What QUE-

Wonderly "the robbot tipped amosausoge!"

 "Brenkigschmell" he replied

    "Deruutskirflifhage haassenbraut, nuf?" truculently bounding hat asked, adding, "blonker chat gupgehiggedelswat." 

                                                Pronkeive laughed the trable immediately.

 

        

Nukie

http://www.x-entertainment.com/articles/0785/

"If you like hearing words that aren't even real words screamed at the highest decibels possible for fifteen minutes straight, Nukie is your bag."

Did Mike and I show you Nukie while it was still "alive"? Unbelievably funny.

And,

have you noticied that human stupidity is horrifically rampant?

But maybe there is hope after all: http://www.commondreams.org/archive/2008/02/15/7241/

The previous

post is what I would be saying if the shelter was completed and I wasn't too damn lazy to build it. Such work just to get to the table? And then, of course, they are all out of the meatloaf.
Who's running this show anyway?

So what time are we going to India? I hope it's 10 a.m tomorrow morning. Seriously.

At long last,

our shelter completed, our money gambled away, we arrive at the great unnamed precipice, the one that has been subtly nagging at our ever-repressed-conscience for so long. Over the edge lies that last and fabled bastion of relief: true and total escape. For now, it is still dormant and scattered; little hints and riddles in lyric, in poignant camera angle, in a glimpse of graffiti genius, in under-the-breath grumbling, in pang felt on park bench while sitting next to Teddy Bear. Involuntarily-unconsciously-unnoticedly pushed into these realms, it waits as a parody of itself, joke-like and cheesy and probably in vain-- it waits for the transmutation of cynicism, the inverting of sarcasm, the final and total relaxation of repression, or maybe just the end of it all. It waits for the quenching of the thirst for the true sea change. The constant impotent drive towards this goal is, in and of itself, a symptom of the failure........now what was it I was trying to say? Was I trying to finally put my finger on the unendurable existential constancy of the ebbing away of life and joy?
When/how did things get like this? How quickly the money and the individualism came between us all. And in such a sinister way, made possible by our self-imposed blinders. Habitually two steps back and one step sideways.

Well,

In The Know: Is The Government Spying On Paranoid Schizophrenics Enough?

Get out the lumber, because

this house isn't going to build itself. These trees won't knock themselves down. The wind isn't going to help us now. We've made enough enemies out there and we'll need to get to work if we want shelter tonight. I'll start with the mortar and build a fireplace. You start on the framing. And, you over there with the flat head and the crooked glasses, you start by gambling the little money we have left to settle our debt for this land.

(Genesis of (Parenthesis))

((Hi, let me tell you the story of how the parenthesis (which is actually not a thesis at all (well it is in a way (speaking of "the way," have you ever read the Tao Te Ching (no, not the Tao Te Pooh, the Tao Te Ching (great book, you should really read it (if you like eastern philosophy that is (no, it's not a type of chinese food (thai food is much better anyway (but you have to be able to stand spicy food (it's actually very helpful with digestion (and digression))))))))?))) was created.))

Damnit, that happens every time!


(and takes forfuckingever)

House of Leaves

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/House_of_Leaves

Dr. Andrew Newberg, a neuroscientist, suggests that this reaction to love is so similar to that of drugs because without love, humanity would die out.

On Tuesday, on the Boston Common, I was enjoying myself while waiting for someone. There was fresh snow and someone had written “Love Life” into it. When I changed it to “Glove Life” I felt a pang, Dan. This stirred up some strong feelings about another passage from my 1950s memoir/guide to freelance surf instruction, Adam Solves the Problem of Existence without Using Forceps or Floppy Drives, Thus Freeing Humankind to Indulge in Epicurean Delights and Laugh in Existential Ambivalence. It was a passage from my early years, one of my favorites.

You will find an excerpt from pages 3,573-3,574, here:

“…as I recall, this was a sharp period of my childhood—a mass of time stretched and flattened over slabs of stone carved with delicate hands to resemble the Rosetta. Time punctuated by sharp equilibria of loving and hating my nanny, Edith, whose face I recall was chartreuse and whose clothes were melon most times. This was a time of first loving*. Although, Love [sic] didn’t stand alone during these teething years; ‘Twas accompanied by strong sensations of Godlessness and self-loathing. On a night when the rain poured heavily onto my bedroom’s skylight and Edith read aloud the explicit parts of The Previously Uncollected Poems of Julianna M. Chardonnay, I first felt the inkling of a feeling of a sensation of desire. A hole seemed to have formed in my stomach and bile was spilling onto the bed and then onto the carpet. Marbles were being poured down my spine and through my hands. My heart was pins and needles. I felt a chill long and slow. Unbeknownst to Edith, I had stopped listening to the words of Ms. Chardonnay and had begun a sturdy focus on the movement of Edith’s lips: the curl of the muscle as her lower lip flicked off her strong buckteeth on “Fuck” or “Figure skating” was exquisite and magnetic. The corners of her mouth were staged with spittle—“Oh! Beautiful Spittle!” my mind roared. There was suddenly music playing that was so good that I didn’t even know I was listening to it. At that moment, I could have repainted Klimt’s The Kiss from memory; could have rewritten every song on Bat out of Hell and Bat out of Hell II: Back into Hell; I could have cooked a steak on the warmth of my forehead. That night, after Edith finished her reading and deserted me for her own fantasies, I sat up in bed for what seemed an eternity. Sitting there, I clicked the light by my bed on and then off. On and off. On and off again. And that’s how it’s been ever since. I’m still sitting right there.


[*Editor: we shall note that in all attempts to rectify Mr. Shalvey’s inane usage of the terms “love,” “loving,” “loveless,” we contacted him on four separate occasions over a span of eighteen months but were each time answered with a telegram which read variations of the following: “Edit duly noted and considered, then promptly rejected STOP Go fuck yourself STOP.” With this, we left his incorrect use of the terminology in the book. We urge you to consider or reconsider the recent (1952) interview given to the Providence Journal wherein he said: “Love? Well, damn it if that isn’t the stupidest word in the whole of languages. Dumber words have never existed; never, you bastard. I can’t believe you made me talk about that. I want to fight you right now. Sit down. No, you sit down. Get you hands off me. You smell like onions. Hey, that fucking hurts. Take this, you bastard. This interview is over. And your mother is a cu—”]

(For more on the Rosetta Stone, The British Museum, my “Decade of Ill Translation” [as it was coined by Time (1942) and, later (1946), Newsweek], or a short commentary on how much I “heart” the Tate Modern, please see Chapters 1, 3, 97, and 106 or Volume II, chapters 16, 47, and 224.)”

Ah, sweet glove. Sweaty love!

By the Beard of Zeus

Oh yeah, Arctophile epidemic continuage

C'monend

I bet you would've liked to go commend Mr. "Bar bar bar bar bar bra Iran" McCain to his face when he was a quarter-mile from my house this morning.

Also, "Who cares about your stupid hedge fund, you dick?" ha!

Cowherd and Weaver Girl

"Altair Voyager"? C'mon now, don't they realize what sort of bad publicity this will cause for both the twelfth brightest star in the night sky and themselves? Not to mention the poor Cowherd and the Weaver Girl. It is yet another blatant and arrogant signal that they're not even ashamed of the close (if not criminal) ties between this administration and the MCFES (Massive Continuous Fusion Explosions in Space) industry/lobby. I think the American people have stood idle far too long as these "stars" are funneled into the highest and most sacred levels of our glorious democracy. With impunity, as if they owned the place, they bring their deadly radiation and huge gravitational fields, hijacking any hope for a brighter tomorrow! This must stop. Rename the damn boat "Kermit the Frog" and we can begin to wash our hands of all this plasma.

(note: all [2] puns intended, copyright Dan Vorosmartypants 2008)

Yeah, and I'm not really that knowledgeable: ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Altair )

Also, from your silence on the issue and what you said that means, I take it you were not entertained by our exquisite recording of Pressure ("musty basement version")? Well then how about Zippyzoo, Mr. Ficklestraussen?

That's rich.

I'll decide when I'm entertained and when I'm not, thank you.

Condi, Condi you're so fine.

I keep forgetting to tell you what's important. The point is that they've seen their mismanagement of resources; the indecency of purchasing political might to supplement their international capatalistic coups. They've made the changes necessary to keep their agreements subtle and beneath the public eye. I for one commend their stealth tactics.

I commend them.

I agree that it did have a nice ring to it, though. She's got a swell name.

That link doesn't work and

I'll be damned if I'm going to continue my demoralizing efforts to reconfigure it. I'd rather eat a handful of rat hair than struggle with that damn link butten.

That's what I always say.

I hate to disappoint you, as you're

all jazzed up on razzing Condi's Chevron franchisement, but I did a spell of shoestring research and found this gem:

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/c/a/2001/05/05/MN223743.DTL&type=printable

Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Here's your entertainment buddy

http://www.myspace.com/boskugelsmarty

And, yes, that is a Billy Joel cover.

Gravitas Lost

And I snapped this when we temporarily lost gravity on the porch.

Tomorrow Depends On You!

Orion snapped this during the Christmas Crescendo 2007

Tomfoolery

An Arctophile Bench-Littering Epidemic?

Yes there really is

a Chevron oil tanker called "Condoleezza Rice"

Damn Arctophiles, leaving their wares...

Dig a Pony, proper

And the third shark,

the card type, with his green billed visor and mismatched soft hands and hard eyes, looks long into the two sharks who are talking loudly across the buffet. His eyes tell the story, but he decides that he might as well cram in some words also.

He says, "What are you two fish talking about?"

The first shark looks to the second shark, which shrugs and piles more tuna onto his plate. "Oh, lobster," he says, walking farther away.

The third shark won't quit.

He says, "Did you hear me fishy? I asked what you two fish were jabbering about."

The first shark doesn't say anything. He's having a difficult time seeing the third shark because his eyes are on the sides of his head. He swivels down and looks him in the eye. He says nothing.

"Did you hear me, you damn fish?" The third shark says, putting his plate on the buffet counter.

The first shark puts his plate down. Or, he tries to and drops it. It cracks on the tiled floor. Flippers are not meant to hold plates. He doesn’t take his eye away from the third shark. He leans in closer and relaxes his jaw. He says nothing.

"You better answer me, fish!" The third shark says.

The first shark narrows his eye and says, "Don't call me fish again."

"Oh, I'm so scared of--" the third shark says, as the second shark, who had calmly snuck around behind him, bits off his head. Blood sprays everywhere, including into the buffet. Someone sitting across the room makes a quiet joke about a feeding frenzy as the first and second sharks refill their plates and try to find someplace to sit.

Shark Reply

The misery is really only emptiness, and how could you place nothing upon the altar of perpetual greenage? Nothing upon nothing. All the way out to oblivion. It's a cold night in the collective psyche which is blind and self-destructive and mindless. If you don't see it you must be chasing it away through some cunning emotional deflection, the least of which is humming the punky brewster theme song over and over. If you see it, then you know already and there is no sense in me telling you what you already know. It might become lifted up into shining immortality in some subtle way we can't see, like maybe the cruiser which just stopped some pickup truck right outside our house.

Shark Attack

You've heard me in the act of speaking but I know a voice you've never heard.

OK, so you're miserable? I wouldn't ask you to unblock your ears
and stop listening to the tragic valise in which your stupid demons dwell
with your unprecedented anger flitting & fighting something unheard.
Maybe if the delusional happiness of your poor world that's "done everything"

could have a base on the perpetual greenness that can't be bought.
You could, at your rotten old age, experience the price of freedom....

It was actually

the 50th anniversary of NASA and the 40th anniversary of the recording of "Across the Universe."  Also, they sent it out into space to arrive at the North Star 431 years from now.

Not I!

said everyone.

Who will help

me plant the wheat?

Remember to

listen to "Across the Universe" tomorrow at 7 pm because it is the 40th anniversary of the first time it was aired.   Supposedly.

"Come on guys!"

the drunkards beckoned.   "The party is this way!"

Ah, but what about the Leprechaun they've captured?   It's all right here, right here in this magazine. 

And is that a helicopter shedding eeiry light through the trees?

Get up sit down get up sit down get up.

I hear there is a David Grey concert at the Whit this weekend.

And, yeah, what was Kate thinking with that Calvin and Hobbes strip!?  Not much I guess.   Perfectly typical.    She won't catch us though.  She didn't and she won't.   

307 311, 12?   

I suppose such experiences change you in the mind somehow.   What is it?   Bananas. 

I'm all fractals and synchronicity now.  Maybe I was originally as well.

Makes you wonder.

It's four o'clock in the morning

in Hubbard Hall and we're still awake. We're standing in front of Kate's room, laughing at her terrible choice of a Calvin and Hobbes cartoon where dancing and staying up all night are important. (http://www.unh.edu/housing/floorplans/pdfPlans/Hubbard3.pdf.) She's probably awake and can hear us. Someone has smashed the window of my room with a rock on account of trouble down at some stupid fraternity house. Happy is in there, talking in his sleep and dying to use the condoms he keeps in his kimono. Erica and Shana are asleep, although we wish they weren't. Outside, the sand on the volleyball court is retaining your peace sign. We go outside and smoke a cigarette on the loading dock, where someone has drawn some graffiti in black marker and there's a hole in the universe across the street. We don't even bother to prop the door. The pine trees are frosty and the weather gets colder. We smoke another cigarette because we're already outside. You smoke Camel Lights 100, because it's "more butt for your buck," and I smoke Camel Filters because they burn my throat and I like the color of the package. It's a soft package. We watch the kids mill back toward their dorms, boozed and messy after parties. We're just sitting outside, smoking quietly. Look at them go. Just another day in paradise. Just another night where nothing mattered.

The rythmn and the flow, Dan.

The music I've been listening to this morning has been great and the book I'm reading is super. Tria's making pizza today for late lunch. Last night, there was a gas leak somewhere in the basement and the apartment was filled with gas. We opened the windows and shivered all night. Well, you can't win them all. Rent and watch Badlands today.