| started reading poetry fo serious again, came across one I wanted to type out for slower digestion |
[Nov. 25th, 2009|05:18 am] |
"You and I are Disappearing"
-Bjorn Hakansson
The cry I bring down the hills
belong to a girl still burning
inside my head. At daybreak
she burns like a piece of paper.
She burns like foxfire
in a thigh-shaped valley.
A skirt of flames
dances around her
at dusk.
We stand with our hands
hanging at our sides,
while she burns
like a sack of dry ice.
She burns like oil on water.
she burns like a cattail torch
dipped in gasoline.
She glows like the fat tip
of a banker's cigar,
silent as quicksilver.
A tiger under the rainbow
at nightfall.
She burns like a shot glass of vodka.
She burns like a field of poppies
at the edge of a rain forest.
She rises like dragonsmoke
to my nostrils.
She burns like a burning bush
driven by a godawful wind.
-Yusef Komunyakaa, Dien Cai Dau |
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| Found poetry |
[Jun. 23rd, 2009|12:11 am] |
from here, under update III.
Tomorrow is a big day, perhaps I will get killed!
Tomorrow I will participate in demonstrations. Perhaps the protests will meet with violence. Perhaps I am one of those who is supposed to be killed. I am listening again to all the beautiful songs I have heard in my life. I even want to play some LA songs and dance. I always wanted to thin my eyebrows as much as I can. Tomorrow before I go to the hairdresser I will see some super films at Hamoon. I have to take a look at my library. Forugh and Shamloo are worth reading again. I will sit and look at my family album. My friends, I should call them and say goodbye. I have only two bookcases in the world which I asked my family whom they should give the books to. I have two more units left to get my bachelors but to hell with a degree. My mind is seriously distraught. I wrote these thoughts for the next generation to know that we were not manipulated by the atmosphere or just emotional. So that they know for bettering their lives we have done everything we could. So that they know if our ancestors surrendered to Arab and Mongolian invasions, we did not surrender to despotism. This note is dedicated to tomorrow's children. . . . |
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| Luck fountains from the mouth of a big Brit bloke |
[Jun. 17th, 2009|02:49 pm] |
Try saying that B alliteration really fast three times.
A regular in barrelroll bar offered me a chance of a lifetime: July 2010, albeit unforseen circumstances, I'll be racing from the UK to Mongolia. Some sort of charity thing where what's left of the car is given to Mongolian herdsmen or something? He's secured a Ford Fiesta (all the cars in the race have to be 1.2 litre or less, cuz like, the people receiving the cars can't afford it otherwise) and a little sponsorship, was looking for drivers for this since all his friends are settled with families and whatnot; one car got shot up going thru Uzbekistan, while another needed local hired muscle to escort them through a particularly bandit-infested stretch of Afghanistan.
See, I just came back from a wedding yesterday in Montreal. Two weeks before, another in Georgia. I'll have turned 30 by the time this race happens. You see? It'll be THAT trip that'll have me thinking "okay, I can settle down a tad now." Both weddings were wonderful and thus crystallized reminders of the contentment a person can't have alone. But but but I ain't ready for have that yet either. So, 2010, at 30, cue Tennyson's Ulysses, everything from then on will be ALRIGHT, said in Quagmire's sleazy tone.
I could go on and on about the weddings, but I don't feel much like blogging lately. The Georgia one: turn-of-the-century plantation, haunted room, shot a shotgun for the first time (my fave was a pistol grip up-&-under 16 gauge), rode on the back of a pickup going 80 km/h and at some point was chased after by a big-ass dog, ate alligator meat, collard greens, fried chicken the way God meant it to be, and of course, a big fat dose of southern warmth that melted this Canadian heart. Montreal: fed old school home made Hungarian grub, poplar fluff everywhere, ummm, that's about it, was one big hazy binge. |
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| Kinda like Big but way more depressing |
[Apr. 20th, 2009|05:00 pm] |
At this poker thing that happens every Sunday at Barrelroll bar was a regular, who has an MFA too I found out last night, chronic hat wearer HAI O WAIT A SEC. Last week I was helping him with counting chips cuz he was math-dumb drunk; see I have a soft spot for people flagrantly drunk in public HAI O WAIT A SEC. Though seeing him that bombtarded again the charm's wearing thin. Talked to him for a bit, thusly with finding out the MFA thing. His face has a habit of randomly expressing UTTER disgust, the I CAN'T HOLD THIS SHIT BACK WITH THE WTF complete facial distortion, at the most unexpected times. I've been reading (yes another) Barthes book on fashion and he talks about the methodological difficulty of nailing down trends with a historicist approach because fashion time and linear time often don't coincide perfectly, with different accelerations at any given interval pocket of linear time you try to peg a trend to some external event. My point is, this guy's mental time doesn't seem to have ANY bearing at all whatsoever to linear time, or some sort of relative collective time among people when they you know, interact.
Just as poorly timed are his occasional howling outbursts, this mountain shattering echo-y single burst of HAAAA!
What worries me in that computer generated photo of "what you'll look like 20 years from now" way is that maybe he's perfectly aware of his timing, but after years of willed solitude or onset dementia or some such shit that he's developed a redonkly convoluted semiotic system in his head and by volition or pride or some such shit he lols or growls prematurely, in accordance with his own synchrony, like you know how sometimes you lols at a joke before the punchline to alert people to the fact that you knew where the joke's going and have given your approval seal of the yet-to-happen humour even though it was predictable.
One last piece of scenario. We were overlooking the poker game that we were both ousted early. We took a $5 bet on whether there's an ace on the table by the way people were betting. I won (naturally, pfffffft wevs) and then we hopped over to the next bar for some pool. He bought the first round to cover the lost bet, had a few games, I won all of them (naturally, pffffft wevs). He's all like I'll put up a better fight next time, I'm way too drunk, my ego's not bruised or nuttin' [d00ds have the weirdest sore spots; before that re: MFA talk he's like where and I said NYU (aside: I dunno why every time someone asks me where I did my MFA I always consciously do one of those look up at the corner for a sec before answering to come off as if I'm making it up on the spot sorta gesture) and then he muttered on about how he wanted to do his MFA there and then off queue gnarled face disdain when I told him how old I was?] and I said some cordial shit and he grabbed my shoulders with both hands, looked into my eyes intently and said "you're a good guy, man" before stumbling off. When it came time for me to settle, he left his bill unpaid. I'm banned from the pool place until he settles his bill. WHAT?
Aside from that, life's been fun, better. Gallivanting lots around town, lots of hors d'oeuvres. Not so friendly on the wallet, but hey, if I'm to keep it real with this writing thing, this writing thing that I've done none of, what am I doing with an unused credit line?
Well, since I'm ranting about the writing thing, HAI LOAK WHO WON THE PULITZER FOR POETRY THIS YR? Discuss at your leisure. |
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| Opera To Go Fuck Yourself: a review by your modest host |
[Mar. 30th, 2009|05:17 pm] |
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) spored and I hit this up yesterday cuz a friend of ours wrote one of the operas. So I ain't exactly the opera cognoscenti but I've been to a few and like, Opera in English is really weird. All the operas I've been to were sung in languages with a lotta vowels in dem words so it's all soft and pretty and shit. There was this one, My Mother's Ring, where there was this scene of a cop interrogating some mofo and how the fuck am I supposed to take that redonk shit seriously when this totes serious scene was studded with the cop guy singing words/phrases like "hockey stick" and shit? But wevs, the librettist for that one is obviously redarted so wevs wevs wevs.
BUT, and our librettist friend totes warned us during the intermission, the last one, Perfect Screw was so fuckin' bs that I was totes hungry after cuz my RAGE raised my metabolism by like a bajillion. It was first introduced by the librettist and composer, and the librettist spoke with such smug confidence and composure that I thought "well, this can't suck that much." We were then treated to 40 mins of a non-stop grade 5 penis joke veiled in operatic sophistamacation. Like, 15 minutes into it she's obv. exhuasted all verb and adjective penis innuendos so she'd actually RECYCLE PHRASES IN THEIR ENTIRETY and this d00d (among many of the audience) sitting beside spored kept laughing at dem like "hey I laughed the first time so I may as well laugh again the third time." And like the librettist was so hurting to reincorporate used penis haha words that she'd give up either/both CONTEXTUAL LOGIC/GRAMMATICAL OPERATION just to fit stupid dumb shit joke words. It was magical somehow the librettist manages to defy the Family Guy Humour Golden Rule whereby it doesn't matter how lame a joke is but if you keep running with it it'll somehow build up momentum and be really funny at the end. The best accidental lolzy part was like near the very end of this eternal sisyphean mental assrape when she for the first time puns on "erect," like she was saving the cleverest pun that no one since the age of HOMO ERECTUS (HAHA I CAN DO ME SUM DIS PLAYRIGHTING DUH HA AMIDOINITRITE?!???) has ever thought of and I can totes see in my mind her and the composer boobal chest thump high fiving each other in the back and hell yeahs and that redarted finger wiggling thing that I assume is invented by Ginos. And no, we couldn't get out, the theatre was weirdly rectangular and most of the opera including this one made use of aisle space as stage, a metaphorical COFFIN. BUT O HAI throw in some sophomoric button pushing Canadian patriotism and flaccid (I STRIKE AGAIN LOL! DO YOU GET IT DO YOU DO YOU?!?!) character sketch a la Disney stylz beelzebubation of Henry Ford and you get this.
In summary, it is of this reviewer's opinion that The Perfect Screw, a historical opera based on the competition between Phillips & Robertson screw, part allegory of gender relation symbolically superimposed on and performed as the interaction of binational politics and identities, part meditation on the infidelity between post-industrial capitalist aspiration and human ingenuity, is mad fucking ghey. Also, the librettist is a dickbutt (see fig. 1a)
Fig 1a) sketch of dickbutt
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| Up and down, up and down |
[Mar. 25th, 2009|03:16 pm] |
Summary of last month in points:
-Last night for the first time I asked a friend for help, it feels really good that I can ask that, and to have someone to ask. Not the usual candidate as you may be thinking, well sorta related; I have been mulling around the culture in barrelroll bar too much, indented myself into this sorta passing time gently into the good night mentality and my brain's gone soft, uninspired, uninterested, lacking acuity. Also ambition whiskey dick. I've cruised just above panic button and it's worse in a lot of ways because there's no bounce back, just sad slouch shoulders and pointless dead weight that gives nothing at the end of the trip. What I asked for is a small and necessary step: to gallivant around and find interesting things to look at/listen to. I need to re-engage myself with cool shit.
Related question: when I was having the talk last night, my friend used the word "self-sabotage" a few times to describe my current mindset, and I'm wondering if you've done it yourself before or have a habit of doing it, under what circumstances/thought pattern/wevs are you most susceptible to it? If you don't wanna say aloud, here's a poll thingie viewable only to me
Poll #1371879
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: None, participants: 3say what say what
( a few more ) |
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| "It's the recession afterall" |
[Mar. 6th, 2009|08:07 pm] |
An accidental meme that spored and I were gonna unleash last night at some fundraiser thing. It came up at a most inconvenient time given the lecture I had to give today. But the ticket was expensive, free, and promise of open bar. I was forewarned that there were going to be hipsters, but promise of open bar. When I think I hipster, I am transported naturally to Williamsburg: one piece of overly big accessory, Converse sneakers, some sorta emphatically striped shirt/Iggy Pop sorta Jeans combo.
For the first hour at the fundraiser (which took place in a loft on the top floor of a low-rise building, with an refurbished old school elevator, the ones with the sliding cage doors) I was the only guy there without a buttoned shirt. Buttoned shirt under a blazer, buttoned shirt under a v-neck sweater, button shirt under a buttoned cardigan. They were so, clean. So the-guy-who-greets-you-at-the-door-of-Club-Monaco. But hey open bar!
I'm becoming a bad alcoholic, or the exact opposite. I walked out of an open bar with a tiny buzz. I'd like to think that I was being responsible in some sorta compromised sense, or that I paced myself with the presumption that the booze wouldn't run out til 2, but mostly because it ran out of everything but red.
The unrelated moral of the story: friends with Jews working in popular media = a lot of gift bags.
And then there was today, I had a smidgeon of head woozy in the morn but nothing a reheated Filet O' Fish couldn't get rid of. Even swung by the office of an old prof of mine for a little catching-up before the lecture. AND THEN northrop_fried CANCELLED ON ME. THE END. |
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| Hi Molly Peacock!! |
[Mar. 1st, 2009|01:54 pm] |
Apparently the poetry editor of Literary Review of Canada stumbled upon this post; embarrassing! My friend's like "you should lock your posts like that" and I guess I should but really what are the chances? Sure technically it's made public and advent of google and whatnot but a post like that is the proverbial needle in the haystack. I wonder if it'll jeopardize my chances with appearing in LRC later. NO RIGHT, MOLLY PEE? NOOO!!! The issue I'm in is out right now btw; it's a common theme of late, someone would call me "hey d00d I saw your piece in yadda yadda" before I actually knew it was out, it feels nice. It feels like this:
I have to give a 45 min talk/lecture/wevs in a survey poetry course at the same place I got my undergrad this Friday. WITH HONORARIUM PEW PEW PEW. I am inordinately stressing about this. Well not stress, more like overthinking it. Probs the where I got my degree thing. It'll be nice to set foot on the campus again. There may be a chance that I'll get to read at where I got my MFA thing via some byzantine celestial clockwork weirdness that I'll explain later if it should ever happen. Even weirder that I am looking forward to that since I didn't participate in the graduate thesis reading for some reason, I just remembered that, watching all my fellow graduate read their thangs from the audience end sipping whiskey from a friend's flask...
ANYWAY HALP A BRUTHA OUT! Okay. Transport back into your sexy early 20 something bodies where you're taking a survey poetry course. My friend who's teaching it is on the academic end of the pedagogical spectrum, and so this guy is coming in for a talk and he's on the creative writing/craft/contemp. aesthetic end of things. What would you like to hear da mostest?
Poll #1357739
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All, participants: 7veetch one/ones?!? Others? |
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| LOLZ |
[Feb. 24th, 2009|03:35 pm] |
CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS
Announcing the formation of a new Canadian literary magazine!
STEPHEN HARPER: a journal of the literary arts
Dedicated to the publication of Canadian literary talent, STEPHEN
HARPER is looking for said talent to bombard our inbox with your best
writing. We are looking for submissions from across Canada in both
official languages.
Submissions should be made via email to
stephen.harper.literary.concern@gmail.com. Submissions should remain
under 1 page as budget constraints are also size restraints. Deadline
is as soon as possible! We will start reading as soon as submissions
start rolling in!
We look forward to reading your submissions!
ryan fitzpatrick & Natalie Zina Walschots
STEPHEN HARPER Managing Editors
About STEPHEN HARPER:
STEPHEN HARPER was started as the first magazine under new funding
guidelines made by the Canadian Periodical Fund. We believe that the
best response to these new guidelines is to try to produce a literary
journal streamlined enough to meet the new realities of today's
publishing industry. STEPHEN HARPER has an official subscription base
of 413 each MP and senator in the Canadian government is a
subscriber, including our namesake! As well, STEPHEN HARPER will be
starting a list of unsubscribers (the SH! list) of people not quite
lucky enough to be members of Canada's own government, but who still
wish to receive the light of STEPHEN HARPER into their heart.
Here's the context, from Quill and Quire:
( more ) |
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| Hello |
[Feb. 23rd, 2009|01:41 pm] |
I was doing some number crunching IN MY DREAM last night and that about says it all. Haven't seen people I wanna see in either real life or in dreams. Been living the life of a solipsistic idiot lately, confining myself within an one block radius where I 1)eat 2)drink 3)smoke 4)sleep. I'm inside a walnut. Or an almost-formed polliwog wiggling about inside its sac. I always found it gross that salmon babies have that sac on its underside until the nutrients in it are sucked dry. That was a metaphor of my relationship with my bank account, me and my sac. To extend it further, the nutrients would be alcohol maybe? What I am saying is that the salmon baby needs to slow down its metabolism rate if it wants to keep its sac a little longer, but I don't even like the literal salmon baby sac so this whole conceit is a bust.
I've been watching a lot of TED lately so some of the brain & enthusiasm dazzle would rub off on me as I've had a hard time getting outta bed for some reasons. This & this & this & that have been most insightful/entertaining/thought provoking.
My roomie from St. Petersburg came down for a visit and that was nice/needed. When I was hanging out with him one afternoon I don't remember what we were talking about and you know when you're a little depressed but you don't want it known but it leaks out by accident anyways? I think he caught me even though it was only for a second or two.
I should get away from the city for a little while, I keep thinking that sitting in someone's backyard and having a few slow whiskeys while shooting squirrels would be really therapeutic. Or a lawn chair watching water move (it has to be somewhat fast) in a sunny but chilly afternoon and talk about everything and nothing as long as there's no reason to self-censor would also be nice. Just no more of this watching snow fall under streetlight light and force-believing it beautiful. |
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| Weekly Update mishmeshed with pictures from my recent 4chan photo collection |
[Feb. 8th, 2009|05:18 am] |
1) What was supposed to be a weeklong celebration post-dropping out of advertising program turned into a 3 week binger. This week alone I've spent $400 on the debauchery; my bank accounts sits at 5.9K that is supposed to last me til Sept. Sitting at the tail end of it, I'm once again reminded (albeit a weaker version) of the teh worst timez in NY, that fatigue in body and spirit whose weight you can physically feel in the shoulders.
( images progressively more and more nsfw ) |
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| Canadian poetry trends 2009!!!!! With a lot of brackets!!!!!! |
[Feb. 2nd, 2009|10:01 pm] |
I got an email from Literary Review of Canada during Super Bowl (way to be a living cliche, lit. peeps) (I watched the game AND I watched UFC the night before so I'm totes not a living cliche) with the galley proof for the March issue (you can learn something from them peeps from Fiddlehead) and there are 5 poems by 5 diff. poets in it. 3/5 poems have computer references in them. 2/5 have foreign AZN words in them (take a wild guess which group I fall into lololzol11l) (the other AZN poem is cooler than mine dammit!!) (but mine is better than the 3 computer ones) (two of the computer ones are by recognizable names in Can. poetry, well, more like 1 1/2) (the first computer one is a short unfocused fart fart put putt effluent of a poem that manage to be about even less than its length, but at least it's a first draft of an idea that could be interesting) (the 2nd is by a hotshit poet who's more famous for his bark than his poetry; his poem is full of high modernist aspiration and is really boring and the bathos is way overcooked and there are a bunch of wannabe l33t speak in it but can't get them right like way to be edgy d00d) (the third is just a massive embarrassment trying to make an old and moot ass point about the paradox of technology; it's all performative too so it's overlong and reminds me what Phil said to me once: "if you have to make a boring point, make it short.") (it even has a website in the body of the poem!!).
So this is why poets shouldn't talk about computer/internet/technology in poetry in general: you can trick most other poets and litfags about your erudition in those things but who are you kidding (I pay peripheral attn to those things so I can't imagine how much more embarrassing these would read if read by people who are actually in the real know in that sheeeitz?!?) really?
And Canadian poetry, c'mon man, stop trying to pretend to be so current (I really write too much like a yankee tho). |
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| Somewhat sober/somewhat drunk; hence the self-criticism |
[Jan. 29th, 2009|02:53 am] |
Tonight was one of those unfortunate thinking nights where I can't see people as people but actors performing what they're supposed to. One of the regulars at barrelroll bar, it was his birthday, a teenager trapped in an old man's body. Got unfavorably drunk, got kicked out repeatedly, disappeared into the night. The whole time I was thinking about the miscommunicated or misunderstood justice of the world. There's an old man, who went to his regulars bar tonight for his birthday solo because, well, your guess is as good as mine and we're all correct. I wish I can say that I acted with magnanimity towards him when he leaned over my shoulders and praised my goodness of character. I was annoyed, answered in firm, monosyllable words to indicate my non-interest in conversation.
As I was watching him the entire bar turn against him, some by proxy, other by hatred, I sat and thought, did nothing. Thought about the invisible price of habit, how in our habit forming years (25-34 yrs old btw, according to advertising) we are or should be most accountable for our choices, and after that, choices, especially neurosis based on the choices, become us, what we either pridefully claim as our unshakable character, or shrinking inward as the flaws that bind us. And over the years, less and less we are conscious of them, less and less accountable not because we're not responsible for them, but we're less aware of them as choices by rote, to the point where we're audience to certain actions we've assimilate ourselves to, as if watching a clip of film on repeat.
But we're punished regardless for these habits, invisible choices, as if there was always a clear, on/off switch moment every time we follow our routine instinct to an actionable action. It is no excuse for the transgressions, but nevertheless there's a dissonance when we are punished for our habits, for what we think we are, when we are caught off guard with "being yourself" in a room of sudden strangers. It didn't help that it was karaoke night when hipsters flood an otherwise nieghbourhoody bar, when the bartenders have to impose an impartial code of conduct onto everyone that if given any other night, his trouble-stirring would be more or less tolerated.
That is to say, I hated the way many in the bar made fun of him, the casualness of it when among the a room of majorities, how hurtful it must have been for him to stand alone in a room among the jeers of faces suddenly umnfamiliar, the singleness expanding in the blurred darkened corners of the bar when he came to the one place where he expected a little more warmth than the constant geometry of his quarters.
But the whole time I was thinking about myself, what habits could potentially blindside me into an unwelcome caricature. And then to note to myself that midst all this human drama, I didn't care really for the outcome or suffering to be had by the parties involved; the ideas generated by the mannequins my only concern, let alone to interrupt the play unfolding. |
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| I dunno what kinda Canadians I have on my flist |
[Jan. 26th, 2009|04:09 pm] |
But why haven't I seen any posts about Red Bull Crashed Ice? Finally we made up a sport that is so unabashedly Canadian (wintery, violent, concept so retarded that it had to be dreamt up in a bar) but not completely lame (A MIDDLE FINGER SALUTE TO YOU, CURLING!) and we don't talk about it? So you have a bobsledish track, but with more devious bends. But instead of 1 bobsled at a time, you have 4 people barreling down a track narrower than a traffic lane. The competitors don't look any more padded than a hockey player, but going at speeds up to 50km/hr. There are jumps, as in, imagine someone accidentally kicking you mid-air with mfing skates, or how your knees would feel after a ramp jump, skate to ice, or what your ankles might do if you land on an angle. This shit is so badass, some competitors fall on their own. It's like nascar but without the car but with more frequent pile-ups and with SKATES. THIS SHIT IS SO HARDCORE RED BULL IS SPONSORING THE SHIT OUTTOFIT.
After watching an hour of that non-stop kick-ass, me and a few budz went to this roller derby fundraiser thing in the warehouse of a brewery where they had a big projection screen of the girls doing their roller derby thang with the elbowing and running into one another and falling over and whatnot but it's so much less angry and unlethal. The night just went downhill from there, and a lot of them were so pretty too... But I did get me some candy cigarettes so. |
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| The first sustantial post of 2009 |
[Jan. 23rd, 2009|06:26 pm] |
SOOOOO. As of today I'm officially a drop-out of the advertising program. Not gonna gripe it up here, but the quittin' epiphany came when (and this was when I was still in the program, naturally) I laid low with the drinks and I was still depressed, validation of right choice made this morning, on the 5th day of immodest celebrating (as in, I made the choice to quit 5 days ago), head woozy and stomach pretzeled, that I'm still all high-fiving jiving, the euphoria akin to the last drip of piss cannoned thru your urethra after having done the pee-pee dance in line for the last 10 minutes. That euphoria, but for 5 days and according to plan will go on to 7.
AND THENNNNN. Last week to this day, there was a crazy ass blackout here that knocked out a rectangle in the city about the size of Central Park, 250,000 were without electricity. Because it is Canada, it was also -20c. Living a subway stop away from the flooded transformer station thingie, my hood was last to get the juice back. 23 Hrs! It was cool tho cuz I was at a bar and candles were busted out and I dunno being at a bar with no electricity but yes candles and people become so friendly and socially cohesive. Anyways long story short pipes cracks are common for winter blackouts and yesterday I awoke to a sodden bedroom, except it was coming from my roommate's room. The radiator wasn't leaking, it was spouting a FULL FORCE 10 MIN PEE-PEE DANCE PISSING against the wall, and down thru the cranny to the apt building's entrance, where a tattoo artist apprentice girl (unit 4 is a tattoo parlour + school, no advertising can be seen outside the apt building, while I'm on topic, unit 2 is lived in by an eternally meowing cat specter I suspect, and sometimes a homeless guy sleeps on the 3rd floor stairway) was reported to had said, "your front door is raining" and also dripping was the ceiling of the dollar store directly below me; the whole neighbourhood for an hour or two was talking about it-- and this is my essay on why I love this neighbourhood.
What I don't love tho are these massive turbines and an industrial grade dehumidifier the size of a water cooler in the bedrooms about as loud as a prop engine plane and they'll need to stay on 24/7 til Tuesday to prevent mold from doing its thing. Although, my hair is like Fabioing just sitting here and typing this on HMS Mattress, that's kinda fun.
Ohh and due to flooding I had to unbox a box of books and I have sooooo many books to read now where before I didn't so really the burst pipe ain't so bad. Now imagine me cutting my stomach open, the plop as I detach & unplug my liver, with utmost care I substitute your pillow with it so not to wake you, the wet slick organ molding to your face while you dream of dolphins. |
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| Prediction |
[Jan. 18th, 2009|05:20 pm] |
There are these black students from Atlanta doing an Obama-Sing-Along on CNN, will be performing for him at the inaugural ball. To their right, off stage, a mildly attractive blonde woman in a blue business blazer looks on lovingly, nodding off rhythm.
You'll see a lot more of this Tuesday night. |
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| How I spent my xmas |
[Dec. 26th, 2008|02:53 pm] |
Mad Men. Finished the first season. Is it supposed to be pretty big right now, like at least Dawson's Creek at its height big? ARE YOU WATCHING INT? Everyone in the program talked about the show but I had little need for cooler-talk content and I didn't want to spend my leisure time on more advdertising related stuff hence not watching it til now.
Cuz it's a really mediocre show. The plot is unfocused, most characters are non-descript except for the few and those that ain't are underdeveloped, tho I suppose they verge on being interesting. And it's so heavyhanded with the THEN & NOW sexism/racism thing. It's like a timepiece collage of that and a bunch of steamy sex scenes. With no nudity. At most a rare shot or two of a side-boob. And what's with the office villain? He's so unredeemingly hateable. I mean his motivations are believable if not a little obvious but somehow he doesn't arouse any sympathy and that ain't no fun. And all the 60s historical references ain't learnin' me nothing, they're the Frasier sort of uniinspired pretend-high brow allusion that entertains the viewer with the "ho ho I kno whatchu talking bout!" without making the past any more interesting or come to life. All I've learned from the show is that talking to my bitchez constantly with active voice sentences gets them dainty ankles quivering, like this:
OH! The first night I got back from chillin' & detoxing at my mom's, I naturally went on an alkie rampage right? 3AM found me and spored trying to break in to my neighbour's apartment because there was a cat meowing on the other side of the door and before I left for home the place was still being renovated and thought the cat was trapped or something. Next afternoon I bumped into my new neighbour. Good thing we can't pick locks, and the neighbour didn't open the door when we were trying to pick it, with a flathead screwdriver and hammer. That's why we can't pick locks.
Lastly, a round of curses for spored for selling out. We were gonna go WATCH VALKYRIE ON XMAS DAY. But he totes fams over bros. Whattan ungrateful Jew he turned out to be... |
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| All this snow makes me wanna see a fight to the death between Donna Brazile and Cooper Anderson |
[Dec. 19th, 2008|04:49 pm] |
Whereby Donna Brazile asphyxiates Anderson by one of his fancy ties.
Been chillin' at my moms since the end of semester getting fed me some home cookin'. Only if she knows how to make gumbo, I want some gumbo so bad right now I'd eat it with my urethra.
HAI LOAK AMINALS DOING SILLY CUTE THINGS!
Link me to something interesting to read plz. I reread Watchmen and am supposed to retry a Zizek and I really don't want to do that, that guy makes me feel like a philistine. |
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3 (50.0%)
