1.) it gives you boundaries, so you can wrangle in your existence
2.) self-importance
3.) everybody should know how you feel and why you feel the way you feel because you're good enough, you're smart enough, and doggonit, people should like you
4.) easier to decipher than a graph or pie chart
5.) truth needs an outlet
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
top five things i can live without
political enthusiasts (attention whores)
ink pen caps that pull the off bottom tab so that you can't put the cap back on
the News (FOXnews, especially)
bread
bitches that be naggin'
ink pen caps that pull the off bottom tab so that you can't put the cap back on
the News (FOXnews, especially)
bread
bitches that be naggin'
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
top five things i cannot live without
air
shorts with pockets (why would you make anything without pockets!!! except shirts, that's tacky)
showers
johnny cash cds
rice
shorts with pockets (why would you make anything without pockets!!! except shirts, that's tacky)
showers
johnny cash cds
rice
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
banter
I've decided I'm going to write a million songs in my last semester before i have to graduate and "get a job" as all those "responsible" people like to put it. I just pray it won't all be crap.
Any ideas for a job with a creative writing degree with no experience? "Welcome to LIlly's! Would you like vegan pizza sauce?"
check the myspace for a new song. if it's not up today it'll probably be up by tomorrow. i've been having some trouble. i get hits but i'm beginning to wonder if it's just me checking it every two seconds. it probably is.
http://www.myspace.com/dmxiong
hey somebody has to bolster my ego, even if it's myself.
I have deleted the songs that were on there because I talked and cleared my throat at the beginning of each recording and not only was that annoying, but I was also informed that clearing your throat is not a professional thing to do. It damages your vocal chords. Good thing to know.
But I like the new song. It's different from what I usually write. Which scares me, because I feel like eventually I'll run out of new things to try and do and talk about. It's called "The Bohemian Mama Blues."
Clay and I were talking about a nameless friend of ours who spent her whole summer roaming the beaches of Wilmington purely inspired by her affinity to the coast. Even when she had no shelter she bummed her way around just so she could stay at the beach. I can't remember if I said it or Clay did, but the line that became the title and inspiration for the song was about those on the road blues, bohemian blues, gypsy blues, where you feel like you just have to keep moving to feel alive. We all talk about it but nobody has got the cajones to do it anymore for practicality sake because we all gots to pay the bills. Anyway, the song became something completely different. Maybe a little too political? Eh, I just have a soft spot for the contemporary hippie who tries so hard because I know I could never have that kind of dedication. I want to eat at McDonald's and buy the cheapest pack of Wal-mart brand cola there is and mix it with Aristocrat Rum. And I'm okay with the war as long as gas is cheap, but now, I'm kind of peeved.
You think "hippie," is short for "hypocrite?" Makes sense... doesn't it? Well, then I fit the bill.
But "Them Golden Gate Freedom Blues," which will posted at some point in the near future, is another new song where the misplaced original motivation of "The Bohemian Mama Blues," may have manifested itself. It is also inspired by my courageous, rambling, good friend, Mr. Graham Misenheimer, who has weathered the worst earthquake in the history of the universe, spike lee's joint in brooklyn, strangers couches all across America, and now battles in San Francisco by his own golden gates.
now fucking update your shit muthafucka! NO EXCUSES!
Any ideas for a job with a creative writing degree with no experience? "Welcome to LIlly's! Would you like vegan pizza sauce?"
check the myspace for a new song. if it's not up today it'll probably be up by tomorrow. i've been having some trouble. i get hits but i'm beginning to wonder if it's just me checking it every two seconds. it probably is.
http://www.myspace.com/dmxiong
hey somebody has to bolster my ego, even if it's myself.
I have deleted the songs that were on there because I talked and cleared my throat at the beginning of each recording and not only was that annoying, but I was also informed that clearing your throat is not a professional thing to do. It damages your vocal chords. Good thing to know.
But I like the new song. It's different from what I usually write. Which scares me, because I feel like eventually I'll run out of new things to try and do and talk about. It's called "The Bohemian Mama Blues."
Clay and I were talking about a nameless friend of ours who spent her whole summer roaming the beaches of Wilmington purely inspired by her affinity to the coast. Even when she had no shelter she bummed her way around just so she could stay at the beach. I can't remember if I said it or Clay did, but the line that became the title and inspiration for the song was about those on the road blues, bohemian blues, gypsy blues, where you feel like you just have to keep moving to feel alive. We all talk about it but nobody has got the cajones to do it anymore for practicality sake because we all gots to pay the bills. Anyway, the song became something completely different. Maybe a little too political? Eh, I just have a soft spot for the contemporary hippie who tries so hard because I know I could never have that kind of dedication. I want to eat at McDonald's and buy the cheapest pack of Wal-mart brand cola there is and mix it with Aristocrat Rum. And I'm okay with the war as long as gas is cheap, but now, I'm kind of peeved.
You think "hippie," is short for "hypocrite?" Makes sense... doesn't it? Well, then I fit the bill.
But "Them Golden Gate Freedom Blues," which will posted at some point in the near future, is another new song where the misplaced original motivation of "The Bohemian Mama Blues," may have manifested itself. It is also inspired by my courageous, rambling, good friend, Mr. Graham Misenheimer, who has weathered the worst earthquake in the history of the universe, spike lee's joint in brooklyn, strangers couches all across America, and now battles in San Francisco by his own golden gates.
now fucking update your shit muthafucka! NO EXCUSES!
Saturday, July 26, 2008
musicking
so i have finally grown big enough cajones to record a song and lame enough to finally myspace it.
http://www.myspace.com/dmxiong
in two weeks, the 4901 sessions begin with the visit of the astute Clay Misenheimer.
http://www.myspace.com/dmxiong
in two weeks, the 4901 sessions begin with the visit of the astute Clay Misenheimer.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Friday, April 18, 2008
more old things i can no longer reproduce
halloween
i remember holding hands and
hating it. my mother would
point to the next house, and my older
sister would slide the van door, and we would dart out
like some vast battalion, shedding our shield
hand at the helm of our swords, sometimes
literally, and we had already conquered our greatest
fears, the gauntlet had been vanquished, before our toes
bent the blades of evening dew, and our arms wide open
treasure bestowed upon the valiant, the courageous, the socially adept, and death
defying. and we were good, she would say
to her friends
later on the phone, opposed to the
advertised mischief. and we would pour out all our candy
on the table, she made us, and split it seven ways. even though it
always came out the same way it began, because
who holds prejudice towards seven kids in
homemade costumes and family dollar facepaint? and we'd count it afterwards,
and wonder, why was this
only
once a year, we
would murmur
through chocolate teeth or double
bubble bubbles, candy
corn fangs, caramel
smacks, stuck to the empty
caps, and the independent spaces
wisdom and age had yet to fill. it would never tire, we
decided those nights. candy for a king, candy for a queen. anyone could
live forever, like this. what
Gods
allowed only once
a year
for gluttony, should we
not enjoy everyday, bathe and baske
in
saccharine
glory. did you know
if you cook sugar for
long enough, it turns
gold? we'd sit
on the back porch, the moon was
always nearly full, and discuss
our trite superstitions, and
future predictions, i can't
recall now, and make fun of
each other, in that
circumventing sibling
fashion, that never failed, and never
tarnished
our hidden joys
of our household
company. and we'd be okay, we'd do well, if just
for a couple
of days. before it was back
to drawing
turkeys, and homework
and awaiting
the next
holiday
break. i remember once there were
so many
of us
walking up on to this tiny, concrete
front porch one
halloween, and my sister
julie was on the far left
side, she was one of the first to step up, and after the last
of us
squeezed in for a treat, i can't remember who now, she fell off
the side
into a bush, and we all laughed, but
she cried
a little, and i felt bad, and
so did the lady
who's house we were at
so she handed
julie another
handful and a half
of candy, and said it was the
last
she had, blew us
a kiss, and at the end
of the night
after we had
split
our bags
we each gave
julie back a bit of whatever she
wished to have. a candy
coated
apology, we knew, but
we were happy;
all of us.
and afterwards we
went to the back porch; because
when we were young
the falls
were warmer.
and i do
miss
being young.
i remember holding hands and
hating it. my mother would
point to the next house, and my older
sister would slide the van door, and we would dart out
like some vast battalion, shedding our shield
hand at the helm of our swords, sometimes
literally, and we had already conquered our greatest
fears, the gauntlet had been vanquished, before our toes
bent the blades of evening dew, and our arms wide open
treasure bestowed upon the valiant, the courageous, the socially adept, and death
defying. and we were good, she would say
to her friends
later on the phone, opposed to the
advertised mischief. and we would pour out all our candy
on the table, she made us, and split it seven ways. even though it
always came out the same way it began, because
who holds prejudice towards seven kids in
homemade costumes and family dollar facepaint? and we'd count it afterwards,
and wonder, why was this
only
once a year, we
would murmur
through chocolate teeth or double
bubble bubbles, candy
corn fangs, caramel
smacks, stuck to the empty
caps, and the independent spaces
wisdom and age had yet to fill. it would never tire, we
decided those nights. candy for a king, candy for a queen. anyone could
live forever, like this. what
Gods
allowed only once
a year
for gluttony, should we
not enjoy everyday, bathe and baske
in
saccharine
glory. did you know
if you cook sugar for
long enough, it turns
gold? we'd sit
on the back porch, the moon was
always nearly full, and discuss
our trite superstitions, and
future predictions, i can't
recall now, and make fun of
each other, in that
circumventing sibling
fashion, that never failed, and never
tarnished
our hidden joys
of our household
company. and we'd be okay, we'd do well, if just
for a couple
of days. before it was back
to drawing
turkeys, and homework
and awaiting
the next
holiday
break. i remember once there were
so many
of us
walking up on to this tiny, concrete
front porch one
halloween, and my sister
julie was on the far left
side, she was one of the first to step up, and after the last
of us
squeezed in for a treat, i can't remember who now, she fell off
the side
into a bush, and we all laughed, but
she cried
a little, and i felt bad, and
so did the lady
who's house we were at
so she handed
julie another
handful and a half
of candy, and said it was the
last
she had, blew us
a kiss, and at the end
of the night
after we had
split
our bags
we each gave
julie back a bit of whatever she
wished to have. a candy
coated
apology, we knew, but
we were happy;
all of us.
and afterwards we
went to the back porch; because
when we were young
the falls
were warmer.
and i do
miss
being young.
bitter-bitter-bitter-ness
the death of an answer
bided time with my toothpick
she was right,
life moves much too quick
for the slow of wit
and i think i saw a fly move
behind her head, drawing breaths
under armpit-wingpit... what must be
overwhelmingly identified
in time, i suppose
she saw me
staring over her head
and muttered something like, "ridiculous"
or "ostensive"-ly something good,
but not so, much more
as it landed in her soup
words of warning escaped my usual soul
and once again, we were proven alone
but the poison-lipped, and the poison sipped,
gave us a right good skip.
bided time with my toothpick
she was right,
life moves much too quick
for the slow of wit
and i think i saw a fly move
behind her head, drawing breaths
under armpit-wingpit... what must be
overwhelmingly identified
in time, i suppose
she saw me
staring over her head
and muttered something like, "ridiculous"
or "ostensive"-ly something good,
but not so, much more
as it landed in her soup
words of warning escaped my usual soul
and once again, we were proven alone
but the poison-lipped, and the poison sipped,
gave us a right good skip.
when in rome
casablanca
wasted, away
the yellow
reminds me
of this old
clown
fellow, who
knocked on our door
when i was a kid, selling
tricks, a dance, a befuddled
jig, like a plate of fruit
cocktail
about to
slip
my mother always yelled at us for
talking
to him
but these are
my
teeth. my blinking
existence. my loose
bulb
in the arch above some
peeling path
linoleum
curled
up
like some
dying
hand's grasp, when
what is there left
to hold
on
to?
carbon [fucking] anchors away.
wasted, away
the yellow
reminds me
of this old
clown
fellow, who
knocked on our door
when i was a kid, selling
tricks, a dance, a befuddled
jig, like a plate of fruit
cocktail
about to
slip
my mother always yelled at us for
talking
to him
but these are
my
teeth. my blinking
existence. my loose
bulb
in the arch above some
peeling path
linoleum
curled
up
like some
dying
hand's grasp, when
what is there left
to hold
on
to?
carbon [fucking] anchors away.
kibbles and bits; and/or experimentation with punctuation
frivolous; is a
good word
there is a kingdom
destined
to smite us
all. the pauper, the prince, the girl
at the grocery store
counter who wears a golden cross
upon her apron, subservient for the means
of good will, and good faith.
(Amen)
she needs no Daedalus, no
ulterior denouement, only what is,
what has been, and what will
ultimately be.
but --- here;
the liars and the cheats;
everything labeled and shelved for your convenience
pocketchange for your daily bread and wine
and cheese.
and in their evenings, in their "off" time, they fancy themselves
traveled, worn, whittled to their original
celestial core, and they draw
and they scrawl
all the things they cannot
believe in.
it is full, in between these
horizontal blue and white bars of a
blinking
determination; the
redshift; when will our eyes anchor upon some
soft, sure, stand over here, shore-line
sailors all in search
of a rising isle, dear
reassurance, or the existence of
the nonexistent.
"they will all see..., " he writes, "... soon, ellipses
at the end of all sentences; a cosmic
-- drawl."
and as they speed off, rockets and whistles, sand in some
sluggish hourglass, she stands
safe,
or steadfast
good word
there is a kingdom
destined
to smite us
all. the pauper, the prince, the girl
at the grocery store
counter who wears a golden cross
upon her apron, subservient for the means
of good will, and good faith.
(Amen)
she needs no Daedalus, no
ulterior denouement, only what is,
what has been, and what will
ultimately be.
but --- here;
the liars and the cheats;
everything labeled and shelved for your convenience
pocketchange for your daily bread and wine
and cheese.
and in their evenings, in their "off" time, they fancy themselves
traveled, worn, whittled to their original
celestial core, and they draw
and they scrawl
all the things they cannot
believe in.
it is full, in between these
horizontal blue and white bars of a
blinking
determination; the
redshift; when will our eyes anchor upon some
soft, sure, stand over here, shore-line
sailors all in search
of a rising isle, dear
reassurance, or the existence of
the nonexistent.
"they will all see..., " he writes, "... soon, ellipses
at the end of all sentences; a cosmic
-- drawl."
and as they speed off, rockets and whistles, sand in some
sluggish hourglass, she stands
safe,
or steadfast
Saturday, April 12, 2008
reading does a body good
"In ancient times, people's hearts were direct and straightforward. Because their hearts were direct, their actions were simple, and because things were simple, the words they spoke also were uncomplicated. When emotions rose up in their hearts, they would put them into words and would sing, and they called this "poetry" [uta}. When they sang, they did so directly and with a single heart. Their words were in ordinary, straightforward language, so they flowed and were well ordered without any conscious effort to make them so. Poetry was simply the expression of a single heart, so in the past there was no particular differentiation between those who were poets and those who were not."
- Kamo No Mabuchi on "Poetry" and the way it used to be... well, in Japan and before the 18th Century
He continues...
"When people's hearts became clever, they began to quarrel with one another, so naturally they learned wicked ways, causing society to decline."
Makes me want to sing "why can't we be friends."
- Kamo No Mabuchi on "Poetry" and the way it used to be... well, in Japan and before the 18th Century
He continues...
"When people's hearts became clever, they began to quarrel with one another, so naturally they learned wicked ways, causing society to decline."
Makes me want to sing "why can't we be friends."
Monday, April 7, 2008
Friday, April 4, 2008
Thursday, April 3, 2008
the power of 11
I can only write 11 things each month. (see side panel for cosmic reference)
I just received notice I've been published in this year's edition of the NC State's Windhover Literary Arts Magazine. It only took me six years and a few minutes of intense motivation for me to click that 'send' button.
Grab a free copy if you can (it is free).
I also got a song put on their audio CD which I shall go ahead and apologize for because a.) the song was not finished, b.) the song may never be finished, and c.) in retrospect, I should have sent nothing. I was desperate for something concrete beyond the walls of my bedroom. I don't even want to hear it. I may burn it, like in a fire, not on to a CD.
Horrible song, we shall make peace soon enough.
But here is what else found it's way to the Windhover.
-----
I just received notice I've been published in this year's edition of the NC State's Windhover Literary Arts Magazine. It only took me six years and a few minutes of intense motivation for me to click that 'send' button.
Grab a free copy if you can (it is free).
I also got a song put on their audio CD which I shall go ahead and apologize for because a.) the song was not finished, b.) the song may never be finished, and c.) in retrospect, I should have sent nothing. I was desperate for something concrete beyond the walls of my bedroom. I don't even want to hear it. I may burn it, like in a fire, not on to a CD.
Horrible song, we shall make peace soon enough.
But here is what else found it's way to the Windhover.
-----
Why Rabbits Have Holes
They could not resuscitate Mrs. Peachtree.
“It was too late,” the paramedic said, her face
young, but drawn like the flat shade of a window blind,
her eyes down, never up, and when she walked away
her partner whispered to me that it was her first time.
the ones I had never bothered to count; the trees,
saplings that were younger than me; the gnomes,
grimacing and waving, frozen elf hats in the headwind,
the back of my unzipped jacket ballooned like a paratrooper’s chute.
And opened my notebook to an empty page;
and I could only think of:
three hundred and thirty two.
------
Denouement
Yesterday afternoon,
I told the kids next door
we were watching television.
The plates and pans you packed rang
like a sea of cymbals but softer than our voices.
Some time after the door closes,
I set the tea and light up.
Old cartoon illusions bloom of fairy godmothers
tapping their wands on our noses.
These deep breaths pollute,
orange and black like winded coals;
like our apologies, curling in the furnace.
I used to admire your gumption,
but now I’m dry, like this cough.
Still, like the volume of this idle tea.
Heavy, like the gelatinous murk; the algae at the bottom
of everything, even well meant loose change.
I am the dimming circumference.
A toke, and the smoke unfurls, vaporous opening arms,
but its charm is lost like a new moon.
You came back,
for your toothbrush.
Monday, March 17, 2008
erosion
Paul dragged an axe and left a canyon.
I have dragged myself and -
time, is a novel idea
when you're running out of it.
---
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Monday, February 18, 2008
top five things ever
trees
starlight
procreation (the act of, not the consequence of)
breakfast cereal
irony
starlight
procreation (the act of, not the consequence of)
breakfast cereal
irony
top five human inventions
in no particular order:
the fountain pen
the acoustic instrument
the shuriken/ninja star
the cartoon/comic
happy endings
versus someone (he who's name cannot be spoken or written or read) else's list:
jet pack
pencil
coffee percolator
tire swing
Molotov cocktail
the fountain pen
the acoustic instrument
the shuriken/ninja star
the cartoon/comic
happy endings
versus someone (he who's name cannot be spoken or written or read) else's list:
jet pack
pencil
coffee percolator
tire swing
Molotov cocktail
Friday, February 15, 2008
on valentine's day
i put my shirt on backwards today-- all day
without thinking; except for, it fits better today.
---
i watched young boys the age of men purchase grocery store
conveniences to celebrate a mysterious notion best acknowledged via
limp, inanimate stitched socks and suede, and card stock;
the cologne's waiting at home.
let me say i love you in a balloon, or two?
ten minutes 'til dinner with her.
two birds, one stone.
Thank you, Food Lion.
without thinking; except for, it fits better today.
---
i watched young boys the age of men purchase grocery store
conveniences to celebrate a mysterious notion best acknowledged via
limp, inanimate stitched socks and suede, and card stock;
the cologne's waiting at home.
let me say i love you in a balloon, or two?
ten minutes 'til dinner with her.
two birds, one stone.
Thank you, Food Lion.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Monday, February 11, 2008
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Case of the Mondays: Part Friday
what do you do as a writer when you realize there is a single, obvious motif in all of your writing that you never originally planned?
mine = identity crisis
yours? = ... please tell me so i don't feel so alone?
I don't know who I am!
So today (Thursday) my first real article appeared in the Technician. They cut 2/3 of it and labeled it as part one of two.
Now I understand that whole "cut-throat" nature of journalism I learned from watching His Girl Friday. I don't know, I honestly have no aspirations for journalism, but I worked hard on that thing and I feel the context is lost when split into pieces. Dammit, I say I don't care, but it has taken the wind out of my sails; for now.
Maybe that should be my new motif; Failure. If not, at least that's a concrete identity: The Constant Failure. Good Emo band name.
Oh well, it's out of my control. Water under the bridge.
R.O.D. - Talk less, read more. The wise do not advertise.
That is arrogant.
mine = identity crisis
yours? = ... please tell me so i don't feel so alone?
I don't know who I am!
So today (Thursday) my first real article appeared in the Technician. They cut 2/3 of it and labeled it as part one of two.
Now I understand that whole "cut-throat" nature of journalism I learned from watching His Girl Friday. I don't know, I honestly have no aspirations for journalism, but I worked hard on that thing and I feel the context is lost when split into pieces. Dammit, I say I don't care, but it has taken the wind out of my sails; for now.
Maybe that should be my new motif; Failure. If not, at least that's a concrete identity: The Constant Failure. Good Emo band name.
Oh well, it's out of my control. Water under the bridge.
R.O.D. - Talk less, read more. The wise do not advertise.
That is arrogant.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Case of the Mondays: Part One
R.O.D. - I hate bloggin'.
Doesn't the word sound like some sex fetish?
OH HOLY SHIT I JUST SAW STINKYPANTS32. Poor kid. Turns out he was the normal roommate. I can't tell if he has a hump or osteoporosis. I can tell, however, that I am a horrible human being.
On to nicer things.
Did you know in the Hopi language, there are no words for time? Words like "minute," "second," "now," and "then" don't exist. Time doesn't diminish for the Hopi. Time is always.
Also, in Eastern Languages, like Chinese and Japanese, time is not linear. Time doesn't start and end, it grows. Their words for the passage of time denote "up" and "down," rather than "backward" and "forward.
Sorry, I just find it interesting that I am learning. Education, what a joke.
Doesn't the word sound like some sex fetish?
OH HOLY SHIT I JUST SAW STINKYPANTS32. Poor kid. Turns out he was the normal roommate. I can't tell if he has a hump or osteoporosis. I can tell, however, that I am a horrible human being.
On to nicer things.
Did you know in the Hopi language, there are no words for time? Words like "minute," "second," "now," and "then" don't exist. Time doesn't diminish for the Hopi. Time is always.
Also, in Eastern Languages, like Chinese and Japanese, time is not linear. Time doesn't start and end, it grows. Their words for the passage of time denote "up" and "down," rather than "backward" and "forward.
Sorry, I just find it interesting that I am learning. Education, what a joke.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Things
inspired by The Dog Pillow Book
Dangerous Things
beautiful, stupid people
secrets
needles in haystacks
Ron Paul
people who want to "talk to you about something"
socks filled with bars of soap/change
America's Foreign Policy
credit/debit cards
Wikipedia
cheap toilet paper
singularly sold hot wings dubbed "insanity" that cannot be purchased until a waiver has been signed which dictates possible internal and external tissue damage
my ego
Disagreeable Things
wise, ugly people
wet shoes
customer service representatives
alarm clocks
know-it-alls
syringes
splinters
sticky floors
flatulent friends
$1-plus cups of coffee
buying water
the Disney Channel
Things one would like to send away
the Disney Channel
flatulent friends
roommates
all vanity license plates -- no one gets them but you...
speeding tickets
a certificate to redeem lots of free things
laundry to be done
that girl
responsibility
Aunt Flo
Hipster Hippies, who are only hippies b/c they think it'd be cool. (their food is more organic than they are. ZING!)
Things the bigger the better
guns
explosions
knives/all bladed weaponry (Mr. A. Knife... harharhar)
the Red Tent
vocabulary words
monitors/televisions
funny hats
hamburgers
movie/book collection
the FDA recommended serving size
my bank account
my house
my ego
your love for me
Things the smaller the better
I'm from America. We start at "Medium Sized," or "I'd like a salad, please."
Dangerous Things
beautiful, stupid people
secrets
needles in haystacks
Ron Paul
people who want to "talk to you about something"
socks filled with bars of soap/change
America's Foreign Policy
credit/debit cards
Wikipedia
cheap toilet paper
singularly sold hot wings dubbed "insanity" that cannot be purchased until a waiver has been signed which dictates possible internal and external tissue damage
my ego
Disagreeable Things
wise, ugly people
wet shoes
customer service representatives
alarm clocks
know-it-alls
syringes
splinters
sticky floors
flatulent friends
$1-plus cups of coffee
buying water
the Disney Channel
Things one would like to send away
the Disney Channel
flatulent friends
roommates
all vanity license plates -- no one gets them but you...
speeding tickets
a certificate to redeem lots of free things
laundry to be done
that girl
responsibility
Aunt Flo
Hipster Hippies, who are only hippies b/c they think it'd be cool. (their food is more organic than they are. ZING!)
Things the bigger the better
guns
explosions
knives/all bladed weaponry (Mr. A. Knife... harharhar)
the Red Tent
vocabulary words
monitors/televisions
funny hats
hamburgers
movie/book collection
the FDA recommended serving size
my bank account
my house
my ego
your love for me
Things the smaller the better
I'm from America. We start at "Medium Sized," or "I'd like a salad, please."
Sunday, January 27, 2008
10 Happy Things
turning the last page in a book
vanilla ice cream
superman
an impromptu day off
a new song nobody knows about
french onion dip
calvin & hobbes
an inside joke
a cup of hot jasmine tea
the "Hot" sign at Krispy Kreme
vanilla ice cream
superman
an impromptu day off
a new song nobody knows about
french onion dip
calvin & hobbes
an inside joke
a cup of hot jasmine tea
the "Hot" sign at Krispy Kreme
Friday, January 25, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Cats
R.O.D. - I HATE CATS. FOREVER. AND EVER. AND EVER.
A foreword apology to those who may be offended.
People always say you have to win a cat's love. wtf? They also say you don't have to with a dog because dogs are stupid, or lazy, or automatically subservient due to eons of inbreeding. I don't know, fill in your own blank, but why would you want to win a cat's love?
(This is a bad analogy.)
Women love assholes. Not the body part (of course), but the typical condescending, "you've got to prove something to me," guy. The guy that you can CHANGE, because he's a CHALLENGE. Notice those things start with a "C," kind of like "cats." Why is this sort of delusion necessary?
So I guess the moral of the story is that Cats are like assholes. You only want their attention because they won't give it to you, and then when you finally get the Cat to admire you marginally, they shit all over your house, in your dryer (wtf!!!), everywhere in the bathroom except for the tub, the sink, or the toilet where it might be easy to clean, in your kitchen cabinets (how'd those fuckers get in there???), and the only decision you're left with is to take them on Maury Povich to figure out why they won't stop shitting on you, or claim the baby you know they're the father of.
(Note: I speak of "shit" metaphorically, of course, as well as the household areas.)
Stay away from all those "cool cats" and you'll live a very happy life.
A foreword apology to those who may be offended.
People always say you have to win a cat's love. wtf? They also say you don't have to with a dog because dogs are stupid, or lazy, or automatically subservient due to eons of inbreeding. I don't know, fill in your own blank, but why would you want to win a cat's love?
(This is a bad analogy.)
Women love assholes. Not the body part (of course), but the typical condescending, "you've got to prove something to me," guy. The guy that you can CHANGE, because he's a CHALLENGE. Notice those things start with a "C," kind of like "cats." Why is this sort of delusion necessary?
So I guess the moral of the story is that Cats are like assholes. You only want their attention because they won't give it to you, and then when you finally get the Cat to admire you marginally, they shit all over your house, in your dryer (wtf!!!), everywhere in the bathroom except for the tub, the sink, or the toilet where it might be easy to clean, in your kitchen cabinets (how'd those fuckers get in there???), and the only decision you're left with is to take them on Maury Povich to figure out why they won't stop shitting on you, or claim the baby you know they're the father of.
(Note: I speak of "shit" metaphorically, of course, as well as the household areas.)
Stay away from all those "cool cats" and you'll live a very happy life.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Monday, January 7, 2008
Revelations
This year, instead of New Year resolutions (which confess retrogression, but I'm perfect, come on), I will end each day with a revelation (in the hopes of ballooning my ego to a gargantuan, untameable, feral beast; like a man... bear... pig... hybrid).
I was inspired to write something down after reading old blog entries. I noticed my constant revelation was that I am fudged up. I am never quite where I want to be. I guess that's the journey? I don't know. I feel like I have grown up a lot this past year, but reflection absolves nothing and usually breeds arrogance.
Once it seemed like there might be an oasis somewhere down the road to hang out for a while, to stretch out on a hammock and wait out those prophesied good things that would march in their own time towards my palm alcove, but maybe that's what I've come away with the year in tow; there is no end in sight. There is no rest. One day, click, someone turns you off.
So just do what you want to with your life. External judgment is like quicksand. The more you struggle to please, the further you sink.
The glass is half empty and half full.
Revelation of the Day:
Peanut Butter will save my life one day.
I was inspired to write something down after reading old blog entries. I noticed my constant revelation was that I am fudged up. I am never quite where I want to be. I guess that's the journey? I don't know. I feel like I have grown up a lot this past year, but reflection absolves nothing and usually breeds arrogance.
Once it seemed like there might be an oasis somewhere down the road to hang out for a while, to stretch out on a hammock and wait out those prophesied good things that would march in their own time towards my palm alcove, but maybe that's what I've come away with the year in tow; there is no end in sight. There is no rest. One day, click, someone turns you off.
So just do what you want to with your life. External judgment is like quicksand. The more you struggle to please, the further you sink.
The glass is half empty and half full.
Revelation of the Day:
Peanut Butter will save my life one day.
boots and spurs be clickin'
The Beat
Inhalation and exaltation;
to beat; to breathe; to usurp a mighty thing--
vivre la permanence.
Time began as a morsel, in hands, in lieu of corporeality,
nowhere at all. Comprehension then, must (must it?)
begin somewhere-- mon frère.
The Dickinson Dash, the Melville Mash, the Whitman Waltz,
and the Rimbaud Rumba.
Oh dear... the shirt fits but the collar's too small.
You might have to stick your neck out some, partner.
Inhalation and exaltation;
to beat; to breathe; to usurp a mighty thing--
vivre la permanence.
Time began as a morsel, in hands, in lieu of corporeality,
nowhere at all. Comprehension then, must (must it?)
begin somewhere-- mon frère.
The Dickinson Dash, the Melville Mash, the Whitman Waltz,
and the Rimbaud Rumba.
Oh dear... the shirt fits but the collar's too small.
You might have to stick your neck out some, partner.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
propagating propaganda
This is an exercise in speaking truth.
"P&P"
The blogspot is an exercise. Or chore?
To write is to store-- clean, superfluous, nitrogens and oxygens, in hand;
Here you go. This is new. This is for you. This is for ubiquity;
Efficiency, anarchy, and quiet;
progress is measured in punk rock merit.
Save room for the delusional, there are few, as you well know,
worthy enough to follow.
And we--
we are owned by no one.
Our dog-tags read, "Sincerity," "Revolution," "Visionary,"
"Samaritan," and "... come again?"
Our songs are brittle; they have no legs, no respect for Leadbelly and the gang.
They dine on blubber of white whale and salt water tales.
Grow some roots why doncha, then have them dyed or highlighted,
deep fried, inject cheddar, served up with po-taters.
Old skool is what's kewl 'til something older
comes along, fewl. yewza one of dem Gol' diggaz.
I am finally sleepy now.
"P&P"
The blogspot is an exercise. Or chore?
To write is to store-- clean, superfluous, nitrogens and oxygens, in hand;
Here you go. This is new. This is for you. This is for ubiquity;
Efficiency, anarchy, and quiet;
progress is measured in punk rock merit.
Save room for the delusional, there are few, as you well know,
worthy enough to follow.
And we--
we are owned by no one.
Our dog-tags read, "Sincerity," "Revolution," "Visionary,"
"Samaritan," and "... come again?"
Our songs are brittle; they have no legs, no respect for Leadbelly and the gang.
They dine on blubber of white whale and salt water tales.
Grow some roots why doncha, then have them dyed or highlighted,
deep fried, inject cheddar, served up with po-taters.
Old skool is what's kewl 'til something older
comes along, fewl. yewza one of dem Gol' diggaz.
I am finally sleepy now.
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