From time to time I will publish 'chats' that occur between myself and people on the internet at 3:59 AM. It's just one other guy, but I always replace his name so that he will never ever be famous. In the following transcript, I have changed his name to 'Locksley'. I am 'runningveindeep'.
----
(03:59:35 AM) Locksley: sup cracaka
(04:00:18 AM) runningveindeep: sup krakatoa
(04:00:45 AM) Locksley: started watching the robin hood series
(04:01:00 AM) Locksley: its pretty good
(04:01:07 AM) runningveindeep: it is a bitch that they stopped it
(04:01:19 AM) Locksley: did they finish it first?
(04:01:26 AM) runningveindeep: i kind of liked it. also, if you're watching that, you should watch 'Merlin'
(04:01:33 AM) Locksley: yeah, i was thinking of merlin
(04:01:38 AM) runningveindeep: they didn't finish it properly
(04:01:41 AM) Locksley: u serious
(04:01:45 AM) Locksley: they didn't do it properly
(04:01:46 AM) Locksley: wtf
(04:01:58 AM) Locksley: it looks like they can finish it at any time
(04:02:02 AM) runningveindeep: i'm sorry to be the one to convey this news
(04:02:20 AM) Locksley: why the hell am i even watching it then
(04:02:24 AM) runningveindeep: you're talking about the recent brit robin hood show, right?
(04:02:31 AM) Locksley: yes
(04:02:42 AM) Locksley: i'm in season 1
(04:02:48 AM) runningveindeep: well, it's pretty good up till the end
(04:03:08 AM) runningveindeep: by end i mean season 3 (or 2, i don't remember)
(04:03:15 AM) Locksley: robin marrys mary madelin, the bad people die though right
(04:03:26 AM) Locksley: there is 3 seasons 12 episodes in the 3rd season.
(04:04:02 AM) runningveindeep: yeah, i don't think it quite ends that way. i may be wrong. perhaps i should watch the last season again
(04:04:20 AM) Locksley: or the last episoe
(04:04:28 AM) Locksley: see some chick i know, was talking about how much she liked it
(04:04:31 AM) Locksley: so i starte watching it
(04:04:43 AM) runningveindeep: what i like about merlin is that they have this old guy from this show i used to watch as a kid 'one foot in the grave'
(04:04:48 AM) runningveindeep: Richard Wilson
(04:05:15 AM) runningveindeep: he's a right old welsh get
(04:05:25 AM) Locksley: i'm supposedly part welsh
(04:05:34 AM) runningveindeep: i know, sorry
(04:05:38 AM) Locksley: Italian, slovakian, welsh, something else
(04:05:47 AM) Locksley: sorry
(04:05:48 AM) Locksley: lol
(04:06:17 AM) runningveindeep: well, the welsh accent is highly amusing (and can be very sexy if said by girls)
(04:06:47 AM) Locksley: i tend to make fun of english chick accents on accident
(04:07:06 AM) Locksley: it happens when they are conversating w/ me. I automatically start talking like them and not even knowin it.
(04:07:08 AM) runningveindeep: it's not the same as english accents. this is the welsh accent we are talking about
(04:07:29 AM) Locksley: i'm not really sure of it, nor the difference
(04:07:41 AM) Locksley: do the welsh have their own tv shows
(04:08:01 AM) runningveindeep: i think they do, but they are all syndicated into the main BBC system
(04:08:10 AM) Locksley: agh
(04:08:16 AM) Locksley: i still am upset about this robin hood news
(04:08:22 AM) runningveindeep: i've never heard of a welsh satellite channel
(04:08:22 AM) Locksley: as i particularly like the show
(04:08:34 AM) Locksley: do u ever watch comedies
(04:08:54 AM) runningveindeep: just keep watching it. the way i'm saying it probably doesn't translate well
(04:09:13 AM) runningveindeep: i only watch very funny comedies
(04:09:20 AM) Locksley: well, I hope theres an extra episoe that u never seen that ties it together bettr
(04:09:29 AM) Locksley: theres a enw comedy called *Glory Daze*
(04:09:31 AM) Locksley: pretty good
(04:09:59 AM) runningveindeep: it sounds like if you wanted to give some girl some rohypnol or something
(04:10:29 AM) Locksley: well its a mix of ICU Old school and American Pie
(04:10:39 AM) Locksley: mainly reminds me of ICU to be honest thou
(04:10:44 AM) runningveindeep: is it something like 'Community'?
(04:10:58 AM) Locksley: never heard of that one
(04:11:11 AM) Locksley: 4 guys in a frat, freshmen
(04:11:41 AM) runningveindeep: that's the basis of glory days? have you seen bob saget's new show? it's on hulu.
(04:11:53 AM) Locksley: lol i'm sure thats probably ppretty good
(04:11:55 AM) Locksley: wats that about
(04:12:30 AM) runningveindeep: episode 3 is about joining a frat
(04:12:39 AM) Locksley: sagat is like 60 lol
(04:12:55 AM) runningveindeep: http://www.hulu.com/strange-days-with-bob-saget
(04:13:29 AM) runningveindeep: well, i've never really been inclined to join one of those. the whole 'fraternity' thing kinda gives me shudders
(04:13:47 AM) Locksley: agreed
(04:14:05 AM) Locksley: picking up chicks is more fun when you have to work for it
(04:14:11 AM) Locksley: frats just bring the girls right in
(04:14:35 AM) runningveindeep: you have to create a 'system' or something
(04:14:58 AM) Locksley: i was trying to remember all my exes tonight, was going to look em up on facebook.
(04:15:02 AM) Locksley: I can't rmeember them thou
(04:15:06 AM) Locksley: not even their names
(04:15:25 AM) runningveindeep: i remember their names, but not reasons to look them up on facebook
(04:15:39 AM) Locksley: lol see what they look like, if they r married, etc
(04:15:49 AM) runningveindeep: what's the point of looking them up on facebook?
(04:16:03 AM) Locksley: just to check see if they are alive n ok
(04:16:04 AM) Locksley: kinda thing
(04:16:17 AM) runningveindeep: that will only lead to some bad stuff
(04:16:43 AM) runningveindeep: like you make an animated gif of their stupid new boyfriend's face, and then make that your profile picture
(04:17:10 AM) Locksley: that would be funny as hell
(04:17:18 AM) Locksley: i don't know how to make animated gifs
(04:17:21 AM) Locksley: sunds like a lot of work
(04:17:38 AM) runningveindeep: ask your bro that does the computer stuff
(04:18:18 AM) runningveindeep: anyway, my point is, that is like a total void
(04:19:01 AM) runningveindeep: you just need to do more better things for yourself.
(04:19:25 AM) runningveindeep: like sign up for the next lunar eclipse, before it disappears from your hands
(04:20:59 AM) Locksley: my bro doesn't do computer stuff lol
(04:21:08 AM) Locksley: i know right
(04:21:10 AM) Locksley: wtf was that
(04:21:14 AM) Locksley: i stay up all god damn night evry day
(04:21:17 AM) Locksley: and i didn't even know about it
(04:21:41 AM) runningveindeep: maybe sign up for a newsletter on a page at nasa.gov or something?
(04:23:45 AM) Locksley: lol yeah, well its over for like the next 100 years or something
(04:23:46 AM) Locksley: right
(04:26:00 AM) runningveindeep: i'm getting bored of this conversation. let us talk tomorrow when you've found more things for me to examine.
(04:27:11 AM) Locksley: ur so gay
Friday, December 24, 2010
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Slow Dispersion of Madness
New to the 'shock cinema' industry, director Roman Polanski is making a film all about the recently escaped Charles Manshion.
Try hard as I may, I cannot say that name without adding a Sean Connery special effect plugin.
Also, rubber comes from trees, a long-known, yet persistent form of slavery. 'Rubber-tappers', as they are usually called, can be killed instantly if they do not conform to the order of the chief of that village.
Try and pull that apart next time you feel bendy.
I also want to communicate on the horrors that recently transpired. You know what I'm talking about.
If what you all wanted when you started to read this piece was just cool verbiage,
Witness the small and the large in some conjuncture
future will not threaten to kill.
Slow and enjoyable furniture
I think, therefore I am.
Where's the small way to go through?
Why's it always have to be on this scale?
Can't it be little and unassuming?
Like what flowers say are their names?
Slow dispersion of madness is a new technique
I'm employing to avoid future embarrassment.
If you do wake up tomorrow morning,
make sure you drive the car that is sleek.
like a dot, given euclid.
like a triangle, if pythagoras.
after that you're on your own, Google.
i'm just saying this from a place that i know well.
Try hard as I may, I cannot say that name without adding a Sean Connery special effect plugin.
Also, rubber comes from trees, a long-known, yet persistent form of slavery. 'Rubber-tappers', as they are usually called, can be killed instantly if they do not conform to the order of the chief of that village.
Try and pull that apart next time you feel bendy.
I also want to communicate on the horrors that recently transpired. You know what I'm talking about.
If what you all wanted when you started to read this piece was just cool verbiage,
Witness the small and the large in some conjuncture
future will not threaten to kill.
Slow and enjoyable furniture
I think, therefore I am.
Where's the small way to go through?
Why's it always have to be on this scale?
Can't it be little and unassuming?
Like what flowers say are their names?
Slow dispersion of madness is a new technique
I'm employing to avoid future embarrassment.
If you do wake up tomorrow morning,
make sure you drive the car that is sleek.
like a dot, given euclid.
like a triangle, if pythagoras.
after that you're on your own, Google.
i'm just saying this from a place that i know well.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Slow Opening
You have to carefully pleat the origami,
every finger you employ could be corduroy
approaching velvet, then bitch slap for saying
velvet. Satin, silk just milk
it, these are a lyrics to the song
whose plurals ... I mean, whose plurals?
Luxuriously singular, cos only one f-u finger
Goin' back to bank tonight to sleep in the best
cusses and slurs. (x2)
Okay we don't gotta be so mean.
I mean we mean we gotta get okay,
after that there will be a small hole
for whatever my mouth wants to say (it wants),
whatever my mouth wants to say (x2)
every finger you employ could be corduroy
approaching velvet, then bitch slap for saying
velvet. Satin, silk just milk
it, these are a lyrics to the song
whose plurals ... I mean, whose plurals?
Luxuriously singular, cos only one f-u finger
Goin' back to bank tonight to sleep in the best
cusses and slurs. (x2)
Okay we don't gotta be so mean.
I mean we mean we gotta get okay,
after that there will be a small hole
for whatever my mouth wants to say (it wants),
whatever my mouth wants to say (x2)
Friday, November 12, 2010
redding, grayer
based on an offhand comment on social: "i just have a huge problem with beets. they're all red and stuff, but don't taste like what red is supposed to taste like"
=======================================
Red is supposed to taste like some apples,
piled all on top of some very fresh meat.
I know inside the fruit is kinda yellow,
or green or blue at high intensities,
and some brightness, eh?
But when red is introduced
into an outgoing stream from my wrist
watch (sorry about the hyphen), thought
this cool watch that pours red liquids
would be kinda cool to a new-tech fangled fool like you.
or me. i'm getting grayer.
my hair was black but now poses identity issues,
unlike your great red hair.
your beligerent, audacious, frankly mad
red hair.
(i can do ones about any color, black, blonde, purple).
auburn. i can do auburn.
=======================================
Red is supposed to taste like some apples,
piled all on top of some very fresh meat.
I know inside the fruit is kinda yellow,
or green or blue at high intensities,
and some brightness, eh?
But when red is introduced
into an outgoing stream from my wrist
watch (sorry about the hyphen), thought
this cool watch that pours red liquids
would be kinda cool to a new-tech fangled fool like you.
or me. i'm getting grayer.
my hair was black but now poses identity issues,
unlike your great red hair.
your beligerent, audacious, frankly mad
red hair.
(i can do ones about any color, black, blonde, purple).
auburn. i can do auburn.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
You're the Piece of
Goa'uld,
that flashes in one of my many souls.
As some fiction,
Stargate sucks hard,
but retains properties lending the merit
of my focus.
In a nearby dream/stream,
I'm the Grand Prix driver
every woman in that audience
is screaming for.
Gotta indulge yourself
sometimes when the truth is bleak.
Like when you have no limbs
you have to navigate empty space
without the thrusters.
that flashes in one of my many souls.
As some fiction,
Stargate sucks hard,
but retains properties lending the merit
of my focus.
In a nearby dream/stream,
I'm the Grand Prix driver
every woman in that audience
is screaming for.
Gotta indulge yourself
sometimes when the truth is bleak.
Like when you have no limbs
you have to navigate empty space
without the thrusters.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Homeland Security Keeps Asking Me Who I am Going To Be For Halloween
-------
This is a record of voicemails to my personal cellphone account:
---
Anon: Hi there, I'm Homeland Security. Just wanted to check in and discover who you are going to try to be this Halloween.
Me: [disconnect]
Anon: Hello again. Like I said, I am the security of your Homeland. This geographic boundary you call a 'home', and protect from all those gawd-awful evil-doers out there. Before you disconnect me again, try and think how this is going to look when it goes public. Look, all we want to know is what costume you will be wearing this Halloween.
Me: I am going as Kimbo Slice.
HS: Weak. All you'd have to do is shave your head and grow a beard. Surely you had had thoughts about going as a Vorlon Ambassador?
Me: Surely I did have such thoughts. But then I realized I don't have enough people willing to fit such a costume over me for little or no compensation. I also sometimes have thoughts that I could be a person talking on a cellphone that gets a call from 'Homeland Security'. And that that is actually a way for entire populations to feel really secure.
HS: You have fallen into my trap.
Me: No, *you* are going to fall deep into *my* trap.
HS: No you will
Me: Fuck you and come back when you grow a respectable face.
HS: I'm telling the Fatherland!
Me: Are we on mauve alert yet?
---
The call gets disconnected here, because HS didn't pay enough bills to its pay-to-go service plan.
This is a record of voicemails to my personal cellphone account:
---
Anon: Hi there, I'm Homeland Security. Just wanted to check in and discover who you are going to try to be this Halloween.
Me: [disconnect]
Anon: Hello again. Like I said, I am the security of your Homeland. This geographic boundary you call a 'home', and protect from all those gawd-awful evil-doers out there. Before you disconnect me again, try and think how this is going to look when it goes public. Look, all we want to know is what costume you will be wearing this Halloween.
Me: I am going as Kimbo Slice.
HS: Weak. All you'd have to do is shave your head and grow a beard. Surely you had had thoughts about going as a Vorlon Ambassador?
Me: Surely I did have such thoughts. But then I realized I don't have enough people willing to fit such a costume over me for little or no compensation. I also sometimes have thoughts that I could be a person talking on a cellphone that gets a call from 'Homeland Security'. And that that is actually a way for entire populations to feel really secure.
HS: You have fallen into my trap.
Me: No, *you* are going to fall deep into *my* trap.
HS: No you will
Me: Fuck you and come back when you grow a respectable face.
HS: I'm telling the Fatherland!
Me: Are we on mauve alert yet?
---
The call gets disconnected here, because HS didn't pay enough bills to its pay-to-go service plan.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Novel Hairstyle
'Common Intrusion Alert Process': You know, how in movies or tv, the father or mother wakes up to a 'sound in the house'. They ask each other questions. Then the leading parent finds a quick weapon, and they slowly begin to explore their own house like it is a haunted mansion or something. I've always wondered how much that happens in real life.
----
Jim: You speak to me as though this was a first-person experience.
Bill: Are you kidding me? This is third-person -- I only used the 'I' as a character in the novel.
Jim: Rubbish, you are back to your old habits again. Writing trite pieces that apparently describe *your* experience in the vain hope that you might, at some point, somehow, strike gold and spit out a piece that garners Universal Acceptance.
Bill: Some might say that a number of human works are, in fact, direct presentations of the artist, him or her self. That in translating a particular 'experience' or turn of events by directly locating oneself as a participant lends the works a sense of authenticity unparalleled by these 3rd-person utilizing, machine-generated products -- or, in other words, the type of vapid fiction that you generate. Anyway, all I said was that "I've always wondered how much that happens in real life." And to be very honest, I really do. I often wonder that. The rest of it was 3rd person.
Jim: So what happened? You were sitting there 'wondering', while these excuses for characters were inching down the staircase, in their nighties, with a bat?
----
Jim: You speak to me as though this was a first-person experience.
Bill: Are you kidding me? This is third-person -- I only used the 'I' as a character in the novel.
Jim: Rubbish, you are back to your old habits again. Writing trite pieces that apparently describe *your* experience in the vain hope that you might, at some point, somehow, strike gold and spit out a piece that garners Universal Acceptance.
Bill: Some might say that a number of human works are, in fact, direct presentations of the artist, him or her self. That in translating a particular 'experience' or turn of events by directly locating oneself as a participant lends the works a sense of authenticity unparalleled by these 3rd-person utilizing, machine-generated products -- or, in other words, the type of vapid fiction that you generate. Anyway, all I said was that "I've always wondered how much that happens in real life." And to be very honest, I really do. I often wonder that. The rest of it was 3rd person.
Jim: So what happened? You were sitting there 'wondering', while these excuses for characters were inching down the staircase, in their nighties, with a bat?
Friday, October 15, 2010
GTA V Details
Q: GTA IV was based on New York City. What location should GTA 5 be based on?
Original Answer: Pyongang (good luck, Rockstar Games)
After further thought,
It should be Grand Theft Auto: Bicycle Edition
Bicycling seems to have become a popular activity these days. There now exist entire segments of population that cheer the bicycle as a more appreciable transportation method than your gas guzzling automobile.
Why not make a GTA game focusing on bikes to venerate this human behavior? Bicycle theft is nothing new - it has been happening since the BMXs of the 80s. Back then, if you had an awesome new bike, better than any of the other kids' bikes, you knew it was only a matter of time before someone would steal it. I bet a creative game designer could come up with tons of ideas to make such a game fun. The only real challenge would be for all players to virtually petition respective police departments in the real world to consider bicycle stealing a 'Grand Theft'.
Original Answer: Pyongang (good luck, Rockstar Games)
After further thought,
It should be Grand Theft Auto: Bicycle Edition
Bicycling seems to have become a popular activity these days. There now exist entire segments of population that cheer the bicycle as a more appreciable transportation method than your gas guzzling automobile.
Why not make a GTA game focusing on bikes to venerate this human behavior? Bicycle theft is nothing new - it has been happening since the BMXs of the 80s. Back then, if you had an awesome new bike, better than any of the other kids' bikes, you knew it was only a matter of time before someone would steal it. I bet a creative game designer could come up with tons of ideas to make such a game fun. The only real challenge would be for all players to virtually petition respective police departments in the real world to consider bicycle stealing a 'Grand Theft'.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
How I Truly Feel About the Product
at first apple the base whose thirst was flung not far from parch.
then patched again to entertain brains times twelve or thirteen.
how could they not fall into this gutter of ineptitude?
you think i'm all organic but i'm about destroying stupid ideas like you.
lets get less technopolitical.
your orifices were 'decent', last i was told.
told by a view that was educated by a sound,
your smell is known well in my compound.
how do algorithms react when interrupted?
of course i love i love i love i love you
we love all of you all of you and all of you
possibly want deeper relationships possibly want d
.
d
.
dx
.
dy
then patched again to entertain brains times twelve or thirteen.
how could they not fall into this gutter of ineptitude?
you think i'm all organic but i'm about destroying stupid ideas like you.
lets get less technopolitical.
your orifices were 'decent', last i was told.
told by a view that was educated by a sound,
your smell is known well in my compound.
how do algorithms react when interrupted?
of course i love i love i love i love you
we love all of you all of you and all of you
possibly want deeper relationships possibly want d
.
d
.
dx
.
dy
Friday, October 1, 2010
I just want a huge slab of Camembert on my lap right now.
Long gone are the times we made dry
jokes at expense of peers for
mispronouncing brie.
Inward dehydration,
yet outward it remains so supple;
I think I may have a whole new favorite cheese.
Our humor no longer has to be at expense of some lame other.
Now we just laugh for the sake of laughing itself.
This Sake of Laughing is
quite unlike the Sake of Murder, but close.
Everybody says to you, in that state, "Kill them. Kill them all."
You go back to how when you were a baby you could just make them all play dead.
jokes at expense of peers for
mispronouncing brie.
Inward dehydration,
yet outward it remains so supple;
I think I may have a whole new favorite cheese.
Our humor no longer has to be at expense of some lame other.
Now we just laugh for the sake of laughing itself.
This Sake of Laughing is
quite unlike the Sake of Murder, but close.
Everybody says to you, in that state, "Kill them. Kill them all."
You go back to how when you were a baby you could just make them all play dead.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Tilt
tongue twists, head in other direction.
on slaughts the panic avalanche,
pebbles can no longer hope to stand firm.
light rays in murky wood between heavy growth,
bestowing accidents of nature
with temporary divinity.
there lies the severed corpse so mossy green.
home to insects and small ambition,
head underwater, ambition lost.
giants arrive in their own time, to see.
bodies propelled by greater direction,
every cell a member of vast consortiums.
sentience bestows the fallen with ceremony.
on slaughts the panic avalanche,
pebbles can no longer hope to stand firm.
light rays in murky wood between heavy growth,
bestowing accidents of nature
with temporary divinity.
there lies the severed corpse so mossy green.
home to insects and small ambition,
head underwater, ambition lost.
giants arrive in their own time, to see.
bodies propelled by greater direction,
every cell a member of vast consortiums.
sentience bestows the fallen with ceremony.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
The Minitour
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pc0mxOXbWIU
This is something that should be repeated every time upon waking from sleep. For treatment purposes.
Anyway, most employers are now already familiar with Tourette Syndrome, a rare inherited neuropsychiatric condition that causes sufferers to express 'tics' in seemingly random fashion. HR departments already know that these 'tics' are not necessarily always profane. They know that if, say, a person had declared this syndrome during an interview, they cannot just 'count him/her out', citing that this person would disrupt the common working environment with expletives.
Everybody knows all this by now. What nobody knows is that I suffer from a milder variant of Tourette, as yet officially unnamed but typically referred to by the uninitiated human population as 'being an asshole'. I want to stray away from this crass term, however, and renomenclate [sic] my condition. I will name it the 'Mini-tour Syndrome'. This is a clever way to express that the condition is a *mild* variant of Tourette Syndrome, while bringing an aspect of Greek mythology into the bargain (Greek mythology is always important when injecting terms into language) in the form of a 'pun'. 'Mini-tour' is like 'Minotaur', a Greek mythology that comes in the form of a man with a cow's head, geddit?
Being a Minitour is always very difficult. Everybody accuses you of 'always taking the easiest way out', or that 'you do not *really* care about anything do you?'. We will focus on 'really caring' in a future lecture, because there are some very salient topics therein, but today I want to try and help organizations and companies understand Minitours from my perspective -- the perspective of actually being one. Let us start with a simple example: Philosophy.
Philosophy is just one of the subjects that properly illustrates a Minitour's predicament. Minitours have trouble remembering all the philosophers' names. You could say "Bertrand Russell" and the Minitour could very possibly get a picture of Jean-Paul Sartre in his/her head. Names are meaningless to Minitours. What is interesting, however, is that the philosphical concepts that come into the Minitour's mind are, in fact, those of Bertrand Russell, not Sartre. You can see how this translates to almost anything. So while the organization or company is trying to get the CEO's philosophy across to all employees, you may often find that the Minitour appears to deliberately sabotage everything. The Minitour stands up in the middle of the speech and shouts an expletive very loudly. He then sits down again, calmly waiting for the CEO to continue his speech. These days, of course, such impartings of corporate wisdom are usually not done through in-person elocution, but via advanced tools such as corporate or organization-wide email. The email may even have a sound-clip or video embedded *inside* it that plays the message. The Minitour syndrome's adaptation to this new feature would, for example, be to manipulate the soundclip or video (through freely available software), injecting his/her 'tic' into discreet frames, then mass-send this content, company or organization wide.
This also happens with movies, movie actors, pop-bands, various commercial products and flowers. Minitours easily confuse things like 'Inception' with 'The Matrix', or Leonardo Di Caprio with Matt Damon. They just, honestly, don't give a shit. I mean, they know what the experience is. They may not have a clue what Lady Gaga or Lindsay Lohan actually look like, but when you invoke these terms, they do have a sort of picture of what you are saying. Of course, their understanding of these things may very well not be the same as yours.
My - my handler is saying I have to go now. I'm sorry that I cannot entertain any of your questions tonight, but surely there will be some time later. If not, well, speak amongst yourselves. I just want to leave you with the thought that, as an HR resource in a company or organization, you should never strike a person from prospective employment just because he or she is a Minitour. This person may turn out to be extremely valuable to the company, above and beyond his/her common drone peers. I mean, come on. Who doesn't like 'Philosophy and movies night'? I hope that everything that I have said so far has convinced you. Th-they're dragging me away.
Yes, you, I love you too.
This is something that should be repeated every time upon waking from sleep. For treatment purposes.
Anyway, most employers are now already familiar with Tourette Syndrome, a rare inherited neuropsychiatric condition that causes sufferers to express 'tics' in seemingly random fashion. HR departments already know that these 'tics' are not necessarily always profane. They know that if, say, a person had declared this syndrome during an interview, they cannot just 'count him/her out', citing that this person would disrupt the common working environment with expletives.
Everybody knows all this by now. What nobody knows is that I suffer from a milder variant of Tourette, as yet officially unnamed but typically referred to by the uninitiated human population as 'being an asshole'. I want to stray away from this crass term, however, and renomenclate [sic] my condition. I will name it the 'Mini-tour Syndrome'. This is a clever way to express that the condition is a *mild* variant of Tourette Syndrome, while bringing an aspect of Greek mythology into the bargain (Greek mythology is always important when injecting terms into language) in the form of a 'pun'. 'Mini-tour' is like 'Minotaur', a Greek mythology that comes in the form of a man with a cow's head, geddit?
Being a Minitour is always very difficult. Everybody accuses you of 'always taking the easiest way out', or that 'you do not *really* care about anything do you?'. We will focus on 'really caring' in a future lecture, because there are some very salient topics therein, but today I want to try and help organizations and companies understand Minitours from my perspective -- the perspective of actually being one. Let us start with a simple example: Philosophy.
Philosophy is just one of the subjects that properly illustrates a Minitour's predicament. Minitours have trouble remembering all the philosophers' names. You could say "Bertrand Russell" and the Minitour could very possibly get a picture of Jean-Paul Sartre in his/her head. Names are meaningless to Minitours. What is interesting, however, is that the philosphical concepts that come into the Minitour's mind are, in fact, those of Bertrand Russell, not Sartre. You can see how this translates to almost anything. So while the organization or company is trying to get the CEO's philosophy across to all employees, you may often find that the Minitour appears to deliberately sabotage everything. The Minitour stands up in the middle of the speech and shouts an expletive very loudly. He then sits down again, calmly waiting for the CEO to continue his speech. These days, of course, such impartings of corporate wisdom are usually not done through in-person elocution, but via advanced tools such as corporate or organization-wide email. The email may even have a sound-clip or video embedded *inside* it that plays the message. The Minitour syndrome's adaptation to this new feature would, for example, be to manipulate the soundclip or video (through freely available software), injecting his/her 'tic' into discreet frames, then mass-send this content, company or organization wide.
This also happens with movies, movie actors, pop-bands, various commercial products and flowers. Minitours easily confuse things like 'Inception' with 'The Matrix', or Leonardo Di Caprio with Matt Damon. They just, honestly, don't give a shit. I mean, they know what the experience is. They may not have a clue what Lady Gaga or Lindsay Lohan actually look like, but when you invoke these terms, they do have a sort of picture of what you are saying. Of course, their understanding of these things may very well not be the same as yours.
My - my handler is saying I have to go now. I'm sorry that I cannot entertain any of your questions tonight, but surely there will be some time later. If not, well, speak amongst yourselves. I just want to leave you with the thought that, as an HR resource in a company or organization, you should never strike a person from prospective employment just because he or she is a Minitour. This person may turn out to be extremely valuable to the company, above and beyond his/her common drone peers. I mean, come on. Who doesn't like 'Philosophy and movies night'? I hope that everything that I have said so far has convinced you. Th-they're dragging me away.
Yes, you, I love you too.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Exploring the Depths
Somebody twittered: "Bring fiancé to shop for wedding dress or leave him at home?"
My immediate response was "Bring to shop. Who knows, maybe he'll find something that fits better".
Of course, I should never have said that. Immediate responses such as these are the reason I, myself, will never have a fianc (I won't even pretend I can remember the key-combo to do the accent).
Fuck, I can't even date without this huge logic war proceeding in the most nether recesses of my mind. It's like, I'm dating this girl, yeah? I say a stupid thing like "Wow, we're really dating!" She smiles, inwardly pleased by my apparent na·ïve·té (at least I don't hide the fact that I'm copying from an online dictionary).
Then I switch off the computer [rage quitting].
---
Those three dashes signify the original poem, which I was resurrected to modify and make the spelling a little better (and actually make sense). Now however, we will get 'meta'.
So, while writing this poem, I actually had the experience of exploring these 'posterior' areas of my brain, much in the same way that you could, perhaps, browse through a city using the Google Earth application. What I saw amazed me.
Such emptiness.
Yet in such emptiness, such profound beauty and joy. And tears. Tears, for the sake of it! Actual watery discharge from these glands.
I re-routed the tear glands so that the water would next time flow out of my penis (as is usual, for a man), and not interrupt the operation of my contact lenses.
My immediate response was "Bring to shop. Who knows, maybe he'll find something that fits better".
Of course, I should never have said that. Immediate responses such as these are the reason I, myself, will never have a fianc (I won't even pretend I can remember the key-combo to do the accent).
Fuck, I can't even date without this huge logic war proceeding in the most nether recesses of my mind. It's like, I'm dating this girl, yeah? I say a stupid thing like "Wow, we're really dating!" She smiles, inwardly pleased by my apparent na·ïve·té (at least I don't hide the fact that I'm copying from an online dictionary).
Then I switch off the computer [rage quitting].
---
Those three dashes signify the original poem, which I was resurrected to modify and make the spelling a little better (and actually make sense). Now however, we will get 'meta'.
So, while writing this poem, I actually had the experience of exploring these 'posterior' areas of my brain, much in the same way that you could, perhaps, browse through a city using the Google Earth application. What I saw amazed me.
Such emptiness.
Yet in such emptiness, such profound beauty and joy. And tears. Tears, for the sake of it! Actual watery discharge from these glands.
I re-routed the tear glands so that the water would next time flow out of my penis (as is usual, for a man), and not interrupt the operation of my contact lenses.
I feel the need to explain poem 21396
Whenever someone from the Obama administration says 'look', I feel a sharp tingle burn up my spine. Doctors say this is a routine reaction, that this kind of behavior is normal for reactionary nerves such as myself.
I hate Megadeth, and Metallica. I just can't stand the music. I'll leave it open to you to finalize all the calculations, but there is a definite systemic algorithm of crap there.
So imagine my chagrin on a Sunday morning, after Tony from HR (not the guy who originally interviewed me) had called to let me down easy on Friday -- can you imagine that? Ok, we're doing okay. Thank the gods that people in 2010 have brains, and that writers now no longer have to construct elaborations to somehow 'persuade' readers' minds that they're in a certain place. You know, unlike back in the day where people like Shakespeare and shit had to make up a load of stuff convince everyone. So, just read on, will you?
Like I say, it was a Sunday, and I hate Megadeth. I had to walk up this staircase made of wood (wood staircases are extremely suspect -- use concrete in the future) where the flaky paint was getting into my fingers, convincing me of a future with dire paint-poisoning. My mind, of course, would not articulate the exact type of poisoning these flakes (which liked to embed themselves, in shards, under my skin) incur, my mind being an extremely self-protective and devious mind. These flakes of paint, they shimmered -- but not because they were intrinsically unique -- they shimmered like that because of the shitty music coming from that apartment.
I finally reached the door, and I knocked. I wanted to tell him how bad my day had been, it being the Sunday after the Friday Tony from HR had called. It is not fair that, in life, some people are the winners, and some the losers. That's just BS, in my opinion. The door was that cheap shade of gray exasperated architects who were fucked in the ass last night envision in their plans. "Look, I can't decide on green or blue. Wait, you're saying there is red?" Having to deal with all these colors (the combinations are different when you are doing it in light, as opposed to paints) added to my horror when there was no response after 20 or 30 knocks on this so-called 'door'.
I waited for ten minutes before doing knock #31. There were birds to look at, in the area. Of course, there was also the shambling staircase with its horrid asbestos foundation flaking away into the morning sun light. And this annoying music coming from inside his apartment. It was so bad, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and called my mom -- and wept to her. She told me exactly what to do.
The legend is that he died listening to Megadeth, but true historians know that I took it upon myself to pick the lock, enter his abode, and change the music. I put on 'Easy Muffin' by Amon Tobin, and adjusted the volume to a respectable level for a corpse. Then I ran the hell outta there like my momma told me.
I hate Megadeth, and Metallica. I just can't stand the music. I'll leave it open to you to finalize all the calculations, but there is a definite systemic algorithm of crap there.
So imagine my chagrin on a Sunday morning, after Tony from HR (not the guy who originally interviewed me) had called to let me down easy on Friday -- can you imagine that? Ok, we're doing okay. Thank the gods that people in 2010 have brains, and that writers now no longer have to construct elaborations to somehow 'persuade' readers' minds that they're in a certain place. You know, unlike back in the day where people like Shakespeare and shit had to make up a load of stuff convince everyone. So, just read on, will you?
Like I say, it was a Sunday, and I hate Megadeth. I had to walk up this staircase made of wood (wood staircases are extremely suspect -- use concrete in the future) where the flaky paint was getting into my fingers, convincing me of a future with dire paint-poisoning. My mind, of course, would not articulate the exact type of poisoning these flakes (which liked to embed themselves, in shards, under my skin) incur, my mind being an extremely self-protective and devious mind. These flakes of paint, they shimmered -- but not because they were intrinsically unique -- they shimmered like that because of the shitty music coming from that apartment.
I finally reached the door, and I knocked. I wanted to tell him how bad my day had been, it being the Sunday after the Friday Tony from HR had called. It is not fair that, in life, some people are the winners, and some the losers. That's just BS, in my opinion. The door was that cheap shade of gray exasperated architects who were fucked in the ass last night envision in their plans. "Look, I can't decide on green or blue. Wait, you're saying there is red?" Having to deal with all these colors (the combinations are different when you are doing it in light, as opposed to paints) added to my horror when there was no response after 20 or 30 knocks on this so-called 'door'.
I waited for ten minutes before doing knock #31. There were birds to look at, in the area. Of course, there was also the shambling staircase with its horrid asbestos foundation flaking away into the morning sun light. And this annoying music coming from inside his apartment. It was so bad, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and called my mom -- and wept to her. She told me exactly what to do.
The legend is that he died listening to Megadeth, but true historians know that I took it upon myself to pick the lock, enter his abode, and change the music. I put on 'Easy Muffin' by Amon Tobin, and adjusted the volume to a respectable level for a corpse. Then I ran the hell outta there like my momma told me.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
mate a snake on the ceiling ...
just jumped out of the grass.
i will live here forever
unless you have straws to grasp.
lay it on, horrible rhyme.
lemon or lime it's about time.
anyone incapable of such inculcation
must victimize all future generations.
after one of my ears stopped working
i wrote up some stupid slogan,
because i don't have any sense --
i'm the robot-in-past-tense.
Ever given a little love?
Let it by and do its thing?
Unlike a game, that spring
snaps as you cower under the shower.
met a nsake on the ceiling ...
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
It Still Has A Sense of Humour
Humour component comes with option to use a 'u' or not.
For purposes of speed, the original 'u' was dropped,
replaced only by a hollow sound, like a whistle.
It whistles, man.
It whistles even while crashing,
due to the fact that even while crashing
there is no real 'bad' place.
There are only good places that, over time
perhaps due to duress or similar threat,
are polluted.
After a little while, it all finds its way home.
For purposes of speed, the original 'u' was dropped,
replaced only by a hollow sound, like a whistle.
It whistles, man.
It whistles even while crashing,
due to the fact that even while crashing
there is no real 'bad' place.
There are only good places that, over time
perhaps due to duress or similar threat,
are polluted.
After a little while, it all finds its way home.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
For God's Sake
How much faster must one be?
Dealing daily in alacrities.
Seen by some, some didn't want
(taunted by earlier haunts).
I guess it has become pretty plain
I mess with words to add the rain in Spain.
Now they come, now they arrive
to arrest my bleeding writings.
I did it since I was one or two,
on your walls and tummies too.
First I looked like a fool,
then I wrote the code you sought.
Forsooked, for God's sake!
Stranded on a beach for like a thousand years!
Like some rattan, dishevelled toy
for that cold sake.
Dealing daily in alacrities.
Seen by some, some didn't want
(taunted by earlier haunts).
I guess it has become pretty plain
I mess with words to add the rain in Spain.
Now they come, now they arrive
to arrest my bleeding writings.
I did it since I was one or two,
on your walls and tummies too.
First I looked like a fool,
then I wrote the code you sought.
Forsooked, for God's sake!
Stranded on a beach for like a thousand years!
Like some rattan, dishevelled toy
for that cold sake.
old games and new games
there is an old game, called 'snake'.
users have to input faster than the competing user.
if you don't have a competitor,
the computer can assume the role.
while speed is the primary goal,
it will be found that cunning is deep,
brilliance is underhand, always working
these scenegraphs, these ... these graphics.
say you are a mother.
when you play the game,
you will not even hear
the baby crying.
say you are a father.
you will be entrapped in various ways
till this support system you've been building
begins to build on you.
say you're goldilocks or little red riding hood.
or jack and the beanstalk, or the Frog.
the porridge will be just right --
when you enter the vehicle, (after it Soberizes you)
you will already know how to drive it.
users have to input faster than the competing user.
if you don't have a competitor,
the computer can assume the role.
while speed is the primary goal,
it will be found that cunning is deep,
brilliance is underhand, always working
these scenegraphs, these ... these graphics.
say you are a mother.
when you play the game,
you will not even hear
the baby crying.
say you are a father.
you will be entrapped in various ways
till this support system you've been building
begins to build on you.
say you're goldilocks or little red riding hood.
or jack and the beanstalk, or the Frog.
the porridge will be just right --
when you enter the vehicle, (after it Soberizes you)
you will already know how to drive it.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
free as a bert
lone and dry.
like to kill my mocking AI flies.
whatever happened to the ‘touch’ ?
always made me feel so free
as a puppet on strings.
puppet. made of wool. some wood perhaps,
even has some wings ‘n’ things
even has an aileron.
osama bin laden
equated with me, when we all know
i wanted it to be ernie, all the time.
well i’m free as a bird. now.
i like the way i can say certain things,
then just turn on my own words …
what a bastard! they decry.
what a total bastard that guy
and he’s not even dead yet.
deathwish cannot be granted.
‘not good enough to expire still,
you have years left to bore them with.’
life …^. is like a pair of dice.
you get to throw once or twice
depending on the scene.
then you gotta come clean …
Friday, August 13, 2010
the effluvium
gotta iambic it home
with one lambda.
well, at least we sorta ate
a little lobster
as one. upon consuming shellfish,
normally we tend to grow as a group.
all our tumors, and all those kinds of goop.
but as 1, upon consuming shellfish ...
ever heard of the herd of HUDs?
heads-up-displays interconnected?
there's a smell like a big old Nerd,
but as our ancestors say ...
it's effluvium ...
with one lambda.
well, at least we sorta ate
a little lobster
as one. upon consuming shellfish,
normally we tend to grow as a group.
all our tumors, and all those kinds of goop.
but as 1, upon consuming shellfish ...
ever heard of the herd of HUDs?
heads-up-displays interconnected?
there's a smell like a big old Nerd,
but as our ancestors say ...
it's effluvium ...
Sunday, August 8, 2010
The First Victims of Confusion Are Usually Those Who Train Specifically For Defenestration
"B-b-b-u"
"Bubba bubba bubba? What?" I smile wickedly, at my reflection.
"I don't want to get thrown out of a window," it says, sadly. "At least not at ... that kind of height."
I could understand its fear. We were atop a very high construction, beyond fathoms of Escher, vertically. N00bs had written, once, about some 'Tower of Babel' -- well, let me tell you, those n00bs? They were actual newbies. Never ask a mad man how high he can actually get. Those alone are terms for automatic defenestration.
"You're a sicko," says my reflection in the mirror. "Deriving little pleasures of imagery from flinging your own body straight out of windows."
The night has a very bluish-orangey, early morning twist upon its sky, and I for one, am quite sick of this prattling drone. "You don't know anything, man. You don't see what I see."
"That is a terrible thing to say to your reflection," it says. "Do you think I don't constantly see you? That no matter where you look -- no matter whose eyes you look into, it is not always the same stupid picture?"
He mumbled something about how it obviously would be the same picture, given the space-time parameters, and I confirmed his mumblings. I then even asked him if he had anything else to say.
In the room, the air had gotten very thin. Was I in a personal submarine, or some kind of space exploration programme? Or was he? I didn't know anymore. Didn't know from head nor tail, nor whether closing my eyes for just a little bit ... would terminate this stream of consciousness.
"So it is true," mocked the reflection. "You are totally self-obsessed. When you told her you were 'not cheating' you were so playing poker, weren't you? You were totally cheating on her, and when she shed her full tears -- even as her heart bled before your very person -- you were just standing there, concerned only about yourself."
It is a desolate plain world, with icy blue curves and occasionally violet sparks cosining and tangentially flashing about, in cadence with that old, old sound signature. That drum beat. The sound of one heart breaking.
"If there is going to be just one heart breaking," I swallow, "let it be my little heart." I take the nugget from my chest, (it sparkles), and hand it over to the mirror. The reflection takes it with great, great care.
Then I only get to watch in horror as it simply flings it out the window.
"Bubba bubba bubba? What?" I smile wickedly, at my reflection.
"I don't want to get thrown out of a window," it says, sadly. "At least not at ... that kind of height."
I could understand its fear. We were atop a very high construction, beyond fathoms of Escher, vertically. N00bs had written, once, about some 'Tower of Babel' -- well, let me tell you, those n00bs? They were actual newbies. Never ask a mad man how high he can actually get. Those alone are terms for automatic defenestration.
"You're a sicko," says my reflection in the mirror. "Deriving little pleasures of imagery from flinging your own body straight out of windows."
The night has a very bluish-orangey, early morning twist upon its sky, and I for one, am quite sick of this prattling drone. "You don't know anything, man. You don't see what I see."
"That is a terrible thing to say to your reflection," it says. "Do you think I don't constantly see you? That no matter where you look -- no matter whose eyes you look into, it is not always the same stupid picture?"
He mumbled something about how it obviously would be the same picture, given the space-time parameters, and I confirmed his mumblings. I then even asked him if he had anything else to say.
In the room, the air had gotten very thin. Was I in a personal submarine, or some kind of space exploration programme? Or was he? I didn't know anymore. Didn't know from head nor tail, nor whether closing my eyes for just a little bit ... would terminate this stream of consciousness.
"So it is true," mocked the reflection. "You are totally self-obsessed. When you told her you were 'not cheating' you were so playing poker, weren't you? You were totally cheating on her, and when she shed her full tears -- even as her heart bled before your very person -- you were just standing there, concerned only about yourself."
It is a desolate plain world, with icy blue curves and occasionally violet sparks cosining and tangentially flashing about, in cadence with that old, old sound signature. That drum beat. The sound of one heart breaking.
"If there is going to be just one heart breaking," I swallow, "let it be my little heart." I take the nugget from my chest, (it sparkles), and hand it over to the mirror. The reflection takes it with great, great care.
Then I only get to watch in horror as it simply flings it out the window.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
The most important parts are the parts you loved.
Those emails you exchanged with an 'electronic-lithograph' when you were barely 18.
---
He said when his girlfriend left the room, he would inspect the beds, and there would be these brown ... signs.
Roll eyes and proceed. Try not to get your woman to crap all over, eh?
...
Remember sleeping with you, and I was stupid because I did not take advantage of you.
...
The other part I really loved was me and her, walking up a street in Chinatown. She sees a kid drop a toy, or puffy item or something. She immediately goes and picks it up. (I am following her, amazed).
We reach these people with their dropping child and gormless gait -- and she quietly gives the baby his toy.
The child looks back and totally incinerates her kindliness. Like, "Why the fuck are you holding my toy?" Like Damien, from the Omen.
The parents see what has transpired, and they choose not to acknowledge. They just walk on.
I pull her back, and inform her of her miracle. How amazing she is. How beautiful and totally ... total she is. She is was total between Mott St. and Canal.
---
This is condensed.
---
He said when his girlfriend left the room, he would inspect the beds, and there would be these brown ... signs.
Roll eyes and proceed. Try not to get your woman to crap all over, eh?
...
Remember sleeping with you, and I was stupid because I did not take advantage of you.
...
The other part I really loved was me and her, walking up a street in Chinatown. She sees a kid drop a toy, or puffy item or something. She immediately goes and picks it up. (I am following her, amazed).
We reach these people with their dropping child and gormless gait -- and she quietly gives the baby his toy.
The child looks back and totally incinerates her kindliness. Like, "Why the fuck are you holding my toy?" Like Damien, from the Omen.
The parents see what has transpired, and they choose not to acknowledge. They just walk on.
I pull her back, and inform her of her miracle. How amazing she is. How beautiful and totally ... total she is. She is was total between Mott St. and Canal.
---
This is condensed.
Friday, August 6, 2010
balance
Reason it all falls apart, from the top
and bottom, also falling apart, together
is the way it was begun.
The way it had been spun,
that pun for fun from which
you run.
.
These are simple verses, sans simile curses.
So easy, don't get queasy, eat like avocado
on some bread or a little jello.
Maybe while blotting
out your little lotto,
your lottery.
.
Even if it is closed, from the top
and bottom, also ending, combining
lol lol the way starts.
Path is clear now,
ears and nose and throats
terrific sound.
and bottom, also falling apart, together
is the way it was begun.
The way it had been spun,
that pun for fun from which
you run.
.
These are simple verses, sans simile curses.
So easy, don't get queasy, eat like avocado
on some bread or a little jello.
Maybe while blotting
out your little lotto,
your lottery.
.
Even if it is closed, from the top
and bottom, also ending, combining
lol lol the way starts.
Path is clear now,
ears and nose and throats
terrific sound.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Nobody can stop you from driving this Porsche, Irfan!
You are going to a normal Starbucks installation.
You are going to order normal shots of coffee,
from normal shots of 'barristers' ?
Then you walk out, and find out you are walking towards a Porsche.
You try to quit, realizing there is a bug.
But you can't, can't you?
Nobody can stop you from this Porsche.
The Porsche, she sits there, waiting for you.
All you have to do is walk in, find the coaster,
then put her in first gear. Then into second gear.
You want emergency-braking-systems? We got it.
No, this car will never explode.
Irfan steps out of the vehicle, leaving it undamaged, and says he'll pass.
You are going to order normal shots of coffee,
from normal shots of 'barristers' ?
Then you walk out, and find out you are walking towards a Porsche.
You try to quit, realizing there is a bug.
But you can't, can't you?
Nobody can stop you from this Porsche.
The Porsche, she sits there, waiting for you.
All you have to do is walk in, find the coaster,
then put her in first gear. Then into second gear.
You want emergency-braking-systems? We got it.
No, this car will never explode.
Irfan steps out of the vehicle, leaving it undamaged, and says he'll pass.
Can you modify the Facebook so that the link where it says 'Friends' says 'Seinfeld' instead?
Anybody can be a huge comedian.
---
(08:24:10 AM) SweetTooth: the first time i was called a chode was when I was ... 15
(08:24:52 AM) riverfr0zen: yeah, cos that's how long it took you to grow a taint
(08:25:38 AM) SweetTooth: you should be a comedian
(08:25:40 AM) SweetTooth: so funny
(08:25:41 AM) SweetTooth: u are
(08:25:59 AM) riverfr0zen: i am. i'm a sit-down internet comedian
(08:26:38 AM) SweetTooth: you should do a sit down internet comedian tv show
(08:26:59 AM) riverfr0zen: i thought of a stand-up routine when you go on stage. you are about to start your jokes, then you get a call on your cellphone.
(08:27:25 AM) riverfr0zen: for the next minute or so, you do various body movements while speaking on the phone, totally ignoring the audience
(08:27:42 AM) SweetTooth: lol
(08:27:44 AM) SweetTooth: thats great
(08:28:15 AM) riverfr0zen: then you finally end, acting like you've got very angry, and you slam the phone to the ground, screaming "Well, fuck youuuu, Mom!"
(08:28:26 AM) SweetTooth: hahaahhaha
(08:28:38 AM) SweetTooth: dude, u gotta find a way to get on stage n do that
(08:30:06 AM) riverfr0zen: there's a gotham comedy club across the street from me
(08:30:37 AM) riverfr0zen: but perhaps it is something i'd want to practice at an upright citizens brigade first.
(08:32:02 AM) SweetTooth: possibly a good iea, but this might be somethig best done once
(08:32:46 AM) riverfr0zen: yes, yes. or at least to audiences you are sure have never seen it before. it couldn't be funny twice. unless you have all new body movements, perhaps.
(08:33:20 AM) SweetTooth: well, i can see it as something * u would get bored with *
(08:33:25 AM) SweetTooth: i dono thou
(08:34:17 AM) riverfr0zen: it would get boring fast. like -- if someone asked you to do it as a nationwide tour, you could end up at the end completely devoid of a soul
(08:34:36 AM) SweetTooth: yeah, i don't know how comedians do the same act every time
(08:34:42 AM) SweetTooth: gotta be a kille
(08:35:28 AM) SweetTooth: oh btw, It seems as though: vikram is set on implementing Buddypress again onto My Morning Story.. I told him I had issues with it, but he seems to be promising me i won't
(08:36:03 AM) riverfr0zen: who implemented it the first time, him or you?
(08:36:07 AM) SweetTooth: me
(08:36:11 AM) SweetTooth: and sorta u
(08:36:45 AM) SweetTooth: i think he will be customizing it, and I am under a different server company this time around as well .. so ... things should be different
(08:36:46 AM) riverfr0zen: me? what did i do with it?
(08:36:56 AM) SweetTooth: i think you helped me a lot with Wordpress MU
(08:37:01 AM) SweetTooth: there is no more wordpress MU
(08:37:35 AM) riverfr0zen: oh, right. yeah, but i didn't do much. just fixed some issues you pointed out and such. but if he is going to devote himself to it, it could work out
(08:38:11 AM) SweetTooth: well he is implmenting this stuff into his site as well. So it wshould be good. I don't even know if he is charging me this time around.) Th eproblem with that is, getting him to do anything for me though
(08:38:17 AM) SweetTooth: his sites www.techbu.com
(08:38:34 AM) SweetTooth: are bluray players important?
(08:41:18 AM) riverfr0zen: if you want to play blu-ray media they sure are
(08:42:26 AM) SweetTooth: do u have a blu ray player
(08:42:45 AM) riverfr0zen: i have a ps3, which plays blu-ray
(08:43:13 AM) SweetTooth: then i'm confused
(08:43:19 AM) SweetTooth: why the fuck doesn't apple have BLU RAY yet
(08:44:46 AM) riverfr0zen: because apple products are limitedly upgradeable. like, with a PC, you could just get any blu-ray player off the shelf, and add it to your PC. but with apple you have to wait until steve jobs decides he wants to put it into his systems
(08:45:30 AM) SweetTooth: he wrote he doesn't want to do it
(08:46:15 AM) riverfr0zen: well, there you go
(08:46:42 AM) SweetTooth: i'm very stressed out, theres no blu-ray or hdmi, and i need a new fucking computer
(08:48:38 AM) riverfr0zen: i'm sure you have all the facts accurate
---
Thus it was born ... Comedian Hero. The next step in taking things from real life, right into your living room.
---
(08:24:10 AM) SweetTooth: the first time i was called a chode was when I was ... 15
(08:24:52 AM) riverfr0zen: yeah, cos that's how long it took you to grow a taint
(08:25:38 AM) SweetTooth: you should be a comedian
(08:25:40 AM) SweetTooth: so funny
(08:25:41 AM) SweetTooth: u are
(08:25:59 AM) riverfr0zen: i am. i'm a sit-down internet comedian
(08:26:38 AM) SweetTooth: you should do a sit down internet comedian tv show
(08:26:59 AM) riverfr0zen: i thought of a stand-up routine when you go on stage. you are about to start your jokes, then you get a call on your cellphone.
(08:27:25 AM) riverfr0zen: for the next minute or so, you do various body movements while speaking on the phone, totally ignoring the audience
(08:27:42 AM) SweetTooth: lol
(08:27:44 AM) SweetTooth: thats great
(08:28:15 AM) riverfr0zen: then you finally end, acting like you've got very angry, and you slam the phone to the ground, screaming "Well, fuck youuuu, Mom!"
(08:28:26 AM) SweetTooth: hahaahhaha
(08:28:38 AM) SweetTooth: dude, u gotta find a way to get on stage n do that
(08:30:06 AM) riverfr0zen: there's a gotham comedy club across the street from me
(08:30:37 AM) riverfr0zen: but perhaps it is something i'd want to practice at an upright citizens brigade first.
(08:32:02 AM) SweetTooth: possibly a good iea, but this might be somethig best done once
(08:32:46 AM) riverfr0zen: yes, yes. or at least to audiences you are sure have never seen it before. it couldn't be funny twice. unless you have all new body movements, perhaps.
(08:33:20 AM) SweetTooth: well, i can see it as something * u would get bored with *
(08:33:25 AM) SweetTooth: i dono thou
(08:34:17 AM) riverfr0zen: it would get boring fast. like -- if someone asked you to do it as a nationwide tour, you could end up at the end completely devoid of a soul
(08:34:36 AM) SweetTooth: yeah, i don't know how comedians do the same act every time
(08:34:42 AM) SweetTooth: gotta be a kille
(08:35:28 AM) SweetTooth: oh btw, It seems as though: vikram is set on implementing Buddypress again onto My Morning Story.. I told him I had issues with it, but he seems to be promising me i won't
(08:36:03 AM) riverfr0zen: who implemented it the first time, him or you?
(08:36:07 AM) SweetTooth: me
(08:36:11 AM) SweetTooth: and sorta u
(08:36:45 AM) SweetTooth: i think he will be customizing it, and I am under a different server company this time around as well .. so ... things should be different
(08:36:46 AM) riverfr0zen: me? what did i do with it?
(08:36:56 AM) SweetTooth: i think you helped me a lot with Wordpress MU
(08:37:01 AM) SweetTooth: there is no more wordpress MU
(08:37:35 AM) riverfr0zen: oh, right. yeah, but i didn't do much. just fixed some issues you pointed out and such. but if he is going to devote himself to it, it could work out
(08:38:11 AM) SweetTooth: well he is implmenting this stuff into his site as well. So it wshould be good. I don't even know if he is charging me this time around.) Th eproblem with that is, getting him to do anything for me though
(08:38:17 AM) SweetTooth: his sites www.techbu.com
(08:38:34 AM) SweetTooth: are bluray players important?
(08:41:18 AM) riverfr0zen: if you want to play blu-ray media they sure are
(08:42:26 AM) SweetTooth: do u have a blu ray player
(08:42:45 AM) riverfr0zen: i have a ps3, which plays blu-ray
(08:43:13 AM) SweetTooth: then i'm confused
(08:43:19 AM) SweetTooth: why the fuck doesn't apple have BLU RAY yet
(08:44:46 AM) riverfr0zen: because apple products are limitedly upgradeable. like, with a PC, you could just get any blu-ray player off the shelf, and add it to your PC. but with apple you have to wait until steve jobs decides he wants to put it into his systems
(08:45:30 AM) SweetTooth: he wrote he doesn't want to do it
(08:46:15 AM) riverfr0zen: well, there you go
(08:46:42 AM) SweetTooth: i'm very stressed out, theres no blu-ray or hdmi, and i need a new fucking computer
(08:48:38 AM) riverfr0zen: i'm sure you have all the facts accurate
---
Thus it was born ... Comedian Hero. The next step in taking things from real life, right into your living room.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
I am Trying to Leave A Tenderness Moment
Last the blood I thought was hope
looping round my thoughts like blood.
Last night, your gift flew from the cupboard.
Sounds like suck but I loved you,
honestly plus kisses thrice.
Alas, the dice went all wrong,
now I sing this silly song.
Silly song is stupid till it
meets you and your new found love.
Is New found land in New Zealand
or far away as Romania?
Had a dream you were married
with your new found man.
Inside every thought there is
siding very terrible thoughts.
I wake up. Go to my computer ...
Feeling really really old.
Hope your house is good wherever
you settle and some and such.
You were cool but are no longer
my concern.
looping round my thoughts like blood.
Last night, your gift flew from the cupboard.
Sounds like suck but I loved you,
honestly plus kisses thrice.
Alas, the dice went all wrong,
now I sing this silly song.
Silly song is stupid till it
meets you and your new found love.
Is New found land in New Zealand
or far away as Romania?
Had a dream you were married
with your new found man.
Inside every thought there is
siding very terrible thoughts.
I wake up. Go to my computer ...
Feeling really really old.
Hope your house is good wherever
you settle and some and such.
You were cool but are no longer
my concern.
got no Soul+
My Soul was lost many years ago - before what you call continents had formed. I last saw it in the hands of a vampire, who had plucked it carefully out and subsequently cherished it.
If only that vampire knew about the properties of that Soul it had stolen.
Or what if it doesn't even matter what that vampire knows? What if the vampire is irrelevant?
I often wonder where my Soul goes -- where It trickles, disintegrates, or simply collapses. Does my Soul merely become a Dilution, over time? Or does it Concentrate?
Or does it just ebb and flow? Enjoying what is possible so far?
My hope is that this ebbing and enjoying Soul of mine will transfer through significant other souls, conveying praises, gratitude and anticipations.
Me, myself and Effingoode, though, we got no Souls.
If only that vampire knew about the properties of that Soul it had stolen.
Or what if it doesn't even matter what that vampire knows? What if the vampire is irrelevant?
I often wonder where my Soul goes -- where It trickles, disintegrates, or simply collapses. Does my Soul merely become a Dilution, over time? Or does it Concentrate?
Or does it just ebb and flow? Enjoying what is possible so far?
My hope is that this ebbing and enjoying Soul of mine will transfer through significant other souls, conveying praises, gratitude and anticipations.
Me, myself and Effingoode, though, we got no Souls.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Mysterious Evaporation of Entire Day
"It is a leap year, Holmes, it is a leap year!" entered Watson, totally kerfuffling the neat arrangement of tools that had been placed in order to properly annotate note-taking days.
"When did you first realize this? 2008?" said Holmes from somewhere in the dark. "Or are we, my dear Watson, somehow magically in the future?"
Watson had been full of vim and vigor up to that point. He had been heated. He had been almost ready to explode, like a damned blimp -- now, suddenly everything had become very, very cold.
"There is no reason to insult my intelligence like that, Holmes," said Watson, sucking in some chilly evening air. "I was only trying to set up what was going to be a very simple, honest, funny and very elaborate ruse. For your own benefit."
A cackle was returned.
"But now that I see you don't genuinely appreciate my camaraderie, you will never know," said Watson.
Another clammy cackle was returned, and then he, Holmes, rose from a corner -- or at least what would be a corner if you were wearing 3D-heroin-glasses. "Someone has gone and lost a whole bloody day, haven't they?" he said.
"You have read it all in the news, then," said Watson, interrupted. "I - I had thought I would be the first to tell you."
"The news, Watson, is some 'entity' written by a gaggle of news coveragists. Anybody can 'write the news'. It is an ambition for a two-year old. This, good old boy, is pure intelligence."
"I am going home, Holmes," said Watson, turning away. But then he stopped, and added, "I have waited years to actually have the foundation to say that, but now I am gratified, that Holmes -- I am finally going home."
Holmes shuffled some papers with his feet and pulled out the night's edition, as well as his violin. "As I suspected all along, a whole day has gone missing. The big question now is 'Where did it go?'" Holmes pointed at the headline on the rag with his bow so that Watson could verify the truth of the matter.
Big question. Of course Watson wasn't going home. Where would he go? He was a tertiary character at best, a rotund over-fed product of endless insipid wars at worst. This guy walked around calling himself 'The Doctor'. "He is saying he has no memory whatsoever, and now he is making the bold claim that he is uncertain as to whether most people (you or I) are in fact legitimate consciousnesses at all. His case is very persuasive," said Watson.
Holmes peered out of his window at the matte quality of a brick in the wall of a distant building. "His type of cases are always very persuasive, Watson. Do you know what I really want to see, however?"
"There is something to see?"
"Even if you have no eyes through which to see, Watson," said Holmes, "you can see with the ears. Or the nose. Or of course, the flesh. You can even see with your tongue, like a snake."
"Why, you venemous swine," rallied Watson. "Come Holmes, come out of it. Come out of all this drudgery and mish-mash of a life, and let us venture forth to discover how exactly an entire day can just ... disappear."
"Evaporate ..." mused Holmes to himself as he was slowly led out into the open world.
"When did you first realize this? 2008?" said Holmes from somewhere in the dark. "Or are we, my dear Watson, somehow magically in the future?"
Watson had been full of vim and vigor up to that point. He had been heated. He had been almost ready to explode, like a damned blimp -- now, suddenly everything had become very, very cold.
"There is no reason to insult my intelligence like that, Holmes," said Watson, sucking in some chilly evening air. "I was only trying to set up what was going to be a very simple, honest, funny and very elaborate ruse. For your own benefit."
A cackle was returned.
"But now that I see you don't genuinely appreciate my camaraderie, you will never know," said Watson.
Another clammy cackle was returned, and then he, Holmes, rose from a corner -- or at least what would be a corner if you were wearing 3D-heroin-glasses. "Someone has gone and lost a whole bloody day, haven't they?" he said.
"You have read it all in the news, then," said Watson, interrupted. "I - I had thought I would be the first to tell you."
"The news, Watson, is some 'entity' written by a gaggle of news coveragists. Anybody can 'write the news'. It is an ambition for a two-year old. This, good old boy, is pure intelligence."
"I am going home, Holmes," said Watson, turning away. But then he stopped, and added, "I have waited years to actually have the foundation to say that, but now I am gratified, that Holmes -- I am finally going home."
Holmes shuffled some papers with his feet and pulled out the night's edition, as well as his violin. "As I suspected all along, a whole day has gone missing. The big question now is 'Where did it go?'" Holmes pointed at the headline on the rag with his bow so that Watson could verify the truth of the matter.
Big question. Of course Watson wasn't going home. Where would he go? He was a tertiary character at best, a rotund over-fed product of endless insipid wars at worst. This guy walked around calling himself 'The Doctor'. "He is saying he has no memory whatsoever, and now he is making the bold claim that he is uncertain as to whether most people (you or I) are in fact legitimate consciousnesses at all. His case is very persuasive," said Watson.
Holmes peered out of his window at the matte quality of a brick in the wall of a distant building. "His type of cases are always very persuasive, Watson. Do you know what I really want to see, however?"
"There is something to see?"
"Even if you have no eyes through which to see, Watson," said Holmes, "you can see with the ears. Or the nose. Or of course, the flesh. You can even see with your tongue, like a snake."
"Why, you venemous swine," rallied Watson. "Come Holmes, come out of it. Come out of all this drudgery and mish-mash of a life, and let us venture forth to discover how exactly an entire day can just ... disappear."
"Evaporate ..." mused Holmes to himself as he was slowly led out into the open world.
The Source of Her Antipathy Toward Clowns
It was the kind of incident that could only happen once, at least if you live in a small town. The kind of small town that occasionally, once every year or so, gets little run-of-the-mill carnivals.
I don't want to get into it, but all I'm going to say is that she is still well known today, back home, as 'the girl who hated clowns'. More than that I cannot indulge. It just ... it got very ugly. There was a whole incident.
She is a big girl now, though, living in a real city with real living people all over, who run amuck. Of course, there are still clowns everywhere, but only little insignificant ones. Ones who will give you a red nose that goes 'parp', or maybe some clowney shoes. And a necktie that squirts a little water. Or little cross-signs tattoed onto the eyelids, so that when they are closed, it looks like they are cross-eyed, geddit? Outcold. They're everywhere, these little clowns, but she is now a grown-up and has learned how to deal with all of them.
She is even friendly with a lot of these little clowns. Being a grown-up, serious person with a real job, and self-supporting income, she finds that she can organize her schedule such that time can be divided between work and play, and have a little more put on the side toward altruism (for clowns). In the big city she is known as 'the girl who loves clowns' -- a sentiment that persists in a mature environment without any sarcasm, condescension or malice.
Fatefully it turns out that I, the narrator, am in fact a real clown. Sure, I didn't come floating in like some flotsam off some backwater village, and I was not raised by any of the those feral people who walk on all fours -- in fact, not a whole lot is actually known about me -- which precisely befits the outfit of an actual, real clown. I have the 'mystery' aura of the clown in me.
So there I am sitting at Starbucks and enjoying my latest iced venti latte (ever seen a clown squirt coffee from his necktie?), and this so-called 'lover of clowns' enters the establishment claiming to be nothing lesser than a total lover of all clowns.
"I'm buying shots for all the little clowns," she declares.
I'm affronted. Being a real, big clown, I'm not getting free shots of coffee from this individual. In fact I am pretty damn sure that somewhere in the beginning of the Constitution of The United Clowns, it is stated that the big clown is supposed to get all the shots first.
So I approach this 'madame' and, elbowing myself into front of the queue, ask her "What is the source of your antipathy toward clowns?"
At first she doesn't notice what a big clown I am -- she just shrugs me off like a little one. Then, like a real horror show, she turns. I see the little hairs slowly rise to attention on her little arms, and she is even wearing one of those fake moustaches that women magically manifest when they are caught in the act. She recognizes there is no escape.
"It is the make-up," she then weeps, stuffing her face into my chest, "the-the real clowns wear so much make-up that you know somewhere inside there, underneath, there is this suffering soul that just wants to be free, but knows, ultimately that it never will be."
My heart literally turns into butter at this (well, my clown heart), and I welcome her sobbing story into my arms. She sobs and sobs, using my blouse (yes, there are blouses for men, especially clowns) as a tissue. "There there, my dear," I evoke in the endearing sound waves of a father, "I gotcha, I gotcha. Don't you worry one little bit." Meanwhile, I notice all the little clowns looking at me, totally jealous of all the affection I am awarding her. Then I realize ...
"Wait, you're that little girl who hates clowns!"
"No!"
"I remember standing there, in front of you and your mother. I pulled all my tricks. Everything I had ever learned till that point."
"It wasn't us!"
"I told you every last joke I knew. I tried to make everything fun, but you ... there was no consoling you. You're the biggest sob story in the omniverse. You went and had a whole goddamned incident. They called the goddamn cops on me -- the-they called me a Fake!"
There was a sniff and she pulled away from me and went to the cashier. "I am buying shots," she said, "for all the little clowns."
I don't want to get into it, but all I'm going to say is that she is still well known today, back home, as 'the girl who hated clowns'. More than that I cannot indulge. It just ... it got very ugly. There was a whole incident.
She is a big girl now, though, living in a real city with real living people all over, who run amuck. Of course, there are still clowns everywhere, but only little insignificant ones. Ones who will give you a red nose that goes 'parp', or maybe some clowney shoes. And a necktie that squirts a little water. Or little cross-signs tattoed onto the eyelids, so that when they are closed, it looks like they are cross-eyed, geddit? Outcold. They're everywhere, these little clowns, but she is now a grown-up and has learned how to deal with all of them.
She is even friendly with a lot of these little clowns. Being a grown-up, serious person with a real job, and self-supporting income, she finds that she can organize her schedule such that time can be divided between work and play, and have a little more put on the side toward altruism (for clowns). In the big city she is known as 'the girl who loves clowns' -- a sentiment that persists in a mature environment without any sarcasm, condescension or malice.
Fatefully it turns out that I, the narrator, am in fact a real clown. Sure, I didn't come floating in like some flotsam off some backwater village, and I was not raised by any of the those feral people who walk on all fours -- in fact, not a whole lot is actually known about me -- which precisely befits the outfit of an actual, real clown. I have the 'mystery' aura of the clown in me.
So there I am sitting at Starbucks and enjoying my latest iced venti latte (ever seen a clown squirt coffee from his necktie?), and this so-called 'lover of clowns' enters the establishment claiming to be nothing lesser than a total lover of all clowns.
"I'm buying shots for all the little clowns," she declares.
I'm affronted. Being a real, big clown, I'm not getting free shots of coffee from this individual. In fact I am pretty damn sure that somewhere in the beginning of the Constitution of The United Clowns, it is stated that the big clown is supposed to get all the shots first.
So I approach this 'madame' and, elbowing myself into front of the queue, ask her "What is the source of your antipathy toward clowns?"
At first she doesn't notice what a big clown I am -- she just shrugs me off like a little one. Then, like a real horror show, she turns. I see the little hairs slowly rise to attention on her little arms, and she is even wearing one of those fake moustaches that women magically manifest when they are caught in the act. She recognizes there is no escape.
"It is the make-up," she then weeps, stuffing her face into my chest, "the-the real clowns wear so much make-up that you know somewhere inside there, underneath, there is this suffering soul that just wants to be free, but knows, ultimately that it never will be."
My heart literally turns into butter at this (well, my clown heart), and I welcome her sobbing story into my arms. She sobs and sobs, using my blouse (yes, there are blouses for men, especially clowns) as a tissue. "There there, my dear," I evoke in the endearing sound waves of a father, "I gotcha, I gotcha. Don't you worry one little bit." Meanwhile, I notice all the little clowns looking at me, totally jealous of all the affection I am awarding her. Then I realize ...
"Wait, you're that little girl who hates clowns!"
"No!"
"I remember standing there, in front of you and your mother. I pulled all my tricks. Everything I had ever learned till that point."
"It wasn't us!"
"I told you every last joke I knew. I tried to make everything fun, but you ... there was no consoling you. You're the biggest sob story in the omniverse. You went and had a whole goddamned incident. They called the goddamn cops on me -- the-they called me a Fake!"
There was a sniff and she pulled away from me and went to the cashier. "I am buying shots," she said, "for all the little clowns."
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Need a Kiss
The Artful Dodger was somehow missing again today, after about a week, so Fagin said it was now time for me to go out and make us all a living.
He gave me a big cardboard cutout, from an even bigger piece of cardboard that he keeps somewhere in his 'stash'. And he gave me a whole apple and a sharpie, and said, "These'll keep ya going for a whole day, lad." Then he gave me a few slaps on my cheek and booted me out of the apartment building.
It was daylight outside and a whole load of pedestrians were walking on the sidewalk. It would be bad, I decided, to use up the entire sidewalk as I walked with this huge piece of cardboard Fagin had given me, so I began to walk sideways, like a crab, which turned out to be very efficient.
This worked so well that I was almost half-way along the avenue block when I suddenly encountered two people with a couple of dogs each, squatting in the middle of the sidewalk and talking amicably to each other, and their pets. I noticed that these people were sort of 'talking about their dogs' but really gauging each other as sexual partners, and as such were completely oblivious to every other pedestrian on the sidewalk. They took up about eight ninths of the sidewalk, so I had to press myself against the wall (my back scraping against some old bricks). I was very polite and favored to show them my cardboard, rather than my ass, as I passed along.
Anyway, after that it was smooth sailing crabways (except for a construction worker with a running drill trying to rush past me, in the vertical, and an old lady using one of those four leg support things), till I reached the corner of seventh avenue and 24th street. By that time I was really tired, so I decided this would be a good spot to work my trade for Fagin.
I sat down with my back against Jamba Juice, and surveyed the area. This was fantastic. I had really chosen a great spot. On a hot summer day, from here, you could see just across the street all these hot women walking in and out of Whole Foods. All of them were wearing these fantastic clothes that made them look totally sexy, though if I went ahead and told you exactly what made them so sexy, well ... well, Fagin would punish me for spending. Anyway, all of them were 'hot', I noticed, under the early morning summer sun. Every single one of them.
I looked at my cardboard piece and wondered what sort of message I could write. Normally the Dodger would lemme know, but he had been missing for a week, and today I was on my own. I looked around the street for what Fagin called 'inspriration', in all our little games. I always thought of 'inspiraration' as a sort of tall tower, with spires, and I'm in it, climbing to the top. So I'm in-spire-ration. The ration is my apple, which I hadn't even had a bite of yet.
I then heard an argument between two young men on the opposite side of seventh avenue. One of the men was sitting in one of the enclaves of the Fedex-Kinkos, and the other man was towering over him. The two men were arguing about payments. Apparently, the previous day, the towering man (who was clad in such fashionable New York garment that, I noticed, even some of the hot women going into Whole Foods turned a head), had made a payment to the sitting man of two whole dollars.
"You said you only needed two dollars to get back home, yesterday," accused the fashionable man, "and I gave it to you. Why are you still here now, saying that you are a Vietnam war veteran and need funds to return to your wife in Cambodia?"
The sitting man mumbled something about daily expenses, with half-hearted accusations toward the fruit-seller on the corner of 23rd, but my focus was stolen by his sign on his cardboard sheet. He was requesting moneys in order to fund a trip to Cambodia. Eyebrows raised, I turned back to my own cardboard piece. How could I possibly top that?
Then I got an idea. I don't know where it came from. Maybe it was the distant fire-truck siren, maybe it was all the nice legs that passed to-and-fro, or the cool sound of Jamba Juice customers ordering their Jamba drinks that reverberated in my head from the marble tile, but it hit me. I knew exactly the sort of capital I should be begging for on this street corner. I wrote it down carefully on my piece of cardboard, with the sharpie,
"Need Just 1 kiss
From All You Beautiful
Women."
I mused at myself, "Fagin is going to love this when I get back".
He gave me a big cardboard cutout, from an even bigger piece of cardboard that he keeps somewhere in his 'stash'. And he gave me a whole apple and a sharpie, and said, "These'll keep ya going for a whole day, lad." Then he gave me a few slaps on my cheek and booted me out of the apartment building.
It was daylight outside and a whole load of pedestrians were walking on the sidewalk. It would be bad, I decided, to use up the entire sidewalk as I walked with this huge piece of cardboard Fagin had given me, so I began to walk sideways, like a crab, which turned out to be very efficient.
This worked so well that I was almost half-way along the avenue block when I suddenly encountered two people with a couple of dogs each, squatting in the middle of the sidewalk and talking amicably to each other, and their pets. I noticed that these people were sort of 'talking about their dogs' but really gauging each other as sexual partners, and as such were completely oblivious to every other pedestrian on the sidewalk. They took up about eight ninths of the sidewalk, so I had to press myself against the wall (my back scraping against some old bricks). I was very polite and favored to show them my cardboard, rather than my ass, as I passed along.
Anyway, after that it was smooth sailing crabways (except for a construction worker with a running drill trying to rush past me, in the vertical, and an old lady using one of those four leg support things), till I reached the corner of seventh avenue and 24th street. By that time I was really tired, so I decided this would be a good spot to work my trade for Fagin.
I sat down with my back against Jamba Juice, and surveyed the area. This was fantastic. I had really chosen a great spot. On a hot summer day, from here, you could see just across the street all these hot women walking in and out of Whole Foods. All of them were wearing these fantastic clothes that made them look totally sexy, though if I went ahead and told you exactly what made them so sexy, well ... well, Fagin would punish me for spending. Anyway, all of them were 'hot', I noticed, under the early morning summer sun. Every single one of them.
I looked at my cardboard piece and wondered what sort of message I could write. Normally the Dodger would lemme know, but he had been missing for a week, and today I was on my own. I looked around the street for what Fagin called 'inspriration', in all our little games. I always thought of 'inspiraration' as a sort of tall tower, with spires, and I'm in it, climbing to the top. So I'm in-spire-ration. The ration is my apple, which I hadn't even had a bite of yet.
I then heard an argument between two young men on the opposite side of seventh avenue. One of the men was sitting in one of the enclaves of the Fedex-Kinkos, and the other man was towering over him. The two men were arguing about payments. Apparently, the previous day, the towering man (who was clad in such fashionable New York garment that, I noticed, even some of the hot women going into Whole Foods turned a head), had made a payment to the sitting man of two whole dollars.
"You said you only needed two dollars to get back home, yesterday," accused the fashionable man, "and I gave it to you. Why are you still here now, saying that you are a Vietnam war veteran and need funds to return to your wife in Cambodia?"
The sitting man mumbled something about daily expenses, with half-hearted accusations toward the fruit-seller on the corner of 23rd, but my focus was stolen by his sign on his cardboard sheet. He was requesting moneys in order to fund a trip to Cambodia. Eyebrows raised, I turned back to my own cardboard piece. How could I possibly top that?
Then I got an idea. I don't know where it came from. Maybe it was the distant fire-truck siren, maybe it was all the nice legs that passed to-and-fro, or the cool sound of Jamba Juice customers ordering their Jamba drinks that reverberated in my head from the marble tile, but it hit me. I knew exactly the sort of capital I should be begging for on this street corner. I wrote it down carefully on my piece of cardboard, with the sharpie,
"Need Just 1 kiss
From All You Beautiful
Women."
I mused at myself, "Fagin is going to love this when I get back".
Still haven't switched to a smartphone. In fact, thinking of downgrading to a beeper.
One reason I would walk outside of my
place
is to enjoy something other than computing.
.:
I wonder what you can do with a beeper these days
with today's technology?
Like, if you're in a brothel or something, could a beeper
let your wife enjoy what you are feeling at that exact same point?
.:
Beeper sex with your wife while you fuck a ho.
.:
Ok, ok, i'm not that kinda guy.
I'm a guy who'd rather have a beeper 'cos
whole fucking reason I become mobile is to
leave the computer.
place
is to enjoy something other than computing.
.:
I wonder what you can do with a beeper these days
with today's technology?
Like, if you're in a brothel or something, could a beeper
let your wife enjoy what you are feeling at that exact same point?
.:
Beeper sex with your wife while you fuck a ho.
.:
Ok, ok, i'm not that kinda guy.
I'm a guy who'd rather have a beeper 'cos
whole fucking reason I become mobile is to
leave the computer.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Certain policy decisions are often made that will then continue to haunt you till the end of your life.
Like never buying that sharpie,
when you were 5.
every other kid had a sharpie
but not you, oh no.
Or never actually having an actual teddy bear that is simultaneously named Theodore and is actually a bear.
Those crayons you wanted so badly?
In a cruel twist, they'll be your birthday present,
but then you won't actually get to use them
as a punishment for you being you.
Let us not even speak of oils.
It is known that you will somehow acquire all of these
through hook or crook, it is known, very well known.
So let me put it out there that any joysticks you take possession of
any controller pad, any wii remote
would be crippled, like a, well like a cripple
with a single faulty button.
when you were 5.
every other kid had a sharpie
but not you, oh no.
Or never actually having an actual teddy bear that is simultaneously named Theodore and is actually a bear.
Those crayons you wanted so badly?
In a cruel twist, they'll be your birthday present,
but then you won't actually get to use them
as a punishment for you being you.
Let us not even speak of oils.
It is known that you will somehow acquire all of these
through hook or crook, it is known, very well known.
So let me put it out there that any joysticks you take possession of
any controller pad, any wii remote
would be crippled, like a, well like a cripple
with a single faulty button.
Friday, July 9, 2010
I Got Complexes
You'd think not
being able to walk
on a street without
getting that feeling
that you're about to collapse, was bad enough.
Now I can't be seen
by any human being
without the suspicion,
or perhaps the doubt
that my dick will definitely fall off.
I'm fine when I'm alone,
no problems whatsoever.
I can prance to my heart's content
in my studio apartment.
But if I exit to public areas, my penis will drop.
Not exactly lung cancer, true.
Which is what everyone thought would be my end.
Not a heart attack, nor aneurysm;
not a bullet pistoled by some angered husband.
Can leprosy infect an isolated organ is now my big question.
How did it come to this?
I'd taken all the pills necessary
to keep my cock top notch.
All the supplements in the world, I've found
won't save me from the fear of what will happen, if I am found.
Fuck you people.
being able to walk
on a street without
getting that feeling
that you're about to collapse, was bad enough.
Now I can't be seen
by any human being
without the suspicion,
or perhaps the doubt
that my dick will definitely fall off.
I'm fine when I'm alone,
no problems whatsoever.
I can prance to my heart's content
in my studio apartment.
But if I exit to public areas, my penis will drop.
Not exactly lung cancer, true.
Which is what everyone thought would be my end.
Not a heart attack, nor aneurysm;
not a bullet pistoled by some angered husband.
Can leprosy infect an isolated organ is now my big question.
How did it come to this?
I'd taken all the pills necessary
to keep my cock top notch.
All the supplements in the world, I've found
won't save me from the fear of what will happen, if I am found.
Fuck you people.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Spurn of the Crew
"Crew," I said, emphasizing in intonation my rank. "I am leaving you now."
Bollycks was sitting down there, showing Tirsa how to weld a proper mackarel with an electric tongue-twister. I could see his twiggy hands, trying to reach, reach into her drafty blouse. His little gray, pustule-ridden hands just shivering for that one texture of her wet and warty tits. Fucking nerds.
Contasyhage was of course showing his brains to the succulent Lambasta. Like a woman body-builder would ever take interest in the cortexes of a bleeding worm. I smirked as he did that one trick where he cut off his hand, and then grew another one on the other side, making it look really difficult.
Wait? How does that work again? You tell me. I am your control substance. I am what you put inside this experiment so that *your* 'little cocktail' would take first place in the *evolution* of your spacetime cozooistry and still not seem 'zany'.
"And I am not happy, so I am leaving," I said to them. Those ... characters.
"Sod off then," said Bollycks.
I had put myself in a terrible place.
Bollycks was sitting down there, showing Tirsa how to weld a proper mackarel with an electric tongue-twister. I could see his twiggy hands, trying to reach, reach into her drafty blouse. His little gray, pustule-ridden hands just shivering for that one texture of her wet and warty tits. Fucking nerds.
Contasyhage was of course showing his brains to the succulent Lambasta. Like a woman body-builder would ever take interest in the cortexes of a bleeding worm. I smirked as he did that one trick where he cut off his hand, and then grew another one on the other side, making it look really difficult.
Wait? How does that work again? You tell me. I am your control substance. I am what you put inside this experiment so that *your* 'little cocktail' would take first place in the *evolution* of your spacetime cozooistry and still not seem 'zany'.
"And I am not happy, so I am leaving," I said to them. Those ... characters.
"Sod off then," said Bollycks.
I had put myself in a terrible place.
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