hello I’m CWSektor Close the gap on your site
poor have no intention of . Regards loves
In need of cheap lodging for perhaps 4-6 weeks. Have access to same for period required. Physical conditions rough but livable.
Note: Premises likely haunted.
Question: Is this wise?
Miracle Jones, the pearl of Texas, tosses a Bruce Lee poem to the youtube gods…
No Layout launches the first online bookstore that doesn’t take any commission on sales. With a solid audience built over the last year with our digital library, we are now exposing publications in our store to hundreds of thousands of visitors who can buy directly from the publishers.
Something old. Something new.
Something borrowed. Something blue.
The Seersucker Redemption.
I love you guys.
In one of the square states this past week we dined in an Olive Garden on purpose. The Olive Garden is democratic for the most part which is to say that each and every one of us carries around a latent hub cap for a half an hour while avoiding eye contact with people such as myself.
You can drink wine while you’re doing this but the people such as myself are still there and we’ll find you anyway.
“Make the most of whatever Hell you’re wearing.”
Cecil told me that in college. He was right about that and other stuff.
He’s still dead but dead don’t make you wrong.
I met a lovely Native American woman with blood tatoos on her arms. She’s a storyteller.
“In my tribe these lines get longer with generations because we drift farther from the truth,” she said, indicating the glorious ink on her hands and wrists.
“Beautiful,” I told her.
“It’s my destiny to carry the stories of the tribe until I can no longer bear them,” she explained.
“And then?” I asked.
“And then the tribe forgives me and moves on to a new storyteller.”
The hub cap buzzes to life – lights blink and children applaud.
“Very nice to meet you Mary,” I told her. “Don’t fill up on the bread sticks – a little white man secret.”
She laughed. “It’s no secret,” she said.
The way we were became a tale
To caution would-be lovers.
A shroud, a veil, a pallid pall
Replaced our common covers.
Every ride down every street’s
A funeral procession.
An icy grip is every slip
Of your name as it’s mentioned.
The blackbirds in the garden
Sing a misérable chanson.
Oh how I miss the way my lips
Wrapped right around your johnson.
One-stop shopping for luck, banking, and healthcare on 10th Street and 3rd Avenue.
When my father saw these photos, he said “That intersection [It's maybe a mile from his house.] was all empty until the hurricane. After Katrina, a bunch of closed businesses reopened with people and stock from Mississippi. I think that video store might used to have been over in Gulf Port, somewhere along there, and it got flooded and they brought the stock here. It’s better than what was there. Those mobile home businesses at that intersection all got busted for Internet gambling and prostitution and they were just sitting there with Sheriff’s tape all over them until the hurricane.”
Theodore, Alabama. I have no idea.
Meet my friend Pat Quesnel, the first person to row solo across the Pacific . . .
I was looking around for photos for a project using these terms: man and boat, man and row boat, small boat and man, arctic row boat, Faroes row boat, falling row boat, row boat tiny, row boat at sea, row boat ocean, rowing archive, rowing museum, Faroes metal boats tiny Ocean, skiff, skiff and man, high-walled skiff, and Faroes skiff. This photo turned up on ebay and I thought “Well, maybe. It’s a newspaper photo, rights should be reasonable,” and so I saved a copy in my project folder. I rejected the photo for the job but bothered to read the caption before I tossed it and, fuck a Roosevelt Elk, it’s my old friend Pat Quesnel from Kodiak, the first person to row solo across the Pacific. I have not contacted him in years but I still miss his company.
Zizek on Zizek in the Guardian at more length than necessary but still, in part, amusing:
“For me, the idea of hell is the American type of parties. Or, when they ask me to give a talk, and they say something like, ‘After the talk there will just be a small reception’ – I know this is hell. This means all the frustrated idiots, who are not able to ask you a question at the end of the talk, come to you and, usually, they start: ‘Professor Žižek, I know you must be tired, but …’ Well, fuck you. If you know that I am tired, why are you asking me? I’m really more and more becoming Stalinist. Liberals always say about totalitarians that they like humanity, as such, but they have no empathy for concrete people, no? OK, that fits me perfectly. Humanity? Yes, it’s OK – some great talks, some great arts. Concrete people? No, 99% are boring idiots.”
Most of all, he can’t stand students. “Absolutely. I was shocked, for example, once, a student approached me in the US, when I was still teaching a class – which I will never do again – and he told me: ‘You know, professor, it interested me what you were saying yesterday, and I thought, I don’t know what my paper should be about. Could you please give me some more thoughts and then maybe some idea will pop up.’ Fuck him! Who I am to do that?”
Žižek has had to quit most of his teaching posts in Europe and America, to get away from these intolerable students. “I especially hate when they come to me with personal problems. My standard line is: ‘Look at me, look at my tics, don’t you see that I’m mad? How can you even think about asking a mad man like me to help you in personal problems, no?’”
Wheels up in 8 hours.
Just outside my window a handful of high-school-age boys has gathered to use the word, “Niggaz,” in various animated sentences. I think they’re probably carrying the prerequisite for unwrapping the noun but I don’t know that they’ve earned the mandate to paint my windows and ears with their brand of its particular musicality. Not at 2:30 in the morning.
“OY! Poet Laureates!” I say, gaining their undivided attention as is my wont. “Show yourselves some respect and shut the fuck up. Not necessarily in that order!”
I take a step back to step in and therefore find two piles of stringy, slippery, warm, sticky, and putrescent dog puke at the head of the bed.
Green like something Superman might shun.
Dog’s like, “Fight the poweh!”
So I’m retching and scraping up these piles of bile and nastiness that by rights should have found their path all the way to my dog’s butt hole and, by consequence, into my neighbors Hydrangeas when a piece flicks off my lip and up my nostril.
I freeze because nothing can hurt you when you’re standing still. Silence. A complete silence that smells like bile and tastes like guts.
“BLAMMO!” A beer bottle hits my window. When it does that it makes the sound, BLAMMO! as one would expect. In my case however I didn’t see “BLAMMO!” coming. I was anticipating silence and as such the piece of partially digested dog gut booger that flicked off of my lip is now lodged firmly behind my eye and maybe in my brain.
That’s where I keep my soul, people.
I know, right?
Wheels up in 6 hours.
Stupid guys who call each other, “Niggaz.”
Ricardo and Geoffrey are getting married in August. They’re in the city for the weekend to shop for bow ties and hats.
We’ve all heard about the new martini bar down on Second and who wouldn’t be up for martinis and tapas after a day such as this?
On the way downtown we got tangled up in some nonsense and – long story short – there was a body in the alley and police and stuff.
Sort of messed up the reservation but they held our table anyway and I thought that awfully decent of them.
“I wonder what the deal was with that dead dude,” says my companion.
People die all of the time.
“People die all the time,” I explain.
“Not in alleys they don’t,” she argues. “The police didn’t even bother to cover his feet. That’s just rude.”
She’s not from around here.
Brandy bounces to our table. “Are y’all to order?” she giggle-smile-grin-asks.
I think we’re going to need a few minutes, Brandy.
The online article announcing the grand opening of the mega-grocery store, Giant Eagle, has readers giddy about the new Hot Asian Buffet.
Read their comments here
MIT students turned the infamous campus Green Building into a giant, playable game of Tetris. This feat has been described as the “Holy Grail” of MIT pranks.
One of the few people there without visible tattoos
a 2 hour video filmed in the 80s, painfully relaying information that could’ve been put on a single sheet of paper, bad actors answering obvious questions: what is mediation, what if i cant get along with my ex-wife? The most heartbreaking nugget of advice to not strike or scream at the other parent during your mediation.
A ten minute break to go feed the (2 hr max) meters outside the courthouse.
The goth chick in the front row with sleeve tattoos from wrist to shoulder, still wearing both rings. Looking more sad than goth, despite her elaborate makeup.
The black grandmother in the back with her (18? 20?yo son) asking lots of questions while her son remained silent
The perverse combination of drivers ed/jury duty, with your marriage being ripped to shreds
The guy who was clearly in a multi-year saga who called the second mediator to talk to us “a cunt” under his breath.
Three fanny packs???
The guy who alternated between snoring asleep on the table and reading his bible.
The final 45 minute video – talking head interviews with children of divorced parents, narrated by an adult female talking in persona child of divorce. “Don’t use us as spies.”
I’ve seen an ancient and bloated Orson Wells interview both James Maury Henson and Francis Oz, and similar interviews on BBC One, while a rare snowfall descended on London in 1979, and the sound of bells floated down the frigid canyon of the Strand to the frosted windows of my suite at the Savoy. Once, I thought that Henson’s neologism “Muppet” was a phonetic fusion of the words marionette and puppet, and I knew that Christoph Ritter von Gluck (1714-1787) composed an opera for marionettes. Bunraku theater was performed in Osaka in 1684, and that these lifeless constructions of foam and felt can move the four-chambered heart to tears, and renew our sense of wonder in the world.
This is why I accepted the role for the Country Bears film: I heard that the Creature Shop was going to fabricate the eponymous bears, and this implied that I would be acting with Muppets. Years later, I still occasionally wake up in the depths of the night, and stare at the blue and violet ceiling, trying to figure out just how they made those goddamn bears. Animatronics, radio controlled prosthetics, midgets…I swear I’ve thought of everything, every technologically feasible possibility…but I can assure you that those things weren’t Muppets.
When Steven Spielberg handed me that screenplay at that restaurant on Wilshire Boulevard, I secretly thought that the film was going to be just execrable garbage. I mean, I had this entire monologue about a leopard frog that falls into this container of milk, and it begins struggling, kicking its slender green amphibious legs, and it never quits. Eventually, this was supposed to form an island of butter in a white sea of cream, and the frog survives. While we were filming this, I was standing on this stage, thinking of Kermit the Frog in this gigantic stainless steel pasteurization vat, flailing his helpless green arms about, as his visit to the Land-O-Lakes dairy products factory has just gone horribly wrong.
Look. When you see a movie, you are breathing your own experience into something lifeless: a projector, a beam, an image on a screen, pixels on an LCD, still frames that swim into motion like the first living cells. This is why I always wanted to work with the Muppets, to embrace this mystery with courage and faith.
Sometimes I wonder if everything I did after the Deer Hunter was just crap. But to this day, I just can’t wrap my mind around those bears.