theory, Practice, and Politics. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers 2001, 170-189.

Proctor, J., “The Social Construction of Nature: Relativist Accusations, Pragmatist and
Critical Realist Responses,” Annals of the Association of American Geographers
88.3, 1998, 352-376.

Sauer, C., “The Agency of Man,” in Thomas William Thomas, Man’s Role in Changing
the Face of the Earth. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1956, 49-69.

Smith, N., “The Production of Nature” in George Robertson and Melinda Mash, eds.,
FutureNatural. London: Routledge, 1996a, 111-143.

Smith, N., The New Urban Frontier, Gentrification and the Revanchist City, New York:
Routledge, 1996b.

Smith, N., “New Globalism, New Urbanism: Gentrification as Global Strategy,”
Antipode 34.3, 2002, 427-450.

Stoddart, D., “Darwin’s Impact on Geography,” in Stoddart, On Geography. Oxford:
Basil Blackwell, 1981, 158-179.

Once in Amsterdam

2006-11-09T10:50:00.000-05:00

Did you know I denied you

once in Amsterdam?

It was after my face flattened,
after I saw a red-headed Satan,
after pondering if Mario slept

when you hit the power button.

I was lying in the bottom bunk
in a room where the walls

jutted unmercilessly

and my sneaker was the size
of my head. I saw your face
in my mind, reflecting,

foreign as I was.

I said your name, and asked
who you were. Manny said

a desperate "What?"

I checked my watch,
which spoke to me
in Russian malapropisms,

and yes,

I thought i understood
Time's perilous, sparkling prism.
And then I forgot
some other things.

There was a parade

2006-11-07T10:20:00.000-05:00

There was a parade that day,
and the winds blew the flags
around their poles and into
their bearers' faces. The keys
on my clarinet were cold, and
the mouthpiece made me gag.
The reed was rotting and old,
and my dry lips were careful
not to catch a splinter.

I told myself to stay in the center,
not to drift my frame
into my neigbors. But my bell
bumped a floutist when her steps
stayed in place, and one more moment
I would have been on top of her.
He was in the grandstand, and his eyes
were on me as we halted
our procession.
His hands shivered. They were bare.
They shivered, it seemed,
a tiny absolution,
dozens of rapid crosses
like an erratic priest.

I heard the crowd cheer us,
and the drums marked the silence
when Mr. Maples's hand cut the air.
I kept on playing, hoping
everyone would see
every other pair of eyes
that chose to look at me.

Like white space on a canvas

2006-11-06T00:28:00.000-05:00

As it was in the beginning,
At least the start I understand,
A Something made the earth, the sun,
The water, plants to soak it up,
Animals to eat the plants, a man
To keep and kill the creatures, air
For him to breathe. The maker,
Lacking a flair for design, gave the man
Flesh between his legs, just hanging there
Like an inchworm stringing on a branch.
A clone was thrown into the world
To give it use, lacking man’s surplus.
Exterior negation. Subtly beautiful
Like white space on a canvas. We were defined.

Like white space on canvas, we were defined
By what we weren’t: shaded in.
The things around us give us shape;
We worry that an awkward angle
Will draw us wrong, mangle our bodies
Until we’ve lost that human look
In our eyes, and our arms are reaching
Out our ribs. If we only took
The time to straighten and suit our skin
To our shoulders, like an ill-fitting shirt,
You’d be sitting right here where I slap
My palm. This bench has all the power.
My hand, it falls, it’s weak and base.
If you were here, we’d define our space.

If you were here, we’d define our space
With our hands. Condense to water
If we like, mix and separate
Our liquid flesh, splash the grass
With green delight. Or maybe have
A firefight, scorch the innocent dirt
And char the victim-birds who fly too low
To the ground. A dragonfly does not have
A dragon’s breath, but we have proven
Our lungs’ air can flame, explode
Like a sunflare. So maybe we should
Stay apart. I see that you don’t care right now
But Dear, this silence is an episode.
Already there’s so much to fear.

Already there’s so much to fear:
These cigarettes will pop my lungs,
Leave them flat like empty punching bags;
My eyes will break, lead me groping
In light that only my hands can hold;
My dick will shrivel, balls grow cold,
My seed cloud out, dusty and dry
Like a burst sack of flour; Atomic bombs
Will drop like pelleted geese, while we hide
In bunkers underground, the place we thought
We’d never be, or worse, while sitting
On this bench—I’d have to see the lake dissolve,
The fish choke as my body goes rotten;
My life will go unnoticed, forgotten.

My life will go unnoticed, forgotten.
I had to write it twice. It carries weight.
It sits on my shoulders and shushes me
When I speak. It grabs my pen, cracks it
In half when I try to write for help.
Angers me when it squeezes round my waist
To push my blood into my face.
Another fear: I’ll never understand
A woman like I seem to know myself.
Of me, I know enough to just get by,
So with other men I can sympathize,
But women are a different kind.
The birthing of a child seems a pain, but
Menstruation’s something I would like to try.

Menstruation’s something I would never try,
I have to say. I have to be honest.
I force myself to neglect: This is my body.
A liver, a heart, a brain, never mind
The blood that fills my veins, all soupy
And sludgy, like quicksand, like stew.
And clots! One of those breaks free, man,
It’s hitching a ride straight to your ribcage,
Right inside where you put your hand
For the Pledge, the place where it bumps for what
Feels like forever, but of course it can’t.
A clot can stop your heart like a brick wall,
Or your mother’s look while your hand’s in the cookies.
I wish I’d eaten better.

I wish I’d eaten better.
That’s everyone’s lament, as well as
I wish I’d done a few more sit-ups, or
I should have brought more girls to bed.
That last one’s fine-tuned for the men,
But girls, I’m sure, have a similar thought.
For me right now, I’m friends with sex; no waste
From the extra flesh given me in haste
(He must have rushed it. It’s a clear mistake.)
But someday soon, it can happen in a blink,
This silly tool will lose its use. God bless
That day, when thoughts will have more room to move,
When girls are human beings too, and things are
As they were in the beginning.

Stood Up

2006-11-02T10:44:00.000-05:00

She had a basket in her lap, red
like the blood that would flow
out her nose(on occasion),
that she filled with apples,
green like the Gremlin
her parents drove
when she was a kid, that took her
to school and CCD. She had a memory
of sitting in the back while it idled,
and when she spoke her voice
was deep and cut up, like talking
into a motorized fan.
But she did not think of this memory.

She wore a white shirt, and on its lapel
was a black and gold button
shaped like a bell, not cracked
like the one in Philadelphia,
but smooth, and flat as a coin,
so it couldn't ring. The bracelets
on her wrists would have jingled
had she moved her hands.
Her black hair
was straight with hooks on the ends,
still warm from the curler upstairs.
In her red skirt
she had a hand-sized pouch
where she kept facial tissue
and cough drops, and a cell phone
that rarely rang. She sat on her couch
until her head began to tick
with the second hand
of the gravestone-shaped clock
that stood next to the TV stand.
It was then she stood up (a dull ringing
from her wrists, not bright
like an altar boy's bells),
undressed, and went to bed.

Relieved

2006-10-31T09:05:00.000-05:00

Eileen was crying in the bathtub again when Patrick came in to urinate. Her sounds were drowned out by the piddling in the toilet and its flush, but then entered a harmony with the post-flush porcelain ringing.

“I don’t know why you do it,” Patrick said, spotting the empty cardboard box, crushed flat on the pink bath mat. “You’re only torturing yourself.”

“It’s called hope, Pat.” She sniffled and trembled.

“There’s no hope here, hun.”

“There is, though. I swore I saw it start to change. I got so excited, I peed all over myself.” She looked up at him. The ends of her hair had dipped into the bathwater. “If you don’t have anything to add, I’d like to be alone.”

“Look, Eileen.” He saw his hand out in front of him, as if he were begging for change. Eileen looked down into the water. “Just lock the door next time, all right honey? And don’t catch a cold in there.”

*****

Patrick got dressed, tied a tie around his neck and drove to work. He would be half an hour early, but that was good because he had to move his bowels. Eileen was still in the tub when he left.

The air was cool, so he drove with a window down. He turned up the volume of his radio, trying to distract himself and relieve his hidden pressure, but falling acorns bouncing off his windshield made him drive faster.

The CVS parking lot was empty, typical for pre-noon on a weekday. His shift didn’t start until 12, but still he threw his white coat, his name stitched in cursive above his right breast, over his arm and race-walked through the automatic doors.

The entrance to the backroom stood just next to the pharmacy. It was comprised of two swinging doors and an alarm that had to be coded off before entering. Pat’s fingers fumbled and hit the wrong code twice before finally getting it right. His hand was pushing its way through when he heard a weak shout.

“Mr. Daughton.” He almost ignored it, but turned his head out of duty. “Mr. Daughton?” It was one of his regular customers.

“I’ve told you, Mrs. Mcgee, call me Pat. Or Patrick.”

“Right, right. Of course. Patrick, how are you?”

“Fine. Can I help you with anything?”

“Yes actually. I just have a question about which I should take.” Mrs. McGee sniffled and coughed. She pointed to three small boxes in her shopping cart. Patrick’s bowels felt tight, wound in twine like a baseball’s core.

“Take the red one, Mrs. McGee. It’ll clear you right up. Help you sleep too, so don’t take your Ambien with it.”

“Oh. But I don’t want to be drowsy.”

“OK, well you can’t take the Sudafed.”

“Why not?”

Patrick swore his testicles were rising into his stomach. He thought he smelled something. He wasn’t sure if it was him or his customer or mere fantasy, or if Mrs. McGee could smell it too. Maybe it was seeping through his skin? The old woman sniffled.

“Because you can’t. It’s not good for you. Take the green one. That should do you fine. Go ask Max if you have any questions.” He made a sweeping motion towards the pharmacy counter. “I have to run in the back for a minute.”

He heard her protest, something about Max being German, but he just walked through the door. A high-pitched squeal pierced his ears. He was on the toilet when he heard it go silent.

*****

A man sitting on a toilet is relieved of all pride. This is why he locks himself away in small rooms, or smaller cubicles within larger rooms.

Patrick studied his hands as he sat. Hair had crept its way up the back of each hand over the years, sloping up towards his pinkies. His fingers were unadorned. He prided himself on simplicity, on minimalism. When he felt a warmth in his urethra, his right hand aimed his hanging prick towards the waiting water. This led his sight to his thighs, pushed wider than normal from the act of sitting. There were thin red bands across it, stretch marks recording a previous time like rings in the trunk of a tree. Here and there pimples stood like puritan pariahs.

Patrick knew he was a lucky man to have a beautiful woman like Eileen in his life. He wished he could give her the two things she wanted: a child and marriage. But what was one without the other? In his mind, the act of marriage was more a transformation into mother and father than wife and husband. They’d been living like they shared a name for years now; a ceremony wouldn’t change anything. But a baby would.

These thoughts upset Patrick, though they were as regular for him as bowel movements. When he felt composed, he pushed the lever and flushed his waste away without a glance.

*****

Max was at the prescription drop-off window when Pat entered the pharmacy. He half-smiled at Pat under his graying moustache. Pat sat down at the pill counter, put the caps back on some opened bottles. Neither talked to the other. Without customers, there was no reason to talk. Pat stared at the phone, hoping for a ring and a line to light up, when his cell phone started vibrating in his pocket.

“Call me now,” read the text message. It was from Eileen. He called her, but the line just rang and rang and eventually went to voice mail. Pat flipped his phone shut before he heard the greeting.

An hour later his phone vibrated again: “Come home!” Max looked over at Pat.

“Urgent business?”

“No. It’s just Eileen. She wants me to come home for some reason.”

“I bet I know what she wants,” Max said. Patrick thought he knew too. In the past she had lured him home from work on her days off for some afternoon fun. Max didn’t know about this, but still strung his joke along. “Can’t have you today, though. No way am I covering for you. Got plans myself tonight.”

Pat felt a primal excitement as he stared at the text message. “What kind of plans?”

“It’s my day with Kate. Her mother’s dropping her off around 5. Probably go shopping with her and spend a paycheck. But that’s how it goes, I guess.”

“Yeah.” Pat was still fantasizing about Eileen, what she would be wearing, how she’d greet him at the door, when a customer called to refill a prescription. Then another called, then there was a line in front of Max and a line at the cashier. Max left at 4 so Patrick had to deal with the afternoon rush alone. There was no time to think about Eileen.

*****

It was dark when Patrick pulled into his driveway, but the lawn was blanketed in light. Every light bulb in the house must have been burning. Patrick peeked in the window and saw Eileen sitting at the counter. Her hands were clasped and held her chin up, while her elbows were pushing on the countertop for support. Patrick looked away and walked to the door. His long shadow bounced across the lawn.

“Hey honey, sorry I couldn’t call you back. Rough day,” he said after the storm-door rattled shut. He bent over to untie his shoes. Eileen didn’t say anything, only looked up. She was wearing jeans and an old gray hooded sweatshirt, and her hair was tied back. He could see light shining off of her eyes. Her mouth seemed to be slightly trembling, and she was holding something in her fist. “Eileen? What’s the matter?”

Eileen lowered her hands. She started smiling when Patrick walked over to her, and thrust what was in her hand into his face. It was a white stick, and he flinched when it flew so close. It looked wet, and had a rank smell coming off it. On it, there was a thin pink line running across a small plastic window.

“Oh, Eileen. I’m sorry.” He hugged her, but her arms did not close around him. She pulled away.

“Why are you sorry?”

Patrick felt a tingle along his arm-hair when he saw her teary eyes. “Because, the test…the minus.”

“That’s not a minus. That’s what it shows when the test is positive.” “Why would a minus mean positive?”

“It’s not a minus, Patrick. It’s a different symbol altogether. It means I’m pregnant.”

Patrick almost took a step back from her, from the stick and its minus. He balanced on his heels for a second, then repositioned his weight more evenly on his feet.

“How can you be pregnant? Remember what the doctor said?”

“Yes, I remember. He gave us a small chance.”

“Small? His exact words were ‘slim to none.’”

“That’s still a chance. Why aren’t you happy?”

Patrick wondered why he wasn’t happy. In his mind he saw himself ejaculating into a cup; the doctor’s scowling face, like a factory inspector judging him unfit for business. Then he saw the ring he would have to buy; Eileen’s stomach growing round and plump; the fluid that would pour out of her, that might drown him in his bed; the blood on a doctor’s white clothes. Then he saw what he thought was the truth.

“Tell me how this really happened.” He felt as if he was leaning forward slightly. He thought he could fall at any second, and was thankful the windows behind him were not open.

“You know how this happened. I’m pretty sure you were there.”

“Was I?” He saw her eyes glance at his hands, felt them tighten and tense.

“Yes, of course.”

Her eyes were teary again, and Patrick’s hands fell open, loose at his sides. He kissed her on the cheek and walked past her, upstairs to their bedroom.

“I think you should take another test, to be sure.” His voice was weak, and muffled by the growing steps between them. “False positives do happen.”

He didn’t see her sit back down at the counter, because his back was turned, or hear her when she said, “You know, Pat, miracles do happen,” because her voice was scarcely existent. He didn’t see her cry until her cheeks were cramped, or kiss the test stick with her lips slightly parted.

*****

It was ten o’clock when Patrick woke up, alone in his bed. It was Tuesday, and Eileen worked on Tuesdays, so he wasn’t alarmed to reach over and feel cool sheets. He noticed a pain in his sides when he breathed too deep, so he got up and walked to the bathroom in his boxers.

When he turned on the light, he noticed something on the lowered toilet seat cover. He walked in, and his eyes were still adjusting when he saw that it was a pair of Eileen’s underwear. This was another game she had played with him, leaving her panties around for him to find. He reached down to pick them up, and had them in his hand when he saw the small brown blotches blemishing the crotch. He dropped them back on the toilet seat on reflex.

He turned to the sink, still with a pain in his sides, in his kidneys. He grimaced as he brushed his teeth, tried to stretch out the pain by tilting from side to side. He was trying to think about Eileen, what he could say to her tonight. Maybe he would buy her a ring today? Or a vacation somewhere might be nice. He would ask her what she thought of Cleveland.

Patrick’s pain wouldn’t go away. He had no other choice but to piss in the sink.

I'M KURT THOMAS BITCH

2006-10-30T14:18:00.000-05:00

Suns.com: You seem to really be enjoying yourself up here, walking around watching some kids play in their championship games before camp closes out. How has the experience been for you?

Suns center Kurt Thomas: It’s great, it’s my first time up here and I’m really enjoying seeing these kids competing, going against one another and having fun. Looks like we’ve got a great turnout, the kids are excited and the parents are real happy; I’m just glad to be here.

Suns.com: Have you had the opportunity to participate in camps like this in the past?

Thomas: I’ve done some camp before but this is my first time in Arizona. I’ve done some in Dallas and all over the New York area.

Suns.com: Watching all these younger guys playing the game of basketball must make you even more anxious to return to the hardwood yourself. How’s the rehab coming along?

Thomas: Rehab's been great. My foot’s feeling fine, I’ve had a good summer working out and I’m looking forward to training camp.

Suns.com: Last offseason the Suns made a big offseason splash when they acquired you in a deal on draft night. This year the buzz seems to be surrounding newcomer Marcus Banks. What do you feel the former Timberwolves guard will bring to the table here in Phoenix?

Thomas: He’s a solid point guard who can really push the ball up and down the floor to help make our team even more exciting than what it is already.

Suns.com: The team goal for next season is obviously bringing Phoenix its first NBA Championship. What goals have you set for yourself personally?

Thomas: I just want to finish off the season. I want to have a full season under my belt in a Phoenix Suns uniform being injury free.

Later on that evening....

But right now, Thomas is the starting center. And after hitting nine of 12 shots from the field against the Sonics, his recovery from a stress fracture that ended his season last February appears complete.

“I’ve felt good from the beginning,” he said. “I had a good offseason. I rested my body, got my weight down (to about 235), and I came here prepared. It took me time to adjust, but now I love this system, love playing with these guys and I know my way around the city.”

I AM KURT THOMAS BITCH!
FEAR ME
KNOW THAT ANYTHING I DROP IS GOD
MY REBOUNDING IS BETTER THAN THE ATLAS MOUNTAINS
EAT A CHEESE SANDWICH AND CALL IT DAY
CUZ YOU STEP TO ME, I'LL LEAVE YOU DEAD LIKE MARVIN GAYE
PULL DOWN YOUR PANTS ON THE JUMP BALL
I CRACKED A REF'S NECK CAUSE I DIDNT LIKE HIS CALL
MY EYES ARE CROSSED LIKE RUPAUL'S GENDER
I BARBECUED KEVIN MCHALES CROTCH AND DRANK IT FROM A BLENDER
DEATH TO THE WESTERN CONFERENCE, I AM THE REBOUND KING
STEP INTO MY RING ILL GIVE YOU SCORPION DEATHLOCK LIKE STING

I AM THE UNSTOPPABLE, OMNIPRESENT, OMINIPOTENT, ALL-POWERFUL, OMEGA, SUPREME, KILLED YOUR DADDY'S DADDY, PUSSY WRECKING, STRETCHER OF ASSHOLES, HUMILIATOR, TERMINATOR FROM THE FUTURE, MACK DADDY EXTRAORDINAIRE, LEAVE YOU WITH SHIT ON YOUR FACE, FUCKED YOUR SISTER IN THE CUNT ASS AND MOUTH, YOU ARE REALLY GETTTING ON MY TITS

I AM KURT THOMAS BITCH
I WENT GORILLA STYLE ON YOUR GIRL AAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAHAHAHAH

Poem for Angelatee's Lickworthy Blog

2006-10-23T17:10:00.000-04:00

Cold drafts don't make you sick...
germs do, in fact,
and also certain thoughts
that wedge themselves
in the folds of your brain,
sometimes subtle like
a new rock in a riverbed,
other times dangerous
like a stone through a lightbulb.

Do not blame the germs,
because they lack
perspective, will never know
that you are sick,
or what sick is. Those thoughts,
however, can hold guilt
like air in a tire.

Carl Winslow

2006-10-13T14:56:00.000-04:00

There's a hole in the floor,
Carl Winslow, a hole
right into the bedroom
you've worked so hard for.

Don't look down, big guy.
Let Harriet take care
of this mess. Just stay
in bed and sleep. Don't ask why

a television set just flew
up through your carpet,
tore through it like a hymen.
Just sleep for a few

more hours. But don't dream
handyman fantasies.
Remember the bathroom, Carl.
It's not as easy as it seems.

Just stay warm, old friend.
Wrap that comforter
around your pot belly
and pretend this nightmare will end.

Don't go to the door,
Carl Winslow. There's a draft
up the stairs, and now through the floor.
You'll catch a cold for sure.

Bronson

2006-10-13T00:15:00.000-04:00

Charles Bronson... Wait, what did you say? You like Charles Bronson? How could you like him? Okay, instead of going into a Mike Dodes-inspired monlogue(fuck, shit, fuckn, waiting for the bus, a Vietnam vet, Vanderbilt will have to elaborate) (Editor Elaboration: He was some kid in college who did a strange monologue about a Vietnam Vet where he just cursed a lot and ran his fingers through his hair and pantomimed smoking a cigarette. He also plays MMORPG's. I think he's a wizard), but yeah Bronson, the characters he's played, are quite ludicrous. He spent a lifetime portraying men who are teflon not only on the outside, but on the inside as well. He challenged the way we view the elderly... Wait not really.

Unfortunately, I must make a departure from the pro-Bronson propaganda I have been spitting. Whether a rural cowboy or a western cowboy, the distinctions are interesting. He made a career of slugging it to the other. Whether it be Native American (westerns), the urban poor (Death Wish), or deranged Mormons (Messenger of Death), Bronson was always socking it to someone not white and anglo-saxon. The course of Bronsons career is emblematic of Hollywood's construction of nature, the socially constructed natural, and second nature in the form of urbanity. There is a dialectic here constantly in tension (conceptions of space in the form of rural-urban, tribal-modernized, town-countryside). Bronsons movies are a perfect way of displaying this abstract concept of space tension into actual practice.

The West as we know it was wild at one time. It was untamed, or as I would say not homogenized into the capitalist mode of production as of yet. It was up to toughs such as Bronson to go out there and establish law, or annihilate space (previous modes of production) with their iron guns and iron attitudes. Please don't believe that manifest destiny was a uniquely American phenomenon, or connected to some religious great awakening. It was a phenomenon induced by capitals insatiable appetite for new markets, resources, and labor. It was necessary to subjugate and destroy Native American populations. It wasn't just the production of an Andrew Jackson style Indian massacare that fueled the center driven domination of the periphery, but rather it was the carrying out of these plans that ultimately produced this abstract space(the space of capitalism via Lefebrve).

Like artistic gentrifiers that would follow, men like the ones Bronson portrayed put a foothold into this untamed environment for capitalist production. It was wild out there, just like fires can actually be wild. Doesn't this say something about our view of nature. The western starter town is very much isolated. Nature is truly external here. It is also dangerous and unforgiving. Native Americans, who are conceptualized as part of this external Nature, are also part of the hazard. In this context Nature is viewed as something primordial. Presently, nature has now left the wild(beautiful and valued) and the city has now become the vacant space of lawlessness with Indians being replaced by street thugs. The savage on the horse, has been replaced by the Duke of New York's caddy(Escape from New York).

Similarly, in Death Wish 3, and Kinjite, Bronson is now facing a new harsh environment. One in which his wife and daughter are either killed, or molested by hordes of similarly looking Japanese business men. Bronson now comes back as vigilante outlaw (Death Wish), or sheriff who isn't afraid to work outside the system (Kinjite), to enact some kind of Hammurabian notion of justice. In fact, the last lines in Kinjite, are by Lt. Kroll, Bronsons character. He confidently exclaims, "That's justice(!)". Now, instead of going to the the space known as high noon and fighting a villain to the death in a duel, Bronson makes 'that shitbag Duke' eat a watch. He also blows up his expensive car, and eventually facilitates him getting raped by faceless homosexual prisoners.

Bronson is justified in anything he does in this context. He is protected by this seemingly transparent notion of what is right and wrong. He is now bringing order to Kool Moe Dee's Wild Wild West(Los Angeles) by any means possible.

Bronson is a truly Reagan-era style hero. Bronson's characters are situated in a world where persons are inherently evil. Their station in life, their poverty, their propensity to commit crimes, is not bourne out of the inadequacies of the market system, but because they are socially deviant people. Their absence of middle class values is not attributed to poverty. What is portrayed is quite the opposite. One of the primary themes that underpins these movies is a justification for rolling back Keynesian economic policies. Something that Reagan, Bush, and Clinton were quite good at.

This relational space of the inner city is of primary interest to me. These films are produced to buttress the ideology of people who already believe that the inner city has turned into a wilderness. They took an integral part in the disinvestment of neighborhoods, yet they are somehow surpised the city has turned into a 'bad' place. Of course this isn't only a class issue. This problem of conceptualization is deeply connected with race.

In one of Bronson's diatribes pertaining to the Japanese yellow horde he complains that immigrants are taking what he and his partner have worked so hard for. Yes, very amusing. These movies, like 90 percent of the media, including shows like Mind of Mencia and Chappelle's Show, consciously or unconsciously seek to further rupture the proletariat.

I personally believe that the reserve army of the ghetto has lost significance. The new reserve army is the population of Mexico.

Anyway, these are some random thoughts, no research, just off dome. Plus I really didn't expound this shift from the West to the urban frontier through Bronson like I planned. Perhaps in the future...

In the womb

2006-10-12T13:45:00.000-04:00

You're beautiful
with the lights out,
only the glow
of the clock radio
on your skin. Like that
on your bed you're a babe
in the womb, your skin lit
from within by your heart's
electric pulses. Blankets
like these are uterine,
sticky and warm. I hope
you emerge head first.
It wouldn't be right
to cut you out.

Very Bad Post

2006-10-11T16:52:00.000-04:00

You talk too much shit to be real.
What's the deal?
Are you swallowing pills?
Can't escape
Or maybe you can, my man:
Drink this milk out of a can
like some pussy ass man...

I know what you're thinking: Is this Sylvia Plath? Nope. Robert Pinsky? Wrong. It's not even Allen Ginsberg. You get one more guess. Did you say Vanilla Ice? There you go! (Note: Just read that again. I am one corny asshole. This opening is so fucking cliche. I might as well write for Maxim.)

Yeah, these lyrics are from a song called "Step Up or Shut Up," by that guy everyone forgot about 15 years ago, until VH1 aired his Behind the Music, but then we forgot him again, until VH1 reminded us in that annoying series of shows about the 1990's. Seriously, fuck you VH1. I used to watch you all the time when I was a kid. I loved that Paul Simon video with Chevy Chase in it, and all the Phil Collins you used to play. What happened to you?

Anyways, I don't know what the hell I'm writing about. I just find it funny that he points out how the cowards in our society tend to drink their milk out of cans. Isn't that weird? And so true? I prefer my milk out of a cup, or a plastic sleeve, and sometimes a canteen, but never a can. Dairy and aluminum do not mix. Real men like me know things like this.

God, this post sucks. If anything good comes out of it, it will be that you (Note: not sure who 'you' is. The only person who will read this is Shitface, who's heard this song already, and maybe some dudes from the Phillipines searching for "Ricky Davis Pony Shoes," whatever the fuck those are.) will try to buy or download Vanilla Ice's "Platinum Underground" album, which contains this track. It's my second favorite hiphop album, behind Macho Man Randy Savage's brilliant debut.

readings

2006-10-02T15:19:00.000-04:00

These are the last sentences of an article I just read,

"And here lies the challenge for urban ethnographers: to demonstrate that they can apply the method without lapsing into a fatal reductionism. I have one admonition as they go forward: Watch your petards!

I had never heard this word, but I got it from context earlier. I found this funny. I am a nerd... Atleast I still have to mind frame to admit this. Soon this may be gone...

unorganized Marxist ramblings

2006-10-01T18:07:00.000-04:00

Why do we make decisions? I primarily speak of the important ones. For example, what school will we go to? What job will we take? Well... hold on, why are these decisions important. Why is the question that you and I ask when we first meet people. It is laughable, when you think about it. A pick up line I often spit is, "so what do you do". Is these the essence of our lives? Has it come to the point, that our activities of reproduction, (that is essentially what drives our lives outside of being exploited by wage labor), are insignificant?

Ask any elder, and most younger than you, how the wage and the discipline of wage labor is. I throw the word wage in this equation, because simply, this is the kind of labor we participate in on our jobs. While I write this piece, I am laboring on my own accord. My tool is the keyboard, i guess the envi is my environment. This is not to say I am not completely alienated from the means I choose to produce this document. The computer screen confounds. Maybe, through some magical bullet equation we can know where the parts for this computer and who labored on them. But how about the intellectual property of the page I am viewing. These have been produced by some labor, but my screen is covered in seemeingly untracable elements.

Alas, I have gotten off topic. I am told everyday that I need to prepare to compete in a global notion. I reject this notion. I refuse to be alienated from makes me human, which Marx said was the manipulation of earth with labor. To view people strictly as commodities may be extreme. People are not purely their occupations. However, when we use langauge such as this, we much sell ourselves as employees. We have created a culture in which, is not only acceptable to fundamentally exploit people for our labor, but we are encourage to degrade ourselves in such an occasion into slave wage labor. There is certainly a mysticism assocaited with the wage labor/slave labor. Without getting to far into it, the difference here is the conceptualization of a human being as a commodity. The slave was recognized in the context of political economy as a commodity. We see that the slave was merely chattel or property. The owner (not always a capitalist) did not pay his slave, instead he (most slave owners were men) was responsible for the slaves reproduction. (Keeping him alive). shit man, I got off task, I will elobarte this point later. Also to be discussed, the media as social control, and the myth of the american dream...

I dreamt I pissed myself

2006-09-26T17:25:00.000-04:00

I was at work at my desk
and its clutter
when my bladder
felt poked by a pin
so I walked to the toilet
and shut the door
and began to let it out,
let all of that painful urine
escape me, when my shirt
flopped down(I'd been holding
it up with my wrists
because my fingers were busy)
and when it flopped down
it broke the stream.

All I remember is warmth
on my belly and down my thighs
and on my knees,
and there was a wetness,
of course, but that was warm too,
and everything was yellow
with a rank sweetness,
and the reason I don't remember
anything else is because
I think that's all that happens
when you piss on yourself.

Positivity

2006-09-19T10:26:00.000-04:00

She had red hair and he didn’t know her name, but he could see in the curves of her cheeks and breadth of her smile how someone could love her. She was across the aisle, in one of the 20-odd folding chairs planted in the small meeting room, dressed smartly in a black suit, her skirt reaching just below her knees. He watched her ankles in glances, one bouncing in the air like a child on a trampoline, and they were chubby like a child, but with a feminine curve, which he liked.

He wore a suit too, grey and awkward on his frame. He held his resume, his life boiled down to snippets of experience, with his name across the top in bold and embarrassing capital letters: ERIC LOW. The redhead and he and about a dozen other men and women had come to this small office building off of the Garden State Parkway in hopes of a job, and were waiting for the owner to arrive to begin the information session.

Eric hadn’t gleaned much from his initial interview a week earlier. He had met with an attractive 30-something woman in a blank one desk office, hidden upstairs from a stationary store in his town. She wore a stylish cap, the kind an upscale cabbie might wear, leather and brown. Her name was Margaret.

“So, Eric, what are your goals?” she asked after formal introductions and they had both taken a seat.

“Hmmm…Security, I guess. I’m just out of college, so I’m looking for a tolerable job. With healthcare.”

“Interesting.” She wrote something down on the inside of a folder. “Do you have any special skills?”

“I’m competent with a computer. I can write proper sentences.”

“Good, good,” she nodded, half-smiled. Eric looked at her hat, which he liked, her short hair style, then the top button of her tight white blouse.

“Well, Eric, you seem like the type of person we are looking for. Energetic. Positive. Smart. You went to a good college. That’s what we want in an employee at Arthur Industries. Let me tell you a little more about our company. We are rapidly expanding as the fourth largest generic perfume distributor in the Northeast, and we’re looking for an office manager. Honestly, I’ve got a good feeling about you.” She winked, and he felt a tug below his stomach. She spoke some more but Eric couldn’t hear it, just nodded until he was in his car again with an address, date, and time in his hand.

*******

Redhead’s lips were moving subtly, forming mute words, and she would smile to herself every few sentences. She had index cards in her hand, her eyes intensely focused on them, so Eric could glance at will, longer and harder than before. Her ankles and calves were bare, the skin fair and blemish-free, like the tiled floor in his bathroom. Her face was the same, seeming so smooth from across the room, and her fingers were long, but he could see the skin tensed around the bones in her hand. Her chest was large, and he blushed when he noticed.

It was a minute late for the 10:30 scheduled meeting. Eric had seen Margaret and her hat when he arrived, said a quick hello, then sat in the empty room, the first to arrive. Twenty minutes later, the room was full of antsy prospective hires, all black except for the redhead and himself. Who they were waiting for, they didn’t know, he didn’t know, but he was reading down his resume for the 10th time that day when the man walked in.

His swagger matched his shirt: loose and breath-like, confident as a conductor. His slacks were grey and neatly pressed, and the aforementioned shirt, though slack to his body, was a business white, the top button opened to mix his message. His hair was full and brown, his face rough and handsomely craggy, deeply tanned, as if he had hoped the sun’s light could fill in those facial imperfections. A gold cross hung from his neck outside his shirt, nested in the chesthair that that curled at his open button.

Eric straightened up as the man walked down the makeshift aisle, shuddered slightly at the hollow clap that came from behind the podium. The man’s hands were large and wide, like fleshy cymbals, and his clap echoed significance around the room. It had begun.

He introduced himself in a low, gruff voice. “Welcome. My name is Jack Clifton. I’m President of Arthur Industries, and I’m glad to meet you all today. First, I’ll start with a little background.” He picked a batch of index cards from his chest pocket. Eric saw the hair again, its black contradicting the brown on his head. “Arthur Industries was started and is owned by a good friend of mine, Art Flowers. He worked his ass off with this company, and now he’s a millionaire out in California, living the good life. A few years ago, he asked me to run his East Coast operations, and I gladly accepted. Back then, we were small, barely on the perfume-distribution map, but now we’re a strong fourth and consistently growing.” Jack Clifton stopped talking and looked around the room. Eric glanced over at Redhead, whose eyes were wide like a porcelain doll’s. He felt that if she leaned back, her eyelids might descend.

“Now,” Jack Clifton began again, “we’re here today to find three,” he held up three-fifths of a hand’s fingers, middle ring and pinky, thumb and pointer shaping an ‘O’, like the gold-rings that each counting finger held, “office managers for sites we’re planning to open in the future. These are very good, lucrative positions we’re offering. Who here thinks they have what it takes?” He put a hand to his ear, and it sounded like everyone applauded a little. Some people shouted, “I’m your man, Jack.”

“Good. I like to hear energy, positivity. And I hope you all have energy today, because I have more good news. Not only are we hiring office managers, but, in fact, we are also looking for salesmen to fill those offices. These are high commission positions for strong self-starters. If you want to be living in Cali like Art Flowers, this is the position for you. So, who wants to be rich?”

Again, the whole room seemed to respond, only louder than before. People began talking to each other, high-fiving. Eric heard someone say, “You my boy, Jack.” There was laughter and smiles everywhere. Eric looked at Redhead. She looked solemn, listening like an angel in service.

“Honestly,” Jack Clifton said when the speaking began to diminish, “there’s no reason why every person in this room won’t have a job by the end of this meeting.” People clapped, pointed approval. “As long as you have that winning attitude, that go-getting spirit we love at Arthur Industries, then…” He trailed off.

His darting eyes stood still, saw what Eric could only guess was enthusiastic faces, happiness, hope. Then his eyes rose up to look at the back of the room. His mouth was tight like a stretched rubber band. Some people craned their necks, turned around to follow Clifton’s eyes, but Eric kept his gaze straight ahead. The man lowered his eyes, shook his head, then looked up again. He breathed a sigh. His eyes looked like pebbles.

“I can’t do it,” he said to nobody, to himself, but his voice was angry, as if the audience had provoked him. “I’m sorry. I just can’t.” And he walked down the aisle and out of the room.

*******

There was silence, a stop in time. Life was a single slide rather than a moving picture. Then there was more silence. Then Eric started laughing, shrill as a flute, which the rest of the room took as a starter’s pistol. Everyone began to chatter, their voices filled with outrage, with disbelief. The men were clutching their ties, the women had their arms folded, and all were swinging their heads, looking to the front in case Clifton hadn’t really walked out, and then to the back, where they knew he’d gone. There was no choreography, only chaotic neck flailing.

*******

By the time Eric had ceased laughing, his eyes were wet and seeing fuzzy shapes grow in height and lumber to the exit. He cleared away the tears to watch everyone go. A glance told him Redhead had left already.

The parking lot was full of complaints. “That motherfucker,” and “Waste of my damn time.” Eric wheeled around the crowd outside the door and went towards his car, giggling helplessly every few seconds. Ahead he saw tense white legs move across the concrete. Above that he saw a head of red hair.

To say something, he thought. To say something, a joke, an observation, how Clifton’s chest was full of spiders or, oh, look how the newly autumn leaves drift like falling pilgrims. She seemed to be parked next to him, and she stopped when she reached the hood, slammed one hand on the red-painted metal and put the other to her face. Eric let his left leg levitate for a couple of seconds, then walked to his car and got in.

He looked at her as he turned the ignition. The engine erupted, and there were black lines stretching down her pale face. Her eyes were closed, so he could look all he wanted. From here he could see the tangles in her hair, her bra strap peeking out on her shoulder, the soft fuzz on her chin. From here he could see tiny makeup-filled scars.

Most of this is Unimportant

2006-09-15T15:50:00.000-04:00

It was a desolate land, to be accurate, or maybe to exaggerate the smallest bit. Because there was grass, in small square grass colonies, and there were trees that sucked the moisture from the ground. And there was death, for sure, for how could it be otherwise? But this death was neither more or less than a place less desolate. It just was, like the pebbles that roll under the weight of your foot.

There were people who lived in this desolation. They had hopes, like cognizant beings in far better locales, and they had these hopes smashed like stained glass. Constantly, a hope was being crushed, its blood trickling into the shallow water table to feed the the red-leafed trees that somehow survived. One could find dead hopes underfoot as one will notice cigarette butts on a sidewalk, the hopes' faces brown, too, like a spent cigarette filter.

Some people kept wild hopes chained in their barren backyards. On certain days you could hear the hopes' howls, and the clanging of their chains as they pulled and pulled at the stake that stopped their wanderings. Curiously, this made many chained hopes cross-eyed. The morning after a full moon would find many a hope clinging to its home stake, spun around by its marred vision and choked by its chain.

Fact: Hopes are androgynous and asexual.

One man I knew had a hope which he repeatedly buried in the dry land, only to see it dig its way out. This happens, too, when you pour sand on an ant. Watch long enough, and you will see the grains tumble and give way, maybe just a few at a time, until an antenna is peeking through back into the air. The same happened with this man's hope, until he grew tired of this sport and drowned his willful pet in his above-ground swimming pool. It sank like a skeleton key.

All of this is unimportant.

Moreso, most of this is unimportant.

What is important is: It was a desolate land.

44 S. Broadway

2006-09-11T10:20:00.000-04:00

There is shade here, in the mornings,
when the sun is still hiding
in the sky's shallows. A chill
controls the air, orders each arm hair
to stand up like soldiers. Exhaled smoke
is carried away, abducted, spun around
swirling in this windy valley.
While classy black cabs stop and go,
pull over, open doors for animate bodies,
speed down the road like impatient Charons
on a pavement Acheron, the sky I know
is blue without a glance liplessly spits
ethereal rain. This is only first impression:
it must be stranded water from
my building's roof, blown over the edge
by a bossy wave of air, but still it dots my skin
like needle tips, like the smallest shards
of glass. It makes me look up
at that wide sky; such trickery, contradiction:
the clearest of skies and water falling
from its direction, sprinkling my forehead,
an invisble baptism. I can feel my heart beat
then; I shiver--uncleansed--rattling the drops off
like a dog does. But still the stray rain falls,
subdivides me until I feel fit to dissolve
if I dare, if I am called to.

The end of time and space

2006-08-29T00:40:00.000-04:00

Read the title. Read it aloud. It doesn't make sense, does it? Neither can really end, can they? Many said that the invention of the locomotive effectively blotted out a nascent industrial culture's conception of space. Other's would point to the similarity of air ports, on a international level. You leave one airport and you arrive in another. The language has changed, but the shops are still there. The name is different, but the news stand still has flawless tiers of magazines arranged by interest. The increasing fluidity of capital and labor (sometimes known as globalization; A U.S. driven international capitalism) has bulldozed discrepancies not only between modes of reproduction, but cultures as well. There is an international hatred for the American government, however cultural imperialism has taken its course. Coke is not 'our' culture, it is everyone's. To summarize, space and time seems to have ended because of advanced transportation technology and the bland commodification of everything.
I didn't come to lecture, but instead to describe a recurring daily experience I have been having for the last week. I ride the subway everyday. On Friday, I rode in public transportation for close to five hours that day. I had purpose, it wasn't just for exploration.
Maps make us believe that we can accurately conceptualize space. It really is an endemic quality to humans. I have seen many 'natural wonders'. Tall mountains, large Valleys, gargantuan oceans, but nothing amazes me like this man built network of tunnels. A whole world built beneath the city. If the city is second nature, is this third? Is that possible?
I think of all the people who wait on these platforms. Most of them are working people. Rich people really don't take public transportation. That is what the statistics show anyway. I ride the train with dark, friendly, and understanding faces. The universal respect of the subway is evident, or so it seems.
Why doesn't the city make a map of the subway telling us which trains go to poor neighborhoods. Where the slapped together stucco called public housing is. Then a map of the ethnicity of riders. I would love to overlay them on a map (I am so human), and publish the results.
Anyway, the underground is damn near congruent throughout. Shouldn't it be? Don't conflate this post with somekind of personal revelation, but sometimes it feels like I could be riding to nowhere. My cardinal direction skills, (which are not too great in the first place), are knocked for a loop. What is north? What is south? Directions lose their purpose. The water or other landmarks become non existent. The sun, forget it. My cell phone stops working. I rely on a message in the train posted in red, and a quite pleasant voice whispering in my ear, that this is a southbound express train.
The subway really epitomizes function over form, and to be honest, I love it.

One Man's Story

2006-08-23T17:16:00.000-04:00

He wanted to pluck
something out of the air
like a child's magician:
a story. Words upon words,
consonants and vowels
fucking each other
into coherence, like a man's mind
ten seconds after that last push
when everything is serene
and beautiful, except
for the woman beside him.
So he slides against the wall
and stares at the chipped paint
until those defects become faces
with see-through bodies, and those bodies
have see-through bowels, and inside the bowels
live men unashamed of truth who tinker
all day on their robotic brides. Then
she taps his shoulder and again
he's feeling the sweated sheets
wetting his skin. Then paint is all he sees.
I guess that's his story.

Ennui

2006-08-17T10:25:00.000-04:00

The word slings pretension
like a post-modern David.

A stone from his folded strap
that missed its mark, that lies
in the dried-out brush
ignored by foot and beak,
waiting for a heavy rain
to carry it whichever way
the gradient flows,
or to at least wash off the dust:
I am that sometimes (I lied

I am that mostly.)

I do not lack charisma,
there was just no room for it
with the acne medication in the cabinet
and urn of vaseline on the dresser.
It did not salve my rippling skin.
I threw it away like a good garbage tosser.

I've got a bloody nose
and a fecal anus,
and there's arctic water
trickling through my thighs.
And my face is burning, burning,
a wooden cross on a scorched summer lawn.

I will not get ketchup on my tie
today. I will not let my coffee
bubble out its holey cover. I will not
mark my hands with black ink
and fingerprint my desk
like a criminal.
I will not be interrogated.

Poor grey telephone
all alone all alone.
I kiss your mouth
with rubbing alcohol.
You are grey as ashes,
and I will wait in earnest
for you to ring me asleep.

Yeah, so...

2006-08-14T20:30:00.000-04:00

After an unfortunate turn of events, I recently died. And let me tell you, death fucking sucks.

Since everyone always asks, let me just get this out of the way: I was struck by lightning during a thunderstorm while I was standing in a puddle and chewing on a ball of tin foil. There, I said it. Let's move on.

Right when you're about to die, you lose control of everything. Your body can't keep it in, and you just make a mess. And if you're chewing a ball of tin foil, you bite all the way through it.

Immediately thereafter, right after you die, you see everything around you. You see the puddle, you see your body being pelted by rain. You even see the bottle of whiskey you were drinking and the confused, scared hooker looking on, wondering if he's going to get paid. You take it all in. Everything.

But you can't feel anything. This part is truly sublime. Your soul is floating above the scene of your departure, and you float higher and higher, and before you know it, you can see lights in the distance, and the entire convoy lined up in the truck stop you were at only moments ago. You can see the truckers rush over to fondle your warm, wet body, and the children rush out from the cargo hitches while the drivers are distracted. You can see it all.

Then, the pain sets in again. You feel everything you've ever felt. It sort of sounds cool, but it's not. Feeling 1,000 orgasms while feeling your body being struck by lighting, coupled with when you fell off your bike and knocked out your front teeth and when you recieved your first kiss. You feel everything you've ever felt, ever.

But it passes. It's enough for your heart to explode, which it always does, but it only lasts about a millisecond. Then you're ready for God.

And God's exactly how'd you'd expect him to be. He's here and there, like, all around you. He's got about 3o cocks, and tiny cell phones for fingers. Ya know, like in the magazines.

He's got this high-pitched voice. Like the singers in Bollywood movies. And He loves to sing-talk! Everything is a fucking song with this Guy.

He starts song-asking questions like "Is it ready for you to die.... My little forest butterfly!?" All the meanwhile his cell-phone fingers are ringing and vibrating and he's getting all these texts and voicemails from people like co-workers and vendors. The songs take forever.

He let's you choose whether you stay dead or you go back to being alive. So, you're standing there, trying to make this decision, and all the pain has left your body and you're feeling pretty good. As a matter of fact, that girl you liked in the third grade is blowing you. Except, you're your age and she's still like, 9, or however old she was in the 3rd grade. So ethics come into play too.

I decided to leave Him because I still had unfinished business to do on Earth (re: treasure map).

And I just got back. And the first thing I did was kiss my baby hello and hop on BoredforNow to give you an update.

Now, forget everything you heard about the treasure map.

-Madison.

shitface has a dream that one day...

2006-08-09T11:01:00.000-04:00

Definitions for phrases/acronyms that may be used in this document:
BPJ: Banana Peel Juk- The process by which one uses a banana peel as a masturbatory aid
SWF- Sopping Wet Furney- Describes the state of a woman whose furney (vaginal area) is sopping wet.

I have a had a problem lately getting SWF lately. The sad thing is I don't care. I have other ambitions now. Think about how much you could get accomplished, if you quit the endless pursuit of SWF. Now, I concentrate on achieving other goals, the kind that make or break a man. Some prefer to hike mountains, learn how to play a musical instrument, or play video games until they are sexually aroused by the thought of losing to the computer.

I, on the other hand have transcended all of these petty annoyances and now concentrate on doing something only few others have done. No, it's not the BPJ, though I have been actively participating in this process over the last couple of months. No, not video games and baseball cards. This Feat goes beyond collection. It doesn't involve reading, eating right, or getting exercise (for the most part).

Ok give up? Here's my plan!

It will be a Friday, or a Saturday, right, and I'll wake up late in the morning. I start the day by unsettling my stomach. Many nuts and chocolate items will be consumed. I'll probably use the bowl a couple of times, but not too much. As the day rolls on I will eat some stewed prunes and 15 dollars worth of taco bell food. The stomach gods will become angered and Posiden's trident will rapidly strike the insides of my intestines.

It's party time. On this particular day my friend will be having a house party. The kind where girls from his work come and are looking to drink alot. I will start talking to the girl with the lowest self esteem and the worst couth in the place. She will preferably be loud and obnoxious.

Her friends will abandon her and I will get her drunk to the point of alcohol poisoning. I will be incredibly friendly, doing the best I can considering I am in pain from the taco bell. She will pass out in my friend's house. I will then proceed to leave a note in her pocket telling her I will be right back and that my stomach is bothering me. Ahhh the truth. I will instruct my friends to go by the story, that she stammered out shortly after yelling obscenities.

This is where my plan will spring into action. I will eat half a bag of dried fruit in three minutes, eat half a box of All-Bran extra fiber, choke down some milk of magnesia, and then drink a barium milk shake. I will then proceed to take a lap around the nearest track with a very tight belt tied around my waste. I will be in much pain at this point. This is where mental discipline must and will take over.

While I am getting ready, this near alcohol poisoned, passed out, girl will be placed in the middle of an open space, maybe under some bleachers at the school I am running a lap at. This is where all my delicate planning and flawless execution will pay off. This is the 'bigger' thing I referred to in the introductory paragraph. Remember? The thing that is superior to the 'the pursuit of SWF'

I will proceed to drop my drawers and squat over this young lady's face. I will relish the moment and contemplate my journey. Finally, I will open my sphincter and let loose a volume of excrement reminiscent of the floods that occurred in Superman one before Superman reversed time. After I have finished, I will run for my life. This will be the pinnacle of my existence and I dare anyone to debate otherwise. Not having wiped, I will run for my life jumping and crying. Victory will finally be mine....

Now you may ask, what about the young woman? She is going to eventually wake up covered in shit. There are a couple of things to remember. The girl's friends did abandon her, you did specifically pick her out because she had low self esteem. Also, who would admit that? Something as humiliating as that. Could you take someone seriously who got shit on like that in the middle of a field. I don't think so. I mean, you may put that on the resume of the job interview for some fetish film, but the bottom line is, it's not a great experience.

So tonight, I Shitface Mcstevens, will prey to god (Darrel Hammond), and hope hope hope that one day I will be given the opportunity to unpack my glorious plan...

Purging Pinche

2006-08-08T09:03:00.000-04:00

Some information has come to light concerning one Pinche Cabrona, former BfN contributor and translator. There are conflicting reports, so the following is a list of what our trusted sources have so honorably reported.

1) Pinche lost all of her fingers in a catastrophic protein shake accident. She has in fact been working on a post, but must type with her nose, so it is very slow-going, especially because of her famous weak capillaries. She can't read the letters on the keys for all the red, but still she trudges every day from memorization of the home row. Despite her determination, the ETA for the article is 2012.

2) She has given up all technology and spends her days writing stories in the sands of a faroff beach, only eating sand between leaves which she cleverly calls a sandwich.

3) Pinche was actually the pen name for Lance Bass, and now that he's gay he doesn't feel the need to post anymore. Elitist!

Any additional information should be posted below. If you see Pinche Cabrona, do not approach or confront her, as she has teeth like staple removers and nails like the hard plastic packaging electronics come in that get really sharp when you try to open them. They're a real hazard.

Mucking About with...Headlines

2006-08-03T11:51:00.000-04:00

This is something I made up. Me. I did it. Don't steal it. It works like this: I look at a headline and try to guess what the story is actually about. I created this. Again, don't steal it.

Obese people may collapse more in heat

As the whiskey in our collective thermometers rises with the summer months, there is an oft overlooked danger on the streets.

"Heatstroke is a real menace," said Dr. Menelaus Menses. "People are passing out every day: the young, the old, the infirm, and especially the obese. This last group is the one we should worry most about."

In an average non-summer month, an obese person will collapse 3 times. During the summer, that number quadruples to 36.

"It's a danger. These 'tugboats,' as they like to be known, are collapsing all over the place. Every 5 seconds, an obese person collapses. Our hospitals are filling up." Dr. Menses also wanted to set straight some rumors concerning the 'tugboat' appellation: "These people do not float, and only a small minority finds them fit for a tug."

The obese's extra weight is, "like wearing three snowsuits while sitting in a microwave," Dr. Menses told us. "Together, with the other problems the obese face, such as hypertension, diabetes, and the increasing difficulty in procuring children to eat, I'm surprised anyone is fat anymore."

An obese is defined as a man or woman(no trannies) who weighs at least 636 lbs. Like all of us, they play sports and are allergic to cat hair, but unlike us, their sweat shoots out of their pores like a clicking sprinkler, and they fall down really hard. Dr. Menses told us, "The bigger they are, the farther[sic] they fall." These fallings are crippling the non-obese at a rapid pace.

"Yesterday, I treated seven normal people who had been injured by this increase in obese collapses," Dr. Menses told us while visibly erect. "I lost two of them. This is getting out of hand."

36.4% of tugboat falls hurts a non-tugboat. Ways to prevent injury include: drinking fluids, wearing sneakers with fresh treads or those sneakers with wheels in the heels that kids are zipping around the mall with crazy bastards, not bathing in bacon grease, and staying out of the shade, as what you think is a tree may be an obese person with eczema.

Ways to prevent obesity include: not eating.

Dear Stalin,

2006-08-02T15:14:00.000-04:00

I'm officially fed up with people. I came across an article a while ago and I feel that things are really getting out of hand. This article is talking about a lawsuit that has been filed against MySpace.com. Supposedly a 14 year old girl developed an online relationship with a 19-year old man. Understand this, she voluntarily gave out her name, address, phone number, and most likely several other personal tidbits like the fact that the only blood that she has ever seen come from between her legs was from chafing she received on her big wheel; did I mention yet that she’s 14? So this 19 year old guy picks her up after school to take her on a date; oh yeah she’s 14 so that puts her in 8^th maybe 9^th grade. They went to dinner (I’m guessing Chuck E. Cheese) and a movie (once again I’m guessing Monster House) and afterwards he drove to a parking lot and raped her in the back seat of his car. At that point, it is unconfirmed but I believe that she pulled out her Harry Potter wand and attempted to cast a spell to prohibit this personal intrusion from continuing. However, being 14 and not realizing that magic isn’t real yet her world and self-esteem came crashing down in a 19 year olds 30 seconds of pleasure, only to ruin every relationship that she attempts to have for the rest of her life, not to mention her contribution of cock-blocks.

Now, the girl and her mother have filed a lawsuit against MySpace.com for no less then $30 Million, arguing that MySpace does not protect kids. Please understand that I do not condone sexual assaults in any way, and that this guy was no where even close to being in the right (14 is too young to rape, set your sights higher), but there has to be a line people. This girl is suing a third party for an unnecessary amount of money because of her mother’s poor parenting skills and her poor life choices. This whole thing makes less sense than the belief that Lance Bass is the only gay N*Sync member.

There you go…I’ve contributed and I’m angry….now please excuse me I’m late for my Bratz chat room appointment…the discussions really pick up during the summer.

Call me Stalin or one of the Olson Twins, because...

2006-07-31T15:23:00.000-04:00

...there will be a purge.

This is a notice.

One week from today, any so-called "contributor" who hasn't posted will have his/her membership revoked and will have an embarassing post about him/her published.

This is a notice.

My Biopic

2006-07-30T18:31:00.000-04:00

It starts with a wail
and a tear.

The action rises
as my dad marks
the top of my skull
on the wooden post
next to the stairwell.
He uses a pencil
and my hair crunches
as he draws the line.

The lines stop climbing:
Crisis! Something else
is rising constantly,
an action unspoken
like a prayer.

There is a girl
and another, the first
a tattoo, the other
a piercing.

Sometimes there is rain
which pats my head
like a withered aunt's hand.

The denoument is filled
with cigarettes.

The resolution
is a long nap
on dirty bedsheets,
stained with my seed
and covered in
bits of my skin.

This poem is like giving your starving child a bag of popcorn

2006-07-07T10:15:00.000-04:00

This is wasted breath,
Old Gerald thinks
as his legs carry him
slowly up the grassy hill
he hasn't seen since thirteen,
when he'd croon Rosemary Clooney
and roll and tumble,
let gravity do its job.
Today there's not a breath
left to sing.
Even his dog is panting.

He's come here to see.
He's come here to laugh.
He's come here to be buried.
He's huffing, halfway up,
legs burning like coals,
cane useless. It's dry and cool.
No fear of mud-sliding
back down, or slipping
and rolling like
Sisyphus's boulder.
Though he could tip back
like a diseased older tree.
Or maybe his legs will just stop,
suspend him forever halfway
up a childhood hill. Modern art,
not like dripping paint
or boxes full of nothing, but
"Gerald", flesh and bone and substance
with frozen legs and a dead dog.
I am a full of nothing.

Look at the grass, Gerald.
It's sloping less and less.
Look! This is called the summit.
We'll call what's behind you
the climb. It's why you're breathing
like a criminal. Do you remember?
Were you a child here?
Where would you like your hole to be?

Gerald falls.
He's lying now, arms drawn out wide
and heavy like urns,
but his fingers sometimes twitch.
His lungs are filling slower now,
but still to bursting.
His ribs are a dam. His eyes
blink and squint
at the villainous sun. He thinks,
with every twitch, every breath,
There's still life in me yet.

When the sun sets

2006-06-21T13:53:00.000-04:00

When the sun sets,
The man nextdoor grabs his hat
And a cane. I hear his door
Whisper shut.
He walks the lawn
With tepid footsteps,
Gestures with a cupped hand
At my face in the window.

His daughter has eaglebreasts.
I dream that once
My head might rest
In her nesty flesh.
When her light fades out
And her silhouette is absorbed,
My dreams
Are all dimples and folds
And pure pure white.
When I dream
She's always in my sight.

When the sun shows up again,
A wooden tap roosters
Me awake. There is no wave
From his tired hands; his eyes
Lie on skin pillows
And don't see me
Blink through the blinds.
I know he'd call
My dreams unkind,
But that's because
A daughter differs
From a shadow,
From a distant image
Small enough to carry
In my pocket.
If I knew his name
I'd say 'I'm sorry.'

County Park

2006-06-04T21:12:00.000-04:00

I drowned you in this pond.
I breathed the air that hit the surface,
The bubbles of your lungs and lips.
Your arms did not struggle, while mine
Were wrapped by sludgy weeds
And abandoned lily pads. It's a shame
That no one saw me.

On the reedy shore, my shoes
Were slicked with goose shit.
I saw a man catch a fish,
His orange bobber floating above your body,
And he cast again, lusty and impatient.
He caught another. Another flowing
Flick of the wrist, and a third fish
Flew up with his hook. Their breath
Stunk of your tears. How nutritious your sorrow,
When fish will risk an iron barb
To eat their fill.

Soon, the rod was halted.
There was no sport in it. The pond
Became speckled with scaly bellies, and the frogs
Jumped from fish to fish. Your tears
A new lake created, with an ocean's
Salinity. On the bank, I cupped
A hand and fed my mouth, but my throat
Choked on the thickness, and my lips
Were painted a salty red. I had to leave.
I'm afraid I can't go back.

Conveyance

2006-05-31T17:32:00.000-04:00

Hmmmm...How to explain. This is gonna be hard. It's like, like...God, this is tough. The words, they just don't mean what I want them to mean. Like, let's say there's a dolphin, who really really likes graham crackers...no, wait. I mean, let's take your mom. Just an example, no insult intended. Well, it's kinda like your mom, with all her sundresses and sunglasses and sunroofs and shit. Almost like that, I guess. More like a skylight that some bluejay has shat on.

Still, you're not getting it, and that's not your fault, because I'm not getting it right. Let's say a train is going in two directions at once, like North-East, but the wind is only going up. It's like that, moreso than your mom. But then again, have you ever gotten a ticket for not turning on your headlights, even though it's clearly still dusk, and there is still light, and you can see the pollution turn red on the horizon? And then, you remember the spare pack of Sunny Doodles in your glove compartment. That's the feeling.

OK, enough of this nonsense. I have it, conveyed to perfection: You are playing four-square with the man who will be your husband. His mom whistles, a command, but he stays a silent moment longer, to peg you in the head with that beautiful, red, rubber ball. Your teeth clack and you bite your tongue, and when you get home, your mom thinks you stole her favorite lipstick. The tuna tastes like pennies that night, and you never fall asleep again, until you touch down on your wedding bed.

You still don't get it, do you?

That's what I thought.

Choose your own adventure

2006-05-24T16:44:00.000-04:00

Yes, I was quite fascinated by Vanderbilt's idea. I willgive you a watered down, less well written, unoriginal account of Vanderibilt's already borrowed theme.* Read at you own risk.**

*There actually may be references paralleling the 'real' choose your own adventure

** I don't feel the need to preface the story, or construct any kind of plot. This is because I don't know what the word means.

You find yourself in the a strange city. Some people speak English, and some other language. It could be El Paso, Prague, or Manila. You are ignorant to culture or racial markers.

Do you find the nearest pornographer and converse with him, try to find a newspaper Marty Mcfly style, or try to figure it out yourself, even though you know absolutely nothing.

You happen to be a stubborn chap searching for adventure. You wander the mews, avenues, boulevards, and the like. Your legs are tired, but your loins are not. A woman dressed in a business suit smiles at you. She has a crooked tooth, but you like those kind of flaws.

Do you ask her, "how much to take me around the world Magellan style?", ignore your primal instincts and eat some kind of sandwich, do what you usually do, and buy a loaf of Italian bread and a tub of margerine

See normally you would take the last choice, however, you are in a strange city, no one knows you. You proposition this not so young lady. She looks at you puzzled, like you got mustard on your sweater vest.

Do you, repeat the question, run away, push her down and run away

Well C'mon, you don't want her following you. She doesn't fall down because you are a weakling. You kick the prospective presser of charges in the shins, and take four lefts. Shit! You are back where you started. The women is waiting, quite astutely, for an explanation. You happen to be smooth*, so you approach her casusally to work it out.
*You are not, nor will you ever be

Do you profusely apologize, and make up an excuse, Give her a clothesline (from hell) , Make sweet, sweet, love, to a sweet, sweet, sausage

Uh oh. No good choices there. You unlogically refrain from violence and sexual acts. She's waiting for an explanation. You start stroking the piece to insinuate what you want. It's pretty surreal, even for you. The snaggle tooth whore pretends to walk away. You almost fall for it. She says, "80, that's how much it costs" You stroke your chin and say sure. Uh Oh! You don't have any money. Maybe you can pay her in orgasms, 80 of them.

Do you play it cool, and act like you are the real McCoy, Pplitely tell her you are not interested, eat an ice cream sandwich

You are partial to ice cream sandwiches, but your piece is on fire. You need to put it out. Your doctor told you that you are allergic to blue balls. It could kill you. You make the logical choice and follow her. She walks quite confidently towards an unknown destination. You pass, an 'adult' kiosk. Aha! It's not even a choice, you follow your unlikely hostess. After about an hour and a half you are walking on the side of a service road in a post industrial paradise.

Do you, see if the kiosk is still open, force the issue, keep walking

You felt some audacity, but you lost it. You keep on walking. You get to a cliff. She's got Leonardo wings, you got nothing. She jumps off and falls to her death.

Do you, follow suit, find a safer way down and collect the dead body, or walk back to where you started and utilize the Marty McFly method.

TURN TO P. 48 for your fate!

I became a little bitch

2006-05-15T14:08:00.000-04:00

Time to get serious for a moment.

Here's something that happened at work a couple weeks ago: I became a little bitch. I don't think I was totally in the wrong, though, but I feel that I might have over-reacted, so I want to share the story and get some opinions.

I'll start off by saying that I'm an atheist. I used to be Catholic, but then I discovered this thing called sin, which is a lot of fun, so I gave up on my faith and became a cat burglar. I quit when the price of cats dropped so low that there was no profit in it anymore, but that's another story for another post.

Anyways, I was just sitting in my cubicle, doing some work* and stuff, when co-worker A began talking to the person in the cubicle next to mine(co-worker B). She(co-worker A) asked B if he smoked, and when he said yes, she asked if he wanted to quit. He said it was hard to quit, so A said that she knew someone who could help. That person, of course, was Jesus.

I've had this same exact talk with her. She asked me if I smoked and all, same order of questioning, but I was also asked if I was Jewish. Can you get more WASP-ish than "Vanderbilt" ? I think not.

Well, A and B began to discuss religion. A loves God and shit(meaning she loves God and all that Christian stuff, not that she loves God AND loves shit), B decided to provoke her with stupid questions like "How do you know God exists? Really, how? I could be God!" She would then say, "Of course God exists. See that tree? That's proof." Idiot-talk. It was like she was trying for a conversion. This went on for like an hour. And I felt pretty uncomfortable. I don't know why, I guess the rules in my head just tell me that religion is an inappropriate discussion topic at work. Plus, I was constantly thinking of how I would argue every statement she made. But I let it go.

They finally ended the conversation, and I was relieved. Until it started up a couple hours later. This time, there were about 4 people standing and sitting around. It got worse, though, when co-worker A decided to show everyone how much she loved God by singing hymns. Right behind me. My gut reaction was to turn around and look her in the eyes. I have to state: I did not think this through; it just happened. She just smiled and said "What?" Everyone looked at me, and I don't blame them, since I had just abruptly swivelled around in my chair. I was on auto-pilot, though, and said in a plain voice...

"I don't think that's appropriate."

I saw co-worker A's eyes kind of go sad. I was asked to repeat what I said, and did, and then turned around to hide the heat radiating off of my red face. I had successfully killed the conversation, and I just had to be an asshole to do it.

But was I an asshole? I really feel it was an inappropriate subject considering the setting, and I was feeling uncomfortable. One hypothesis has been presented that I was trying to deflect the attention to the hymn-singer. I kind of see that, because my actions dictated that I had to say something in the moment, since my chair-twist turned all eyes on me. Could I have handled this another way?

This is all coming up now, because I have a new co-worker behind me who is playing a CD of trite gospel songs. Either that or she's a pothead, because I keep hearing the word "higher," over and over again. Now, I don't mind this as much as a person actually proselytizing and singing hymns, it just brought the prior incident to mind. Obviously, people have certain freedoms, like hanging bible quotes on their walls. I can't argue with that. One guy has a couple of construction paper things up that look like tablets, obviously made by his kid in bible school or something. One of them says, "What is it about 'thou shalt not' don't you understand? -- God". I'm glad someone finally found the Gospel of Rupaul, where God is all sassy and in your face. I think the other tablet said, "Thou shalt be fabulous -- God". This is also the book in the bible where God signs his quotes, like it's a high school yearbook.

I won't be an asshole this time. When she's at lunch, though, I might just have to steal the CD and turn it into a sandwich. And, if anyone's keeping track, this might be my first post that has more than 50% truth to it.

*Sudoku

Big Announcement

2006-05-12T10:46:00.000-04:00

Greetings. Please accept my apologies for my absence over these past few weeks, as well as Madison's. The other guys, don't know what's up with them, but Madison and me have been very busy. Very very busy.

We actually have a big announcement that we can't share at the moment, or any foreseeable moment in the future. BUT, here are some possibilities*:

- We have cured cancer and AIDS, but also accidently created a new disease called caidser.
- We have been commissioned to write the sequel for Tuesdays with Morrie, entitled Wednesdays with Dracula. It's a bit of a departure from the first book.
- We have both been diagnosed with ED(eternal diahrrea). Not fun.
- I've lost the ability to love while Madison can't seemingly love enough. We're trying to find a happy medium.
- We created this. Best time of my life.
- We have discovered a new type of pornography that no one has ever thought of or seen, and which has the possibilty to tear the world apart. One hint: papercuts.

Maybe someday we'll be able to share the big news. If all goes well, hopefully in 8-9 months.

*By "possibilities," I mean "things that are not the announcement."

off dome pt. ?

2006-05-01T23:55:00.000-04:00

Me name be shitface so swim in my spit
I borrow money from you and my name is split
Taped a banana in my pants to get you girl erogenous
Disrespected Lance Armstrong just to prove a hypothesis
We took drugs and tried to have a ball
I pushed you off the cliff and told you I would see you next fall
But this aint cartoonery you aint homer on skate board
I got hungry and ate Donkey Kong's entire banana hoard
The bran provided
got me excited
didn't have the strength to walk so I astroglided
over the Atlantic rocking a purple hat with gold crescent moons
I watch fantasia six times every third June
if you get my logical chain
you might have a decent sized brain
used for barter, I shit on the formal economy
I gave your girl a lobotomy
so now she sucks it abominablely
That means dissatisfaction, like the cheese on the floor
while heads snore
my golden liquid I pour
in your acne medication, you've never felt such a sensation
I gave you anal relations
using a sausage casing
It didn't keep the seamen in, but it sure tasted tasty
Get out and run miles so your guts not white and pasty
I win on the battlefield, go crawl back to Asia Minor
I wont hold on to your piece like my name was Ernest byner
its all you get for now so wipe with your hand
while you dance the horah to Ernest p whirls band

this weekend

2006-04-23T23:44:00.000-04:00

Vandy and I made up this weekend! So I was in a certain tournament, a video game tournament. Well... let me set this up...

So I'm in the middle of this custody battle, right. About 4 years ago, right, I made a little shitface, right.

Now, it is my custom to have sex with a girl, right, 'and never call her back'. That's my steeze, right? I am a scumbag. Unfortunately, this one chick got pregnant, and she happened to be an associate of my cousin, right, Samantha scumbag, right. Just so you don't get it twisted, right, this whore and I made a kid in 2002.

For some reason, right, she absolved me from any financial responsibiliites, right. I was relieved, right, let me tell you, right. She said, "Shitface, I don't want my kid to know a shitface like yourself, right. Please take yourself out of my son's life, right, and your scumbag tainted money, right." JACKPOT, or so I thought, right.

During the last year sometime, right, little Shitface's momma choked to death, right, on the dick of yours truly, right. A custody battle followed these events, right. As what I think was revenge, right, she legally placed me in custody of 'our' child, right. I showed the courts , right, I was clearly unfit to be a father, right, being that I am quite a shitface, right. Logically, right, the late dick choker's father, right, would take over as the legal guardian, right. Unfortunately, it never worked out like that, right. We had a contest of scumbaggery to determine who was less fit to be, right, a parent, right. Unfortunately, right, this ended in a stale mate, right.

There was only one way out right right right right.... I needed the money to pay this dude off so he wouldn't force this shitface on me, right. He set his price, right, it was grand indeed, right. There was only one way to win the sum, right. I entered a marvel vs. capcom 2 tournament, right (A video game featuring comic book characters fighting video game characters). IT WAS A DOUBLE ELIMINATION TOURNAMENT!!! I went to my local gambling spot and placed my life earnings on my performance in this tournament right, IT WAS A DOUBLE ELIMINATION TOURNAMENT.

I was doing great, right. They were playing the theme song to the Delta Force, right (See Chuck Norris), and I was comboing like a mad man, right. All of sudden, right, I got a stomach cramp from eating too much bran, right. Hey a shitface gotta shit, right. I lost to some punk who had no skills, right. My spirits were down, right. So, I digoed a baked ham, and a turkey sandwich, right. I was ready to quit and take this shitface on, right, and then, the grandfather of little shitface made me an offer I couldn't refuse, right. He offered me a fully furbished right right right(arcade pizza and tokens) arcade, right, with all the 80's game I desired. I was like yes, I think I'll take it, right. Then the kid came out, right, and said something about eating, right. I said, "shit I didn't think, right, I had to feed this mother, right, fucka, right." And with that I stormed out, right, and did a, right, swan dive through a stained glass window, right, and continued with the tournament, right.

Fast forward to me in the finals, right, and this is where Vandy, right, stepped up his game, right, and showed what a true friend he really is, right,. I was down in the final ,right, match, right. I couldn't concentrate, right. This dude kept on spitting shit, right, about how clean I was, and how I could never pull this off, right.

At this moment, right, at my lowest of lows, right, Vandy come out of nowhere, right, and punched the perpetrator in the nuts, right, and proceeded to waft his man smell into my opponents, nose, right. No sooner that, it was over, right. I won the custody battle, right. I DON'T HAVE TO TAKE CARE OF THAT KID, right, and its all thanks to you Vandy, right. You are a true friend, right! Let's, right, eat, right, pizza, right, and, right, discuss, right, Solstice, right.

"A Shower a Day Keeps Molesters Away"

2006-04-21T16:01:00.000-04:00

That's what my mom used to tell me. She said that child molesters didn't like clean boys, that they preferred dirty children with sticky hands and skinned knees. She doesn't know how wrong she was.

Quick fact about Madison: He only showers every other WEEKday. Don't even ask about weekends. No soap, no toothpaste, no deodorant. And has Madison Sinclair ever been molested? Not to my knowledge, and I think I'd know.

Looking back, I can see how my mom had things twisted. She was trying to give me sincere advice based on how she saw the world: sex equals dirty, therefore molesters, who pursue children as sexual objects, would rather a dirty child. Cleanliness is angelic. But maybe the pedophiles would rather a clean boy to defile.

On the other hand, maybe she just wanted to scare me into having good personal hygeine. Thanks a lot mom. I may not have dirt behind my ears, but now I have fingerprints on my rectum.

In other news, I haven't shaved since Tuesday. Because of this, I've been considering keeping the streak alive and growing a moustache, but my dad has a moustache, so that just seems weird to me. Below is a fairly accurate artistic rendering of me with a moustache. Let me know what you think. I need your advice.

Shitface Hates Me

2006-04-20T14:58:00.000-04:00

What timing, huh? Here we are, BfN's 100th post, and now is when internal strife decides to strike. In light of the occasion, though, I've decided to come clean in regards to the charges against me. Yes, I took the Solstice game pak. Why? Because I wanted it. I was young and naive and white. What did you expect?

But, allow me to add, I did not enjoy it at all. I played it for about 5 minutes before I went back to playing Crystalis. I much preferred shooting fire and wind out of a sword and talking to rabbits than picking up blocks and solving puzzles and shit. I think most people would agree.

Also, I had no knowledge of the Italian man's uncle in the other bathroom stall. I put a hand through and felt some fur. I thought I had made an informed decision. I didn't know it was his moustache, and I APOLOGIZED RIGHT AFTER THE AMBULANCE LEFT. How long are you going to keep a grudge?

Anyways, I have my own grievances against McStevens. Here are some of them, in an abbreviated list form:

1) You brought me to an Indian restaurant once. You know I can't eat Indian.
2) You told me the clown's name was Donald McDonald. I felt like such an asshole.
3) You tried to digo* Judith Light, and not even 6 feet away from me. Needless to say, I hate Connecticut now.
4) You are forever farting in my car. It's disgusting. And the only time I've heard a "Hebrew Oven" joke not relating to Nazis.
5) I'm just going to say it one more time: Urine is a poor lubricant. Not that I've tried, it's just common sense.

There's plenty more I hold against you, Shitface, but I don't let it stand in the way of our friendship. I'm extending the olive branch here, trying to be the bigger man. And for the record, Megaman did not make me "puke my don," as you so eloquently put it. It was Parappa.

*Digo (dee-go) v. - to copulate; to engage in sexual intercourse.

I hate V A N D E R B I L T

2006-04-19T21:36:00.000-04:00

For all intent and purpose, our short lived friendship is over. I hate you, and everything you stand for. I wiped my ass with French toast this morning cuz' I know you like it. Can't believe you were the one that took my Solstice Nintendo game pak. You know how much trouble I got in for that. I was restricted to playing tether ball for a whole week. I got really good, which helped me digo later on, but the hardships I suffered weren't worth it.

Now you tell me you took it. Sigh... The balls you have Vanderbilt are of the king sized variety. I thought you had duke sized balls (get it, duke/dong, aka specializing in the face to duke maneuver) Honestly, that's why I haven't been posting. The puzzle based formula of this game is unique. I thought my Famicom might have eaten it, but alas it did not, you took it.

I have been forced to read books by Dan Brown (brown is for shit), and repeatedly watch the second disc of Saved by the Bell the New Class Season 1. Oh have I wasted my life.

While I'm at it... I hate how you always pee all over the toilet seat, and that man smell which I once found attractive now wears on my nasal cavity. Did you have to maraud Maude's vaginal cavity (Black Morris's Mom/ An awkward Haitian Man's hot mom) Dude I wanted that shit. I know you let me shit on her chest as conciliation, but C'mon.

I'll never forgive you for that time you ate all of my cheese, and told me the mouse from mouse trap stole it. I believed you man. I burned that plastic. We drank sasperilla and spit sad songs. We proceeded to digo a baked ham and dog shit on a bagel.

You convinced me to digo a pineapple. Have you ever had that kind of acid penetrate an opening. Ever get that shit in a cut? You're getting the picture. Then you led me to a glory hole. You told me there was a pH neutral Vagina on the other side. There wasn't. I made an Italian man's uncle choke to death.

There are only a short list of grievances I have with you Vanderbilt. So fuck you, and I bid you a bad day. Oh yeah, I'm officially letting everyone know that megaman made you puke your don, BADLY.

Chosen-For-You Adventure #1: Happy Hour

2006-04-17T15:22:00.000-04:00

The sun is warm on your face, accompanied by a cool wind that makes you smile. It is Thursday, your lunch hour, and the bright day makes you forget the tie around your neck. Suddenly, you are bumped out of your ecstasy from behind. You turn to see an attractive young woman before you, her eyes lowered in embarrassment, her lips whispering "excuse me." You have a choice.

Do you step aside and let her pass? Or do you try to strike up a conversation?

As you watch her walk down the street away from you, you curse yourself for your cowardice. While you plan on which of your toes you should hit with a hammer as penance, a co-worker, Giuseppe, taps you on the shoulder. He says that "some of the guys" are going to happy hour tonight, and wonders if you'd care to come along.

Do you take him up on his offer? Or do you offer a lame excuse because of your social anxiety?

You thank him for the invitation, but tell him that you have "a lot" to do tonight. "Big plans. Like, tons of stuff." He nods and just stands there, not leaving, and you really really want him to leave so you can stand alone some more in the sun, so you blurt out that you'd be able to go the following evening. This satisfies him, so he high-fives you and leaves you by yourself.

Back at your desk, you laugh to yourself, thinking about how you have no intention of going to happy hour the next day. An hour later, though, and Giuseppe has begun to high-five you every time he passes your desk. Other co-workers have taken up the habit, and you are being barraged with high-fives.

Do you continue to reciprocate the high-fives? Or do you tell your co-workers to go fuck themselves?

5:30 finally arrives, and both of your hands are sore, your right hand from high-fiving everyone, and your left hand from slamming it a few times with your stapler when no one was looking. Giuseppe asks you one last time, as they are about to walk to the bar.

Do you cave in and join them? Or do you make up more excuses?

You tell them about some girl you have plans to see, a girl who is visiting from out of town. You say you plan to explore a bit, maybe ball up together somewhere comfortable. "Or maybe just ball her." The guys applaud your masculinity and leave, never realizing you were referring to Samus Aran.

That night you play Metroid until 1 AM. Your hands hurt the whole time.

********************************************************

You wake up the next day at 6 AM.

Do you get up, shower, dress and eat? Or do you sleep a little more?

It is 7:30 when you finally get Samus back to her ship to save your game. You skip the shower and just head to work, taking some Famous Amos cookies for the road.

The first half of your day is a breeze. Giuseppe isn't in today, so there have been no high-fives, and it looks like you are in the clear regarding happy hour. After lunch, though, Giuseppe shows up, as he had been a doctor's appointment that morning. He leans over your cubicle and reminds you about happy hour, saying how glad he is that you are coming.

Do you make up a new excuse? Or do you nod and smile?

You nod and smile. He pats you on the back, and says "See you at 5:30."

The time finally comes for you to make the trek down the road to some loud bar with people you don't really speak to. You don't know half of their names. As you enter the bar, Giuseppe asks you what you want to drink.

Do you tell him you've never had a beer before? Or do you play it cool?

"Whatever you're having," you say, blindly leaning on a stool to your right. Your weight spins the stool around, and that's when you realize someone is sitting in it. It is the girl who bumped into you the day before. She is wearing a very cute skirt, and looks prettier than you remember her being. You can kind of see up her skirt.

Do you excuse yourself and run home before the image escapes your mind? Or do you just stand there and do nothing?

You just stand there and do nothing, except breath awkwardly. She remembers you and offers you a seat next to her. Giuseppe comes back with your beer, and just places it in front of you, as he sees the situation you are in. He pats you on the back, and you and the girl talk. Her name is Bonita, which you find strange, as she is obviously Scandinavian, but you suspend your disbelief and surrender yourself to the power of suggestive names. After a good hour of talking, or listening to her talk, she asks if you'd like to see her apartment.

Do you go home with her? Or do you go home with her?

On arrival at her apartment, you begin to have a hard time breathing. You've never been alone with a woman, and you need time to adjust, so you excuse yourself and find the bathroom. She ends up following you in and molesting you. You begin to make out and disrobe. After a few minutes and a quick discussion, you realize that neither of you have a condom handy. This may be your only chance at this for a long time.

Do you trust in luck and go it condomless? Or do you try to improvise?

After scraping the last of the toothpaste from the tube, you realize that the plastic is probably harder than latex and would be painful. She has excused herself to her bed as you prepare. You feel a breeze come through her open bathroom window, and your clothes are lying there on the toilet lid.

Do you leave through the window? Or do you act like a man and tell her that this isn't happening tonight?

You leave through the window. And you steal her soap. The next day you tell everyone how many times you "sexed" her. Eleven.

The End

The Cafe Nervosa

2006-04-17T00:23:00.000-04:00

Hey baby I hear the blues are calling, tossed salads and scrambled eggs.

And maybe I seem a bit confused,

Well, maybe, but I got you pegged!

But I don't know what to do with those tossed salads and scrambled eggs.

They're calling again.

What a Weekend - Part Two(Sunday)

2006-04-14T10:52:00.000-04:00

I'm trying to remember what happened that Sunday. It was like three weekends ago. God, I have an awful memory. At the time, it was really exciting, but I guess other things happen in my life, and those new things are written over the old.

Oh, right, my jacket was all linty, and I had spent all of Saturday in a drunken haze, bothering nice people about some un-invented invention called a lint mop. No idea what the fuck that was all about. I was really hung over on Sunday. I remember waking up and being like, "God, my mouth tastes like a mule's ass." I had some tea and english muffins. A Centrum. "From A to motherfuckin Zinc," as Shitface always said, before he went generic. Then i brought my jacket to the dry cleaners, which seemed like the logical thing to do. The dude behind the counter was kinda grossed out, though, what with all the lint and other unmentionable stains, but it seems like thats his goddamn job. He is supposed to take dirty clothes and make them clean, why sneer at an article of clothing in front of the customer? That kinda pissed me off, so I took another Centrum.

The rest of the day was wasted. I tried to work on my robot a little bit more, but there was still something wrong with the wiring, as the lightbulb eyes refused to light up. I haven't gone back to it since. It's just so frustrating, it makes me tired. I think I played some Tetris DS after that. It's surprising how arousing it is to fit the straight piece into a slot and score a four-line tetris. Setting up some space in the middle of the board, sometimes just slowly settling the piece in, other times a hard and violent drop. God, it's beautiful. Needless to say, I spent the rest of the night with my bedroom door shut.

Now I remember! What made the day special was the epiphany I had while playing Tetris. I'll try to set the scene: I'm on my bed, fully clothed but wishing I wasn't, in video game ecstacy, hormones pumping through my blood. Suddenly, it dawned on me: All I needed was a girl. It was so simple, just a girl, to be my physical companion as my brain and thumbs worked away. She wouldn't have to do much, just sit there and cheer my on, and perform oral sex. I called it "Nintendome." It is now on my list of things to do after I learn to publicly refrain from being a nerd and before I become impotent.

After that breakthrough, I spent an hour or so organizing the phone numbers I'd picked up over the last few weeks, sorting them into piles dubbed "Probably Won't Call" and "Won't Call." Then I watched the Sopranos. What a weekend, right?

Here's Something!

2006-04-13T09:40:00.000-04:00

Here's a poem I wrote for this class I'm in. It's a poetry class. This is a villanelle, a poetic form that repeats the first and last lines of the first stanza in such a way that a portal is triggered to the dimension Boredox, allowing Boredoxians to invade and run amok, shooting you with lasers that make you fall asleep. Enjoy!

Advice to a Wayward Father

A prostitute is not a proper gift
For a young man when he becomes sixteen,
Even if his ego needs a lift.

Do not find her records. Don’t try to sift
Through them to make sure that her body’s clean.
A prostitute is not a proper gift.

And if you do, don’t accommodate thrift.
A tart(though skillful, yes) whose face is mean,
Even if his ego needs a lift

Will only help to spread a wider rift.
Just buy the kid a dirty magazine.
A prostitute is not a proper gift.

Strewn-about tissue, a broken stick-shift,
There’s more to this than you or I could glean.
Even if his ego needs a lift,

He’s not prepared. I hope you’ve caught my drift.
Please put down the phone. Don’t call that Korean.
A prostitute is not a proper gift
Even if his ego needs a lift.

Girls, Girls Girls!

2006-04-10T21:53:00.000-04:00

Guess what this post is going to be about. Go ahead, guess. Girls? Yes. Hot ones? Probably. Partying? Well, maybe.

I want to talk about one problem that chicks DON'T have. That's something called "PPS", otherwise known as "Post-Piss Syndrome". That's not to say that females don't have their share of problems. But please, for once, can a young, good-looking white collar caucasion male have the floor?

When dudes pee at the office, or a sporting event, or a wedding, they are usually peeing on a wall alongside a bunch of other dudes. Sound fun? Sound cool? Just aim and shoot? Not exactly. Sometimes when a dude thinks he's done, he's really just begun.

He shakes out all the pee, then tucks it back into his pants (or, if you're like Vanderbilt, into your socks). Then, as he's re-buckling his zipper - WHAM! More pee. Just a little. But (now here's the important part) just enough to leave a wet spot.

Pretty crazy, right? But hey, how bad could that be? Pretty unnoticeable, no? WRONG. A wet spot formed by Post-Piss only forms in the exact place where a dude's penis head is. It's unmistakeable. A splash of water didn't just 'accidentally' drop onto a dude's lap. That right there is pee.

So what, right? Chicks love pee! Check this out: That's just wishful thinking. Chicks actually hate pee.

I, however, have a story about how I, er, a friend, overcame PPS and totally got some digits at a party.

I was at a friends party down the shore, and aside from the host, I knew no one. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a pretty and exotic looking girl, so I made way over to kick it to her, hard.

We talked and laughed and I thought I was Cinderella and she thought she was Cinderella, and we were going to have some hot girl-on-girl action. I'd been drinking boatloads and hadn't had a chance to relieve myself. I excused myself and made my way upstairs to the head.

I unzipped my khaki shorts and let it go. Everywhere, apparently including the outside of my beige shorts. TOTALLY NOTICEABLE.

What did this superstud do? MacGyvered it. Yeah. Handful after handful of water came splashing down all over my shorts. I couldn't actually change the color of every inch of my shorts, but it turned out looking like fatigues. Sweet.

I came back downstairs with my half-pee, half-water soaked shorts. Ya know what? She had no idea. She thought I was totally militant and sexy.

No, we didn't make-out, and I didn't score. But I tell you this, I think she kind of wanted to. "Kind of wanted to"? At that time in my life, that's like saying her and her closest red-headed buddies blew me while I got to watch Josh and Drake.

Anyway, I've been contacting 20/20 and CNN about this issue, and hope to see some light shed on the subject soon.

Piss-Out!

Always a Princess' Bridesmaid, Never a Princess Bride

2006-03-30T19:08:00.000-05:00

I am apparently not the only fan of the movie, The Princess Bride. I, also, am apparently not the only one who drinks wine from a tupperware container.

It's actually pretty unreal how accurate this kid does the voices of the characters.

If I've learned anything, it's never get into a land war in Asia

Michael Jordan and Kevin Bacon: Roommates for Life.

2006-03-29T12:13:00.000-05:00

Great news! Hanes has apparently forced Michael Jordan, basketball great, and Kevin Bacon, guitar-playing everyman movie star, to live together. The real crazy part about all this is the fact that Michael Jordan is a real dick to live with.

Here's a snippet from the press release:

Beginning February 27, Hanes again will bring to life the tagline, “Look Who We’ve Got Our Hanes On Now,” with a new :15 and :30 television commercial featuring Kevin Bacon and Michael Jordan playfully showing the versatility of Hanes.

The spot, “Shot Blocker,” features a series of scenes where Kevin Bacon is trying to shoot different objects, such as waste paper, keys and a basketball, while wearing Hanes casualwear. A mischievous and competitive Michael Jordan enters each scene out of nowhere and nonchalantly blocks Kevin’s shot. Underscored by the tagline “Perfect No Matter How You Wear It,” Bacon is shown wearing Hanes T-Shirts in, out, solo, layered and underneath a sports jacket demonstrating how men can dress Hanes T-Shirts up or down to create their own sense of personal style.

“T-shirts are a timeless classic, and have been a part of my wardrobe for quite a while,” said Kevin Bacon. “Hanes T-Shirts are perfect for me. I think it’s fantastic that you can wear them for any occasion. That’s what I’m all about."

If Kevin Bacon is all about wearing Hanes on any occasion, then Michael Jordan is all about fucking up his day. You gotta see this commercial. They live together and Kevin is just doing his thing, you know? Doing what he's all about. He tosses some clothes in the hamper and MJ comes out of nowhere and says 'Not in my house!' and deflects his dirty clothes to the floor. He tries to toss away some garbage and, once again, out of nowhere, MJ slaps the garbage away from the recepticle and now there's garbage everywhere.

Michael Jordan, if you're reading this, please let Kevin Bacon do his thing.

What a Weekend - Part One(Saturday)

2006-03-27T10:13:00.000-05:00

Can I tell you about my weekend?

Well, it all started Saturday morning. My Friday night was a hard, long, grueling night of sleeping, so when I woke up at 9 AM, I was too tired to get out of bed. I slept some more, until about 1, then until 3. I got up to "urinate," then took a nap until 5. Now I was ready to start my day!

I only had one thing on my to-do list for the weekend: obtain a lint mop. I had noticed my jacket was full of lint and hair, so much so that a normal brush probably wouldn't do the trick. This was a mop job. So, I high-tailed it over to Bed, Bath, and Beyond, assuming that the Beyond would undoubtedly include the object of my desire.

After walking the aisles for a good 2 minutes, I was on the brink of giving up. Luckily, a pretty young saleswoman wandered down my aisle, so I asked her for assistance. When she heard the words "lint mop," her face instantly turned into a James T. Callahan scowl. She had never heard of such a product! I prodded her some more, hoping that some extra description and pantomime might jog her memory, but she just shook her head like a young Charles S. Dutton. That's when I started to cry.

My tears must have stirred something inside of her, possibly all those feminine hormones I always hear about, stirred them like a soup. A woman soup. She took my hand, and led me to the darkest corner of Bed, Bath, and Beyound, and stuck a business card in my hand. It read "Tiger Crenshaw III - Lint Mops," and had a phone number in the bottom lefthand corner. The lettering was all in Batang font, which I now know was a foreshadowing. When I looked up from the card, the pretty saleswoman was gone. I knew now what I would be doing on my Sunday.

Patrick Duffy Goes to the Gas Station

2006-03-14T15:58:00.000-05:00

Now, see, why do you have to do that? I ask you to fill it up, premium, so you put the nozzle in the tank and let the pump do its thing. See, I like that. That machine knows when my tank is full. What I have a problem with is you pumping more gas into my tank so that the total is a "round" number. I'm paying with plastic anyway, there's no need to make the numbers even. There's no change!

This is why I hate getting gas in Jersey. The prices may be lower, but the savings aren't worth it when something like this happens.

Look, I know you're trying to do a nice thing. I know you think it's a convenience for me, but I'd just rather that when the pump says my car is full, you believe it. I like to take care of my car, and I don't know what kind of effect overloading the tank with gas could have on it.

See that card you just swiped? That Gold Mastercard? Now look at this chest. See the masculine hair, the round and toned muscles? This was my Gold Mastercard. This is what bought me my mansion in LA, my house in southern Oregon, and this magnificent Jetta. It bought me friends like Sasha Mitchell, and a temporary voice role on Justice League. You may work at a gas station and do this type of thing for a living, but this chest gives me the authority to tell you that what you're doing is wrong.

I don't expect you to understand. I'm not even surprised that you don't recognize me. How could I expect anything less with that beard you have? My chest hair is cleaner, more fragrant, and more masculine than that beard will ever be, and one more thing...oh, wait, you do recognize me?

No, I'm not Randy West.

(Puts magnificent Jetta into drive, pulls away with trademark exasperated face)

Three Floors Up

2006-03-10T14:28:00.000-05:00

They put a bus stop indoors,
Over a couple of handicapped
parking spaces.
A smokers’ enclosure,
parallel black benches,
runners for a circular dirt-filled
concrete pot, a garden
where butts will never take root,
where the harvest is twice daily.
Three floors up
but the fall is forever,
and across the way you can see
yourself, a distant figurine,
in the tinted office windows,
a white shirt surrounded
by a sun-slaying brown.

In twenty years we’ll pull in,
drive by in our Lincolns,
an iron lung strapped
in the passenger seat,
and wheeze
“Now where should I put
my car?”

Here comes the bride

2006-03-10T12:42:00.000-05:00

I always joke about my life. Sometimes, I joke about preposterous things.

For example, I'll always remind my parents how easy it is for me to go out find a sperm donor to impregnate me whenever they start with the whole, "We want Grandchildren" spiel.

Or, I joke about dying in a car accident a lot. There have been three, yes - Three, fortune tellers that have foreseen my demise amongst wrangled metal and dripping gas. Therefore, my death in a car accident is a scientific fact.

Yet another joke that I constantly make is that of the Green Card Marriage. Where I marry some poor illegal immigrant soul just so that he can submit his application for residency to this great nation of ours. Well...the wedding is April 1st and you are all invited. Yes, it's April Fools Day, and that will be our inside joke. Life is a comedy. What better way to continue from this point than with a fake, illegal marriage? I can't think of a better way, either.

open to doubt or suspicion

2006-03-07T10:13:00.000-05:00

So I was walking down the street, minding my own business, not doing anything dubious whatsoever, when a man with a dubious look on his face approached me. I saw his hand dubiously pull something out of his coat pocket, something hard and cold and dubious, when he said in a dubious voice, "Give me your wallet."

I was stunned. I'd heard of these dubious sorts(or 'dubes' as I call them), but had never had such a dubious encounter before. And now, here I was, on a semi-dubious corner, a dubious gun pointed at me, a dubious finger on an even more dubious trigger, and this dube's face just staring at me in a half-dubious smile. I almost dubed myself.

But then a miracle! A not-dubious-at-all policeman must have seen the dube, because now he was behind the dube, his barely dubious police-issued gun pointed at that damned dubious back. I couldn't help cracking my least dubious smirk, and I could tell in his dubious eyes that the dube knew what was up. The obviously un-dubious cop told the dube to drop his dubious gun, which he did, in a quite dubious manner, I must admit. Soon enough, his dubious wrists were encircled in hardly dubious handcuffs, and I was escorted to my never-dubious house.

If there's anything I learned, it's always be on the lookout for dubes. They can dubiously appear on any dubious alley or sidewalk. I've also begun to practice my dubious face in my bathroom mirror, because, as I've heard dubious, i mean numerous times, the best defense is a dubious offense.

Happy Ash Wednesday!

2006-03-01T11:53:00.000-05:00

Today marks the first day of Lent, that 40-day Christian thing where Christians give up things so they can feel more Christian. What are the BfN contributors giving up?

Madison: He personally told me that he is going to abstain from blowjobs, both giving AND receiving, which sucks(pun intended) for the BfN staff, but is a godsend to stray cats and Honda Civic tailpipes.
Pinche: I heard she was going to temporarily halt her ongoing molestation of Popes and potatoes. But let me just say to you, body of Pope John Paul II, and you, Idaho's potato industry: you guys better watch out come April 9th, because that won't be a Cadbury egg up your ass. Or maybe it will be.
Shitface: Rumors are circulating that good ol' Shitface Mcstevens is going to give up scumbaggery, but I highly doubt their veracity.
Robert: He's not going to wear his infamous butter-knife beanie, but he's still going to carry it around as a conversation piece.
Vanderbilt(aka Me): I'm giving up soda but it's gonna be hard because you know like I love soda I drink so much of it and it tastes so good so it's gonna be hard I know but I can do it because I love Jesus and I know he'd appreciate me not drinking soda which I lovesomuch, maybe chocolate though because I love that too and eat it a lot but I'm not really fat at all because of my metabolism but noithink i'llstickwithgivingupsodabecauseilikeitmorethanchocolategodthisissucha
hardchoicejesusgavehislifeandicantevendecideifiwanttogiveupsodaor
chocolategodineedaspriteoramountaindewandsomehersheykisses
damnyougodforgivingmethepowerofthoughtitjustfucksmeup
yummountaindew.

I Saw This

2006-02-28T12:30:00.000-05:00

A heart, a heart cut out of construction paper; it was red construction paper. Perhaps it was from the "holiday" that has just passed us by. I saw it floating in the air landing on the roadway, only to be swept up again by the Lincoln Navigator or Honda Accord that passed over it. I could not discern any legible language on it; I might be overlooking the simplicity of it. After all, it could just be a heart; a heart that belongs to anyone but I believe it was intended for someone special, possibly a mother. I'm sure there is some type of symbolism related to this, but I can't find it.

As I was driving into work today, I saw this.

a lost gem

2006-02-24T00:29:00.000-05:00

I came back from the lab and sat down to eat my dinner. After flipping the channels furiously I finally settled on watching the last 15 minutes of Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey. I will provide some insight into these last minutes, but before I start let me mention a couple of things about what this movie means to me.

Vanderbilt is an asshole. He didn't invite to his movie birthday party in which he and a number of his friends watched Bogus Journey in theaters. It would have been cool if it was just like three or four of his closest friends, but if my memory serves me correctly, is was a shitload of random peeps. It was people who had invited him to their birthday party, and even acquaintances, but no I wasn't invited.

Also, the first time I saw this movie, it was on channel 11. It was the Sunday afternoon movie. My parents weren't home and I don't think I discovered jerking off yet, so I was pretty entertained. I recall eating popcorn and drinking soda. This movie infatuated me. I was satisfied when it was done.

Anyway, today I decide to watch it, and what do you know, the good Robot us's are on the scene. Yes, if you remember correctly we must mention robot versions of Bill and Ted in the context of good and evil, because the real Bill and Ted were killed by bad robot versions of themselves. With the help of midgets who look like scrotums, they build good robots out of common products one may find in a hardware store. How did they build with their short arms? Why would they help Bill and Ted? Really? If they were so advanced, why could they only speak one word? (station), which is also both their names? We are left in the dark with these questions.

Anyway, Death otherwise known as the grim reaper has accompanied our friends under some ridiculous circumstances. Death has a German accent (maybe), and loves to make little jokes and pop culture references. He's so cute. Wait wait wait... death isn't supposed to be cute... The five of them (station (2), bill and Ted (2), death (1), and the good robot us's walk into the San Demos battle of the bands, Which totally rocks by the way, by any times standards!

The bad robot us's, the ones who allowed our hero's to meet death, are somewhat shocked at the real Bill and Ted's entrance and say something like DUDE!. The thing is, you really can't tell them apart. Its funny, can people who say dude, and that rocks be evil? This is problematic in many ways.

The real Bill and Ted announce that they have arrived to save the day and proceed to use their 'joy sticks' haha to decapitate the evil robot us's with the good robot us's. This is really complicated so bear with me. The bad robot us's do not resist. They should considering they supposedly nefarious. They have 'the babes' (some broads the dog shit duo (what I will describe the real Bill and Ted as from now on) picked up in the middle ages) (Geographically you know where I'm talking about when I say middle ages) ... Ok ok so they have the babes tied up to rafters of the place, and claim they will kill them at the end of their purposely shitty number. Genius. However, they do not struggle when their enemies come back and use the good robot us's to kill them. They say bye to each other in their dude like ways, and the good robot us's decapitate the bad robot us's.

There are fireworks, the crowd is pleased, and the heads of the bad robot us's land in the dog shit duo's arms. They have saved the day, right? If you think that's it, you need a reality check dude. The boss character, (excuse my video games jargon), comes out of the famed phone booth. He's also probably German, is dressed in black, and has a gun that looks like it was purchased in KayBee. He states his name, like a true gangsta, and then uses a remote control to actually get the attention of the whole 'universe'. We see a worthless sequence in which purple electricity goes through satellite dishes. I am now a believer.

This is when we take a turn for the worse. An obligatory shot of people around the world is necessary, so we know that this shit is really international. Up First, is a scumbag, hairy, unshaven, fat Italian man in a wife beater watching to what we can assume to be a soccer game. He tries to change the channel, but no he can't. This 'melvin' has taken control of all tv, everywhere. He could read, or jerk off or something, but he chooses to keep on watching. Next we go the England where the prim and proper shitfaced family is drinking tea at the breakfast table or some shit. They all simultaneously say 'my word'. Is this really the United States' pop culture's view of the British? Shit, that's garbage. Then in a typical stereotype not given much play anymore, we visit China. In a bar or gambling den, old surly Chinese men bet their life fortunes on the role of the dice. They even have the nerve to give one of the men a farmer's hat.

We return to the gym. This guy is talking shit. Some nonsense. He won't shoot his gun, and we know it, but shit it's pointed right at the dog shit duo. What will they do? They have a conference. They agree to escape, but they don't say how. There is a toy gun pointed right at them, you would think they might respect it, but they anger the German even more. Instead of just leaving in the phone both to escape danger, they decide to go back in time and set up a dropping sandbag. A motherfuckn sandbag that falls at that moment and knocks the gun out of the German's hand. Instead of just picking it up, he stands there with his dick out, vulnerable to attack. As they discuss what they will do next, magically a cage falls on the German's head.

So in this scene the dog shit duo are in the present and they are describing what they will do when they use the phone booth. Man, this logic is more fucked up than Back to the Future. Well, as they contemplate what they will do to beat this gypsy, it just so happens, they are experts at timeing this shit perfectly. I never understood this when I first watched it, and I still don't. If you have any theories please let me know immediately.

The German claims he can manipulate time as well. He gets a key for the cage and another gun. Silly German! He forgets that Bill and Ted are 'the men' and will come up on top. So they fuck with the dude. Instead of having a toy gun that shoots lasers or some shit, a flag that says Wild Stallions rule pops out. Hilarious. Ted's father handcuffs the fiend and we are all good, but not before death, that daffy bastard, gives the German a huge weggie. He is labeled a melvin and figuratively shit on.

The next shit is the shit that really pisses me off. When the German gets over the shock of being humiliated on world wide TV, he smiles. He liked the wedgie. Logic says he likes things up his ass. The villain is not only a scumbag, and evil, but gay too. Fucking hilarious, really. The fucked up thing is death has undoubtedly dabbled in homosexuality himself, and here he is ostracizing the German because he likes wedgies. Tisk tisk.

Some insignificant shit happens, and then they decide to 'get good' by traveling back to the middle ages and practicing guitar. Wait wait wait... where did they plug their electric guitars into? They did have Station though. They come back to the present with ridiculous mustaches and beards, the type a man might spend a life time growing. Lucky Bastards. They introduce their band, death spits a rhyme: 'whether you are a king or a little street sweeper, you know you got a date with the reaper'. His nick name should be the cerebral assasian.

The dog shit duo had twins that were conceived at the same time during the duration of a 'mediaeval honeymoon' They practiced for 16 months, and for what, so they could play GOD GAVE ROCK AND ROLL TO YOU, considered by most to be a shitty power/monster ballad by a garbage band. Everyone loves it, because everyone is still watching internationally. Practiced for so long, and this is it? The British family loves it though. The reserved, conservative, prim and proper Brits are dancing to it. Shiiiit.... The Asian guy gives the other Asian guy a high five.

It is clear they are not actually singing this song. The message hits home with all. God did give rock and roll to us, and everyone.

The credits start rolling... wow that was some ride. Wait, wait, we get to see the future even though it didn't' t happen yet. Apparently, the dog shit duo become Sportsmen of the year, and take roles in world history that they could never have imagined growing up in San Demos. They cure the problems of the middle east (whatever that happens to be at the time) by simply going there. When the dog shit duo goes to the Midwest, agricultural production goes up 30 percent. There is a string of these events, which are obviously just correlation not causation, such as causing the Dow to drop because of break up rumors. Not only do they use the world's atomic bomb supply to fuel their amplifier, but they cure pollution with air guitars. Heavy stuff. The one I didn't understand was about death winning the Indy 500. The headline is a quote by death saying 'I didn't know I could run that fast'. Totally out of context. And finally like a real American story, technology improves and Bill and Ted play on Mars. Utter trash. Through this we are subjected to hearing a tall tale about the origins of rock and roll. Ya know, how god gave rock and roll to us, and everyone.

Needless to say, my reaction to this was WOWSERS! Really stupid shit. Surreal, and thus entertaining. I'm glad I could share this experience with others, and fuck you Vanderbilt for not inviting me.

She used to hum

2006-02-21T20:26:00.000-05:00

She used to hum
when I guessed correct
(a song, an unknown
destination), a two-note measure
with a slight crescendo,
her smile a pressed leaf.

She used to breathe
a nectar breeze,
and sometimes a gust
of vodka and vomit,
like the moment before
she stumbled onto my lips
for our long-delayed
first bilious kiss.

She used to quake
my skin with her fingertips,
run them smooth along my neck,
or push her nails to enter,
puncture my back
to draw a red retribution.

She used to leave
pink imprints
on her Friday night glasses,
which I’d notice, but still
allow my lips to cover,
allow my tongue to swim
in crayon-waxy wine.

She used to whisper
my name into my ear,
and I couldn’t help but shiver.