Shitface is having a party

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

shitface has a dream that one day...

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

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

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,

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.