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Monthly Archives: September 2010
earlier today i had a crazy revelation that may or not actually be founded in reality. opening the cabinet where we store cereal, snacks, and other things, i saw the Corn Pops box and it dawned on me why all those years i revered this cereal above all the others.
because it’s the same color as the fastest car in F-Zero (SNES). “Fox” even rhymes with “Pops.” Continue reading
grace for Christmas meal
playing Monopoly w/family
we sort of sabotaged or infiltrated a subway system
with Dan we help immobile woman in pain
some guy asked me why Dan’s fake name didn’t check out, but laughed it off
Tori ****** created Mozilla Firefox
escape tram checkpoint with Dan
shoes in the mountain
mountains made of linens
gust takes us up to top of mountain
amusement parks and roller coaster, a GIANT one
goes in slow motion, boy in bat suit says hi
WE ARE IN CALIFORNIA ANYMORE
*A MATHEMATICIAN IS SOMEONE WHO TURNS COFFEE INTO THEOREMS
smoke & mirrors
earth Continue reading
i was going to write about it until i realized i could just record it: the experience of walking from the living room in my house to my bedroom downstairs.
patti nude patti nude, poet galore
grow your armpit hair down to the floor!
braid it, and brush it, and put in a bead
and put it on yr album for punks to do speed! Continue reading
We next went to the School of Languages, where three Professors sat in Consultation upon improving that of their own Country.
The first Project was to shorten Discourse, by cutting Polysyllables into one, and leaving out Verbs and Participles; because in Reality all things imaginable are but Nouns.
The other, was a Scheme for entirely abolishing all Words whatsoever: And this was urged as a great Advantage in Point of Health as well as Brevity. For, it is plain, that every Word we speak is in some Degree a Diminution of our Lungs by Corrosion; and consequently contributes to the shortening of our Lives. An Expedient was therefore offered, that since Words are only names for Things, it would be more convenient for all Men to carry about them, such Things as were necessary to express the particular Business they are to discourse on. And this Invention would certainly have taken Place, to the great Ease as well as Health of the Subject, if the Women in Conjunction with the Vulgar and Illiterate had not threatened to raise a Rebellion, unless they might be allowed the Liberty to speak with their Tongues, after the Manner of their Forefathers: Such constant irreconcilable Enemies to Science are the common People. However, many of the most Learned and Wise adhere to the new Scheme of expressing themselves by Things; which hath only this Inconvenience attending it; that if a Man’s Business be very great, and of various Kinds, he must be obliged in Proportion to carry a greater bundle of Things upon his Back, unless he can afford one or two strong Servants to attend him. I have often beheld two of those Sages almost sinking under the Weight of their Packs, like Pedlars among us, who when they met in the Streets, would lay down their Loads, open their Sacks, and hold Conversation for an Hour together; then put up their Implements, help each other to resume their Burthens, and take their Leave.
But, for short Conversations a Man may carry Implements in his Pockets and under his Arms, enough to supply him, and in his House he cannot be at a Loss; therefore the Room where Company meet who practice this Art, is full of all Things ready at Hand, requisite to furnish Matter for this Kind of artificial Converse.
Another great Advantage proposed by this Invention, was, that it would serve as an universal Language to be understood in all civilized Nations, whose Goods and Utensils are generally of the same Kind, or nearly resembling, so that their Uses might easily be comprehended. And thus, Embassadors would be qualified to treat with foreign Princes or Ministers of State, to whose Tongues they were utter Strangers Continue reading
it’s my last night as a free and penniless seeker of Endless Summer and i’m feeling lonely. pretty soon i’ll have money in the bank account, but i don’t know if that will do anything about the loneliness.
i have friends in the Bay Area–Mark, Chris, Chris, Alicia, Stephen–but we haven’t really hung out that much, not enough for me to call any of them a best friend. i blame only myself. all summer i was so set on just hitting up other worlds–Claremont multiple times, Chicago, Tokyo, Seattle–that i kind of found it easy to ignore the place i returned to after each trip ended. home was the hotel, the rest of the world was the fun.
but now i know i have to change my attitude, or i know i’ll go crazy.
did you know the official title of Greetings from Michigan: The Great Lake State is actually just Michigan? i had no idea, but my iTunes tags have been edited accordingly. as a matter of fact, i found out that my versions of Michigan and Illinois were both 128kbps and the latter was even missing five tracks! what.cd helped me remedy the situation. all of this came to my attention after i downloaded the leak of the new Sufjan album, The Age of Adz, which i listened to earlier today. it sounds solid, i’m sure we’ll all love it after twenty listens or in five years, whichever comes first. i’m actually sure many will love it before hitting either of those criteria. now though, alone in my little room on a late saturday night, i’m listening to sweet great lonesome little Michigan through the same Sony headphones i bought around the same time i fell in love with Sufjan. and it was this album that put the arrow through my heart.
it makes me think of high school and a girl with hair made of real darkness, not that cheesy stuff you find in Nine Inch Nails lyrics. it smells like deer and tacos, feels like overwashed cotton, tastes like suburban parks that close at sunset, and sounds like and cars racing away with stolen girlfriends. i think i spend too much time thinking about how many times i’ve cheated on my girls and how many times i’ve helped girls cheat on theirs. it’s a wholly self-deprecating task and i don’t know why i do it but i guess it’s not as noble or humble as one might think. it’s just that all my best memories are mingled with that stupid guilt: epically holding hands in the wake of a Pacific sunset (but you know she’s worried about the future) or tumbling downhill on a pitch black Mediterranean mountain that might as well be Mars (when you know trouble’s brewing) or blasting all nine Beethoven symphonies in bed with the twins (tomorrow night the one you love will laugh though she minds but she loves more than she minds she’s perfection) or squeezing red blood cut curls to the melancholy of Nick Drake folk at midnight (death threats don’t come until you’re in the middle of a game of Risk) or awakening those horrible dark eyes every night with silly rhymes and white lies (but when the game is up, opting for Home over the Road).
the other night, really stoned, i imagined someone, maybe Elise, laughing about or maybe just really hoping not, predicting that i would never move beyond high school or college, just cash in on those twenty-year-old angels until they’d quadrupled in age, because i don’t really know how to get a girl unless she accidentally falls asleep in my bed. because once that happens i can fall asleep next to her and in the morning there’s no one to distract me or annoy me so i’m super-focused towards this girl just loving her and talking to her and more importantly listening to her and wanting everything in the world for her and she falls in love with me because i’m Earnest and that’s that. no tricks, just Love and Truth and Kicks and that’s that. but it’s harder for girls to just accidentally fall asleep in your bed when you only have a twin and your parents are sleeping fifteen feet above your head.
i get my most brilliant ideas when i’m stoned and at concerts, but i can’t do anything with them. i’ve written whole poems in my head better than Whitman and they just turn to sand when i try to remember them. sometimes i save a note on my phone with some keywords like “burst with snacky happiness” thinking all i need are those four words and the scroll will unfurl happily at my feet, but it never happens. other times i try to write right when i get home, but i’m so stoned drunk or tired that i’d rather just jack off and fall asleep.
sometimes i’m just so goddamn high at a show that i spend more than half the time fretting that the guy next to me is getting pissed off about my arm brushing up against his girlfriend’s arm. the other half of the time i’m fantasizing that they’re not actually together and she’s actually trying to give me a hint by pushing up against me, all she wants is for me to grab her by the hand and drag her off to the nearest bathroom stall. stoned teetering between fear and a fuck, it’s thrilling. but then i realize that no girl really goes to a show just to nudge a stranger in request for spontaneous bathroom sex (sadly). and then i remember that time a guy shoved me halfway across the stage at Mezzanine. i still don’t know why that happened. i was just stoned and rocking out to Dan Deacon and this dude gets butthurt or maybe his stupid girlfriend hallucinated me giving a fuck about her and he just attacks me. twice. i was like a punching bag though because i was too stoned to respond or even realize what was happening. how is alcohol legal?
i love live music.
i started reading Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels around the time i left for Tokyo and i’m still not through with it even though it’s less than 250 pages. might have something to do with Emily Dickinson and jack Kerouac. but really, it’s not that good, it’s like a rich man’s On the Road. at this point, exactly halfway through, i’m only trying to finish it so i can know what it’s all about. Swift’s all over our world if you didn’t know, Lilliputians and Yahoos and all that jazz.
how dumb are poems composed completely of album titles?
Sing for Very Important
People, Smiley Smile, Songs
About Fucking, Songs of Shame.
probably pretty dumb. and it’s not even the first time i’ve done it. but i’m all about Found Poetry.
i refuse to get “fuck” tattooed on my body. i don’t care where the “fuck” it is. get it? i don’t care where the Ratatat it is from. i don’t care where the music it is come from. i don’t care where my girlfriend she is bed. i don’t care where Whitney she Greece in my dreams is why.
the older the writing form, the more capitalized the letters. this blog is all about the future.
would someone with some actual knowledge of classical music tell me if Ratatat is any more like Mozart than any other shitty indie rock band with two electric guitars?
i’m so bored and lonely i’ve been messaging the most random motherfuckers. last night i had a long-drawn out Facebook conversation with this girl jennifer from scripps. i asked her if she believed in Jack Kerouac and she said what? what does that mean? and i typed what i meant and deleted it and retyped it and deleted and did that about sixty times because i didn’t really mean anything and wished she’d had just answered the stupid fucking question the way it was meant to be answered, that is, with a stupid fucking answer, but at last i was like, does he exist? thinking ha ha of course he does his atoms gotta be somewhere like in that banana i ate the other day probably had some Jack Kerouac in there so he’s probably sitting pretty as bits of ATP in my arm. she goes, no, he’s dead, but he used to exist. and i thought i was bored before. i don’t even remember how the rest of the conversation went but it was similarly shitty. i just defriended her. jesus i’m a goddamn maniac.
i just had a 20 minute Facebook chat with a knockout blonde girl from my abroad program and i just told her, this time i’m copy-pasting: “i like you blondie […] i’ve been iming people really randomly recently […] just for kicks […] and some people are so goddamn boring […] but you’re cool.” she said she was “glad to make the cut.” she was also happy to find out it’s only 2am here and not 4am because 4am would be a little more creepy. maybe i was harsh on that Jennifer girl.
Apple fucking sucks. such corporate scum. i really hope last.fm can suffer through this ping social experience Apple’s throwing around.
WHY CANNOT I STOP THINKING ABOUT MY DEATH?
i claim not to be afraid of death even though i know it’s the infinite nothing and why should i care what happens to my body throw me outside but won’t you worry about the dogs oh i’ll have a stick to fend them off but how will you use such a stick without such and such awareness and Diogenes said unto them then let the dogs feast since i will lack such and such awareness YET & YET
I FEEL UNDER IMMENSE PRESSURE TO EXPRESS MY VIEW ON EVERY POINT LEST MY VIEWPOINT BECOME GROTESQUELY TWISTED IN THE AFTER-DEATH AURA.
alas, such things are unavoidable. alas, no one really cares about what you think.
here’s what i think: the roman catholic church is a fucking piece of shit lie organization and everybody should try their best to ignore them.
here’s what i think: the republican party is a fucking piece of shit lie organization and everybody should try their best to ignore them.
here’s what i think: the democratic party is a fucking piece of shit lie organization and everybody should try their best to ignore them.
here’s what i think: peta is a fucking piece of shit lie organization and everybody should try their best to ignore them until they go away.
anyone who gives money to any of these groups is either retarded, a pushover, or raised that way. there’s no other explanation. imagine if all the money these groups had was distributed amongst NASA, stem cell researchers, and philosophers: we’d be immortal beings daytripping the Milky Way while wondering what happens when you die. forget it, money should just be phased out in favor of a new economic model: the Road.
Blondie just hit the Road, en route to the beach, but before bouncing she said i should “weirdly im her again […] just for kicks” and didn’t say goodbye until giggling. i think i may have used that phrase twice in the entire 30 minute conversation and she must have gotten some serious kicks from it. kicks kicks kicks Cassady i’m in love with you yes yes yes. it’s all about kicks.
kicks and the Road, that’s the new economy. for example, you give me a book so i owe you a ride to Sacramento or maybe Pittsburgh, depending on the book. if i don’t got a car then i gotta hitch with you and dig us up some gas somewhere.
if you’re traveling to Japan, please be sure not to bring any of the following items: narcotics, stimulants, marijuana, psychotropic substances, MDMA, pistols, revolvers, machine guns, bullets, swords, or child pornography. if that’s your kick, then look elsewhere. (and they say this blog is useless.)
i think i’m nearing that point where i’ve met every single person in the world. no obviously i haven’t met every single goddamn soul but what i mean is every type. every girl that knows what she wants and what she wants is to eat, the one that talks like a 21st century southern belle and parties like one too (Lauren, Lily, etc.) or every guy that stacks books and lumber in his room to balance out the mental and physical projects stacking so high in his brain that he looks like he’s on speed all the time in slow-motion (David, Christopher, etc.).
one reason i’m frightened of my close friends dying is that someone will ask me what they were like and i won’t remember because my memory is so bad.
“um.. she was really loud.”
i would make the worst best man ever.
“um.. she was really loud. enjoy her dude.”
sometimes i worry that i’m a misogynist. sometimes i spell misogynist “mysoginist” the first time and i go wait man! your Greek studies! and i remember that gyros (“turn”) slant rhymes with gynos (“poon”) and i win the spelling bee.
but after that initial “oh my god i’m a misogynist” i think but no that can be i love girls and i’m friends with so many there’s no way that many girls would love me back if i hated women. but then i remember all those sexy girls in the movies/real life (after Kanye) that go back to their husbands and boyfriends that beat them because they’re so dumb and they’re not really dumb they just feel trapped they feel like there’s no other option even when there’s always another option because there’s always the Road. but then i realize that i don’t hit girls, that’s not true, i hit them but only if the promise to enjoy it, but i don’t hit a girl because i’m mad. when i’m mad i clam up and girls hate that because they love it because they think you probably have a lot to say just because they do when really you’re a bottle of black nonsense and would rather sit on the shelf until morning when the nonsense will have slipped through the invisible holey cracks in the glass and nothing but the sun shining through remains. and now you can sit and listen to them because you know they still have everything left to say, the same thing they wanted to say the night before.
i act like i know what girls are up to but i don’t know a goddamn thing. here’s everything i know about girls:
1. dresses with pockets are very important.
2. talking is very important.
maybe that’s all you need to know. Continue reading
[caption id="attachment_1436" align="aligncenter" width="600" caption="Allen Ginsberg"][/caption]