Things that are irritating

1. People who think they're too cool for James Tate.
2. The subway.

NO HERE

Quietly,

my underwear happens. Or

someone else. The forecast

has it another way,

I placate variously.

Sculpted, out of air,

the day is

shine somewhere else.

No body hovers

here lucky me

for better, eats

of dreaming coats. 

(Okay, so this was taken a few days ago, but now it has context.)

It's probably not a stretch to say that I find approximately half of all indie bands to be as irritating and bland as mainstream Top 40 music.

Foreign policy wisdom from Sarah Palin

"It's very important when you consider even national security issues with Russia as Putin rears his head and comes into the air space of the United States of America, where — where do they go? It's Alaska. It's just right over the border. It is — from Alaska that we send those out to make sure that an eye is being kept on this very powerful nation, Russia, because they are right there. They are right next to ... to our state."

The Haunted Gym of Overland Park

Kansas.

I love you David Letterman

Whoa!  I'm watching him eviscerate John McCain right now for suspending the campaign and skipping his scheduled appearance on the show.  He's on fire.  Even the Top Ten List is making fun of him.  Ah Dave, you still got it.

Keith Olbermann is coming on now...

HEAVEN KNOWS I'M MISERABLE NOW


Who brought me this health?
It is worthless, like a kite string
Wrapped around the neck of an already non-living enemy.
Who fidgets me so? It's getting to the point
That I may have to move
My ass, an obedient sitting dog. Finding
A wig in the road, I resist putting it
On almost successfully. The wheels of my bike
Are quietly betraying me.
I can walk the rest of the way, or swim
But that wouldn't be proper, or
It would be too proper. It rains when I get like this.
My brain forgives my carrot.
It's stupid, stupid. Stupid. The rest of me
Is hanging from the only tree
In Yosemite
That hasn't been sold to a bear-eating man.

Dear people, what exactly is the

significance of the Republican base being "energized" by Palin? Does an energized vote count as, like, two votes, or what? Does being energized mean they're going to apply more physical pressure on the ballot stylus than they normally would? And that the resultant larger hole will somehow be worth more than a relatively small Democratic hole? An odd concept, I must say.

Yours sincerely,

Matt, A Relatively Small Democratic Hole

The New Faces? Sounds like a boy band. Or a ripoff of some 70's band with a similar name. But in fact, it's a ripoff of Franz Ferdinand. Why? Why is a Franz Ferdinand ripoff necessary? Franz Ferdinand itself is barely necessary, it could be argued.

The Minutes

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

0805—The dressing of the body. Cortizone has been applied to two parts of similar shape.

0825—Hoodie time! The first of the season. Kid across the aisle is wearing t-shirt of train we are on: "1".

0837—I am writing this in a 60-page Japanese notebook (that's 30 sheets) I got at Muji, "the Japanese Ikea". I read about these notebooks and the store they come from on a blog, and now here I am with one in my hand. I've never been to an actual Ikea. Sixty pages is a good length, especially appropriate for this project. Get it? Sixty pages, sixty minutes, sixty seconds...

0850—Confession: I had to correct my spelling of Bernanke. Don't ask.

0853—The Caucasian young professional on my left is listening to possibly rap music on her headphones. She is standing, I am sitting.

0904—Elevator. Ever since I started setting my alarm five minutes later, I keep getting to work five minutes late.

1029—Part of 16th floor smells like some kind of pioneer village.

1216—In my element. My element is Burger King.

1232—Emerge from BK feeling like crap. Perhaps it's the food. Thinking about those Libertarians from yesterday. Yes, they were Libertarians. I saw them on the news, but I did not see me. I was sitting too high up on the steps to be caught by the camera, at least in the footage I saw. I have a footage fetish. You could say I'm a footage fetishist, yes you could.

1238—"Siamese connection".

1451—Digging highly the Taken by Trees cover of "Sweet Child o' Mine".

1800—There are not a lot of people my age named Phyllis.

1805—We are being held momentarily by the train's dispatcher.

1810—The transition from summer to fall is the most abrupt of the four seasonal changes.

1826—Fucking NY Post.

Michael Silverblatt discusses D.F.W.

If you haven't read him and for some reason you're still wondering whether to read him, listen to this.

The Minutes

Monday, September 22, 2008

12:46 p.m.—This bench is officially warm. Lunch hour, "the Golden Hour"(?), is almost over. It's a very, very pleasant day here in lower Manhattan. The other day I had the idea to write something in the form of a "minutes" log like the kind used in official meetings. Some friends and I did one in 1999, in my junior year of high school. Only the other day did I get the idea to do it again on my own as some kind of "creative writing" piece. I am now actuating that idea.

1:47 p.m.—Enjoying tea. M&M's are digesting in me.

3:36 p.m.—Correction: M&M's are being digested in me.

3:57 p.m.—Are the noises made by my coworkers worthy of comment?

4:18 p.m.—Dow drops 373 points. Yippee!

4:32 p.m.—Waiting for facebook to load. I believe I am hungry.

4:34 p.m.—facebook gives me this message: "Your account is temporarily unavailable due to site maintenance. It should be available again within a few hours. We apologize for the inconvenience." I am slightly more than mildly annoyed at first, but then cool off when I realize I can write about it here.

4:37 p.m.—facebook loads when I try again. I only had to wait a few minutes, rather than a few hours, as implied in the message quoted above.

4:50 p.m.—A purchase is made by me of some pretzels. I intend to eat them in a few minutes, after I leave work. I need to tide myself over because I have to do laundry before eating supper tonight.

16:53—I switch to military time so that I don't have to keep writing "a.m." and "p.m.".

17:15—On the steps of the Federal Hall National Memorial, I gaze out over my subjects (if by "my subjects" I mean "people and tourists", over whom I in fact have no jurisdiction). The temperature of the air, the color of the sky, and the level of moisture in the air are ideal—about 72°, gray, and ???, respectively. I think about the 1929 crash. When people jumped out of windows, did that happen here, on Wall Street? Or in other parts of the city? Some must have occurred outside New York as well. But were there many? Or is this one of those legends that originates in an isolated incident or two and then gets blown out of proportion by the media?

17:33—Some kind of anti-socialist protester walks up to me and hands me a small, fake $20 bill with some guy's face on it. I shortly learn that the face is that of Fed Chairman Ben Bernanke. A couple of these guys are holding signs. On the back of the tiny fake twenty are these words:

The Federal Reserve is a private bank

The Federal Reserve has never been audited

The Federal Reserve prints money out of thin air

The Federal Reserve destroys your savings

The Federal Reserve uses your savings to bail out corporations

The Federal Reserve caused the financial crises

The U.S [sic] dollar is as valuable as Monopoly money

www.campaignforliberty.com

One of the protesters' signs says "Reluctant Power of Toxic Debt". Another says "No On Comrade Paulson". All but one of the protesters are in suits. Four guys in suits, one not. Another sign says "Bailouts Cause Inflation". This protest has pretty much petered out. A pretty much petered out protest. These guys need a megaphone.

17:47—I write "Beardo" on the forehead of Ben Bernanke. This is an inside joke, a reference to "The Minutes" written by my friends and me in 1999. I would not make a good protester. I crumble easily under the slightest duress. It seems that a few more suit-wearing protesters have shown up. One is wearing a bowler hat. They are making me almost nervous.

1902—I do away with the two dots (a/k/a "colon") in the time notation. Just to make life that much easier. Laundry commences.

1928—Too many dudes doing laundry. I am but one dude, and I require a working dryer, of which there is but one.

1933—Drying commences. I'm using the shitty one. Which is at least a step up from the really shitty one.

1935—I flick a tiny roach upon the table by my side. Iambic heptameter.

1953—Spontaneous iambic lines are something I do well.

2010—I move clothes into the good dryer. The shitty one is really no better than the really shitty one. They spin but provide no heat.

2014—A medium-size roach sidles up to me on the table.  I stand up from the table and try to shoo it away. Shooing is seldom effective on roaches. Or tables.

2032—Got into an argument with one of the laundry dudes, the one who made me wait for the good dryer because he wasn't here when his cycle ended, so I had to remove his clothes and put mine in. That was a poorly constructed sentence. Anyway, the dude thinks he won the argument, but I know I did.

avohraohvraohgrwohgourhgorhohroiurwhvowrhvowarhviuwarhvrwhgwrhghvwahrvrwhvwrhgwrhvhwrvhwrvphwaiuvhwrhivwrvhwirvhirvhiwrvwrvyrpwvrwvrvrvrv98rvharviuhariuvhariuvairuhviurhviurhviurhviurhviurhviurhviurahviuhrviuhrviuhrviuhriuvhriuhviurhviurhviuhrviuhrviuharviuhariuvhriuvhriuhvriuhviurhviuhrviuharviuhriuvhairuhviruhviuarhviurhvuharuihvrpihuarhuihurhiuahfuhbahuvprauirvghnaiugaycgnoairvgioubhrgviubsvgoiuhsoigvoabvugbioufbhvoiuvhoiuhfosugvysioufyvbouocovigbasiouhgriuhgiuhgohagiouhriguheriughiuhgurhgiuehripguhripuhgiuehrgiuerhgiuerhgiuerhgiurehgiourhgiurhgiurhgurhgiuorhguihrgiuviuwhuriughiuhgiuerhgiuhgriuheriugheriughiuerhgiuerhgiuehrgiuehrgiuerahgiuaehrgiuaehrgiuahergipuahergiuahrgihraighuarpiguhrighiurhgipuafshgipuhasfgpouhasfgpiuhasfpiguhpiouahsfgipuhasfgipuhasfgipuhasfgiuhafsgiuhasfgiuhasfgiuhsfaiuhgpuhfspuhiasfgpuisauihuohafsgiuhsafgiuhsfpuhsfgaiuhfgshiugfsiuhgfshiugfshiugfshiufhuifgshuigfshiugsfhiufgshuifgshuifgshiufgshiufgshuigfhuigsfhiugfhiufgsuhigfshiugfsahiufsifsuhasfiguhaipsfughipasuhfgipsahfgipuashfgipuhasfgipuhasfpighuapsiufhgapisfhugipuasfhgipusafhgiphusfgiufgshiufgshuifgshiufgshuigfhuigfhiugfshiugfshiugsfiuhfgshiugiuhgfhiufgshiufgshiugfshiufgshiugfshiufgshiugfshiufgshiugfshiusafpighaspifhgpaisfhugpiasufhgipasfhugipusafhgpiuhafsiughsafipughaspifughasifogvioupsgnpiouashvipuasvypoauipgoaryioptarhoiguapvorgaepbourapoiurvpoarytvpoawrhoptauhrgpioargpovnaripguvahwpirugavwpriugyaipurvyawiourvpaiurghoiausrhgiasuhgpiuashfgpiuhasfpiguhariughipuahrgipuahrgiuharigouhaifugheiaurhgipauehrgiuahrgiuhariguhariughiaurhgiuaphrgiuahrgiuhariughariuhgiuarhgiuahrgiuharwuighariuhgiurawhgiuarwhgiupahrwpiunripaountawihtwairhtawiraviurbgauirghnaiuvhgbaiuhgaiuvhgbaviurghviaurshvgiaurhvgiuashirugbiouvasrhgaiovruagorubhaouibrghiuhaiourghvoaiuvhrgiuahvgiaurhgiuhgpuaibvrygpiuawryiwyrpywariptuyrwpuioysrtvyaspriutvyaipruytvaoisutyabisuyiurtuRYABPUWRBVYAPIUSRYASIURYAIRUABOVSIURBAIOUVBAISURYTIUSRAHGIUASGIUSAGRHIUHARIUGHAIUHGIUARHGIUHIRUHGRIUGHRuaergpiuheipugheipugheiaugrhiuhrgiehurgpuoehrgouprehgopuiaerhgiuarghpiahvpaiprypiautuiayrsptuaypiutyirutyuirytruytierytieryteuirtyiuerytiuerytiuerytiuyrueyurteyiurtyuituyiteruyiertyuiyiuteruyiteryiuteryiutyiurteiuytreyiuteruyiiuytreuyirteiuytreyiutreiuyrteuiyrteiuyertiuyertiuyertuiyertyiuertiyurteuyiertiuyrteiyuteryuirteuyirteyiutriuyrtkshbvkjnvjknjvkxnvkjdfnjkbdfnbkdnfbdfnkbjdnfjkbndfkbndfkjbndfkbndknbkdjfnbkjnhrwohwroithowihrtoiawhrtioaurhtiuahriuahriauhaiuhgrawiefarlugjlakfgalugha;gia'ergopae'rglae'rgeh;]'o.]o;[;[,;ou[;lu[l[i[il];]h;lp[hksbkjgagoigrapguihapghapuierghpuarhgipauhrgpiuahergipuhaergipuhaerpiguhaerpighuaerpiughaerpiguhaeripuhagerpiuhregaipuheargipuheraghipuregapiuhgraepiuhaergipuhaergpiuhaerpighuaerpighuaerpighuaerpighuapiuharpiuharpiyrt7p8ap98hrgapuioahrgp89rpt8hrp98aw4hpae45ry8rp9gr8poghiuzhfgisuhgiuoarhguihaiughrupghrsufogahiughaihgiqhaholhgouahguodshgohsiguhfihovuahufgoniuviutipuhpuqljghpeuhgpeughtegporuetgqoprhegpohjshhqopfqhreophgteqoghoeogtjeoghjopstighoijthoiejtghiojwtiohjwoithjoiwjthopiwjthopijwoithjopiwtopirtwojihrwtophijwtoihiortijohtjiohtjiohtrjiohtrijohtwijohtjiohtrijohtrijohtrjiohtrjiohtrjiohtrwopijhopijtyoijtoiyerstoiyotishyiodshyodthyoiatyoiaeroihyaeiohrqoiqjqipjgoidjijdtntvondtohtonbetbnotioihyoserhtyioreahtopuhewtypouehtrwpoiuhetpiouhyeophopeuthopuethpoyehpouyhepouthopeaghpiaeuhrgpuoahegpuiaiguhaeiughaiuhrgiuguarhuahurghiuarhgiuahrgiuarhuigruhirghuigrhuigrhurghurghurghurguhrghurguhrghurghurghhruhurhurghurghurghurgiuahiguhrapiguhpihrugruhipgruhigruhiguhipgruhipgrauhiprghuirghuirgahuipinuhpgranhuirgvanhuirgvanhuigrvahinuvgrahinurvgahnuigvrahinugvrahinugrvshinuvgrsahnuivgrsahnuirvghnuvrhnurgvshnugrhnuigrashnuivrgsahinugrvshnuigrvshnuivgrhinpugrvshnuipgrvsnhuipvghnuipgvhnupgvrnhupigvrshnuivgrashnuirvgshnupigvrhnupigvrshnuipgrvsahnpuvgrshnupigrvhnupigvrshnupvgrhnpuvgrhnpuigvrshnpuigrvhnpuirgvhnupigrnhupirgvshnupirvgshnuipvrghnupvgrshnuvgrshnipuvgrshinpuvgrshinpuvgrshinpugrvshinpugrvshnpuigrvshinurvghinpuvgrshnurgvshnugrvshnurvgsahnuvrgsgsaipuipsrguvuhpiuphgrghurghurghurghhgiwaughpiaehgripeuhgipuaehiprughapirughaipuhrgpiuqhrgipuharipughaipwuhrgpiuahrgipuhaeripghuapierhgaipeuhrgipeauhrgpieuahrgpiuaehrpiguhapiruhgipauehgipuaehrgipurahgipuaehripuahegipuhaerpighaipgrhaipurhgipueahgipurheapighrepiguhaeiprughaipurhgipuarghipuarhgipuarhgpiuahrgipuahrgipuhaspgiruhaspighruaspiughripsaughripsahrgipuhsgripaughrpaisurgaipsughrpaisuhgripushrutyrsiugjfvfbjchvjs,fbghsfhthgiuhisuvnieutgipunruhruthruihtoiuerhtoiuhwuruihuirthuirthiuetrhiurtihuterihutrhiurhituerhtuiterhiueiruhtiehrtiuheiruhteiuhtieurhtihuerthiuethiuehtiuerthuretuhirehiureuhieruiehuiuertetiuthuerthiuehietihethierurrururuiregilegrlkajbirguaeihrtiaehrutiuahrtvsvotuvwnreiubgwbrqobrcoqwbcuuquququewucbyetdtwrvwoetbotbpwthnjertjrnijnivjnarijvnarivrvvrinrvinuarenvapnpaierpiuahgiuhartihargibargibarghbrghbarjohbgoarhbgoharhabgrohabrgohabgrohabwgroahwbgrohwabgrohabwgrohawbgrohabrwgohabrwgohbgrwohbawrghbwrgbhawrbgoawhrbgoauwrbgohwarbghaowbgrhowrabgbhrghorwoagrwoghrwghoabhoragrogbhoaowurbgoauwrbgouawybgruyawbrguoybwarguboyawrugoybawourgbaouwrgouyrwbguoyarbwguoybwarguoybawrbgyuworybgbaworubgouawrbgbawrgobuaworubgyoauwybgruoaywbgrouawrbguoawrbuyoauwybrguoybrwuyobrwouybgwaorubgouywrbgouabyorguybaowrubgowurbgouyrwbgouyawbruogybawrugybawourbgaowuybgrouywarbgouawbouwrybgouwarbgowaubgorwgbouywrbgoubrouabwrougybawuoybguoyrwbgouyrwbyuoboawbyrwgbyyryryryryryyryryryrueueueunnnchhgjgjhmbktijhiutyfdoibwfoibqwf

DUST

Dust is very popular

on planets like this one,

where maids exist.

(Am I tired of succumbing

or just combing?)

Enough. Time to lose is

easy to love, and I plan

on doing just that.

(When I fall down

the stairs I feel more free

than when I merely

fall out of favor.)

Anybody know how to find a job other than craigslist?  That's the only thing I use, and so far it's only led to a 6-week doggy daycare job and a 19-month (so far) temp job that doesn't pay enough to live on and doesn't involve any skills I could use at other jobs.  It feels like it's been too long since I graduated to call myself a recent college graduate ('04), which is what most of the ads seem to be looking for.  I haven't even applied to anything in about eight months, and I feel like I'm out of options.  I'm terrible with computers and all I have is an English degree which nobody cares about and I can never think of questions to ask at interviews.  There's nothing I even want to do, so I have to pretend to be enthusiastic about any job I apply for.  I don't know what to do.  The last time I had any career aspirations was when I was 11 or 12 and wanted to be an astronomer.  Ever since I figured out I was no good at math or science, I've never wanted to do anything, career-wise.  People have been asking me what I want to do for years, and I never know what to say.  I simply don't have an answer.  I just want to be financially independent.  I never have been.  My first job was as a dishwasher, at age 23.  I've never been able to pay all my living expenses without my parents' help.

Was he wearing an urban sombrero?

(Try to ignore the atrocious headline.)

Police lasso bull lassoed on NYC's streets

Sep 18th, 2008 | NEW YORK -- It looked like an urban rodeo on the streets of New York City.

Police say a young bull made a dash for freedom through the streets of Queens Wednesday night but suddenly died before he could be taken to an animal sanctuary.

Police cars tried to steer the bull off the crowded roadways but the several-hundred-pound animal hit and damaged a squad car. An NYPD officer with urban cowboy skills lassoed the bull and it was tranquilized.

New York Center for Animal Care and Control spokesman Richard Gentles says the steer died less than an hour after it was brought in. He says veterinarians found no signs of what had caused the bull's death.

An NYPD spokesman says it's not known where the bull had been kept.

Obama up 47-44 in new Indiana poll!

"[In Indiana] McCain has a 48 percent to 41 percent lead among men, but his selection of Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin as his running mate has not delivered an advantage among women. Of likely voters, Obama wins with Hoosier women by a margin of 51 percent to 42 percent."

Go Hoosier women!

Brahmsian retiree oak

if you importantly
ant the underweight
your obstacle spa is
for you to acquire if
tighter during the
consolidation soothing season

It privately treats amniotic devils
of gay sex cum pics
vacancies like dance
by the pouches they agree in
or popularly on their kinetic land

This instruments
beneath the skin; the pushcart
above these allegiance
wolfberry which are bombs
tied to accentuate
industrial antioxidants

In a station of the Greyhound.  Pittsburgh, November 2007

Last night I lost $22,000 in a game of surrogate poker. Surrogate poker is a game for people who would like to play poker but are too lazy or whose attention span is too short to learn how. In surrogate poker, each player brings along a real poker player he or she has hired to sit in for him or her and actually play the game. While the real players play poker (using their clients' money) each client sits behind his or her player and wraps his or her arms around the player's body, as in the old comedy routine wherein the hidden person's arms appear to sprout from the body of the other person. The client thereby enacts all the hand motions of poker—holding the cards, dealing, placing bets—while the real player makes all the decisions, telling the client what to do with his or her arms every step of the way.

Long story short, my player wasn't a very good communicator, nor was he or she much of a poker player, for that matter. Since I couldn't bear to face my wife after losing $22,000—the entirety of her inheritance following the death of a venerated ancestor—I spent that night at a Red Roof Inn watching the CW network and wondering whether the ringing in my left ear was symptomatic of a brain tumor.

Why do people say stupid bullshit? Why am I asking? Why am I repeating that bullshit here, giving it publicity?

I don't know, but this guy Curtis Faville, whoever that is, said this in a comment stream on Silliman's blog:

Abortion and Gay Marriage and gun ownership don't have much to do with the
actual lives of most voters, but when they let these fake issues dominate
their attention, they're being manipulated.

What. The. Fuck.

Fake issues??? This is so mindnumbingly idiotic I don't even know what to say.

Most voters, huh? Sure, all those voters who aren't women having to face the possibility of being stripped of their right to decide what to do with their own bodies, all those voters who aren't treated like second-class citizens just because they want to marry someone of the same gender, all those voters who haven't lost loved ones due to gun violence.... Yeah, who cares about those other voters, them and their "fake issues"?

BULLSHIT

I'm so sick of this shit. I'm going into hibernation. Somebody wake me up on election day.

KEXP your excessive crossfading is driving me crazy (bad crazy)

Seriously.

Since I couldn't get Labor Day off, I decided to quit my job, just so that I could participate in any local Labor Day festivities like a normal American.  I knew this decision would come back to haunt me, and soon at that—probably Tuesday morning.  I didn't care.  Tuesday morning, though just four days away, seemed a long way off.  I looked for it outside my window at work on Friday morning, but all I saw was the same silver skyscraper I'd seen out my window every day since I'd started working there.  (Well, not every day.  There was a period of two weeks in March last year when I'd turned my desk around so that my back was to the window.  I switched it back when I grew frustrated at the way the sun would hit my computer screen in the late afternoon.)  At lunch on Friday I sneaked a cardboard box out of the supply room and brought it back to my office, where I filled it with my personal possessions.  The box wasn't even half full when I finished, so I threw in the many boxes of staples and paper clips that for some reason I'd stocked up on during my first few days on the job.

Box in hand, I stood at my door and took one last look at the room, saluted it, then turned off the light and headed out.  No one I passed in the halls asked about the box.  

As soon as I made it to the street, I walked in the direction of South Street and the East River.  Along the way, a street performer was doing a magic trick for an audience of about two dozen tourists.  I walked behind the tourists in order not to ruin the entertainment.  As I crossed South Street and reached the edge of the pier, I couldn't help noticing how tall I'd grown since aging from a child into an adult.  I leaned over the railing.  A slack rope strung between two posts was busy dipping itself into and out of the indifferent water.  The rope and the posts were also indifferent.  I lifted the box over the railing and let it drop.

That night I cooked some spaghetti and watched a few hours of PBS, all the while monitoring a bump on the back of my neck that I feared might be cancer.

Become a disciple

Look to the right and up.  Let's see if I can top Jesus!

A shitty couple of days for the literary world.  

Reginald Shepherd and David Foster Wallace, RIP.

SATURDAY

The last time I

stopped in at Nussbaum

& Wu my hair

was slightly less thick

than it is now

I come here for

the Nussbaum but the

Wu is good too

but really I come

here for the coffee

which is dark brown

in color and good-

tasting

The weather on

Riverside Drive was ideal

on my walk down

here, warm overcast and

breezy late summer evening

I breathed as I

walked by the Buddha

statue that survived the

bomb dropped on Hiroshima

and now I'm here

where my coffee cup

is empty because I

emptied it and where

my butt is sore

because I'm sitting on

a hard chair

I DON'T WANT TO MAKE MONEY, I JUST LOVE TO SELL GUNS

I don't want to 

make tacos I just 

love to eat taco

shells I don't want 

to steal food from

an orphan I just 

love to be cruel 

to orphans I don't 

want to loosen wingnuts 

I just love to 

sabotage I don't want 

to make a big 

deal out of this 

I just want you 

to admit you killed 

my kitty I don't 

have what most people 

would consider to be 

a properly functioning mind 

I just love to 

travel to my basement 

once a week for 

an event I call 

the doing of the 

laundry I don't want 

to do the laundry 

I just love doing 

I don't want to 

know what happens next 

I just love

Spam flattery

Here is an e-mail I received this morning:

Hello,

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know if by any chance you would be interested in doing an unbiased review of our
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your blog http://mattcozart.blogspot.com/

If you agree you can choose between receiving a product sample or receiving
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to keep and you don’t need to send it back.

The product sample that you can get is an ebook on eye floaters and you can
see it there: http://www.eyefloaters.info/

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G. G

Why, I'd love to! Thank you so much for this opportunity! Okay, here's my review:

PLEASE DO NOT SEND ME ANY MORE SPAM E-MAILS ABOUT YOUR STUPID FUCKING WEBSITE.

So when do I get paid?

What, no good?

WAVES


Little by little
the waves eroded
the beach on
which we had
sat. I couldn't
imagine where they
had come from
or what would
happen to them
after soaking into
the sand.

You should buy this casserole cookbook and then make casseroles by using the recipes in the cookbook

[Um, there was a video here, but it stopped working.  I don't know why.]

  

This person is named Emily Farris.  She wrote a casserole cookbook.  It comes out next month.  The title of the book is Casserole Crazy: Hot Stuff for Your Oven.  You should buy the book and then follow the recipes inside the book to make casseroles.  I have to admit I've never eaten a casserole, but that's not to say I wouldn't eat a casserole if a casserole were put in front of me.

I'm not sure how

you would spell "The Go-Go's" without using an apostrophe.

The Go-Gos?  Um, no.  That looks like it should be pronounced "go-gahs".

The Go-Goes?  Now that's just weird.

In sum (I hate the phrase "in sum"), I think apostrophes are okay sometimes when you want to be clear about a plural.  It's like 1980's, or CD's.

AMNIOTIC ANT PAPACY

Soar, omega Teflon fare! 

Flamboyant repertory complainant! 

Nematocyst, destroy 

compelled amniotic rib fist indulgent vodka Chinatown.

This has nothing to 

do with the papacy 

or the Roman Church. 

This is a pure 

matter of Scripture and 

Logic. There are hundreds 

of millions of Christians.

A hand brushes off from its face a streak of blood 

and amniotic wetness. FADE to BLACK 

— LONG PAUSE —. 

Bard myopia : berserk satanism :: 

          distortionless Updike madhouse : ant fragment likability.

I am now the most senior member of my household.  What I mean is that for the first time, I have lived in this apartment longer than all of the other roommates.  Two changes in the past week—at the end of August I was third out of five, and now I am captain.  I've only lived here 14 months and already I've ascended to the realm of highest authority.  This also marks the first time we've had more than one woman roommate at the same time.  3-2 is a good ratio, no matter which gender is in the majority.  It's the closest you can have to a 50-50 male/female ratio with an odd number of people.  (Well, okay, 5-4 would be closer to 50-50, and 13-12 would be closer still, but you know what I mean.)

I watched this for the first time in years last night, and I was happy to learn that it's as good as I remembered it.  Very energizing.  The animation technique they invented for the movie is still really cool even though the advertising world has caught on to it.  I hadn't seen Slacker yet when I saw this the first time—that's another one you should see.  And you should see Before Sunrise and Before Sunset.  I haven't seen A Scanner Darkly yet, but you should see that too just for good measure.

First of all, though, you should purchase Waking Life and watch it at least once a year.  Great contemporary chamber music soundtrack.  Somewhere in my apartment there's a book on lucid dreaming that I got because of this movie.  I want to read it and learn how to have lucid dreams.  I've had one or two before, but not recently.  I haven't been dreaming much at all recently.  Well, a little bit, I guess, but I haven't been remembering them very well, if at all.

[I just murdered a gnat.]

A character in the movie explains lucid dreaming, so that's why I got the book.

One weird thing about the movie is that there are a lot of people I recognize by face and voice, but I don't know their names.  You know, character actors.  But I mean it's weird because I saw "through" the animation and recognized the people even though I couldn't and still can't recall exactly what I'd seen them in before.

In other movie news, I've had The Dreamers sitting around waiting to be watched by me for (gulp) a few months.  I don't even want to check the exact date of rental, I'm so disgusted with myself.  Netflix is as evil as it is good.  The problem is, I feel like I need the right occasion to watch this movie.  I've seen it before, so I know what to expect, and I'm waiting for the right conditions to coalesce, or something, in which I may have the optimum viewing experience.  Sorry, I really can't get more specific than that.

Friday night I watched the Val Lewton movie Cat People.  So good, though I made the mistake of lying down while watching it, which meant I nodded off a couple times, just briefly.  But I don't think I missed anything important, and if I did, all the more reason to see it again.  Actually, that state of late-night drowsiness is my favorite way to watch old movies.  Even if I lose track of the plot, the atmosphere is always there.  That great old-black-&-white-movie atmosphere.  Atmosphere.  A lot of poetry I like works on that level.  Little J.A., of course, and lots of other people.  I think there are a lot of people who don't like to be inside an atmosphere.  I mean, they might be okay with being inside as long as they feel they're moving toward an exit, a path toward a resolution.  They don't like to just be inside.  They want to feel more in control, maybe, or maybe the opposite, that they're being controlled, or led by the hand, as they might spin it.  But then again I don't mind being manipulated (by art).  Huh.  I'm in too deep.  I've written myself into a corner, but it's a good corner, I think.  It's an ideal equilibrium between comfortable and uncomfortable.  I'm happy.

That said, I'm bored with writing poetry and (trying to write) fiction.  I probably need to invent some other kind of writing and then write that.  But I think any new kind of writing would or could probably just fall under the category of "poetry".  Well, that's ok.  Please excuse me while I go invent a new kind of writing.

First I think I have to watch this rerun of Cops.

I got a hit today from Farmington, Mich.  A couple hours later I got a hit from Farmington, Minn.

How freaky is that?  How freaky?

EERIE PONY PORN


An unusual—dare I say eerie—convergence:
Between the innocent calendar dates,
There are ponies waiting to seduce you.
A theramin lures you in while bound
And determined to find femme dom porn
The last night of the Dog & Pony Show is headlined by roots-rock.
History achieved a sound that is, by those standards,
Quiet, sung like in a dream.
Give toddlers a pony ride or rent a toy sailboat
To float in: I, too, am fascinated by
The desolation of Los Angeles
Monday through Friday. Synth squiggles and queasy,
Shifting textures eventually give way
To Sasha Grey, whose eerie resemblance to an ace
With a bullwhip gives a demonstration in the art of the stuff we found
When you searched for "Mount Pony".
Mount Bierstadt turns nice girls into porn stars
You’ve heard a million times in old robot acts.
And yet there is an almost eerie bond between the two:
I'd like to remind you that 99% of the porn you buy
Comes from an otherworldly scene
Where the ghost girl crawls out of a TV set,
The womb. I think a lot of it has to do
With all the weird textures, I think
There are going to be two trials.
Keep your guard up, girl,
They have the pony on the website for $9.99.
Fuck yeah. No, really, it's not porn,
Just photos of various breasts to show the many
Futuristic premonitions, celebrity value, and mentions of
Other Marc Andreessen porn preferences,
Sweet and unnatural. Sorry if this is too freaky or weird
Or too close to porn for some people
And a few other common animals.

Palin banned book hoax

I hate to defend Palin, but let's not embarrass ourselves by spreading rumors about a banned book list.  I got suspicious when I saw Webster's Dictionary.  (Hey, I know she's crazy, but c'mon, you'd have to be beyond bonkers to ban the friggin' dictionary.)

It's important not to get caught up in rumors if we want to maintain credibility about the many, many, many real problems with McCain/Palin.

UPDATE: Wow, it seems I've risen to the top of the (Google) charts with this post.  So for all you strangers passing through, let me just use this opportunity to encourage you to read the rest of my blog.  It's a very entertaining blog involving stuff and things.  There are poems.  There are pictures.  There is very little political content, except for the past week or so.  I wish I had something to sell that I could encourage you to buy.  I guess I'll settle for selling myself.  What?  What I mean is, read this blog, and encourage your friends (and enemies) to do the same.

That is all.

Dumbness

I'm not an expert on logic, but does this make any sense to you?  I found it here.

You will have read some version of the claim: By not voting, you are simply giving more weight to the votes of those who do bother to vote....In practical terms, you are voting for whoever happens to win.

Perhaps this is so. Of course, by the same logic, by not fighting, you are simply giving more weight to the violence of those who do bother to fight. Moreover, by not shopping, you are giving simply more weight to the purchases of those who do bother to shop. By not laboring, you are simply giving more weight to the value of those who do bother to labor. So we can dispense with the doctrine of pacifism. Boycotts should be avoided at all costs. General strikes should be mocked at every turn. And so forth.

In short: you are free to make any choice except the choice not to participate. Yes, who could disagree? In practical terms, that is exactly the logic everywhere on offer.

So I guess he's basically looking for an excuse not to vote, right?  Alright then, so what's up with those analogies?  Isn't it indeed true that "by not fighting, you are simply giving more weight to the violence of those who do bother to fight"?  I mean, if nobody had fought Hitler, wouldn't he have, you know, won World War II?  And how is shopping remotely like voting?  Okay, you're choosing something, but you're not consuming the politician.  (They might consume you, but that's another story.)  All shopping has the same deleterious effect on resources, right?  There's no shopping versus other shopping.  I mean, sure, you have Coke vs. Pepsi, but that's not really a competition in the same way an election is.  With people buying more and more Coke and more and more Pepsi, it's just an increase of soda consumption all around.  They don't take away from each other, it all just adds up (and up and up and up).  But in an election, winners take all and losers take nothing.  When one side wins, the other side loses, completely.

As for the labor thing, again, I just don't get the analogy.  And pacifism is a nice idea, but in some cases it should be dispensed with (like, duh, WWII).  Why mock strikes and boycotts?  When successful, they bring business to a grinding halt.  This is a good thing.  (An annoying thing if it's a transit strike, but still.)  People staying home from the polls, however, will never bring things to a grinding halt.  It will simply allow Republicans to win every election in a landslide.  Yeah, see, the thing about people who choose not to vote?  They're mostly liberals.  (A lot of them are hipper-than-thou poet-scholars.)  THE BAD GUYS DO NOT STAY HOME ON ELECTION DAY.  Mostly.  Yeah yeah, they do it out of a corny sense of "patriotism", but that's why the rest of us need to get out there with our nuanced and wise sense of patriotism and deliver a numerical beatdown on the Repugs.

Or we could stay home and feel hip while McCain marches to victory, ushering in Bush's third term.  Yeah, that sounds like a brilliant plan.  Like a Swiss fuckin' watch.

Obama behind by only 2% in new Indiana poll

Could the Hoosier state go blue for the first time since '64? It's not impossible. Which is another way of saying it's possible.

Prepare to Die (Laughing)

The most bizarre 97 seconds I've experienced in quite some time.

Thao with the Get Down Stay Down

are obnoxious and overrated.

Speaking of the O-word, am I the only one who thinks that Rage Against the Machine is really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really overrated?

What's with the "no referring link"? Dundee, Scotland...Sacramento...c'mon people, how am I supposed to spy on my readers if you don't give me a clue....

I'm sick of theoryheads.  Kent Johnson made a snide remark about Dean Young.  Just like that my faith in Dean Young is back on track.  Theory is fine, and not liking Dean Young is fine, but if your theory takes you beyond the point where you're capable of liking Dean Young, then your theory has gone too far.  That said, he does seem to copy Kenneth Koch a lot.  But hey, all I ever do is copy from various people, so I'm not complaining.  This is from Koch's "The Problem of Anxiety":

                                                      In those days

          (Of infancy) when one could only wriggle,

          One did (wriggle) and scream and froth and

          Mother came. Now Mother cometh not,

And here're some lines from Dean Young's "Foam Ode":

          My experience with strange suds—

          not exactly my first memory

          but close, some weird froth

          in the gutter, Mommie what is it?

          Mother telleth not.

Froth, Mother, cometh, telleth—I have no idea whether Koch's poem was in Young's subconscious mind or his conscious mind, but it had to be in one of them.

I don't get Paterson someone please explain why Paterson is so great please

This is my in-progress review of Paterson on Goodreads:

Ugh. I am obviously way too stupid to appreciate this. Ok, I'm only on page 12, but so far I see nothing to like and have no desire to go on reading. Not only do I have no idea what's going on, I can barely muster the desire to care what's going on. Tedious and boring.

Sorry if this review isn't sophisticated enough for you academic types (all I have is a bachelor's degree, sorry), but I'll keep at it and maybe update this review as I go along. Maybe I'll find something I like. It can only get better from here.

HAHAHAHA!!! Hypocrite Republican pundits caught on open mike

This is sweet.  Listen carefully.  Peggy Noonan, whose laudatory column about Palin runs in today's Wall Street Journal, says "it's over", remarks on the "political bullshit about narratives", while a former McCain campaign strategist calls the Palin pick "cynical" and a "gimmick".

Okay, a little update now.  In an amended edition of her column, Noonan tries to clarify what she meant by "it's over".  It's a plausible one, so who knows.  But that "bullshit" line, as well as her statement that Palin is not the most qualified, are still pretty sweet.

Newsflash

You can criticize her positions on teen-pregnancy-related issues without taking the hypocrisy angle.

You know, it's not such a bad idea...

"I'm an Alaskan, not an American. I've got no use for America or her damned institutions." --Joe Vogler, founder of the Alaskan Independence Party

I've never heard of this guy or his party--of which Governor Palin was a member--but already I like him!

UPDATE: Turns out she might not have been an actual member...it's still foggy. Serves me right for getting my news from that rag the New York Times.

Enough with asinine "gotcha" politics

Please read this great analysis of the Palin baby scandal, from Salon's Rebecca Traister.  Barack Obama has told his supporters that families are off limits in political campaigns.  Let's follow his lead.  Here's an excerpt from Traister's piece:

"It's certainly tempting to fall into the trap of attacking back, of making Bristol Palin and her boyfriend and her fetus the football we kick around for the next two months, four years, or however long Palin survives on the Republican ticket.

But how far can that take us? The news that many politicians are hypocrites should not blow many minds. This rhetorical game -- asking politicians who make the laws to apply them to themselves or their own kin -- is an old American favorite. It happens when Michael Moore accosts congresspeople on the street asking why their kids aren't in the Iraq war they voted for; it happens when Michael Dukakis is asked in a debate how he would respond if his own wife were raped; it even happens when Barack Obama talks about getting the rest of the country the same kind of healthcare packages he and his fellow members of Congress have given themselves.

It's a strategy that can be useful, like when it comes to healthcare arguments. But when applied to personal turmoil, the unearthing of stuff that few families could survive unscathed, it becomes more troubling. It is a game that ignores the fact that there's a real person, a real family, a real kid about to have another real kid, all of whom are being used as political punching bags. When it suits us, we bypass the fact that many of us believe that what happens within the families and bedrooms of our politicians -- while diverting, even titillating -- shouldn't cloud our perceptions of how they do their jobs. It's what we believed when Clinton was witch-hunted out of his second term, when we talk about Franklin Roosevelt or John Kennedy, when we fete Ted Kennedy."

Boards of Canada – Dayvan Cowboy

The band is Boards of Canada, the song is "Dayvan Cowboy", the album is The Campfire Headphase.  I don't know what any of these phrases mean, but/and I like them.  You can think of this as some kind of end-of-summer meditation.  If you want.  Anyway, if you want to wind down and mellow out, this song/video is for you.  Or it's something to listen to if Sigur Rós is too chilly for you.  (By the way, Boards of Canada are not Canadian, they are Scottish.)

They say blood is thicker than water, but what about new ThickWater brought to you by the Coca-Cola company?

Marisa Tomei has 225 fans on facebook.

Mira Sorvino has 132 fans on facebook.

Henry Clay has 64 supporters on facebook.

Why such a disparity between Tomei and Sorvino?  I guess Tomei is slightly more famous.  Whom do I prefer?  I prefer...

Hmm.  And what about Henry Clay.  What about him?  I seem to have the idea that I should like Henry Clay.  Why.  Maybe because he was Andrew Jackson's arch enemy.  Fucking douchebag Andrew Jackson.

Summer of Sam is on right now.  Therefore I'm inclined to prefer Sorvino at the moment.  Her performance is touching.  There are eight million stories in the Naked City.  This is one of them.

Most of my political views are based on gut feelings.  I'm not very knowledgable about anything.  I think this is true of most people, but most people don't want to admit it.  But I might just be saying that to make myself feel better.  I don't know if it's true.

I am now halfway done with

Annoying Diabetic Bitch – Sharon Mesmer

My Angie Dickinson – Michael Magee

Mesmer asks some important questions, including (but not limited to): "Have you heard about the many children / Forced out of Eric Estrada's cocker spaniel?" and "Who spilled gin on God's weenie?"  There is also a poem that may or may not be our generation's The Waste Land, a poem entitled "She Do the Prettiest Dog Vagina in Different Voices".  In this poem we learn that

          Gridlock

          is something sharp in my shorts,

          and dog boob jobs

          make possible all academic studies of the past,

          the past when god was food.

I believe I've known that on some level for a long time, but I could never put it into words.