dead

fffffffffffaggoty bird

awesome

from here: http://condiment.portablefolkband.com/packets.php

jurassic park

hey dad. you won't read this. say hey. hey. i am seeing you from another angle. you are interesting. you always were. but even more so now. i enjoy talking about nothing, staring down at our skiis as we ride the lift upwards...maybe its a father and son thing. through this whole thing you have been awesome. its the little things: the boxers with the squirrels on them you got me, telling me not to drink maker's mark b/c "somebody else does" and "i don't wanna wind up like somebody else," razzing jets fans at the bar and telling me about a "past" that you don't expect your parents to have...

this waterfall is my gift to you. the rocks leading up to the top are slippery and the trees are lush and hanging almost paleolithic...along the way you can hear the rustle of bears and the sound of woodpeckers drilling in the mist. the view from the top isn't much, but the feeling is amazing...

i am eating my lunch with tears in my eyes...all my love, dad, you're still my hero, even now...even more now.

hugbox

...one of the perils of the internet is peoples tendency to announce that they are either "autistic" or suffering from "aspergers" usually in what amounts to an excuse for the social shortcomings. my life has been, is and i am guessing will always be a motherfucking garden of failed social interaction, repetetive behaviors, abject obsessiveness, self doubt and insecurity...yet i have always opted on blaming myself for this instead of some shadowy internet bastardization of real mental challenge...

the picture above is of a "hug box." its a contraption for autistic children. evidently the feeling of pressure that this creates causes a soothing effect in these kids (reminding them of the comfort the womb)...why am i blogging about this? i guess because since i was a child i have been creating similar devices to soothe myself (while not as elaborate): cocoons of sheets, I have jammed myself in tight corners, hid behind furniture, under tables, etc...it relaxes me. makes me feel safe from the outside world, from other children/adults...its a place that is terminally warm...

i can't say what i feel. so i won't. i can't enunciate the respect that I have for the familes of these children nor the awe that their children leave me in. so i won't. all i can say is that for the flicker of a hundreth of a second i can relate to a small flake of their life...

gay for someone

sometimes i talk to people and it makes sense

this is why,

( i pretty much quit listening to white musicians, opting instead for their african american counterparts of a better half of a previous century)

like fucking seriously...

Bon Iver (pronounced: bohn eevair; French for "good winter" and spelled wrong on purpose) is a greeting, a celebration and a sentiment. It is a new statement of an artist moving on and establishing the groundwork for a lasting career. For Emma, Forever Ago is the debut of this lineage of songs. As a whole, the record is entirely cohesive throughout and remains centered around a particular aesthetic, prompted by the time and place for which it was recorded. Vernon seems to have tested his boundaries to the utmost, and in doing so has managed to break free form any pre-cursing or finished forms.

...like a wet mitten

...Scout Slogan: Do a Good Turn Daily

glass gardens

...new strange forms of life found yesterday in antarctica...

4x4play

yeah?

bzzzzzz...allergic

1970 Dodge Super Bee...This car was made for finger fucking freshmen in...

cotton

...pleasantries to pennsylvania in all its mesmirizing fuckit loads of buckets. we should all feel like lightening hopkins at least once, if not for a fleeting moment in our lives.

...pleasantries to talking pigs everywhere. may they continue to talk their talk of talking talketry...

there is glitter on my floor.

why i started blogging in the first place

Drinkers carousing in a Medieval tavern could have their brew served in pottery mugs especially designed for by Delia Robinson


In the simple pre-electronic days of old, drinkers carousing in taverns might have enjoyed their brew from pottery mugs especially designed for boisterous amusement. A ceramic frog peering from the bottom of the cup, or a chirping whistle mug, such were the creations of long-gone potters to enhance the hilarity of happy hour.

Unless held to the mouth in exactly the right way, a Puzzle Mug would spill beer down the drinkers shirt. This was a big hit with the tavern crowd. The mugs were designed with multiple dribble holes and tunnels inside the handle and cup rim, the handle or walls connected to a drinking spout at the lip of the cup. This would allow the drinker to suck up his beverage, providing his fingers covered the right combination of false drinking spouts also placed around the cup lip. If he attempted drinking from the cup in the customary fashion, the beverage would pour out through perforations carved just under the lip. As the evening progressed into a rowdy uproar, finding the safe spot from which to drink would become increasingly chancy, providing merriment for all.

Staggering home in clothing soaked in beer has lost some appeal down the centuries. This might explain why puzzle mugs have gone out of vogue. They linger in a crude modern counterpart, the dribble glass, found in novelty shops. This, merely a glass drilled with a dribbling hole, is a far cry from the elaborate pottery concoctions designed to send tavern patrons into stitches.

‘Fuddling cups’, charmingly named, required less skill from the potter, but more from the drinker. They consisted of multiple cups attached side by side into one diabolically messy drinking container. Passageways between the cups required the drinker to carefully empty them in the correct sequence. The wrong choice resulted in a drenching, the right choice in befuddlement.



Joke mugs have lost none of their popularity over time. A slip trailed witticism on a Staffordshire cup has its counterpart in the office coffee mug of today, with its snappy saying or cartoon. Even the frog in the mug has surfaced repeatedly, metamorphosing into everything from submarines to naked ladies. A cup of this sort was named a Nightingale, a genteel name suitable for tea drinkers.

Another option for the noisy set was the whistle mug. These came in several variations. In the simplest, a whistle was affixed to the handle of the cup. In a more complex form, the whistle chamber was made to connect with an air passage into the bowl of the cup. When empty and the whistle blown, only one note was emitted. When the cup was full, the air bubbling through the liquid created melodious trills and warblings. Some people insist it is correctly called a Hubblebubble, which would seem to require beer.

Drinkers from the past must have been a convivial lot. Many of the early tavern mugs are found with two or more handles. This allowed several drinkers seated around the table to have equal access to the brew. At banquets, two handled ‘loving cups’ could be passed easily along a line of guests, each taking a swig. Two handled cups still persist, but, but primarily in their even more antique function, for sports awards. Their utility is largely over; the beverage sharers of today don’t require special containers but just pass the bottle.

Since their heyday in the raucous taverns of the 16th-18th centuries, the trickier cups have become rare specialty items. Whistle mugs are still produced in Germany with the barrel shape reminiscent of old tankards. Like their predecessors, they are often impressively large. They hold amounts that could easily put several drinking cronies under the table, though the one handle with a whistle perched jauntily on top, suggests that a single drinker is expected to finish it all.

can't stop the gayness...

not today anyways.
happy valentines day, world.

unedited/twenty sec poem/fikkshun

Julez.
Glitter and shit,
Even with crows feet
To young to have.

I sniffed your panties,
When you showered,
They smelled like soap,
Not like cunt nor asshole
Nor perfume…

You picked them up,
Gazed out a window at
Nothing—your snatch
Googled my cock…

I did my best.

The last time I saw you
Your mom said, “she needs
To say hi.”

I could smell the hospital in your
Teeth. I touched the side of your hair,

I said, “hi.”

Life is not supposed to happen like this.
Red ants markered your barefeet, my convesrse,
Red ants crushed look like blood blisters.
We were kids. Red ants bleed.

Julez this is all I have.
A blank square of words,
And this is fiction of the worst kind.

All your Depakote and then some
can't truth the truth.

I want pray for the both of us.
Even if you don’t exist.

...the drowners

...Aesthetes and Decadents of the 1890's: An Anthology of British Poetry and Prose (Paperback)...seriously addictive. beardsley illustration. read by candlelight with louis jadot in hand. pretend absinthe is still legal and that sun still never sets on the british empire...

(excerpts)

Spleen
(For Arthur Symons)
I was not sorrowful, I could not weep,
And all my memories were put to sleep.

I watched the river grow more white and strange,
All day till evening I watched it change.

All day till evening I watched the rain
Beat wearily upon the window pane

I was not sorrowful, but only tired
Of everything that ever I desired.

Her lips, her eyes, all day became to me
The shadow of a shadow utterly.

All day mine hunger for her heart became
Oblivion, until the evening came,

And left me sorrowful, inclined to weep,
With all my memories that could not sleep.
(Ernest Dowson 1896)

THE HARLOT'S HOUSE

by: Oscar Wilde

E caught the tread of dancing feet,
We loitered down the moonlit street,
And stopped beneath the harlot's house.

Inside, above the din and fray,
We heard the loud musicians play
The "Treues Liebes Herz" of Strauss.

Like strange mechanical grotesques,
Making fantastic arabesques,
The shadows raced across the blind.

We watched the ghostly dancers spin
To sound of horn and violin,
Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.

Like wire-pulled automatons,
Slim silhouetted skeletons
Went sidling through the slow quadrille.

The took each other by the hand,
And danced a stately saraband;
Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.

Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed
A phantom lover to her breast,
Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.

Sometimes a horrible marionette
Came out, and smoked its cigarette
Upon the steps like a live thing.

Then, turning to my love, I said,
"The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust."

But she--she heard the violin,
And left my side, and entered in:
Love passed into the house of lust.

Then suddenly the tune went false,
The dancers wearied of the waltz,
The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.

And down the long and silent street,
The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girl.

'The Harlot's House' was originally published in The Dramatic Review (April, 1885).

Nothing
(Theodore Wraitslaw) 1893
There's a murmur on the hillside
And there's laughter on the sea,
But the day that brings forth gladness
Brings my sorrow unto me.

All along the sunny beaches
Laughs the world beside the sea,
But the laughter is with others
And the sorrow rests with me.

(to the right) that's the way i roll

...even at their worst, I find that I'm doing best with my mouth closed, their legs open and my kisses chasing their sighs as windows rattle in the late afternoon squall.

shrug

oh canada

thanks for making dad such a pimp.

...you gotta believe

...seven weeks from the home opener and they need to get him some starting fucking pitching.

...they say

that the microwavable kind is porous, which allows bacteria to slip thru.

:(

...skirts on fire

...assorted raccoon penis bone ephemera...the only bright spot in her otherwise flimsy, dim-skulled hoax:

Lost Star

">"


like I am seventeen again, driving mom's car through the garage door

krybaby

...for the most part childhood was lonely. I learned early on that I didn't fit into the "society of play," that other children seemed so naturally inclined towards. Organized play with others created anxiety, fear, vulnerability. There was always this worry of the group turning on me, the fear of physical reprisal, an uneasieness that adult words cannot articulate. So I stayed in isolation inventing games and friends and activities...

...one day I remember the other children circling manholes, like sharks, up the street on their bicycles. They had been taunting me on and off for most of the afternoon. I tried to ignore them, but couldnt and in a way I wanted them to look on...Kind of like a zoo animal doing something stupid to gain a vistors attention.

...I had spread wineberries under my eyes and on my cheeks like war paint. I dreamt up an imaginary war, where I was this "revolutionary," leading this battallion of who against what. Those details never really emerged. I swung from a plastic tire swing hanging from a tree, slapping the tree with a stick, as if it were a sword. Swooping to and fro offering muted war whoops...

...as the children looked on the rope broke and I feel landing hard on my elbow. I could hear the children laughing and cried partially because of the pain, partially because of panic.

...my Father came outside to look at me. There was an awful look on his face as he heard the children looking on, saw them laughing. It wasn't a look that a youth can decipher or that age can explain...Today I thought of this, of him. How painful it must be for a father to see his son ridiculed to know that there's nothing he can do about it, to feel as powerless in age as his child does in youth. Knowing there was no way to stop me from crying, to stop them from laughing...Things could never be the same.

lexoprofessional

This morning driving to work I was reminded of how much I love skipping stones...then i wondered if I ever hit any frogs.

I can take killing a fish, but there is something fucked up about killing a frog. Oh hypocrisy.

Kerplunk.

gay and crying full circle

(guilty of writing bad teenage poetry, see below)

Sometimes we are children again
chasing after lightening bugs and burning
our thumbs on sparklers.

Other times we are in between age, in
another time and place, we amble
to and through one another, deaf
with distortion, chewing on one another’s
faces sad and hungry.

You exist in dreams, a lost civilization,
to excavate, worn down by seasons and
the failure of a mind.

Faceless and reduced to memorial: a pile of
clothes on a floor, a pair of bloody legs
riding a bicycle down a hill, stinking of winstons
and ham baked in a white kitchen.

I can’t remember your face.
I can’t remember.
I can’t.

Now. Its snowing.

Bodies of lovers
pile atop me like the mass graves
of holocaust, skinny arms and legs everywhere—
I swallow my fillings and close my eyes

Grasping through the flesh and darkness
at something I don't understand.

exceptional

Omelette

Hard Boiled Egg

Coddled Egg

Sunnyside Up.

Scrambled Eggs

Eggs Over Easy

if you must know

its like crossing over the river styx into the underworld...

...the hunter gets captured by the game

Vampire Hunting Kit, Mid-19th Century

An incredible Victorian novelty. Complete in mahogany box with revolver, silver bullets, garlic powder, silver dagger, ivory cross, mirror, Professor Blomberg`s New Vampire Serum, wooden stake, etc, etc.The bullets was manufactured-by one Nicolas Plomdeur, gunsmith from Belgium. Plomdeur participated in the Great Exhibiton in 1851, London, Comes with instructions on use and original pamphlet on vampires by Prof Ernst Blomberg. Small 8:o, 19 pages.

dream record 1/31/2008

…I had taken the day off from work. It was a Friday but the day I had requested off was a Monday. Confusion abound. So I walked from my apartment which was my apartment (but wasn’t my apartment) to the beach. I had been to that beach but couldn’t tell you when or where it exists in reality. I set up a tent. The blue tent I camped out in as a child. The sand was blowing all over. I stripped down and walked to the water. AGAIN, I had all these weird tattoos all over me. This time they were smiley faces and crooked stars. I didn’t ink them myself in the dream, but it was implied within the context of the dream that I had done so previously. The ocean was amazing. There was this wicked undertow. It kept on taking me out further and further but I wasn’t scared. The horizon seemed like it was a “physical” thing.

When I got out of the water and towled off the tattoos disappeared, well some of them anayway. The scene then switched it was Thanksgiving and I had vacuumed my parents living room. My father stood by the piano screaming at me. The rug wasn’t clean enough. Then I was back in my apartment, again, cooking a Turkey. Awake.

old hat

Since this news story surfaced a couple of years ago about a British teen's internet-suicide/murder plot, I continually find myself revisiting it, capitivated. Its definately movie-worthy, yeah? (see below)

Internet Murder Plot

The boys met in an MSN chatroom. A 14-year-old boy who persuaded his friend to kill him in an internet chatroom had spent months writing stories about the murder plot.

Police found 56,000 lines of text on the boy's computer, who has been dubbed Boy B throughout his trial at Manchester Crown Court.

The amazingly complex stories revolved around eight main characters, including Boy B as himself and his friend, known as Boy A.

The other characters were all fictional.

Boy B started writing to Boy A in early 2003, posing as a teenage girl.
The fictional 16-year-old girl then introduced Boy A to Boy B on an MSM chatroom.
Boy A was led to believe the girl was Boy B's step sister, and the pair soon became a "cyber-couple."

The fictional stories, later found on Boy B's computer, were lived out in the internet chatroom.
The fictional girl introduced Boy A to what she claimed was her natural brother and Boy B's step brother.

Then another boy was introduced, and began to stalk Boy B. Boy B's girlfriend was supposedly killed by the stalker. The girl's brother then committed suicide, leaving Boy A, Boy B and the stalker communicating with each other. Then another girl was introduced into the web, who was the character of a British spy on a mission to protect Boy B.

By this time, Boy A was beginning to doubt his sanity. The spy, who was then killed off in the chatroom 'story', sent Boy A an e-mail saying: "By the time you read this I will be dead."

After this, the main character of the story, a 39-year-old spy, was introduced.
She convinced Boy A that he would be recruited as a spy, if he did what she told him to do.
She led Boy A to believe that Boy B had a tumour and was costing the government too much money. She ordered Boy A to kill Boy B, and if he succeeded he would be rewarded by being taken on as a spy.

The spy and Boy A planned the killing online, to take place on 28 June 2003.
The following day, the boys met at The Trafford Centre, where they bought a kitchen knife before going to Altrincham, Greater Manchester, and Boy A carried out the attack.

...the cadillac pulls out of the graveyard

Illustrations by Stella Langdale, from the book "The Dream Of Gerontius." 1916

Drawings Of Aliens By Child Abductees

Ave Lucifer/Dream Record 1/29/2008

…I was visiting my ex-girlfriend’s brother at his college dorm. He wasn’t him, he looked like a child actor all grown up. We sat in his dorm room, crosslegged on the floor. I think we were baked, but I can’t/don’t remember seeing us smoking any marijuana. I put a cassette tape into a CD player (literally) and told him it was the 13th Floor Elevators, but it wasn’t. We walked out onto a patio. There was a warm rain. I told him he should barbecue out on the patio. He said that he did but had lost the top to the grill. When we walked back inside there was a girl with all these piercings and that haircut where it is long in the front and short in the back: I told her I wanted XY and Z tattooed on my arms. She started tracing these weird symbols. These crooked childlike stars, these black obelisks and this weird “eye in a arcing open teardrop,” that I found inside an Os Mutantes album jacket. The girl rushed through the process. I felt like I had gotten a bad haircut or something.

The last thing I remember I was in a shower with windows, lots of light and the ink from the tattoos was running off me in streams, but the tattoos remained in tact on my skin. Eerie.