Christregal Shanty

I have invented a new drink.

2008-08-09T13:14:00.002-04:00

It's called the gambler. If you want a the gambler, I'll tell you what to do:
1. Put on Motorhead real loud. The exact song is not important, but Ace of Spades is best.
2. Put three ice cubes in an unchilled martini glass, add 2 oz. grain alcohol, an ounce of tapwater, and an ounce of blue mouthwash (for color and flavor).
3. Stir with a fork three times counterclockwise. DO NOT OVERSTIR!! If you stir any more than this, you will end up with an Earl Blueballs. And that is a terrible drink, so be careful.

A german hit on me.

2007-02-21T22:28:00.000-05:00

A german girl told me that since she met me, she's called me the Poet. (The capitalization is mine, but you know how deutschsprech works.) I'm really not clear on why this is, but when I invited her to sit with my Danish/German/Guyanan/USAsian friend and I, she declined, saying she was with her friend (over there). But that I should send her an e-mail, and- show her my poetry? It probably wasn't that; 'tsounds too innuendous. But anyway, she explained that she was bad at spelling and so insisted on writing her edress herself. (I mean that; she said it. I don't know what it means either.)
So I now have a german girl's email address, and the only question is when, by international standards, is the best time drunkenly to send some words to it. The USA standard is two days, I think we're agreed, but I'm not sure about Continental rules. I'll have to ask around.

Sean Connery is old.

2007-01-24T23:20:00.000-05:00

Every so often, it occurs to me how very old Sean Connery has got. When the fuck did Dr. No come out? '61? Now he's old and bearded, and not even Sat. Nite Live pays him any mind any more.
Sean Connery, unlike the present author, eventually learned to control his sibilants by making them shibolantsh. (It was a classic shibboleth.) By harnessing the power of his sspeech impediment, he made of himself a legend. If such a man once so great can become so wee and wizened, what hope have I?

Hawk

2007-01-14T14:54:00.001-05:00

There is a redtailed hawk that lives around the stately ivory tower where I pretend to work. It looks something like this:

Today I saw it. It looped around and landed on one of those curved fake-victorian lampposts. The post was wet, and curved, so it couldn't get its footing and slipped off. As it was falling, about a dozen crows flew screaming over and chased it away, cackling all the while.
Don't fuck with crows.

Jim

2006-11-16T18:32:00.001-05:00

James was a good man. By the purist, however, he could not be considered a good cat. A good cat is the embodiment of death: sadistic, prolonged death. A good cat’s life is written in the death of its prey, punctuated by the small death that is eighteen hours of sleep per day, and concluded with the big sleepwidth itself. Whoso liveth by the sword.

James was an awful failure of a cat as far as death-infliction goes. He had the sleeping down, O I’ll give him that. But he could never be bothered to, you know, get up or stalk things or torment them or finally give that final kiss goodnight to the back of the neck. Or, for that matter, to do much of anything, bathing included. He was, Ted said, an alive cat, albeit a wu-weiy bundle of nonaction. Not catty, not uncatty. Neither here nor there, but on the couchback, or maybe under the bed.

James was not a good cat. But in the end he was a good cat, as they all are. After his singularly nonviolent life, he yet succumbed to the fate of beast and man alike. Whoso liveth by the sword or by other wise. In the end he was death made flesh, as they all are. (Let he who has ears, hear.)

He was a wonderful fellow. All cats are indifferent, to one degree or another, to their hu-mans. But James was no more partial to himself. The lusts to kill and to clean, cats’ cardinal instincts, held no sway over him. To sit on the floor or to be lugged around ashoulder: it made no difference to him. He abode, blinking through an inscrutable nirvanic haze.

Into that oceanic haze he has now receded. In his wake he leaves only photographs and echoes of his uncatty suchness behind the teary eyes of those who knew him. In his eyes, I am sure, remains the equanimity that branded his life.

Mortal Sin

2006-04-12T22:41:00.000-04:00

There's no escaping it. I killed a mosquito last week. Just plucked the fucker out of the air and blursted it in my hand. Now today, I saw the hugest wolf spider I ever seen, as long as the last segment of my pinky finger and twice as ornery. Which raises questions I can't get into just now, but now this. Now walking home from next door- see, I can have just a beer and then go home- and this, this air. The warm, virginal purity of it. It makes me want to pluck daisies, drop them on the ground, and stomp them. To deflower and to defile. This can mean only one thing.
It's spring now, and I am overcome by the primal vernal zest- dareIsay lust? for life.
But I can't. I can't go ambulating about town 'til all hours just because I can. Wait. I can't go romping about town 'til all hours even though weather permits. Which is a sin, not to take advantage of what'll be like one of three damn nights so nice, a sin against human nature.
But it would be a greater sin against my own selfinterest to slack. The hammer is whacking, the pressers depressing the wares on the conveyor belt clacking, and I can ill-afford any slacking. So here I am. Inside, breathing stale pre-breathed air. Malos Aires.
Scylla and Charybdis. Story of my christless life. I sometimes idly speculate that no one understands ambivalence as well as I.

Reflections on Snows Past

2006-02-25T18:57:00.000-05:00

I must beg the dear reader's forgiveness for my pro-tracted absence from this inter-net communal confessional, as I have been engaged deeply in various study and sundry. Suffice it, for now, to say that the wait, when my fertile labors come to fruition, will be a small price to pay for such a pearl of great price as I am currently gestating within my shell (so to speak).
I read with nostalgic remorse- with agenbite of inwit, if you prefer- Master Nugington's account of the Blizzard of 1978, the Storm of the Century, as the ever-exploitative media were quick to dub it. I myself was then professing special topics in the philosophy of contemporary music (such topics inclusive of "Rock, Roll, Bullets, and Thorns: Sophia in the Corpus Nugentia") in the ivy-walled halls of Boston College. The gentle reader may well (and well should) react with surprise to such an indulgence, on my part, of popular culture, but such was the state of the union in Our Lord's Decade the nineteen-seventies. One must speak to one's students at their own level if one is to hope to make any impact. 'though, in retrospect, I was teaching the very youths who voted in Reagan, Bush the elder, and Clinton, and the efficacy of my technique thus remains open to question. But that is here and now, whilst the present topic was there and then, so to continue:
It may further bewilder you, Gentle Reader, to know that "hip"-ness was not my only ambition in teaching such degenerate topics. Truth be told, I myself had succumbed to that foul decade's vices: I was dating a student.
I will do the reader the service of allowing a few moments of broken pagination to allow that fact and the ramifications there-of to sink, by trickle and by flow, in.

Staci, who always dotted the I in her name with the most adorable of hearts. Staci, whose- dare I say? physical passion was matched only by her passion for disco, and exceeded only by her lust for better living by means of chemistry. Staci was inordinately fond of cocaine hydrochloride, although she positively despised the free-base form of the drug. As I was, and remain, an inveterate pipe-smoker, I preferred the base to the acid salt. But, Dear Reader, I was speaking of the blizzard.
We were en-nuzzled on her sitting-couch for most of the storm. Presently, our supplies (the reader will take my meaning) ran low, and we were thus forced to seek more, by hook or by crook, or, as the case demanded, by auto-mobile. We were thus forced to drive from her abodery in hallowed Cambridge to the dreaded South End. In retrospect, I can but wonder at the irony of such a wonderful drug leading its users to seek the company of such unsavory companionship as is requisite to "score" more.
And so it came to pass, that at the hour of four antemeridian, on the 8th February, 1978, Staci and I boarded my boat-sized Mercury and set sail for "Southie," there to meet the nebulous character known then and now to me only as Tony D.
All went smoothly- as smoothly as such operations can go under the captain-ship of such an operator as the humble author- until Brookline and Main. This, be'ware, was before Main St was officially sanctioned by the Commonwealth with a number. For all the present author knows, the unfolding of the events shortly to be detailed were intimately involved with that very numeration. What the author can say is that whilst he was reaching for his lighter for his smoking-pipe- whilst being "gone down" upon by dear, late Staci- he slid through the intersection and collided with, blind-side, a constabulary auto-car. Even then, the Route 2A-to-be was well-trafficked. Chaos ensued. Not the least element was the loss of dear Staci's life. And given the singular positioning of her jaws, she did not depart this world alone.
If I seem ineffectual and effete, then know now that there is a very real and physiological explanation therefor. On that awful day, I lost not only the means, but the ways as well, of my love. Alas! But I do wholly hope that the reader is not over-much perturbed by this revelation of my emasculation. As our ever-more incorrigible youth are wont to say: Life sucks, and then it bites.

Oh man it's snowing

2006-02-25T16:55:00.000-05:00

So it's totally snowing you know and I feel like I miss the days when you know we were young and we could like totally you know like just play in the snow all day and not get you know tired or anything and just like be with it you know? I feel like I think the last like time I was really with it in like the snow and everything was in like the blizzard of like '78 or whatever because like we just scored this vial of ALD-52 from this totally rad chemist friend with migraines and a scrip for like ergotamine tartrate you know? And Star and I just totally tripped out and we couldn't see from the snow and from the acid and we like you know we just like played in the snow like a couple of kids and everything. We actually made like love in the snow which was like beautiful but we both ended up with like pretty bad frostbite. I feel like that's why parents always put like snowsuits on their kids when it's snowing.

Thoughts on the loss of the use of my right index finger

2006-01-30T23:02:00.000-05:00

I burnt myself the other night. It was a stupid accident. Like many others of my stupid accidents, it involved alcohol. A further similarity is that it would just as easily have happened if I were sober. I'm unaccustomed to Professional grade cookware- pots and pans in particular- lacking the anti-retard plastic insulation on the handle. Anyway, I have a blister covering a small majority of the middle segment of my right index finger. I can't bend it, this finger. The one that goes over the J, which has the bump on it for eyeless typing.
Here is how I type without watching my right hand: The quick brown fox jumped over the kazy dig, Jumom fix jump, See Ducj watch the fix, Watchm Ducjm watch,
Actuakkym U seemed ti be gettung a kuttke better fir a munute there,
K is L, U is I, M is comma, comma is period. This is bad.
I hadn't realized how much for granted I take the use of that one finger, so much the more the ten of them. Honestly, I'd trade an eye (temporarily) to have use of this damned finger back. It reminds me of the first time I got the Clap, but with woeful lack of a potholder instead of a Propho. "1/28/06: Always Remember, Nevar Again." This sure taught me a lesson about what happens when men attempt Women's Work. Try to help a broad out, and look what it gets.
I can't even leftclick with it.
I'm going to go post in my livejournal and ask unqualified strangers how long burns of unspecified severity take to heal.

Craig Murray is a British Deep Throat.

2005-12-30T10:49:00.000-05:00

Damning documentary evidence unveiled. Dissident bloggers in coordinated exposé of UK government lies over torture.
Help us beat the British government's gagging order by mirroring this information on your own site or blog!

Constituent: "This question is for Mr Straw; Have you ever read any
documents where the intelligence has been procured through torturous means?"
Jack Straw: "Not to the best of my knowledge... let me make this clear... the British government does not support torture in any circumstances. Full stop. We do not support the obtaining of intelligence by torture, or its use." - Foreign Secretary Jack Straw, election hustings, Blackburn, April 2005

I was summoned to the UK for a meeting on 8 March 2003. Michael Wood gave his legal opinion that it was not illegal to obtain and to use intelligence acquired by torture... On behalf of the intelligence services, Matthew Kydd said that they found some of the material very useful indeed with a direct bearing on the war on terror. Linda Duffield said that she had been asked to assure me that my qualms of conscience were respected and understood. - Ambassador Craig Murray, memo to the Foreign Office, July 2004

With Tony Blair and Jack Straw cornered on extraordinary rendition, the UK government is particularly anxious to suppress all evidence of our complicity in obtaining intelligence extracted by foreign torturers.

The British Foreign Office is now seeking to block publication of Craig Murray's forthcoming book, which documents his time as Ambassador to Uzbekistan. The Foreign Office has demanded that Craig Murray remove all references to two especially damning British government documents, indicating that our government was knowingly receiving information extracted by the Uzbeks through torture, and return every copy that he has in his possession.

Craig Murray is refusing to do this. Instead, the documents are today being published simultaneously on blogs all around the world.
The first document contains the text of several telegrams that Craig Murray sent back to London from 2002 to 2004, warning that the information being passed on by the Uzbek security services was torture-tainted, and challenging MI6 claims that the information was nonetheless "useful".
The second document is the text of a legal opinion from the Foreign Office's Michael Wood, arguing that the use by intelligence services of information extracted through torture does not constitute a violation of the UN Convention Against Torture.

Craig Murray says:

In March 2003 I was summoned back to London from Tashkent specifically for a meeting at which I was told to stop protesting. I was told specifically that it was perfectly legal for us to obtain and to use intelligence from the Uzbek torture chambers.
After this meeting Sir Michael Wood, the Foreign and Commonwealth Office's legal adviser, wrote to confirm this position. This minute from Michael Wood is perhaps the most important document that has become public about extraordinary rendition. It is irrefutable evidence of the government's use of torture material, and that I was attempting to stop it. It is no wonder that the government is trying to suppress this.

First document: Confidential letters from Uzbekistan

Letter #1
Confidential
FM Tashkent
TO FCO, Cabinet Office, DFID, MODUK, OSCE Posts, Security Council Posts

16 September 02

SUBJECT: US/Uzbekistan: Promoting Terrorism
SUMMARY

US plays down human rights situation in Uzbekistan. A dangerous policy: increasing repression combined with poverty will promote Islamic terrorism. Support to Karimov regime a bankrupt and cynical policy.

DETAIL

The Economist of 7 September states: "Uzbekistan, in particular, has jailed many thousands of moderate Islamists, an excellent way of converting their families and friends to extremism." The Economist also spoke of "the growing despotism of Mr Karimov" and judged that "the past year has seen a further deterioration of an already grim human rights record". I agree.

Between 7,000 and 10,000 political and religious prisoners are currently detained, many after trials before kangaroo courts with no representation. Terrible torture is commonplace: the EU is currently considering a demarche over the terrible case of two Muslims tortured to death in jail apparently with boiling water. Two leading dissidents, Elena Urlaeva and Larissa Vdovna, were two weeks ago committed to a lunatic asylum, where they are being drugged, for demonstrating on human rights. Opposition political parties remain banned. There is no doubt that September 11 gave the pretext to crack down still harder on dissent under the guise of counter-terrorism.
Yet on 8 September the US State Department certified that Uzbekistan was improving in both human rights and democracy, thus fulfilling a constitutional requirement and allowing the continuing disbursement of $140 million of US aid to Uzbekistan this year. Human Rights Watch immediately published a commendably sober and balanced rebuttal of the State Department claim.

Again we are back in the area of the US accepting sham reform [a reference to my previous telegram on the economy]. In August media censorship was abolished, and theoretically there are independent media outlets, but in practice there is absolutely no criticism of President Karimov or the central government in any Uzbek media. State Department call this self-censorship: I am not sure that is a fair way to describe an unwillingness to experience the brutal methods of the security services.

Similarly, following US pressure when Karimov visited Washington, a human rights NGO has been permitted to register. This is an advance, but they have little impact given that no media are prepared to cover any of their activities or carry any of their statements.
The final improvement State quote is that in one case of murder of a prisoner the police involved have been prosecuted. That is an improvement, but again related to the Karimov visit and does not appear to presage a general change of policy. On the latest cases of torture deaths the Uzbeks have given the OSCE an incredible explanation, given the nature of the injuries, that the victims died in a fight between prisoners.

But allowing a single NGO, a token prosecution of police officers and a fake press freedom cannot possibly outweigh the huge scale of detentions, the torture and the secret executions. President Karimov has admitted to 100 executions a year but human rights groups believe there are more. Added to this, all opposition parties remain banned (the President got a 98% vote) and the Internet is strictly controlled. All Internet providers must go through a single government server and access is barred to many sites including all dissident and opposition sites and much international media (including, ironically, waronterrorism.com). This is in essence still a totalitarian state: there is far less freedom than still prevails, for example, in Mugabe's Zimbabwe. A Movement for Democratic Change or any judicial independence would be impossible here.

Karimov is a dictator who is committed to neither political nor economic reform. The purpose of his regime is not the development of his country but the diversion of economic rent to his oligarchic supporters through government controls. As a senior Uzbek academic told me privately, there is more repression here now than in Brezhnev's time. The US are trying to prop up Karimov economically and to justify this support they need to claim that a process of economic and political reform is underway. That they do so claim is either cynicism or self-delusion.

This policy is doomed to failure. Karimov is driving this resource-rich country towards economic ruin like an Abacha. And the policy of increasing repression aimed indiscriminately at pious Muslims, combined with a deepening poverty, is the most certain way to ensure continuing support for the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan. They have certainly been decimated and disorganised in Afghanistan, and Karimov's repression may keep the lid on for years – but pressure is building and could ultimately explode.

I quite understand the interest of the US in strategic airbases and why they back Karimov, but I believe US policy is misconceived. In the short term it may help fight terrorism but in the medium term it will promote it, as the Economist points out. And it can never be right to lower our standards on human rights. There is a complex situation in Central Asia and it is wrong to look at it only through a prism picked up on September 12. Worst of all is what appears to be the philosophy underlying the current US view of Uzbekistan: that September 11 divided the World into two camps in the "War against Terrorism" and that Karimov is on "our" side.

If Karimov is on "our" side, then this war cannot be simply between the forces of good and evil. It must be about more complex things, like securing the long-term US military presence in Uzbekistan. I silently wept at the 11 September commemoration here. The right words on New York have all been said. But last week was also another anniversary – the US-led overthrow of Salvador Allende in Chile. The subsequent dictatorship killed, dare I say it, rather more people than died on September 11. Should we not remember then also, and learn from that too? I fear that we are heading down the same path of US-sponsored dictatorship here. It is ironic that the beneficiary is perhaps the most unreformed of the World's old communist leaders.
We need to think much more deeply about Central Asia. It is easy to place Uzbekistan in the "too difficult" tray and let the US run with it, but I think they are running in the wrong direction. We should tell them of the dangers we see. Our policy is theoretically one of engagement, but in practice this has not meant much. Engagement makes sense, but it must mean grappling with the problems, not mute collaboration. We need to start actively to state a distinctive position on democracy and human rights, and press for a realistic view to be taken in the IMF. We should continue to resist pressures to start a bilateral DFID programme, unless channelled non-governmentally, and not restore ECGD cover despite the constant lobbying. We should not invite Karimov to the UK. We should step up our public diplomacy effort, stressing democratic values, including more resources from the British Council. We should increase support to human rights activists, and strive for contact with non-official Islamic groups.

Above all we need to care about the 22 million Uzbek people, suffering from poverty and lack of freedom. They are not just pawns in the new Great Game.

MURRAY

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Letter #2
Confidential
Fm Tashkent
To FCO

18 March 2003

SUBJECT: US FOREIGN POLICY
SUMMARY

1. As seen from Tashkent, US policy is not much focussed on democracy or freedom. It is about oil, gas and hegemony. In Uzbekistan the US pursues those ends through supporting a ruthless dictatorship. We must not close our eyes to uncomfortable truth.

DETAIL

2. Last year the US gave half a billion dollars in aid to Uzbekistan, about a quarter of it military aid. Bush and Powell repeatedly hail Karimov as a friend and ally. Yet this regime has at least seven thousand prisoners of conscience; it is a one party state without freedom of speech, without freedom of media, without freedom of movement, without freedom of assembly, without freedom of religion. It practices, systematically, the most hideous tortures on thousands. Most of the population live in conditions precisely analogous with medieval serfdom.

3. Uzbekistan's geo-strategic position is crucial. It has half the population of the whole of Central Asia. It alone borders all the other states in a region which is important to future Western oil and gas supplies. It is the regional military power. That is why the US is here, and here to stay. Contractors at the US military bases are extending the design life of the buildings from ten to twenty five years.

4. Democracy and human rights are, despite their protestations to the contrary, in practice a long way down the US agenda here. Aid this year will be slightly less, but there is no intention to introduce any meaningful conditionality. Nobody can believe this level of aid – more than US aid to all of West Africa – is related to comparative developmental need as opposed to political support for Karimov. While the US makes token and low-level references to human rights to appease domestic opinion, they view Karimov's vicious regime as a bastion against fundamentalism. He – and they – are in fact creating fundamentalism. When the US gives this much support to a regime that tortures people to death for having a beard or praying five times a day, is it any surprise that Muslims come to hate the West?

5. I was stunned to hear that the US had pressured the EU to withdraw a motion on Human Rights in Uzbekistan which the EU was tabling at the UN Commission for Human Rights in Geneva. I was most unhappy to find that we are helping the US in what I can only call this cover-up. I am saddened when the US constantly quote fake improvements in human rights in Uzbekistan, such as the abolition of censorship and Internet freedom, which quite simply have not happened (I see these are quoted in the draft EBRD strategy for Uzbekistan, again I understand at American urging).

6. From Tashkent it is difficult to agree that we and the US are activated by shared values. Here we have a brutal US sponsored dictatorship reminiscent of Central and South American policy under previous US Republican administrations. I watched George Bush talk today of Iraq and "dismantling the apparatus of terror… removing the torture chambers and the rape rooms". Yet when it comes to the Karimov regime, systematic torture and rape appear to be treated as peccadilloes, not to affect the relationship and to be downplayed in international fora. Double standards? Yes.

7. I hope that once the present crisis is over we will make plain to the US, at senior level, our serious concern over their policy in Uzbekistan.
MURRAY

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Letter #3

CONFIDENTIAL
FM TASHKENT
TO IMMEDIATE FCO

TELNO 63
OF 220939 JULY 04

INFO IMMEDIATE DFID, ISLAMIC POSTS, MOD, OSCE POSTS UKDEL EBRD LONDON, UKMIS GENEVA, UKMIS MEW YORK

SUBJECT: RECEIPT OF INTELLIGENCE OBTAINED UNDER TORTURE

SUMMARY

1. We receive intelligence obtained under torture from the Uzbek intelligence services, via the US. We should stop. It is bad information anyway. Tortured dupes are forced to sign up to confessions showing what the Uzbek government wants the US and UK to believe, that they and we are fighting the same war against terror.

2. I gather a recent London interdepartmental meeting considered the question and decided to continue to receive the material. This is morally, legally and practically wrong. It exposes as hypocritical our post Abu Ghraib pronouncements and fatally undermines our moral standing. It obviates my efforts to get the Uzbek government to stop torture they are fully aware our intelligence community laps up the results.

3. We should cease all co-operation with the Uzbek Security Services they are beyond the pale. We indeed need to establish an SIS presence here, but not as in a friendly state.

DETAIL

4. In the period December 2002 to March 2003 I raised several times the issue of intelligence material from the Uzbek security services which was obtained under torture and passed to us via the CIA. I queried the legality, efficacy and morality of the practice.

5. I was summoned to the UK for a meeting on 8 March 2003. Michael Wood gave his legal opinion that it was not illegal to obtain and to use intelligence acquired by torture. He said the only legal limitation on its use was that it could not be used in legal proceedings, under Article 15 of the UN Convention on Torture.

6. On behalf of the intelligence services, Matthew Kydd said that they found some of the material very useful indeed with a direct bearing on the war on terror. Linda Duffield said that she had been asked to assure me that my qualms of conscience were respected and understood.

7. Sir Michael Jay's circular of 26 May stated that there was a reporting obligation on us to report torture by allies (and I have been instructed to refer to Uzbekistan as such in the context of the war on terror). You, Sir, have made a number of striking, and I believe heartfelt, condemnations of torture in the last few weeks. I had in the light of this decided to return to this question and to highlight an apparent contradiction in our policy. I had intimated as much to the Head of Eastern Department.

8. I was therefore somewhat surprised to hear that without informing me of the meeting, or since informing me of the result of the meeting, a meeting was convened in the FCO at the level of Heads of Department and above, precisely to consider the question of the receipt of Uzbek intelligence material obtained under torture. As the office knew, I was in London at the time and perfectly able to attend the meeting. I still have only gleaned that it happened.

9. I understand that the meeting decided to continue to obtain the Uzbek torture material. I understand that the principal argument deployed was that the intelligence material disguises the precise source, ie it does not ordinarily reveal the name of the individual who is tortured. Indeed this is true – the material is marked with a euphemism such as "From detainee debriefing." The argument runs that if the individual is not named, we cannot prove that he was tortured.

10. I will not attempt to hide my utter contempt for such casuistry, nor my shame that I work in and organisation where colleagues would resort to it to justify torture. I have dealt with hundreds of individual cases of political or religious prisoners in Uzbekistan, and I have met with very few where torture, as defined in the UN convention, was not employed. When my then DHM raised the question with the CIA head of station 15 months ago, he readily acknowledged torture was deployed in obtaining intelligence. I do not think there is any doubt as to the fact

11. The torture record of the Uzbek security services could hardly be more widely known. Plainly there are, at the very least, reasonable grounds for believing the material is obtained under torture. There is helpful guidance at Article 3 of the UN Convention;
"The competent authorities shall take into account all relevant considerations including, where applicable, the existence in the state concerned of a consistent pattern of gross, flagrant or mass violations of human rights." While this article forbids extradition or deportation to Uzbekistan, it is the right test for the present question also.

12. On the usefulness of the material obtained, this is irrelevant. Article 2 of the Convention, to which we are a party, could not be plainer:

"No exceptional circumstances whatsoever, whether a state of war or a threat of war, internal political instability or any other public emergency, may be invoked as a justification of torture."

13. Nonetheless, I repeat that this material is useless – we are selling our souls for dross. It is in fact positively harmful. It is designed to give the message the Uzbeks want the West to hear. It exaggerates the role, size, organisation and activity of the IMU and its links with Al Qaida. The aim is to convince the West that the Uzbeks are a vital cog against a common foe, that they should keep the assistance, especially military assistance, coming, and that they should mute the international criticism on human rights and economic reform.

14. I was taken aback when Matthew Kydd said this stuff was valuable. Sixteen months ago it was difficult to argue with SIS in the area of intelligence assessment. But post Butler we know, not only that they can get it wrong on even the most vital and high profile issues, but that they have a particular yen for highly coloured material which exaggerates the threat. That is precisely what the Uzbeks give them. Furthermore MI6 have no operative within a thousand miles of me and certainly no expertise that can come close to my own in making this assessment.

15. At the Khuderbegainov trial I met an old man from Andizhan. Two of his children had been tortured in front of him until he signed a confession on the family's links with Bin Laden. Tears were streaming down his face. I have no doubt they had as much connection with Bin Laden as I do. This is the standard of the Uzbek intelligence services.

16. I have been considering Michael Wood's legal view, which he kindly gave in writing. I cannot understand why Michael concentrated only on Article 15 of the Convention. This certainly bans the use of material obtained under torture as evidence in proceedings, but it does not state that this is the sole exclusion of the use of such material.

17. The relevant article seems to me Article 4, which talks of complicity in torture. Knowingly to receive its results appears to be at least arguable as complicity. It does not appear that being in a different country to the actual torture would preclude complicity. I talked this over in a hypothetical sense with my old friend Prof Francois Hampson, I believe an acknowledged World authority on the Convention, who said that the complicity argument and the spirit of the Convention would be likely to be winning points. I should be grateful to hear Michael's views on this.

18. It seems to me that there are degrees of complicity and guilt, but being at one or two removes does not make us blameless. There are other factors. Plainly it was a breach of Article 3 of the Convention for the coalition to deport detainees back here from Baghram, but it has been done. That seems plainly complicit.

19. This is a difficult and dangerous part of the World. Dire and increasing poverty and harsh repression are undoubtedly turning young people here towards radical Islam. The Uzbek government are thus creating this threat, and perceived US support for Karimov strengthens anti-Western feeling. SIS ought to establish a presence here, but not as partners of the Uzbek Security Services, whose sheer brutality puts them beyond the pale.

MURRAY

Second Document - summary of legal opinion from Michael Wood arguing that it is legal to use information extracted under torture:

From: Michael Wood, Legal Advisor

Date: 13 March 2003

CC: PS/PUS; Matthew Kidd, WLD

Linda Duffield

UZBEKISTAN: INTELLIGENCE POSSIBLY OBTAINED UNDER TORTURE

1. Your record of our meeting with HMA Tashkent recorded that Craig had said that his understanding was that it was also an offence under the UN Convention on Torture to receive or possess information under torture. I said that I did not believe that this was the case, but undertook to re-read the Convention.

2. I have done so. There is nothing in the Convention to this effect. The nearest thing is article 15 which provides:

"Each State Party shall ensure that any statement which is established to have been made as a result of torture shall not be invoked as evidence in any proceedings, except against a person accused of torture as evidence that the statement was made."

3. This does not create any offence. I would expect that under UK law any statement established to have been made as a result of torture would not be admissible as evidence.

[signed]

M C Wood
Legal Adviser

A Tale from the Vaults of Hope

2005-12-28T14:34:00.000-05:00

Actually, it's more like a file cabinet than even one vault, and I haven't even nearly filled one drawer yet. But it's slowly filling up with files and case studies. As a case in point:
My mother's youngest sister, who is my older brother's age, has an expanding brood. Sarah, Jenna, and Quinn. She and the husband took the children on the Polar Express, which I gather to be some type of magical family-type trainride through the White Mountains that ends in an artificial Christmas-type village. So they took the kids on this ride.
The next day, Sarah... well. After they watched some Star Wars movie last year, her small brother was eating Cheerios and began throwing them around. Sarah, at six, said to her sister O no! He's gone over to the Dark Side. So this year, after this trip, she asked her mother if they could talk in private. So she got my aunt In Private and said Mommy, I know that wasn't really the North Pole, because we would have had to cross over water. We have here a sevenyearold with the geographical savvy to know, and the consideration not to wreck her younger siblings' illusions.
It would appear that my family, besides the aforementioned Wunderkinder, bear some share of the light. I am itchy, in both heart and loin, to begin my own contribution to the work of improving the world by one remarkable family at a time. But my luciferian seed isn't very well sowing itself.

Oh man i TOtally had a idea the other nihgt

2005-12-26T01:16:00.000-05:00

I totally wanted to compoalin an dshit about sa thing but I forgot what it was. kInda drandk bmaybe. Ill get back toa sdyfyou.
oh um ya sorry i was lieing about my yreal manme. iTs actually Wyatt Riott. Not jAcky POApers I mean for Christ's sake ist's Christmaxz and siI woulndnt lye abuot Jesus on His Birthday because COme on! fuckings a, tahts fr4om PUFF THAE MAGIC DRAGON and not 3evne like my peiuce of shit hippy parnts werew lame enough to name me after an fucken PETERPAULANDMARY SONg. I MEAN REally. nO but seariously il'l tell you when i remember whatt i wanted to say earlyer. I THink it wassd liike importanta or soemthing.

The Horror from Beyond the Sleep of Time

2005-12-18T11:23:00.000-05:00

I had to go back to South Central yesterday, for family photography. Spectral shades of gradeschool oozed out of their eerie spaces of repose to haunt me. But I escaped.
Last night I dreamt that after the Session, I'd gone back to the parents' house to find my father engaged in weird and eldritch rites. An awkward hello, and an exhortation not to touch nor to disturb anything. Just beyond the grass of the yard, just into the dry leafy matter and scrub, he had built two fires. One he tended, and one was watched only by a white sheet bearing under it four ominous lumps. At points in his muttered chanting, both flames would flare up perilously. Perilously indeed, because they were under a canopy of barebranchy trees. A forest fire was the least of my concerns, for from under the sheet I detected a singularly disturbing shuffling, as of unknown shambling horrors rustling through the decaying leaves.
It was then that my strength vanished, as in a dream. I fell to my knees as certain persons, some known and some unknown, scraped and shuffled their way out from under the sheet. My father was as alarmed as I at this unforeseen interruption to his wizardry, 'though he at least still possessed the power of locomotion. We both made for the garage, myself on hands and knees and pursued by the whiteclad strangers whose eyes were not quite right. Through the garage was the relative safety of the house. I called for my father to give me his hand, to lend me his strength to get me out of this awful harm's way.
Then I woke up.
This is what I get for spending the better part of two days reading Lovecraft online.

Hypnos teased

2005-12-12T18:58:00.000-05:00

   One of my favorite winter activities is, on a really cold day, to get onto the bus for the ride home. As a rule, the colder the outside of the bus, the hotter and drier the inside. (This is an objective phenomenon, as measured by my Calecotronic Portable Thermohygrometer, and not just psychological relativism.) On such earlydark days, the busride is like a herkyjerky liedown in front of a fireplace (but more upright-seated). And inevitably, the dry heat lulls me toward sleep while the knowledge that I've got to get off the damn bus at some point pulls me back awake. The net result is the sort of dreamy dazed doze that I've mostly only experienced while curled fetally up in a library chair.
   Dry heat, dry eyes, sleepytime and drool on the armchair.
   A hynagogic state is the clinical term, and a fine term it is. Pseudodreams aside, my favorite thing about this state is the combination of peace and time dilation. Five minutes balloon into an hour, like LSD without the tweakiness or other side effects. I could almost stand to live forever like that, and the best thing is that it wouldn't even take forever to do it because of the expansion of time. Of course I jest; any fraction of infinity is still infinity. Alas.
   Hypnagogia is much better than hynopompic states. Coming back awake from sleep, with one's last memories being random scraps of dreams, one doesn't tend to get the same peaceful ease as with the transition into sleep.
   As it happens, I would just as well take either one: They're about equally difficult for me to attain. Whatever analog to Cerberos may guard that Lesser Divide, between the lands of the quick and the asleep, does not let me go gentle into either that good night or the next good morning. If I'm awake, the odds are that I won't be able to sleep, and vice versa. After the past several nights that I haven't been able to sleep, I came to accept this. I would rather not sleep at all than oversleep. What with being almost thirty and supposedly supposed to be like a grownup and, you know, stuff and junk.
   One of these days I'm just going to ride an on-campus bus from one end of UNH to the other, again and again in great circles of restful not-quite-sleep. And I will get off, dazed, blinking, and with mid-evening morning-breath, and I will probably regret having wasted three or five hours. But I'll have enjoyed it, and will look back on it nostalgically on many future sleepless nights.

Four or five Points of Light

2005-12-04T15:31:00.000-05:00

[Edited for veracity- Ed.]
Stately Parsons Hall has a problem with doors. There is a pair of doors in the front that, if the wrong one is used, will not close. This leads to security concerns when the building's meant to be locked, and also to massive heat loss over the winter. I have watched hundreds of students blithely push on the wrong door, and when it fails to open easily, just push it harder and walk away as it fails to close.
The other day, I overheard the following exchange between a few students who'd just come in:
Girl: You used the wrong door!
Boy: So?
Girl: So it doesn't close! And...
and on down the hall they went. This was the biggest single reason for hope in the future that I've seen in maybe years: A young person was paying attention to her surroundings. I bet she's the type who even looks both ways before crossing the street- an uncommon behavior on campus.
So, children being the future, I was much encouraged by this. Until later that day. Later that day, I met four much better causes for hope. If the first girl was a point of light, these were supernovae.
My friend and roomate-to-be Ann was surprised with a birthday party the other night. In attendence, among others, were children named Max, William, Dora, and Bean. Let me start by relating the cards the three eldest made for the birthday girl.
Max made a card whose insides featured a variety of animals making animal noises and wishing Ann a happy birthday. An alligator, a monkey, a fly, a snake, and more. The snake has just failed to catch the fly, and says, 'Damn! I missed!' while the fly rejoices, 'Thank God! Happy birthday! Bzzzz!' He is 11.
Seven-yearold William's card featured some type of toothy dog attacking a stickman's tookus. The butt in question had a flap torn out with a rubber band, possibly so you could move his can out of harm's way. On the back was drawn a man being shot. There was also a legend included, explaining that dark circles represented bullets, and red drops were blood.
Dora made a round card with layers on the front making a bow, like would be tied around a box of chocolates. Inside the card is a rendition of Dora handing Ann the self-same card. Self-referential art at five years old.
I only met young Bean briefly. He spent most of the time hanging on his mother like a tiny baby monkey. When she told him to say Hi to me, he mumbled something that was obviously over par for a toddler. I later learned that he was inviting me for a ride in his spaceship.
They have a band, these children. I can't remember the name, but it's basically what you'd expect- The Well-Aged Cheeses, something like that. [The Creepy Muffins- Ed.] I don't know about Max, but William plays violin and has offered to teach Ann how to play. Dora is the drummer, and when they start playing shows, is going to play wearing only pants. Because drummers never wear shirts.
So I'm a little more hopeful about the future. Under this American presidency, a lot of people have feared the setting up of an empire of fools, ruled quite rightly by the biggest idiot the people could find. I now have hope.
I now have hope that when the people are broken and finally wholly subjugated, when our cruel overlords seek superiority through eugenics of their own bloodlines and dysgenics of the rest (to quell competition), when they seek their very immortality through cybernetics, that those rulers will truly be, like so much Dalek, the Superior Beings.

Me an dthe drugs: Aderall

2005-11-21T22:59:00.000-05:00

S oone time They called me in at work and they sadys Jacky, they says to me, We think yuo got a Prolblem. And Im like what? And their like Mr. Papers, we notice that yo uhave had a lot of axidental incidence on the floor and I'm like Dur I lost most of my dteeth before I even started her eand there like We think you may have a Atension Deffesit(?) Dissorder and I'm like yeq whatever.
So the Copmany Store sends me to the Company Voodou hEadsrhink and he's all My goodnes jacky you have aproblem but let me put like some scribble son some paper and sedn you to the farma, see. And im' like no i Dont but whatevre and so they put ome n ten mg Atteral a day and i'm like WHat the hell man but secretely Im like SWEEt!
And so I take my 2pi lls a day sex hours apart and it's like woa. Like the bulshit i do don't get any easier or less fucken stuped and boreng but I cood care less. iT's a real calm mellow energy. but its energy still and its good. I can see waht the tweekers aer lookin for wehn their not getting jipped H!A cuz drug gealer's are skumbags and they cheat you wehneverr they can. fucken dooshes.
bUt seriusly i got to ask stan abuot this. Like how come can i Mean can you make a drug with the focuss and good energyo f thisspeed adn mix the visuals from like acid like cuold you like combine the tow? Cuz that wuodl be rad. tHe fuckin thing abuot those visule drug's is that theirs like no base no solid ground to stand on but if you culd put a goodlik eamph vibe it would be the best fuckin gdrug iEver took.a nd Stan you know hes'a chemist so he should know. AS Fcukin much as i hate to ask the prick.

My Dinner with My Dinner with Andre

2005-11-20T22:40:00.000-05:00

If I had a wife who came home from her waitressing job just now, the first thing I would tell her is that I had Sloppyjoes for dinner. No, no, I'd say, not with meat, with those Burger Bits of dehydrated tofu and MSG that Hannaford just stopped selling. But now it turns out that it's cheaper to buy the Fantastic fake sloppy joe mix anyway and add tomato paste, although I'm wary of anyfood containing tomato paste. Anyway, I'd go on, I walked back in after a smoke midway through the movie and thought what a nostalgic smell the Manwich sauce made for. Shades of dinner in the late 1980s rising out from the forced hot air vents. I don't think my mother ever cried when we ate sloppyjoes. This may have been after Dad went to rehab, this remembered milieu, but definitely before he began announcing to the assembled family at the table how severely he had The Squirts. Maybe he and I would harass little Mike, calling Mooooooooiiiiiiiike!! until he cried. Or maybe I wouldn't have finished eating before my father did, so, bored, he would say MLALP (the sound of a monkfish sucking a smaller fish into its grotesque maw) every time I opened my mouth to take a bite. Sweet God I hated him. Then.
P.J. was gone by then, moved out to live with his girlfriend or whatever. He was 18, she 14. It's weird: In the early '90s, we gave up on eating together at all. My nascent vegetarianism didn't help any- I didn't presume to ask Mom to cook me something amenable for me; still less would I cook something for myself. Life cereal and milk for me. Oh, My Dinner with Andre?
Two friends eat dinner and talk for two hours. Mostly the crazier one, Andre, talks. He's what the phrenologists call exhibiting Complex Partial Epileptic-like Signs. That means he has insane beliefs that he didn't learn at church. Wellbred rich New Yorker, a theatric director. The other one was an unemployed playwright who unsuccessfully sought acting jobs. They ate at a really nice restaurant. Oh, the other one, not Andre, was the "Inconceivable!" guy from The Princess Bride.
I liked it. It was all just their conversation, which was mainly selfindulgent stuff on What's Wrong with the World and How to Fix It, or Not. The end was pretty open ended on whether it made any difference at all to either of the friends.
I would've loved it while I was eating dinner with my parents and brother in that second, later time I mentioned, though. It would have greatly inspired me, which is synonymous with aggravating the complex partial epileptic-like signs that I myself was manifesting at the time. Was. I luckily grew out of it. Any more, I don't believe really anything. Least of all the nonsense I'm constantly spewing.
Then I would ask her, How was your day?

You know what?

2005-11-17T23:51:00.000-05:00

No, I seriously want to know: How do you keep this Anonymous person from posting ads in your thingies? 'cause he's seriously starting to P me O. I want to tip his bullocks and in a wholly malicious and heteroerotic way. "Yeah, I'd tip his cows." The Fin' jerk.
I think the appropriate internet abbreviation to add is ATEOML! *please help*

Squirrel Esplosion

2005-11-16T20:50:00.000-05:00

I remembered a thing tonight. From years ago, when I lived on Ham St, from whence my CD player was stolen out of my unlocked car. Yeah, yeah, dumbass. I remember, though.
One time I was walking back from Janeto's. This cornerstore is famous for its meats. I don't know how well they traffic in kidneys, but to judge by the cat piss smell pervading throughout, I'd guess pretty rapidly. Anyway, I used to buy my smokes (and sometimes a fitty cent créme horn) there. This one time, I was walking home from there along Broadway there, and I passed a dead exploded squirrel in the road. There and then my mind diverged, and I was like Whoa.
I felt and thought about the sudden shock and horror of the thing, and also thought, in parallel, of how I would convey the experience to others- or of how I would weblog on it? Maybe. This was way back in my Nihonophiliac killingmachines.org days, before the wife, even. It was a while ago. "I saw this dead squirrel tonight, and-"
But I remember the jarring sensation of noting a thing not only for the thing's sake, or for my sake (via the experience of the thing), but as well for ego's sake of relaying the thing. And I remember thinking 'This is Fed up. Whatmigonna do.'
I still don't know. I also don't know, can't recall, what on earth I felt there and then. Seeing a stupid small animal killed to death by its small stupidity. All I remember is the shock to my system after my first-ever instance of parallel processing. I don't multitask well.

My back's bad

2005-11-13T20:28:00.000-05:00

sO i dont know whast wrong i was Raking yesterda for my Bsos and had a fwe beers last Nite adnow I Woke up this mornnig an dmy back is fucken killin me. I geuss my lat's or whatever's delts ( lower back] can thack racking all them leafs. alls i did today was lay in my bahtrobe in the livin groom whatching tv dvd's of arested Developemet. No wwith my back ficked up i nkow how that Maybe chick will feel in twetny years HA but man shes real cute .I wondre if shes a Gay likek Porsche Goss. wHat a loss you know? OK I GOt to go exersize I bet maxing Murkie Dismles is good Ercercise for a bad back awht do yuo think.

Thoughts on and inspired by the motion picture Purple Rain

2005-11-11T22:11:00.001-05:00

So I've been sitting here drinking Murky Dismals trying to catch up on the twenty years I've wasted by failing to appreciate Prince, or the artist formerly known as "the artist formerly known as Prince." At a superficial level, it's pretty bad. Of all of Prince's many talents, acting is not one, even when he's playing himself. Actually, the actor who plaid the Kid's father and Morris Day were the only passable players in the whole thing. I actually laughed out loud at the 'Who's on first' routine that M.D. and his lackey [Jerome -Ed.] did with 'What is the password.'
One of the important themes of the film is the tradeoff between artistic integrity and maintaining copax (copaceticity?), between maintaining the purity of one's own vision and making everyone happy or even maintaining the audience's interest. After they plaid Darling Nikki, the club manager yells at the Kid for making his music too personal, and for his being the only one who likes or even understands his work. (Just like his old man, to tie in one of the other big themes.) And I thought Man, this is so me, to manifest the third person of the trinity of themes, that Prince is a self-obsessed jerk like me (but hotter & more talented). This remound me of something that Hillary said the other day about this humble Shanty needing some kind of decryption key. I know I get a little dense and convoluted, so this is maybe not a bad idea.
The main thing is that I like closed, bounded systems. Having too many options incapacitates me; I'm too indecisive to deal with that. For this reason, I partitioned myself into four + 1/2 personae, noms d'e-plume if you will. Ted is the only other alive human at this site. As for the me-lets, their identities I think are fairly clear. Except for Miss Jones (as in Devil in Miss Jones, c.f. Deep Throat w.r.t. conspiracies) who's basically only along for the ride.
Also, I like founding words and verb tenses that seem ought to exist. C.f. 'copax,' 'plaid' for 'played' (by analogy to 'to lay'), and 'remound' for 'reminded.' Despite evidence to the contrary, I am a phenomenally uncreative person. I am really capable only of fleshing out systems laid down by others, and not of creating new ones. A good example is this alleged Todd fellow.
There is no Todd. Doesn't anyone read Sartre any more? I mean, I don't, but I have it on good authority that your Todd is dead, and that no one cares. Todd is an illiterate squirrel about whom a stoned talking cat thinks, "That's Todd. I know Todd." The next day, the strip's alt-text was "Do you know Todd". This is the best euphemism I have ever, so I eloped with it. (We're doing quite well, thank you.) I owe knowing Todd to Achewood, the best comic strip on Earth.
Despite my intellectual handicap, I occasionally do somewhat well with reworking things that others invent. As I mentioned, I work best within clearly delineated boundaries, and other peoples' styles, coupled with having my friends for characters, make respectively very nice canvases and pallette for me.
Now, I realize that I may just have murdered all of my alter egos. Probably not. In any case, I will once again remove my actual, integrated self from this rickety Shanty and resume posting from my two dimensional cardboard subselves. Just to keep things plain and complicated. (I stole that line from Franny and Zoey, by the way.)
-Iain Worthington Goldliebowiczstein Knickerflaps

On Todd

2005-11-11T17:59:00.000-05:00

I must say, I can not understand all of this Todd non-sense. Firstly Stani, then Hugo's gushing, and now the enigmatic Miss Jones shows her head to pipe in her two cents, if I may mix my metaphors. Who in Heaven's name is Todd and why have we not heard of him until this point? From whence issues the allure of Todd, and why is there implicit here the notion that all of the auteurs here are of the same Todd's acquantance?
Having the ad-vantage of quite some years on the relatively Spring chickens about this coop, I may say with confidence that I have known many Todds in my days. For mercy's sake, if Mr. Nugington had shown more often up for lecture, he would have met three distinct Todds in my class-room alone: Todd Johnson, Todd Eyring, and Todd Flemeringson, to name their names. Behold! three distinct Todds with quite nothing in common other than a penchant for philosophy. I can not begin to calculate the astronomical proportions of the odds against these three weird-os knowing the one same Todd, but I estimate it to be roughly one-in-three-hundred-thousand.
I do hope this helps to put a stop to all of this silliness, because I grow rather weary of it.

Toddrick Winhauser was arrested in 1998 on felony charges of possession with intent to distribute

2005-10-21T01:14:00.000-04:00

1047 grams of marihuana, 2 grams of crystal LSD, 15 grams of DMT, 3 oz. PCP, 1 oz. powder cocaine and 1 box baking soda, 3 gal. isoamyl nitrite, and 1 blister packet of Dramamine (phenhydramine). The apprehension took place at the San Antonio airport, but agents of an unknown agency in black jumpsuits marked only by an inverted triangle circumscribed in a circle on the back interrupted the proceedings of the DEA, the FBI, and various airport security personnel, cordoning off the entire wing of the facility in which the arrest was made. Southwest Airlines alone reported losses of up to 250,000,000 dollars for lost business, refunds, and their customary bottle of Jack Daniels Kentrucky bourbon whiskey for delayed flights (a policy shortly thereafter cancelled). The agents were forced to wait in B Terminal. Nearby eyewitnesses described white canvas tarps concealing the wing and strange, highly repetitive electronic sounds. At some point the confusion, a single black helicopter lifted off bearing the agents of the unknown agency and (presumably) the suspect. When the Federal forces reentered the secured area, the entire wing had been repainted in a melange of brown-and-blue stripes, as well as broad bands of bright Day-glo colors, various murals of a lascivious nature, and all of the waiting-room seats had been upholstered in varicolored corduroy. The effect of the redecoration was described by one witness as "mortifying, but strangely fabulous." The whereabouts of Mr Winhauser at present remain unknown. Shortly after this incident, the greater San Antonio area witnessed a dramatic surge in per capita salons, discos, theatres, wineries, cheeseries, and registered Democratic voters.
While it has been this investigator's policy in the past to draw together the facts presented in each post with a pithy summary, it is the opinion of same that the facts here speak for themselves.
Devil In.

Oh man I know Todd

2005-10-17T02:17:00.000-04:00

Oh man I can't believe that oh I should begin at like the starting of it. So you know I didn't know that like Stani knew Todd I mean you know I didn't even know him when I started up here I mean your man you know like I've known Todd for longer than Stan's probably been like alive you know? But it's like I feel like pretty weird because like I haven't been around like the computer for a while and stuff and then it's like I like come back here and then like your man was all like I might call Todd or whatever you know and like I totally bet it's like the same Todd that I know. I feel like I just feel it you know? I feel like like there's a lot of what some people would call coincidences between Stan and me that like are more than that you know? I don't feel like they're coincidences at all you know I think that like they mean something you know? So like that's why I feel like this is the same Todd that we both know. It's like it's like there might be only one Todd you know like all of like the so-called Todds might be like all just different like aspects of the one true Todd you know? I mean it's like how many Todds does like each of us know? Because like I only know one. I don't like feel like I know anyone who knows more than like one Todd.

No booze but plum booze

2005-10-17T01:19:00.000-04:00

I am all fired up, having just seen the Three Random Words in the Portland. And here I am at home now alone after 1 in the anus mundi with nothing to say, nothing to do, and more importantly nothing to drink but a phial of heinous Romanian triply distilled plum wine. That and a can of Irish Guinness, which, F that. This is an emergency, not a Special Occasion.
   For now I've nothing to show for the night but an acute case of sleep-impossiblizing sobriety, although the photos will soon be developed. The wonders of finding a disposable camera in your ex' car. I wonder what the first 11 will reveal. With any luck they'll show her new Aryan bum-fireworks-giving boyfriend in compromising and I hope illegal situations. At the very least, I can deface them savagely.
   We went, after the show (in a venue with a fascistical No Smoking/No Leaving/ No returning policy) to the Brian Behan. Not Behan; Ború maybe? Some Irsh dive with a $2.50 Guinness/Bass/someothercrap-on-Sunday policy: Excellent choice of bar, there, Stani. Why thank you my friend. And for the first time of the night I could have a proper drink, read "with a cigarette". There was a balcony on which we were illegally permitted to smoke outside. And there was downstairs a sign reading NO SMOKING OR DOGS BEYOND THIS POINT (I got a picture). Fucking Portland. First they come for the smokers, then they come for the dogs. It's enough to make me see redstate.
   OK, diary, that's enough for now. Maybe I'll reacquaint myself with my old friend Todd (do you know Todd?) but for sure I'm plumb going to hit the plum vodka and hope that it doesn't up and hit me in the stonecold gut and straightup force me to hit the head. Assuming it doesn't, it'll be the dullest crap I find on the tv to trick my eyes into fatigue so I can get maybe 5h of the shuteye time. After which I'll work, rinse, and repeat. La cirque de la vie.

Partie cake bakersman

2005-09-25T22:27:00.000-04:00

so iG et suckered in th eother nite to this Party and i"m thinkin hut slots an a fihtg, may be if I play my cards rite. danm these kid's are geting young or is it just me. i ain't seen so many unde rage drikning since my cousin Zeeks bar mitsva. or was ita bat mitzva mebe but the hag that gave him the hj in the batrhroom was the bat HA
anyways I met a girl thikning finelly someone old enaugh to get Pubes but it was drak adn she was twennhy SHIT i don'th ink them numbers add aup to a Good Idea but then later the SHE HULK tells me the stars before an dafter her Name means whe Wants It (what I got) but i Hadda dance with some Hallie Berrie looking hot chick even to get her nos (my gf's not the dancing chikc) and plus she lives in Mass probly out raisin gomebodys Taxes tonight but i don't rememer the end real good maybe i Was weird or some shit my face hurt the next day from smiling
.JACKY IS IN LOVE

All fired up, and no shit to shoot.

2005-09-13T00:13:00.000-04:00

An open letter to The Crawling Kingsnakes

2005-09-06T23:16:00.000-04:00

Mssrs.,
   You people are probably the best thing to come out of your state since the nigh-limitless supply of black gold, or, if you will, Texas Tea To where, O where have your all jive asses gone off? Black Widow Spider may well be the best song I've ever heard in my life, with the possible exception of Rocktopus's 'Saturday Night'. Because for Christ's sake, what the world needs now is another song about Saturday nights like I need a hole in my head.
   And but yet still some time after Somethingawful's "Dr. David Thorpe" awarded you the Keep Rockin' Award, you disappeared. Why is that? Could you not handle the pressure? Are you not as Rockin' as your music led us to believe? Are you in fact a knowing or un- pawn of the liberal meteor, smashing into the ground in a blaze of inglory?
   I'd like a whole bunch to hear more of you. And stuff. But basically I want to download more of your shit (read "music") and but I can't. But I want to. Et cetera!

Cosmic like reconnection

2005-08-28T21:19:00.000-04:00

I still like can't believe that I ran into old Doc Murklethorpe again. Man after I was on like the run for a while I felt like I'd never like see anyone from my old life again you know? Oh I should probably like explain what happened on that bummer all those years ago and I haven't even like thought of it in probably like TWENTY years it's like all this here and now is so far from there and like then but our time and space are you know just like a blink in the mind of god man. It's all like a matter of perspective you know?
So I was supposed to get like my Bug fixed or inspected yeah it was overdue for inspection but then like the night before the deadline I got totally high with like the Square and Beans who it turns out was a total narc and all that time I thought it was the Square who hardly ever toked and Beans was the biggest head I even knew man and then Carma swung by and offered to take us on a little trip and we were like right on so I started like turning on but I forgot I'd taken the pounds shillings pence right? And so like I jumped out of the car and started running like in high school track before I got handed my like walking papers. I always used to like drop a cube before meets so it would be like I was running really slow and I'd be like "What the hell man? I can run faster than this" to like psyche myself into running faster you know? So then like they found my stash in my locker one day and I was like what the hell man like now what am I supposed to do? So I'm running and eventually I found my car but the key like wouldn't fit which it turns out was because it wasn't my car it was like some other dude's so I kept running and I see like a bridge and then I hid under it until like the morning after so I like blew off my inspection and then like was driving to it because I wasn't like totally sure what day it was and I got there and they're all like I'll see if we can squeeze you in and then they got to me and I was like Right on. And then I was like hanging out in the grass totally like home free because I made it you know and the dude was like Dude where's your registration and I was like It's in the dash man and then I was like oh no man. I looked at the dude and like he looked in the dash and he was like looking at me the way they look at you when you have like long hair and maybe you like didn't buy into the whole like showering thing and he took the papers and was like I gotta go into the office for a second here buddy and I didn't bother waiting like to watch him pick up the phone or like what numbers he dialed. The dude had like my number and it wasn't 420 and he'd probably seen the like half a lid in the dash stash and so like I just took off. Like I said I used to like run track so but I just took off even though the reg had like an old like wrong address on it I just took off down the street and like cut through some woods and like kept going. So long college so long world so long Doc Murklethorpe and I was like off like a rabbit with like ten greyhounds like chasing me which like they probably were for all I know you know?
So anyways I went around from place to place for a while like no ID no wallet no money but I had like some incredible experiences you know? It's like there's a lot of things that like you can't or won't like get around to doing if you're held down by like a bank account or like a family and I feel like I don't like regret any of it. Anyways so like I ended up spending some time out in like a certain northwestern state where I like helped out a dude who subsequently made it like big in like mushroom cultivation. He kind of sold out but like he gave me a roof and fed me and like gave me research to do so blessed be him you know? We were working like on cultivation of a certain like native mushroom out there all like hush and quiet down man and met with like pretty good success so but like then we disagreed because I felt like we should sell the crop and he like wanted to be discreet and just like keep it to ourselves which I thought was like pretty selfish. We ended up like splitting that first crop and we each like copied each other's notes and like went our separate ways. Since then he's like done a lot for the cause of the sacred mushroom which I like totally respect and I don't want to like say anything bad about him you know? We just like fundamentally disagreed on one thing you know he wanted like to sell the word, the techniques and I like felt like we should spread the word like for free and sell the fruits of like our labors. I can like understand you know with him having like kids and like a wife and stuff that he would want to be like "LEGITIMATE" or whatever that means in like this culture or like the culture of that time or whatever. So I ended up setting up shop and like marketed my like dry goods and like since by then the McKennas had already like popularized Cubensis mushrooms I promoted mine by like an old Japanese name for the holy fungus which is Maii take that is like the dancing mushroom. So like you can probably see like why my mind is so blown by running into the Doc since I like reinvented that name. Man this google thing is a lot more than I like bargained for. It's like I feel like now I have like a bigger understanding of how like small the world is from the internet and everything.

Good news & weird dreams

2005-08-22T20:02:00.000-04:00

Last night's entry from the recently incepted Hippie Journal:
21 August 11 days without any yelling after dark. I was starting to think it was all just a bad dream. But then [page break]
9ish: Stomping. [Meaning only that someone came home. -ed.]
10ish Too loud of talk on the porch.
10:31 Someone in the building yells QUIET! Twice. And this, someone on the other side [of the dupliced building], ALL THE WAY ACROSS FROM THE PORCH where Zoëaut; and 2 or 3 other idiot chicks are yelling.
10:45 A scream/yelp like someone put ice down her shirt. Then talk of a dead grandmother, fairly quiet. Cackling. Lots of loud laughter. (About a guy who's "going to have a heart attack any day now.")
10:53 Now I'm watching Bond too loudly to hear. I'll note when the others leave if I'm [still] up.
11:40 [A g]ood time to get louder. One's leaving.
11:45 She left.
11:58 Are they wrestling? Falling bodies, yells of pain, OW, OKA-A-A-AY- what is wrong with them? BRAK. Nice burp, Lady.
12:14 Fuck? Suck? Something -uck, that's for sure[;] that and more furniture-dragging sounds.
Also, ~~someone's a~~ is he crazy? STONER. (cackle.) Going to bed.
Mostly it's the other idiot, not Zoe.
Z. drones on & the other yells & "laughs." They're rude even to each other, talking over each other. [Apparently the journalist failed to go to bed, despite his intentions -ed.] 3 of them; Z. is on the phone (yelling into it) [on the porch, so she can hear or so everyone else can?] & the other's still talking to someone. Z & arone [?] are having a really serious talk. Etc. Goodnight. It's 12:20.
"And everything was great EXCEPT one of the bedrooms didn't have any windows."
She's looking to move out!
[end transcript; I went to bed and still couldn't get to sleep until after 3, due to no fault of their idiotic own]
I never thought it might be a good thing to have the cunt yelling her business after midnight on the porch. Good news at last.
    I dreamed, after I finally fell to sleep, about a girl I once(?) had a crush on. I was talking to her, apparently from the porch of my soon to be ex-neighbors, and she was on my porch. I leaned my head & shoulders (more of which I could use, flake that I am) over the edge of the porch, hanging my face upsidedly down in front of hers, in breathsmelling, breathfeeling distance, and asked her Why don't we get married?
   And so on; you know how dreams go. It's only occurred to me while transcribing the weirdity that this was half of the exact behavior the hippies' cat exhibited to me when I was on the porch below him. He was pissed off, though; my intent was purely amorous. But I wonder. What a Christlessly weird piece of impenetrable symbolism.
   For the record, I think the dream evolved in such a way that the hanging down was itself a dream (whoa, man), a dream that I subsequently tried to make a reality, but as it turns out, even in a dream it's very difficult to stage such an absurd pickup line.
   Peace out in the middle east out, with the west coast jews moved out afore al Lah show he clout and smite the cutcock motherfuckers with the yeast gout.

A still life with insects and vegetation

2005-08-21T22:05:00.000-04:00

The dear reader must forgive me for my protracted absence. I returned from a visit to kith and kin at the beginning of July and was bluntly informed by your man that the Journal of Improbable Allegory would not be publishing the article that he and I co-wrote. It having been longer than I care to recall since this author has published, I had been in the highest spirits at the prospect of getting back, as they say, into the game. The rumor on the streets is that gross mis-management bordering on the embezzlous led to the publication’s insolvent status and thus precipitated my crash of spirit. Thus thoroughly dispirited, I took heed of your man’s for-once-reasonable advice and took holiday at an isolated mountain resort.
   There, away from the hustle and the bustle, the worries and the woes of life in this modern world of ours, I was (at last!) free to sit of a night in an en-screened enclosure, listening enrapt to the randy creatures of summer serenade forth their swan songs of desperate lust. A man can want no more than these three things: A cool beverage, a smoke-able stick of some type, and the symphony of insect-oid love, as plays nightly in rural Vermont. And they do have fine tobacco, as well. On more than one occasion I was courteously offered a cigarette rolled of what I am told was the locally grown (“home-grown,” they called it) Nicotiana. I must say, I found the smoke far superior to that available on the market. I fain wonder why they don’t sell it themselves? I one night, musing on the trans-portation costs of moving a truckload of the sweet leaf and of how many individual leaves would fill the space in the truck, asked the donor the same. He demurred to answer, modestly claiming it was available “if you knew where to get it,” what-ever that means. In any event, the tobacco was finer than any to have graced my palate in at least thirty years. At that time, I was in residence at Boston College and tutored a bit on the side, by which means I came to meet a young man by the unlikely name of “The Nuge.” He was a bit of a “long-haired” sort, if my meaning is clear, but a fine man and a fine mind. After the sordid commerce of tutelage was transacted, we would sit smoking and talking of all manner of things, of the nature of time and space, of brotherhood and love, and of the infinitely rich taste of Hostess' Twinkies. Such stimulating and intelligent conversation we had that I was aghast when, after he abruptly began skipping appointments, I learned that he had been arrested on narcotics charges. I suppose that even such great minds as Coleridge, van Gogh, and Huxley could be dope-addicts, but ah! such a waste.
   On my last night of sortie, as it were, my new friends gave me a handful maii-take to add to my salad. The name is Nihonese for “dancing mush-room,” which strikes me as charming. These mush-rooms were most unusual: dried and blue-stained. Evidently, fleshy fungus is unstable unless dried, which I had not known, although it now occurs to me that I have seen packages of dried shii-take at the grocery. The entrée was sauté'd bean curd garnished with whole soya beans in a rich shoyu sauce, but all I could taste was the mushrooms from the salad! Worse, I presently found myself in the uncomfortable position of suppressing gastric gas at the dinner table, which, when released, also tasted like the maii-take!
   At last, we were excused and I quickly made my way to the screened tent, powerfully anxious that my manners might not hold my weak old flesh back from further offense. There I found the crickets and cicadae even more melodic than usual, as if they were saying their good-byes to me- an odd gesture, as we had not even made acquaintance of each other. Or so I thought; having the notion in print before my eyes, I realize what an absurd conceit it obviously is. I am therefore even more embarrassed to have thought that the very trees, sinewy willows, were waving at me- but of course they were pines, not willows. It seems my gastro-intestinal distress had “gone to my head,” if I may make a novel turn of the old phrase. How very peculiar. I recall even at the time being wary of the strangeness of my condition, in fact, I even mentioned it, repeatedly, to my new “friends” the crickets. Or did I merely think it?
   The walk back to my cabin seemed to take much longer than usual. This is due in part to a rubber-necked lolly-gagging on my part: I was staring at the sky, having never seen the aurora borealis. Such beauty I have never seen- crawling and slinking sheets, spirals, and nets of light. In a word, it was wondrous. There was a peculiarly kaleido-scopic aspect of the phenomenon, as though I was seeing tessellations of color, a mosaiac, the tiles of which were constantly changing shape. Perhaps tesseraction would be a better term, as if the tiles were rotating in an unseen dimension, and I beheld only their three-dimensional cross-sections. The sight was rather captivating; indeed, I stared for what I give my word was hours, caught in the natural beauty and my own imagination, like to watching clouds but much more convincing in strength of analogy. I had no idea the phenomenon was so rich- Lovely colors in the sky are one wonder, but faces, animals, entire landscapes in the sky?
   I finally made it back to my room, where I found with wonder that it was only 9:00 in the evening! My walk could not have lasted more than twenty minutes. Perhaps the mountain air had at last over-whelmed me, accustomed as I am to the polluted excuse for an atmosphere of our urban centers. Exhausted, but paradoxically enervated, I lie down in my bed. My attempts at sleep were futile. Aside from the facts that the aurorae were still visible in my room (even after I lowered the blinds!) and the walls thus a-wash in crawling color, I found my hearing sensitized. I could hear multiple conversations in the rooms around mine, but could neither make out what was said (although I some-how felt it vaguely sinister) nor exclude them from my attention. At last, I left the cabin in my robe, returned to the screen tent, and watched the crickets and listened to the trees until four or twelve in the morning. (My watch said mid-night, but I can not believe I was there only for less than three hours.) Here the aurorae were subdued some-what; I found I could ignore them if I focused on other stimuli. But in their shifting light, the trees them-selves appeared oddly angular and fragmented, like one of Louis Wain’s cat-paintings later in his schizo-phrenia. At the last, I returned and collapsed in my bed, tasting with relish the sweet nectar of sleep that feeds the just and the damned alike.
   I was fully re-covered from the episode on the morrow. All-in-all, I am recuperated from my upset, that strange last night aside. The aurora was much more than I had been led to expect, and I suppose once in a life-time should sate my appetite. And on the topic of appetites, I will avoid maii-take mush-rooms when in polite company.

I have found a hobby.(Sort of.)

2005-08-15T00:27:00.000-04:00

Tonight, after I listened to it rain, I picked up a Stephen King short storybook or collection. It was like learning to read again. Skeleton Crew, featuring I think (1) story made into a movie (Monkeyshines, née The Monkey) and one that made it to one of the Creepshow movies (The Raft). And (2) painfully blank verse poems, (1) of which is from a paranoid schizophrenic's paranoid schizospective, which makes it more tolerable, but that has (1) slant rhyme that made we waste upwards of (2) minutes looking for another; (1) formulaiac Like, Creepy Tales, Man story about a dude who got cursed by a Hindian holy man (the holy man threw a dead chicken at the dude; you know that Hindoo voodoo) and which claimed that the natives have things "undreamed of in our philosophy"; and the (1) about the shipwrecked d'ago surgeon-cum-drug smuggler who progressively snorts his blow while amputating and eating more and more of himself.
    My introduction to the King of Horror was in (2)nd grade, with the illustrated "novella" Cycle of the Werewolf, which I recall as being not as laughably absurd as its Nick Nolteized cinematization Silver Bullet (recently featured on AMC). I first read the present monstrous menagerie of Spooky Shit Stories way before I read IT, which was in (4)th grade. Speaking of WHICH, I wish someone had read it in advance to forbid me from reading it, esp. with the whole (6) (10)yearold dudes banging a (10)yearold girl in the sewers. There has got to be here (1) or more lessons about Liberal Permissive Parenting.
   Not that this collection is entirely unreadable. The one about the guy who went on a murderspree with his girlfriend whom he met that night who (SPOILER) didn't really exist (END SPOILER) was alright, like if Horatio Alger started writing after Freud and had less faith in the American dream and more faith in the awful incorrigibility of human (America inclusive) nature. And then there's the (1) about Gramma, which scared the fuck out of my (8)yearold ass and which I realized in highschool is full of Lovecraft references. And there are (2) that I actually like, The Jaunt, which I like to give its apter Phil Dick title 'The Trouble with the Teleporter', and Mrs. Todd's Shortcut. The latter is the author doing the only thing he can do: writing about weird shit that takes place in Maine. With dialect and stuff.
   But don't take my word for it: Read the book! O, awful horror and Reading Rainbow, what hell hath you wrought.
   I would like to found the notion of a disposable hobby. Something you do and then throw away. But it's likely that I'll pick up this shitty split-binding book again within the next (3) years.

Guinness, Arthur. Irishman.

2005-08-07T22:20:00.000-04:00

I recently came on good enough fortune to get a fourpack of the Guinness of the old country. I was probably inappropriately already drunk when I drank it (most of), but it tasted pretty much identical with our (canadian) Guinness on tap. Which is surprising. If their cans taste like our tap, not at all like the chocolatey murk in our big black cans, I can't imagine like what the real thing might taste. It's really quite Platonic: We drink shadows at the bar, and shadows once removed out of cans. Now this artifact from the real world is packaged for transport back into our dark vale of tears and tastes like a shadow. So the Ideal remains elusive. Also, the cans were a full 500 mL, not our sorry 454.
With only one can left for posterity, I've had no choice but to pick up lemon juice for the turbid deaths befitting my dank and cobwebby state. Which reminds me that I need a hobby. All I've been doing of a night lately is lying edgewise on the couch watching whatever crap is on the shitbox. Just tonight I've mustered the will to stay at least on my ass and off my side. But there must be something else to do. Somehow the eternal bitching about the spotty hippies leaves something to be desired, and if even I'm getting tired of my complaining then the writing is clear on the magic 8 ball.
The hippies & the roomate both were out of town all weekend. It was a peace that passeth understanding, and then didst drive around the loop yet to pass again. Life in a small town, cruising the strip.

Batts

2005-08-07T15:29:00.000-04:00

Theirs bat's in the belfrie. Uslly every Summer we get bats but this time there in a difffrent part of the biulding where i Never seen them before. THey don treally bother me but tis' a pain tin the Ass to need to be On Elavated Alert Levle Red adn so your ready to duck if they swoope at yuor head for Nor REanson.
IF eel a little bad for them sicne their stuck in here just on accident and prolly there aint much bugs and birds adn vigrins or what ever they eat for them. Life Is Difacult.
Well then again there porbaly maybve a cuople few vergins around.

Nightmarish

2005-07-01T22:36:00.000-04:00

That's not an exaggeration of the hippies' skills, upstairs there. It's like a beterrored pursuit dream without reason or even word, only the raw horror of pursuit. By whom? You never know; all you hear are the savagely arhythmic drums of the remotest jungles of an obscure planet in the Trisomy 21 system, on which you landed after your ship's gustatic capacitor burnt out. You are the only survivor. There were others, but those who lived through the crash did not long last the pursuit. Now you are alone, you and the native Honkions on your tail. Assailed from all sides by the ceaseless and horrifically random percussing of the natives, erratic beats drowning out the nigh-silent rhythm of your weakening heart. Without rhyme or reason you will die, and the last vibrations your eardrums transceive to your brain, as it suffocates, will be the chortles of the years-stranded antimaterialist Volvo pilots and their copilots exhorting them, Right on. The real tragedy is that given a couple more years, they would have grown out of their little phase and grown into their trust funds. Such is a toss of the coin into the circle of life. Sometimes you land in that unlucky region between a quarter of and a half of pi, and there you are.

Xtreme entense deathkill

2005-06-26T11:09:00.000-04:00

So all my life i seen Jumping Sipders but I never saw one eat a thing. Growing up in a country house in the country. iW as liek, What do they eat? cuz all they do, if old jAcky was On The Stand Under Othe and shit, alls I could say is Your Honer, they walk around on like building sand jump.
Now tho i can tell The Most Rite Honorable Jugde Honorsrightworth a littel more. it was lieke something from a movie wheer the main guy's are walking buy in the back ground and theres' this animal and as they walk by another animal SUBDENLY!!! JUmps out and eat's it.
So their was some Brown bug out there, i dOn't know what Kind. And I seen it and then i Just smoked and then when i looked at it again, oh it was Upside down on the ceilgin and when i looked again it was hanging all wigglging and shit and i was like is that a ant? like wtf? a Tiny Ant, i mean like a tenth the siz3e of the bug but i looked and no it was a tiney jumping spidre just tottally biting this bug the size of like a Ford F110,000 if a guy was going to eat it. All hagning up sidedown by like 2 legs, all wretsilng this fucking Truck size bug.
sO the point it not only ate a truck but held it fucking up sidownh from the Ceiliing wihch is Pretty Bad Ass if yuo ask Me.

thump step thumb ththum pstept hump

2005-06-09T22:24:00.000-04:00

It doesn't bode well when your rhythm-keeping foot thumping on the floor is wholly out of synch with your already arhythmic bongoing.
   Brothers! Sisters! Labels!
   Not born to pay bills... something about will... a bunch more that rhymes with ill. This is the least free styling I have ever heard: Songs of the Northeast, the little known Disney rip-off of traditional slame culture and music. O God I hope they find a way to drown on their own bongwater.
I've had friends
like my friend Steve
he used to be chill then
   O wait, he's just talking now. It's hard to tell, except his speaking voice I guess flows a little more naturally. O God it's been like half an hour; don't they need a chokesmokebreak on the porch yet? On the porch away from the drums. One of these nights- I like to imagine them singing Redemption Song when- I'm going to walk in there and casually stab the membranes of the drums and walk right on out. I'm not sure they'd notice right away. It's not about trying to piss them off or hurt them, mind- I just think the god damned things would be quieter with slashed 'branes, even if the hippies aren't.
   Now the guy with the guitar. They play a fraction of or a whole verse, endlessly ceasing abruptly to talk for a minute. Are they discussing what they're doing wrong? No, no, not like that. Like this- no, wait like th- Wait- Maybe I'm just too corporatized and, like, betrayed my native roots and, like, can't see any more the ways of nat, I mean Nature and her glacially slow progress. 'Cause Mother Earth, man, she's made of dirt, and so she's like really slow, you know? But, you know, Nature like finds a way, I you know A Way.
   I wish Nature would work, like, her entropic way on them a little quicker. Wait, maybe that's it- What I'm hearing might be a latterday music of the spheres, the DS > 0, the Cosmic like Symphony of increasing universal entropy, right over my head. I think I just blew my mind. I'd better go drink more.
   No, no, not like that, man- your fingers are totally all on the fret. Yeah, well you're the one who was keeping time! I mean, I'm like trying to go like with your rhythm, but your foot and your hands are banging like shit at the same time, so like which one am I like supposed to listen to?
   The best part is that every now and then I can make out the sound of the (totally fake) hippie broad up there's A.I.M. messages coming and going. Blidaloo. Bloo-dali. At least there's some type of harmony going on up there.

A minor erratum

2005-05-31T23:00:00.000-04:00

I take no pleasure, of either the snarky or the smarmy variety, in reporting that neither Jacky nor your man, there, is in fact not the originator of the translucent-liquor-and-juice beverage. Indeed, the gimlet has been known to the rabble and ruffians, along with the cool jazz-heads and the post-war post-teeny be-boppers, since 1947 when it was invented by one Walther P. Smythe, a bar-keeper in the then-undiscovered Soho district, at the request of an unnamed drunk who could not pronounce "gin with lemon." While the flame burns forever at the Tomb of the Unknown Drunkard, yet his drink flows marching on.
   One might wonder how the present author himself has come privy to this trivial snippet. One need wonder no more: I was Mr. Smythe's bus-boy during my doctoral schooling at the now (alas) defunct College of Antiquities of the now (alas) defunct Civic University of New York. Well, one simply must pay one's way some-how. The GI Bill goes only so far when one is living, as was I, la vie bohème. And, even at that time, the liberal arts were being relegated to a mere relicary status, much to our civil decline and, at the time, my own loss of a position as an assistant professor. There was no one to whom to profess, and barely any to whom to profess assistant-ship.
   I also happen to know that Smythe "invented" the drink at my behest. It was no stretch of the imagination, for I had beaten the other authors at this current web-site (I happen to know as well that Miss Jones considers herself the originator of the Hot Facial, some un-godly concoction involving licks of flame and milk of cocoa-nut) and Smythe in concocting what I then called The Drink of A Single To-morrow, comprising equal measures each of juice of lemon and lime, and a double measure of the Neder-lands' finest, Ketel One. (I spent a fort-night or dozen in the low-lands during the War, let it be said in short, lest I impugn my own character.) These citrus were the only fruits on hand to stave off the scurvy in a mal-nourished populace.
   Years later, as one after an other of Ian Fleming's novels were translated to the silver screen, I re-christened it, in a phlegmatic fit, the Pusy Galore.

Uzbeki Eyes

2005-05-24T23:08:00.000-04:00

You riped off my Murkey Dismle FAGOT

2005-05-23T16:56:00.000-04:00

Normly i just let this crap slide but not this time you Cock. I fuckin taught you that drink adn ia int gonna let you patint my invention.

THE MURKY DISMAL BY JACKY
1. Put some clear liqor in a glass. Don't matter much what kind but iL ike gin usu. Beafeeter. vodka also but its usauly a waist to use too good of one. Save the good stuff for Shots.
2. Put in some water and squirt in lime juice. lemon's are for HOMOS. You want about half booz eto half of half water and a quater jice.
3. its Best to let it sit for a 1/2 hr or so to warm up if u kp liquor inn the frige with your cheese adn whine liek a collage boy. If its dirty in yuor house maybe cover the glass with a paper or tin foil. Us'ly u can drink a beer wihle your waiting.
4. Drink it, and I'd apreciate a cheers to me, Jacky, the Inventor of the drink you are cheerseing with not that poser cock stealer.

my old Girlfrend invented the name. Some green cartoong uy from Gem or Shera or Beverley Hill's Teen's or what ever 80s chick show. adn its murly like a Swamp where Ima dump that bogtroter Your Man if he dont quit stealing My Shit.

I have founded a new type of drink.

2005-05-22T23:40:00.000-04:00

THE TURBID DEATH:
Mix one part of Everclear with one part ReaLemon^TM 100% Lemon Juice*. Dilute with five parts pre-refrigerated water in a martini glass- the violence of the water pour will mix the drink. DO NOT STIR. Sip apprehensively, and then more confidently as it works its way down.
*Two caveats are in order: Firstly, Everclear is the only acceptable azeotropic alcohol/water distillate. Neither denatured alcohol from the hardware store nor standard grade solvent nor even pharmaceutical grade ethanol, at the azeotropic limit or chemically dried to 200 proof, are acceptable. Everclear. Secondwise, the concoction has not been tested with other makes or models of 100% lemon juice. The author refuses any responsibility for the reader's bastardizations of this pendingly patentable Invention and any mishaps that may follow the use thereof- such deviations from the cited Process including, but not limied to, use of other brands of alcohol or lemon juice or manual stirring- while yet claiming intellectual, spiritual, and fiscal rights to any proceeds proceding from the use of these potential aberrant variations to the author's unique invention, viz. the Turbid Death, and variants thereof.
The careful reader will notice that I did not stipulate the age of the ReaLemon juice. In my case, it's monthsold. The label of the lemon-shaped bottle informed me that it "stored" best when refrigerated. It may thus be of some consequence that I bought it months ago in preparation for an ill-fated fish dinner that was never to make it out of the freezer to the cutting table. This may have contributed to the turbidity of the thing.

An update: Tonight is right for FIGHT!

2005-05-22T02:24:00.000-04:00

There have been two fine American Classic Movies on the AMC tonight. Three, actually, but only the first(second) is on repeat play. Beverly Hills Cop, some van Damme kickboxing monstrosity, and some yet-weirder flick starring both Charles Bronson (as a streetfighter) and James um, damn James Coburn (as a streetmanager), yeah, from The President's Analyst. O God of all the movies I didn't need to see all high as hell at seventeen on the AMC before they had commercials. Because he was the psychohelper guy of the president but then he had to make like Mary on the little lam and have sex with a hippie twenty years his junior. Actually, that may have been my favorite sex scene on the screen ever, edging out the sheer predetermined fatalist hotness of Linda Hamilton in the 1st The Terminator by virtue of the number of would-of-been assassins counterassassinated while trying to assassinate the very same President's Analyst. While he humped the hippie chick and some dude sang about Changes that Keep Goin' 'Round. Plus, even with their clothes on, '60s chicks were hot. Definitely hotter than '70s or '50s or '30s chicks, and I don't know of any '20s or '40s actual sexscenes. I would be very much interested in learning of any that may be out there, since by all accounts there were hot chicks at those times.
(It's still fun to say Would Of.)

Mr Shinichiro Watanabe, of 33-41-7-23 Residential District 00382, Tokyo Prefecture, Japan

2005-05-15T11:53:00.000-04:00

is best known in America for the animated series Cowboy Bebop (known in Japan as Bang! Fist of Jazz Gun), which sought to create its own genre by integrating popular jazz music with the violent and lawless lifestyle of the bounty hunter of the future. Watanabe has more recently tried to implement a similar formula by layering urban "hip-hop" music and culture over his people's samurai tradition in an ultraviolent cartoon here called Samurai Champloo (there called FIGHT! Fist of Sword). However, flagrant propaganda for Nipponese culture with a sugar-coating of co-opted American musical styles is not his only, nor even his major, export.
   At some time during the dark Isolationist period of the Shogun, his ancestor Lord Watanabe-maru Nobuhitsu, shogun of a large swath of what is now Hokkaido Prefecture, expanded his conquest further into the ever-shrinking domain of the strange, hairy Ainu people. Needless to say, the crude defenses of the natives were no match for Watanabe-sama's cold nihonistic steel, but the historical tendency towards obliteration of bronze-age people by men of iron is beyond the scope of this Essay. Flashing centuries down the path of thermodynamic time, Hokkaido is known today mainly for the few remaining enclaves of the reclusive Ainu, and forests full of all manner of fungus. Some of these fungus were the target of recently passed legislation in the Nip version of Congress.
   The O-Maiitake-NO! A Child is Safe Act was passed on 13 May, 2004 by the Big House Noble and on the 28th by the Politic Small Buirding [sic]. It proscribed, nominally for the protection of the beloved fuku-clad Japanese schoolgirl, the sale of any psilocybin-bearing fungus. This had formerly been a common practice in Hokkaido, where the Ainu would occasionally return to a village for what they call (literally) the Big Laughing Mushroom. They are believed to use the fungus in their religious/witchcraft ceremonies. However, forbidding the sale of wild mushrooms can hardly obliterate their being eaten in the homeland or elsewhere.
   Their consumption nor cultivation. Mr Watanabe has been observed to make many annual visits to his ancestral forest home. He has returned inevitably bearing truckloads of hardwood timber, which is always deposited in a large warehouse he keeps at 31-2-2-2-2 Business District, Tokyo. Always deposited, and never visibly removed. Neither do the logs return, nor does any sign of smoke leave the warehouse, the electricity consumption records of which indicate air-conditioning to as low as 5 degrees celcius. However, infrared photography has shown a temperature gradient in the warehouse: On the upper floors, the air climbs to 18 C. These happen to be, respectively, the ideal substrate for and the ideal temperatures for mycelial growth and fruiting of Psilocybe nihonensis and its related subspecies, the very hallucinogenic mushrooms banned by the O-Maiitake-NO! Act.
   Viewers of Cowboy Bebop would be surprised if Mr Watanabe were not experienced with the sorts of loathsome drugs to which he subjects his characters in the name of entertainment, or more pretentiously, in the Name of Art. In the very first episode of Bebop, a drug smuggler abuses "Red-Eye," an apparent amphetamine of some sort. A few episodes later, and the crew of the Bebop inadvertently overdoses on hallucinogenic mushrooms. They survive with none of the ill-effects that are so well known from the real world, e.g., blindness, insanity, and hair on the palms of the hand, to name a few. Does a theme emerge in the reader's mind?
   Watanabe is also eccentric and well known in the jap-animation world for shipping his products only by boat. As it happens, he uses enormous oil-tanker sized vehicles, whose fuel costs alone would be more than the profits from a load of video DVDs. Now, though, as for a tanker filled with "'shrooms" (going price: $US 15-30/1g) covered with a light coating of DVDs, now the bottom line begins to run black for the entrepeneur... And red for the consumer, his family, and his society, who are left to deal with the socioemotional damage both from the consumed ultra-violent anti-American cartoons, and from the probability of the consumer's acting out the very anti-social fantasies put into the his head by the videos while under the influence of the drugs!
   While, certainly, 911 must be Never Forgotten, that does not allow us not to Remember Pearl Harbor.
Devil In.

On the Second Minotaur and its Significance

2005-05-08T16:10:00.000-04:00

von Zinn, S.; Murklethorpe, T.D. J. Improb. Alleg., 3(2), Summer Solstice 2005.
ABSTRACT: A dual interpretation of The Gaffa Tape Speech is presented wherein the speech is interpreted both quasi-literally as concerning suicide, and more purely symbolically as a metaliteral account of the Buddhist state of nirvana. A two-fold interpretation is alluded to in the very narrative's main theme, viz., that London falsely believes the subject's engaffatapéd mortal remains to be a bomb, implying that the listener should look beyond the literality of the narrative sequence. Figurehead points include the significance of the first and of the second minotaur both bearing arms' load of duct tape, the nature of the ducts, and the meaning of the ongoing chaos in the living or inextinguished worlds, depending on the level of interpretation. A tentative response is suggested in answer to Mr Lynch's final query.

Quoth the Robyn:

2005-05-01T16:39:00.000-04:00

Ah, yeah, when you extinguish the candle, then you have to pay the penalty, and the penalty is, that you're taken, you're transported from here by two minotaurs, which you know are human up to the neck and then they have bulls' heads. And they have real bulls' heads; they're not just wearing bull-head masks: they actually become bull from the neck up. And the minotaurs, they have a lot of duct tape and they swaddle you in it, or Gaffa tape if you're watching in England, and you're swaddled in duct tape and you're carried away by the two minotaurs down an endless series of ducts. And then, you're pinpointed just above, about two thousand seven hundred and twentythree feet above sea level. And you are fired out over central London and then you come down, and you- it's the reverse of normal gravity; it actually gets slower as you get nearer to the ground. So you run out of momentum about eight feet above Leicester Square. And everyone thinks you're a bomb, a thermonuclear device, because we've always been brought up in our folk stories in Britain that the bomb would detonate above ground to achieve maximum devastation. So as they see this thing, which is you, swaddled in duct tape, coming down over central London, people begin to flee, and there's enormous traffic congestion, especially on the A4 but also on some of the other main routes... And like the beginning of the A1 and whatever-it's-called Highbury Corner and all that stuff, it gets more and more cluttered and people are fleeing and they're starting to tread on each other in their panic and they're spilling cups of honey and knocking over theodolites and retort stands and trivits and all that sort of things: A lot of people are blundering through ancient chemical apparatus. And there's stuff- people have got hundreds of- People with slides, slides of tissue, things like corroded lungs and they're spilling that in their panic and they're saying Just one more cup of coffee, Miss Patterson and then it's getting spilt as well and they're getting more and more disturbed and rubber tyres which have never seen the outside of a wheel (they're just cosmetic) come smashing through the Venetian blinds and they knock over the paper cups, and they hit the files and the computers all go blank and the buildings begin to shake. And they realize there's something wrong underground so they have a strike underground and hundreds of passengers are trapped underground as you get closer and closer to the surface and then, just eight feet above Leicester Square you stop.
So London's in a panic; they're just... I mean, you're not a bomb, you didn't need to explode; it doesn't matter: enough damage has been done without a shot being fired in anger and unnecessary bloodletting- Just the whole system is cracking up but you've got this problem, you can't reach the ground because there's a problem with physics so: what do you do?

Home Anude

2005-04-27T22:28:00.001-04:00

So, you take what you can get and feel bitterly about what you can't get, even as you can see its noncompliance acoming. Example the first: I can hang out totally naked in my living room: the room(m)ate is gone to Scotland, en route as I type. Example the second: As I forefeared, she didn't leave a rent check. O, it's not due until the fifth (and yes, the obvious rejoinder is Well why did you ever tell her that the lease said so?) and even if I forget to leave you a check everything will be fine. Well yes Dear but you know I worry so. And also, look at the case: Now you are gone and I am woefully inadequately funded to pay the rent without your own personal dollars that you hoarded to exchange at whatever horribly excruciating low-ass rate for pounds. Lbs., even.
That said, I accomplished a lot today. I
1. Got too scared to go back to sleep this morning.
2. Got some things done that I have to.
3. Called a guy.
4. Went to a meeting.
5. Went to an entirely different type of meeting.
6. Got some more things done that I etc.
7. Went to another meeting, of a realer kind than the last.
8. Got drunk.
Now, those of the Faithful Readers who have never met me before may not understand that I am about to embark on an explanation of these here listed things in some detail. In a word or five, this will be a long thing. To elaborate,
1. I woke up and didn't feel like being awake, but rather felt like smoking, so I did. While smoking in This Very Bathrobe, I absentmindedly rubbed my right arm. And found an unfamiliar and singularly disconcerting Bump.
2. I did pretty much what I said above, and worried some about this god damned class.
3. A guy whose name I've forgotten called me a while ago. Toward the end of january, as I recall it. Anyway, he wanted to talk about the Prudential life insurance policy the parents had on me. So today the stars were just right, such that I both remembered to call him and happened not to have misplaced his number. Also, I was thinking somewhat seriously about the aforementioned Bump.
4. A kid I work with had to present at an Earth and Ocean Sciences meeting. I've known psychologists, psychology majors, even, who were more of scientists than these tool fools. I can't get into it. The subtleties of explaining everything wrong with the situation would frustrate me to the point of typing consequential but random cuss-words, and no one would be none the wiser.
5. I attended a sort of dueling professors match between Drs. Chelsea and Liverpool. For them's as wot's out the know, this "meeting" was a soccer "meet," between the loathesome Chelsea football club and the slightly less despicable Liverpudlians. Toward the end of it, that guy called back, and after running me through the stupid options, he got to the cash-out part. Cha-ching to some extent or other; certainly less an extent than I could put to use. What with the tumor and all.
6. Again with the classwork. Also, and on an unrelated note, those damnable hippies upstairs appear to be Sumo wrestling. This is a talk for another time, here.
7. A supersecret top-secret fraternity meeting. Apparently- but I've said too much.
8. I talked to a pledge for quite a while. He was drinking Smith Wick's, which he refused to pronounce in the correct way. I accidentally got a free beer and then overtipped the tenders out of guilt. Cos I wan't trying to shamshmoozle them at all.
The stagger-wrestling is still going on upstairs. Over the course of the past three minutes, more than twenty bodies have been slammed to the floor. I don't know if they were all the same or different bodies, but I do know what is reasonable conduct at 10:20 at night. This it is not.
A long while ago, my room(m)ate and I wanted to buy guns to shoot. I was telling her last night, as I talked, that it was for the best that we hadn't, I reckoned. For one thing, I would without question, tonight if not earlier, fire systematic shots through our ceiling. Where are people most obviously falling down repeatedly? Bang. Where are the off-tempo bongo sounds coming from? Bang- once for the drums- bang- once for the drummer. Where is the confused mishmash of sonic inconsistencies from Marley to Manson coming from? Bang: stereo's out. And then I would unlock the front door, and lie naked in the living room for Them to take me away, enjoying the frantic last moments of peace.

Sibling Rivals

2005-04-25T00:04:00.000-04:00

Oh, Jacky.
   While I appreciate your intermittent and mildly intelligible visits to this humble shanty, I beseech you Why? You know my refrigerator. You know just what I've got at hand. So why would you say such things knowing that my options are limited to Mike's Candyass Berryade and Everclear?
   If I didn't know better, O my brother, I would suspect that you, cunning streetsmart savage beast that you are, were trying to hit me when I was down. Cos I'm now reduced to only a 4dayopen MCB and a heinous concoction of EC/ice/sugar/water to wet my whistle while I woozily wonder how on earth to respond to these outrageous allegations. (Oh Lord, make me not to drink from this bitter cup.)
   As some French said on the NPR tonight, "let me be frank:" Dennis Madasonecanbe is not only trying to exploit the horrors of terrorism three years after it was trendy, but he's literally stomping on the flag we hold so high to do so. Do you know what must happen when a flag touches the ground? It must be cremated: it is the only dignified disposal route for such a symbol as the flag. And within 40 seconds of his abominable video, this Creed-wannabeer not only lays the flag digitally onto the ground, but stands not only on but within it as it ripples liquidically around him. This would be the sin of hubris if it weren't so (carelessly and incalculatedly) stupid. Dude's a 'tard, man. Plus he's totally encouraging our like impressionable youths to abuse the flag for their own profit.
   Jacky, think about it: If people try to manipulate our flag, then what are we really - sit down; the last dude whose mind I blew this hard fell of the porch, and this is a blowing of forceful wind not soft tender lips, fucker- standing for; then what's the point?
   Some asshole who's not the Creed asshole is trying to be the secular Angels Are Everywhere version of the Creed asshole while making money off of the totally unproductive deaths of something between two and three thousand fucking guys just standing around on the emergency call date and another fifteen-plus hundred in a bogus war since. But it's OK, cos now they're chick angels with slamming tits. This is the worst possible fucking kind of make-believe, measured in values of dollars and cents.
   You goddamned know well better than to buy into this bullshit and oh. You've been having a Christing lark at my expense, you fucking son of a cock-born bitch. Good show, old man, I took the bait. You and your fat nail-styling girlfriend are totally not getting anything for Xmas. Consider this your gift, asshole.

Me and the Drugs part 2. Methaphetnamines

2005-04-24T19:13:00.000-04:00

So eventually i went back to the sotre 24 or whateevre and dug around in the muclch and found my littel blue baggie of the Meth. Apaprently no one else was Jonesing for it enough to dig in random piles of tree's bark for it. Anyways, I got it and then i took it. i think this was whiles I was stile over-nightshift working at the Gibbes Motor Oil Limited Partenership.
Because I took it one morening and coudlnt cgo to sleep. What a waweseom buzz. i was like wow, I ca'nt sleep. God plan their Jacky. Jeezes Cries, and than waht happpened was Jesus Wept, as Yuor Man will proabally name on eof his kid's so the kid nkows better than to trust him so hopefulley it turns out better then his Faggot assd id. Thatl fuckin cokc.
Whyd i even buy that stupid crsytal meth in the First place.
Anyways kid's, do liek Mistre Tee sez: Stay in Schole, Don't to Drug's, and Drink Lot's of Milk. Oethrwise you end up some fake veagan fake hippy like your man who's name i Wont' mention. and You'll end up making fun of Real Patriots. Dennis Madalone is a fukcin ARTIST you homo. Just because beople can understand him don'[t mean He isan cool.

America West and as One

2005-04-23T19:00:00.000-04:00

"America We Stand As One, is a dedication to our brave heroes and all our Loved Ones who have passed away. This new American Rock Anthem fills you full of hope and comforts you with a spiritual message from our Loved Ones, that they're still with us, but in a different way. Have faith and believe and they will always be with us."
    I know that this has made the rounds and been around the internetting block, but it still floors me with its Powerful Message from our Loved Ones. It really inspires me that our Loved Ones are still around in a Different Way, said way comprising flying around like Invisible Angels, watching us Make Potty and abuse ourselves.
    I'm also enheartened to know that we need not fear death, since as long as our Loved Ones have faith and believe then we will still be With Them. Which could be construed as a threat or a promise, come to think of it. And as for We The Living, we have to Carry On or the Terrorists Win and our Loved Ones will abandon us. It sure puts the pressure on, to be responsible for On-Passed Loved Ones as well as the Still-Alive Ones. Yet I am reassured that all of this Senseless Passing On is not in vain. If we didn't have Faith in Our Loved Ones, then people might reconsider putting themselves in Death's Super Optoplex 9k 10,000X Enhanced Doom Scope's Cross-Hairs.
    I haven't done this thing justice. There is so much Wrong with it that I get all worked up and can't Focus on any One Thing. The god damned song practically Gives Me a Seizure. I want to say one more thing, though: What does America have to do with the rest of the song? It's a priest in patriots' clothing. Is it just because everyone who Passes On any more is in such an unlifelike way because of the USA Government's poor judg(e)ment? cos I think people Pass On by other, less newsworthy means as well.

Reflections on Compliments

2005-04-13T13:04:00.000-04:00

I am doing paperless paperwork. It is not easy, I have learned, to research new computers to buy (for other people, at that) without having happy fun loser-friendly bubbles to click in and automatically update the price or, for that matter, seeing even a picture of what you're reading about. I don't think well in the language of part numbers. The University has also, in its wisdom, chosen to restrict its employees' expenditures of grant monies, getting itself lucrative contracts and conscripting us to buy only from the Official Computer Store. Therefore, I say Non serviam, adding Rebel Rebel! for good measure, grabbing a plate of hamburgers even as I fall like some heavy metallic blimp.
On the homefront, I am sick of these Texas Twelve-Step liberals and their little clichés. A case in point is the notion of holding up a mirror or a compliment. Or and only or. Christ knows our fragile little psyches can't stand the truth, this truth being that we are fundamentally loathsome creatures beyond redemption by our own devices. Instead we need 12 Steps or Holoenergetic Dietetics or Scientology or Jesus to redeem us from our inherent worthlessness. What's worst about it is that these touchyfeely types have ripped off the old Xtian fallacy of Original Sin and replaced it with drug addiction or obesity or malaise in the face of the human condition.
I will not serve them, either. Give me a mirror and a compliment; I've got two hands and they're perfectly able of molding together two separate things. Who is that magnificent balding mammal in the mirror? It is I. Who was that asshole who vomited, drunk, on some poor guy's floor and scooped it up to throw it in the sink? That awesome bastard was me. Who's been known sometimes to sin up to seven times before breakfast? This badass right here. Who's bound, some day and soon, to get his smartass teeth kicked in? I am.
And when Lo! it comes to pass, I won't regret it. It'll be certainly something more to bitch about than trying to buy a lousy computer.

In August of 1947, a Noeing 32 US Army

2005-04-09T23:12:00.000-04:00

helicopter retrofitted for civilian duty alit on the helipad atop the Watergate Hotel. Its human cargo: Dr Ilya Krbeskycz, an ostensibly liberated refugee from the new Soviet republic of Kyrgyzstan. Dr Krbeskycz's curriculum vitae included such dubious researches as a method of hyperoxygenating water to prolong the experience of drowning. He was greeted by an ambitious but yet lowlevel staffer in the new-formed and stillsecret CIA, one Jerome Jackson Hoover, who subsequently went on to infame after he changed his middle name and his agency affiliation. Hoover escorted the good doctor Krbeskycz into the hotel, and the latter never saw the light of day again.
Who emerged in his place twentyfour days later was a man of the impresumtious name of Jacob Smithgin. The details of his stay at the Watergate were lost to history as an intense but strangely localized blaze of unknown origin razed Room 323 within minutes of his checking out. The only material recovered were shreds of a low-density metallic material unscratchable to diamond, but more malleable than gold when placed in a magnetic field stronger than about 20 gauss. The material bore more than a passing resemblance to that found in Roswell two years earlier.
While his first twentyfour days as an expatriate are an historical black box, his public career after leaving the Watergate is better known. He sought employment at the Smith pharmaceutical corporation, which company profitted immensely from his NSF-, NIM-, and CIA-funded research into bismuth medicinals. With appropriate flavoring, coloring, and marketing, his bismuth subsalicylate formula proved greatly popular among the working class as Pepto-Bismol. Incidentally, a brief attempt at marketing to the colored demographic with a green formulation failed for poorly understood reasons.
It was during the period of his funding by NIH that the same institution received record contributions from Anheuser-Busch Breweries, Inc., LLC, Ltd., donations the size of which has never since been matched. And it is certainly true that the corporation's own profits soared along with those of the Smith drug company in the aftermath of Dr Smithgin's discovery. With the relief of the symptoms of overindulgence in the brewery's brewances, consumption and addiction to said beverages also soared, along with the sociological consequences: increased and improved work attendance (the Dow index rose by 14% to 542 over the first three months), and also longer term consequences such as familial abuse and disintegration. Anheuser-Busch was, mere months before, contributing heavily to the Republican Party and conservative Christian nonprofits as well.
Thus it comes to pass that in the seedy sinuous corridors of conspiracy, entire cultural movements are born out of the greed and shortsightedness of corporate Leviathans, enabled by the wicked talents of malicious foreigners.
Devil in.

One time, i lost my glasses, probly in a garden/sdirtpatch

2005-04-04T21:13:00.000-04:00

and thats pretty much all i remember. Some broad was tiaking care of me, and I was like ,where's your husband/ waht the hell is going sdon here?
id' been drinaknd like champlain out of keggkups all nite ande vetnally sum1 showed up wth like Whiskie and i was like, thats 'it, Jacky has abuot left the biuldnig, can I get One for teh Road? And then i Was like, wait, Let me hit taht sink first real quick. aarite, Now Im readdy.
Ya i Know you wouldnt think I ware glasses, I know i do'nt seem that Kind but sometime's you go bland befour your time, yuo know? I tink its Gods' way of Telling You, Time to fix your perscription, fagget. Be for I smite thy queer ass. Fuckin god always going aruond lke he owens the place.
Waht I say, to that fuckin Jerk, is hey God, if your so touh and but alsow mercyfull, how com eyou killed Terry Shcaivos brain so she coud'nt Confess and then Yuo let her die. Kind of a A-Hole Move, their, lord. Liek you rigged the game. RED, TWENYNINE!!! O but ok she was balemic or what ever. Becuase the Bible says he who puikes is a pussy and deserveths deaths w/o forgivenness. o hwait no it don't.
Asshole. Fuck You, god.

Geographaq

2005-03-16T23:08:00.000-05:00

Service Type: 2ND DAY AIR
Date Time Location Activity
Mar 17, 2005 7:30 A.M. DOVER NH, US IN TRANSIT
5:00 A.M. DOVER NH, US ARRIVAL SCAN
3:14 A.M. CHELMSFORD MA, US DEPARTURE SCAN
Mar 16, 2005 11:15 P.M. CHELMSFORD MA, US ARRIVAL SCAN
9:00 P.M. MANCHESTER NH, US DEPARTURE SCAN
Mar 16, 2005 9:01 P.M. DOVER NH, US IN TRANSIT TO
9:00 P.M. MANCHESTER NH, US DEPARTURE SCAN
6:44 P.M. MANCHESTER NH, US ARRIVAL SCAN
4:58 P.M. LOUISVILLE KY, US DEPARTURE SCAN
1:39 A.M. LOUISVILLE KY, US ARRIVAL SCAN
Mar 15, 2005 8:40 P.M. SALT LAKE CITY UT, US DEPARTURE SCAN
8:09 P.M. SALT LAKE CITY UT, US ARRIVAL SCAN
7:16 P.M. US BILLING INFORMATION RECEIVED
7:16 P.M. BOISE ID, US DEPARTURE SCAN
5:36 P.M. BOISE ID, US ORIGIN SCAN
Tracking results provided by UPS: Mar 16, 2005 08:06 PM Pacific Time (USA)

Now, I ain't no Christian Geographologist, but somethings in this here itinerary in this particular place seems awry like Fly. Such is the price one pays for ordering products delivered via delivery service servers that require one to play hookey or else to pick the thing up oneself, negating in part the entire concept of "delivery."
WAITING FOR UPSAUT
a play in eight (8) lines
GERARD ACHETE: What are you doing?
JEAN GAUTHIER: Waiting for Upsaut.
THUMP
GERARD: Is that him?
JEAN WALKS OFFSTAGE, RETURNS WITH WHITE PACKAGE
JEAN: No, that was Federique Espress. He was giving me something.
GERARD: I have something to take from you. What is with those commercials? now, you know the ones. Who are the ad wizards who came up with this campaign?
THUMP
JEAN WALKS OFFSTAGE, RETURNS WITH OVERSIZED ENVELOPE.
GERARD: Was that him?
JEAN: No, that was the postman. He always rings nonce.
GERARD: My father was a postman.
CURTAIN
See, it's ironical in its tedium parallel to the subject matter. Come on, people, we've all been there. Waiting for UPS with nothing more interesting at hand than the Seinfeld syndicance. Give me the Feldstein Synchedance anyday.

THE PRECEDING WORDS WERE BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE GENEROSITY AND UNSECURED WIRELESS NETWORK OF THE CARELESS RESIDENTS OF APARTMENT FOUR.

CURRENT MOOD: smoldering2 HOUR FORECAST: glum to irate

2005-03-14T20:12:00.001-05:00

Dear Weblog,
It seems like so long since I last posted to you. HG is being ever so mean to me. He came down the pub tonite as is our monday nite ritual but then with in minutes of getting here he made a discreet phone call and was presently joined by a small girl from the coffee shop, you know the one, dear weblog.
And now I'm alone because he's put hoes before broes like Farmer Joezz and it's as though I don't even exist and he doesn't understand what he's doing to me because he doesn't know how I feel because he doesn't even care and it's not fair, dear weblog. If I were an album of music right now I would be Pieces of You, back when Jewel still sucked, because I feel so much like I suck right now because of that thing that I previously mentioned above.
NOW PLAYING: a perfect circle, wallowing in infinite despair (so deep)
CURRENT EMOTICON: :_(

yuo are HACKED faget

2005-03-09T23:34:00.000-05:00

so a certen Apartemnt 4 did not secure it's wirless network. old jacky will have too teach them a lessen. As soon as I think of soemthing asenine to do.

In 1996, James Flannagan, of the Arthur Guinness Brewery,

2005-03-06T11:55:00.000-05:00

flew to Santa Barbara, California to present a Perfect Pint Award to Seamas Flanaggan (no relation) of The James Joyce. Also in attendance at the ceremony were Mssrs. Abu al Terar and Michael Murphy. The former is a former CIA operative and latter al Qaida agent, and the latter a loose cannon of no known affiliation but substantial reputation for once allegedly having strangled an alligator to death after it pulled a gun on him. al Terar has kept a low profile since this unusually public appearance, but Murphy went on to open a number of unprofitable coastal New England bars.
There he has further augmented his reputation with descriptors such as "bastard" and "undermeasured pints" and "hot mamas." This last angle is more interesting, because from mid-september of 2001 to the present, a certain North-African (Liberian or Tunisian; her story is inconsistent) woman of roughly 40 years began her employ at a Murphy Corp.-owned bar to be designated "B.M.s". In spite of her age, she remains somehow young and attractive beyond the level that would be expected due to her accent. Although she is the sole M.I.L.F. on the payroll, she is far from the only one regularly at B.M.s.
A certain Ms. Janet Geiss was recently observed drinking at B.M.s with her husband of equal age but far lesser attractiveness. Later that night, the above-mentioned al Terar appeared in lock-step with Murphy himself. Still later, a 28 year old woman known only as "Heidi" whose photographic identity card claimed she was 41 appeared and was rude to the present author.
While the data are as divergent as they are sparse, the implication is clear: Mr. Michael Murphy of Dover, New Hampshire is purchasing unbaptized white baby blood from Abu al Terar, a known human fluid traficker, in an effort to keep his aging harem young. To conclude otherwise is to go gently into an ungood night, to believe that God is indeed in his heaven and all right with the world, and to hell with the preponderance of evidence to the contrary.
Devil In

An open letter to my roomate

2005-02-25T08:27:00.000-05:00

You really are lucky, this time, that you are so full of it. If I was a fraction- an eigth? a twelfth?- as mean to you as you profess, then I would turn State's witness. Which is not a threat, it's a syllogism. Indulge me, if you would, in envisaging the following scenario:
D.A.: And did she ever treat you abusively?
Witness: Well, she did once tell me that I didn't deserve any friends, and further, that I didn't deserve to have anything.
DA: And did you provoke this?
W: Well, yes, if by provoke you mean be more interested in doing my homework than talking to her and being uninterested and annoyed.
DA: Is that all? I remind you that you are under oath.
W: Well, I didn't remember, at the time I was kinda distracted, something she'd said the previous night after she told me not to talk so she could watch her reality show and then talked over it herself.
DA: What right did you have- How could she have known that your attention was otherwise engaged and that she shouldn't bother you?
W: Well, there was the sprawl of papers and notes across the table, and the pencil and calculator in my hand, to start with, but she's not very visually oriented.
DA: Your Honor, I call your attention to Exhibit G, the photograph of the toothpaste and phlegm clots in the bathroom sink. [To witness:] And were there other such instances of irrational overreaction?
W: Yes.
DA: Your Honor, I refer you to State's Exhibits H through T57, the printouts of emails between the witness and the defendant, in which the former alternately is bewildered and systematically contradicts the latter, who appears consistently belligerent.
W: If I may, in her defense, the hippies upstairs were being pretty loud, which annoys both of us and she's not really good at differentiating the sources of her emotions, or recognizing the source of others'. She just kind of assumes that anything anyone says or does when she's in earshot is about her. She's kind of mental that way. Also in the way that when she yells at you she'll just talk over you and then walk away without hearing anything you tried to interject.
-and so on, but this is make-believe, because I am more interested in what is right than petty paybacks. Better you should hear this here than on the floor:
Nosun died and made you the center of the renamed Jennifar System. When you erupt out of your lair or into the house with need of a sounding board, sometimes your would-be echo chamber is otherwise engaged. It's a thing people do: other things than wait with bated breath for the next installment of your serial epic of persecution. Beowulf or Arjuna you're not; nastier than Grendl's mother and wordier than Krishna:
And scold him she did, she did rebuke him.
Harsh words flowed over the banks of the river,
her words overflowed and poisoned the land.
Bitter berries grew on the bushes, the poisoned bushes of the land,
the land poisoned by her scornful words,
words she spoke to he she rebuked.
Get a grip on what words mean. Mean is this, comparing you to Grendl's mother or telling someone he doesn't deserve any friends, etc. Uninterest, not mean, is when I'm VISIBLY ENGAGED IN (what happens to be very difficult) HOMEWORK, and it is not mean. Boys cry wolf; words lose meaning when they're bandied around carelessly. You may not fabricate lies, but you twist and warp the meaning of words enough that I can hardly believe you any more than Simon or Dolan. Their calling what you did a stabbing is no different from you calling me mean or talking about Simon beating you (back in the good old days) when "beating" means anything from an uppercut to a push.
So I guess what I'm saying is
1. Think about what other people are trying to do when you force your way into their attention and
2. Use words that, by their consensually accepted meanings, reflect reality better than a funhouse mirror.
Otherwise shut up and/or move out.

not very Sneeky Pete

2005-02-13T16:02:00.000-05:00

So i get caught by this teacher the other day lets' call him Miser J and long story short I get roped or BRIBED haha into substituet teachering. Oh yes sir ia m qualified sir here is my FU Cetrificate.
anyway so i'm wacthing these kids take there dumb algabra test or whatever and fuckin i see this broad in like the forth row of the room ,and it's a big room, fucken the 4ht row just fuckin mad cheating right their. Head all bent over, now an dthen turning just a littel more to the side to see her neibor so i "couldnt'" see. oNly time i seen the chicks eye's was wehn shed cheat of the girl in FRONT of her for a change.
and this pisses me rite the fuck off. In my day we had fucking PRIDE in our cheta skills. sorry SKILLZ haha. wE worked hard to not study adn we had a fuckin glittle SELF RESPECT. your just asking for it, crying for help like a fuckin blakcpainted goth all fuckin hotopiced out with a fucking temporary tear tatoo running down your pussy sad face if you sit in THE 4rhFRONT FUCKING ROEW OF YOU'R TEST WHEN YOU CHEAT ON IT the test.
so anyways i do my jobn and wright down the names of her and the yuong ladie's she cribed on and then what to i do I tell M.r J all about it and he says to me he sez Okee, ooh. Yes we had a probelem with her last samester too she barley past. So hes like he's gona let nature fail it's course or take it rahter and well me i say thats BULLSHIT
If th ebitch cant leanr, fine. and if she cant cheet well one or the other. she Should be kicked out for cheating so fucking in compatently if not worse (thats in the Rules you kjnow). let the Bitch get on with her life panting townails at the Mall or what ever stupid scanks (pluss she was wicked Nastie) do when there to dumb to cheat good. Nice Try Sally know stop wasteing our Time. idiot.

Hyperhotel

2005-01-17T16:33:00.000-05:00

I dreamed that I, and a few other unfortunates, had to stay in this hyperdimensional hotel where its various 3-spaces were linked by the frightfully rickety elevator. (They all seemed to share the same time.) Worse, the building was inhabited by, or possibly incarnate of, some never seen but always palped Lovecraftian lifekiller. It took the janitor, the poor old bastard. My back was turned; he was just there and then when I looked again not there.
The building itself was narrow, only a few hundreds of square feet, but at least eight storeys tall. Not much length or width, but height and anakatath it had aplenty. I kept managing to get out, but having to go back in to look for whomever was left back in a closet or such. And assuming all the while that outside was safer; that the inside of the building was the worst. Remembering the decrepit, funereal yard of the place, I now expect that the "outside" I "escaped" to was part of one of the house's less-appealing orthogonal universes.
Near the end, I'd finally gotten every one who was left out, while some other one had been running a mission to a local drug store. We needed supplies, see, for demon-fighting. Something was coming. Not through the house, but like over the fake horizon made by the huge wall of fence at the rear of the yard. Actually, it wasn't such an Awful Horror; no more than the one of which Daniel spoke. It was just a big guy, or rather a guyant. No unspeakable writhings, no eldritch stench, no crawling chaos; just a gigantic guy.
FUN FACT! Around the turn of the 20th century, shorty after Riemann laid the theory for THE FOURTH DIMENSION!, Spiritualists seized on THE FOURTH DIMENSION! as the natural home of The Spirits. Some devotees of THE FOURTH DIMENSION! went so far as to claim that Spiritual Perfection could be Attained by meditation on The Tesseract, the unfolded-to-3-D 4-cube, that when the Devotee could, in his Mind's Eye (read "THE THIRD EYE") refold the cube to its native 4-geometry that he would then possess all of the (to 3-spacers) Miraculous Powers native to those of THE FOURTH DIMENSION!.

Me and the Drugs. 1.

2004-12-28T07:22:00.000-05:00

One time I took like seven hits of Acid at Sonic boom or YOGA or HADO KEN or whatever the fuck thta thing was called. it had like eyes and pyrameds on it. i bought a litel blue baggie of meth too. We had to call sCreech for a ried home adn i got a little paranoyed so I hid the Meth in some mulch at a store. nex to the phone so id be abel to find it later.

on the ride home zeplin was playing an di had my head and fuckin chest out the windoe rockin it. all of the trees on the wayside fazed into each other and like it wasnt a assload of trees it was just one treewave, all green and waving adn nice to look at it. It all looked like giant sumack bushes or like furns. and when we got home my long girlhair (the fags at work were gelice) was fuckin stuck out to the side like that 80s queerbate, the runinng one. i dont' know what the fuck i was sweating to make it stick like taht.

i was statring to Stink so i was thinking about taking a shower. it woudl feel good i knew, but there was so much to think about and look at and stuf.f That was when screech decided to quote unquote fill the room with Jelloe. motherfucker cold took a pak of fuckin red, raspberry, not even like cherrie or something at lesat good to eat, red fuckin jello and busts that shit into a window fan. filled the fuckin room with jello all right. if my fuckin beutifull man hair wasn't already stuckass shit enough.

after that its like 3 in the am and im coverred in sweat and now with jellow too, Thanks Screech for the entertanement so now i prettie much hafto take a shower. took like half a hour to get the shit out of my hair, or maybe, i donkow, i was trippin balls and sack and evertyhing in between it mightof been only 20 minutes. but fuckin when i got out, i stank fuckin worse then i had before, worse then fuckin i ever stank in my life. like a fucken animal sitting in weesk of its piss, an dits piss is on the dirt floor of a cage, and the cage is in the sun, and the sun is in the sky, and there are little kids like walking into the meadow that the cage is in, like out from the woulds, and there all laghing and then they smell the thing and fuckin STOP layghing and get scared.

Thats how i stank.

needles to say i was still fucked up nex tnite i had to work at the fuckin gasn'ass or whereever, but nothin ghappened there. the quote unquote beer bandit only struck once (screech made a Wanted poster) an dI luckly was straight as a dollar fitty THAT nihgt.

Greasing up the hen

2004-12-27T09:05:00.000-05:00

The Belgian scandal of dioxin
In June 1999 Europe was confronted by the news of the scandal of dioxin in Belgian animal feed. Eggs, meat of hen, pigs and beef were not safe. Belgian animal feed had been enriched with old used engine oil with high level of dioxin.

It's just not safe to feed chickens used motor oil any more. What's next, no antifreeze in their water? No single-use stick'em&leave'm rectal mercury thermometers? No more slow slaughter by arsenic feed enrichment?
Stupid belgians. They should stick to waffles and leave livestock to the pros.
TODAY'S YOUR MAN'S DAILY PRO LIVESTOCKERY PROFESSIONAL TIP O'THE DAY FROM SOMEONE WHO DOES IT FOR A LIVING:
For a cheap and convenient protein supplement for your livestock, try grinding your spent stock's remains into a super nutritious sludge. Remember, animals don't have souls, so cannibalism's not a sin for them. And don't worry about "mad cows"; BSE's also an acronym for Bad Spin (to the) Extreme. You wouldn't let a liberal into your house, so why would you let one into your post-processing plant? Am I right here, people, or am I right?

Rat douche

2004-12-07T14:35:00.000-05:00

I seen this fuckin story on the internews this morning:
Shampoo ingrediant kills rats brain cells
http://story.news.yahoo.com/news?tmpl=story&cid=97&ncid=97&e=6&u=/hsn/20041206/hl_hsn/shampooingredientkillsratsbraincells
and crhist, what's next, you can't wash your brain with peroxide or rubbbing alcohol? how am i going to get all of the bad drugs out now!!?

Oh but wait theirs more: check out this thing quote unquote
"As far as I can tell, no neurodevelopmental testing has been done on MIT," said lead researcher Elias Aizenman, a professor of neurobiology at the University of Pittsburgh School of Medicine.

now I know you guys are slow when your not reading a book so let me break this down simple for you. Some jew thinks he's better then you. no, ha, ass. "No neurodevelopmental testing" has been done. Sorry preggos, looks like shampoos not just not for your brain any more. No more fuckin douching with it neither. There goes my fortune, i was just about to open a fetish website of pregnant bitches in the shower fucking themselves with those godamn 'rib for her plesure' white shampoo bottles. Maybe we can rinse out their nasty ass skank boxes with like shaving cream or skin moistener or what the fuck else is lyeing around the shitroom.

Mathemagical shenanicanery

2004-12-06T16:55:00.000-05:00

    I met this grimacely cold morning a most remarkable man.
    He carried a blind man's bluffstick but was writing on a notesheet when I found him. He asked if I knew how was spelled Yea, the stern rebuff to the colt's puerile denial. He could remember Nay, he told me, and further that he worked with twenty languages but could not remember an english word. Something about a late night calculating. On his totesac, staves and notes caroused gaily around.
    He spoke with an accent I couldn't place however hard I dug, and remines me of Old Father William... old and grown most uncommonly fat, and yet insistently stands on his head; pray what is the meaning of that?
   In his youth, Father William replied to his son:
   He worked on the Manhattan project, and though he never met Oppenheimer, he determined the atomic masses of four uranium isotopes to an unprecedented six decimal places of accuracy. They needed such precision for success. Of course, he was seven or eight years old at the time. Best kept national secret, he assured. They were must to use fundamental vibrational frequencies of the atoms... which of course depend on the mass, the precise mass. The initiating blast had to be timed down to the cesium second... which was also unknown at the time (1955). Uranium second? One supposes his afterschool homework may be still classified.
    What on earth else. The greeks. 235, 237, 238, 239: the isotopic masses of uranium, or the ones of significant lifetime^*. Their sum is 949: a palindrome. He lilted some greek at me before I could ask about the six decimals. Well No, then you have to divide by 3. To keep palindromicity.
    He said that, be it old and thinworn hbarat now, in those days no one understood how like music- in fundamentals and overtones- the atom was, and how symmetric its wavefunctions, but he did.
   Google has been of no aid to me in pursuing this conspiracy of nature. The only clue I have is that he claimed, later, on the bus- where he still spoke too quietly^** to hear without a fight- that the greeks also knew the speed of light by the ratio of mercury's perihouhounon in days, squared giving 186000, within "a couple of football fields" of the speed of light. Presumably they reckoned it in temporal stadia, converted for convenience into c. If I can find this reference, I think I'll have found the raisin behind the old fruit's limes.
*237 & 239 are infact shortlived, while 234 & 236 are rather stable. Unless that's only what the Chemical Rubber Company wants one to think. In the event, the stabler isotopes sum to 943, hardly symmetrical.
**As no less an authority than Michael's Rules of Mental Propriety has it, proper lunatic etiquette is to speak loudly, clearly, and slowly enough that one's hypotheses may be rejected by the sane on their own merits, and not because every other word is missed by the earstraining listener.

EXTRA:REJECT ACCEPTED,other commercial notes for immediate release

2004-10-18T17:33:00.000-04:00

ITEM: Don Hertzfeldt, of Rejected fame, as well as other Sick & Twisted film festival entries, has been accepted by Pop Tarts. His latest entry features a kid's PT stolen & deposited in pouch by an itinerant kangaroo. As this reviewer has not seen the entire release, a script of his first acceptance follows.
BOX of PopTarts fills screen.
CHORUS: (singing)
STICK MAN pops through O on the box.
Roll title: THE GENIE OF POPTARTICA
SCENE I: STICK KID in living room with table and toaster. GENIE emerges from toaster.
GENIE: (in either an Italian or Jamaican accent) I am the genie of Poptartica! Gimme-a your two wishes, chop-chop!
KID: Iiii... want a pet singing lizard.
GENIE snaps fingers; PET SINGING LIZARD appears wearing bowtie, with microphone and stand.
PET SINGING LIZARD: Shoobity doop da wow, call me.
EXIT PET SINGING LIZARD, screen left.
KID: I want the biggest box of PopTarts in the world!
GENIE snaps fingers, with a Dopplered whistle, BIGGEST BOX OF POPTARTS IN THE WORLD falls, lands on KID*. KID leans out from behind box, gives thumbs up.
CUT to stupid voiced over shot of breaking open PopTart.
SCENE II: KID seated at table, now broken from the weight of BIGGEST BOX OF POPTARTS IN THE WORLD. PET SINGING LIZARD stands nearby.
ANNOUNCER: Kid, start wishing for a bigger toaster.
CURTAIN, return to box of PopTarts from intro.
CHORUS: (sings)
GUY pops out from O
GUY: CURAAAAZY GOOD!
FADE
Note: The link above is to copyrighted material. No royalties are paid to the owner.

ITEM: AutoZone out of the zone
AutoZone has changed its popular Get in the Zone campaign. Whereas the old song was sung throughout the commercial, the new one is totally gay. Call or write your local franchise to beg them not to let the music die. Lyrics reprinted without permission.
Get in the zone, AutoZone
When you want it,
and you need it,
a-just ask us,
and we'll get it...
GUITAR SOLO
VOICEOVER: For the parts and advice, to keep your car running right-
Auto-Zone!
fade

ITEM: Finding Nemo brand cereal spot creepily attentive to detail
Never slow to capitalize against a competing fish cartoon, Disney has released, via Kellogg's, New Finding Nemo Cereal. The ad features a young shark at breakfast poring, over a bowl of the cereal, over fishes' contradictory roles as friends and food. Deep in thought, instead of squinting like a human, a nictitating membrane slides partway up his eyeball.

EXTRA: LASERSTRAIGHT QUADROON CHICK SMOKING HOT, more page 3.
* Here is, of course, where in the rejected original version, a pool of raspberry filling- or would it be blood? seeped out from under the box.

Dirty basement dealings

2004-10-18T17:15:00.000-04:00

I happened to be meandering through my spiderspook basement last night. I ill-chanced to spill beans and rice in my messengerbag, which seemed as valid an omen that I'd ought to do laundry as any, and I assessed the situation as such: any place so befilthed hadn't ought be so well lighted. Cobwebs are merely gross when you can really see them. Horror demands semiïnvisibility.
    As yon mechanized washerwoman churned, I surveyed the other apartments storage areas. Christmas paraphernalia, kayaks, industrial vacuum machines, the usual. And then I came to our unit. It's the fullest one, and of what?
Milk crates
Shoe boxes
Corrugated cardboard boxes including but not limited to:
   Beer boxes
   Table boxes
   Banana boxes
   More shoe boxes
Paint cans
Buckets
   If you should ever pass through the stately season street quadrant and need a container for goods or sundry, stop on by. I suppose that makes our storage area, boxed as it is by chickwired twos by four, a metacontainer of a sort.
   Wheels within wheels, boxes within boxes.

stupid surfers

2004-10-18T13:51:00.000-04:00

have you seen these new gay long skaateboards? like a narrow surfboard with 4 little girl size wheels.
i guess there great if your rolling down the bulavard and you're all tan n stuff but jesus, you albino faggot cut it out. This is new england and you need to manuever good. That fuckin boat is longer than the hill your rolling down. stupid jackass.

check out this thing

2004-10-17T13:52:00.001-04:00

might hafta come up nx wknd
http://www.wfawrestling.com/video/dover_oct22_promo.avi?PHPSESSID=e176523ebf3e8dc6d624a12fbd2d698e
theres a thing about 5min in about Bar Room Brawl rule's. Check them rules, fools. There wicked awesome.

Jesus christ

2004-10-16T17:03:00.000-04:00

I jus trolled down a little on the main page there. How fucking many scitsoes does this guy know? Put down the drug pipes fellas its gonna be ok.

this is it?

2004-10-16T16:43:00.000-04:00

So your fuckin man there invited me the otner nite to join his webblog for whatever reasaon, i dont' really care about politic sor macramay or whatever the hell youre always wining about on your internets. tHe only reason i even signed up was that apparently you can meet other people ^ talk about gunas and whores, iw that true? LOL, is that what you say online.
the only reason the fat prick even inveited me to join was if i would tell the world something i told him. Its not a very big edeal, i just saw this transformers episode where the Evil tape player and the good tape Player killed each other. The bad one expleoded and the good onme just kinda fell down and stopped robobreathing, or how3ever it is you can tell when a fucking robot dies. his little metal heart stops pumping oil.
I don't normally watch cartoons, so tdon't get any ideas about maybe we could watch tv and jack off each other and discuss litterature and shit. not my csene, sorry.
gotta go start a dirtbike discussion group.later

Ferthur:

2004-09-27T07:56:00.000-04:00

I seem ain't to've said the half of it. How many times before I learn never to post before hitting the groceria?
They also offer "Baby Bella." That is, button-sized portabellas. So it's the same species as the regular button Agaricus, and the same size. But it's slightly browner. I'm sure that's worth the extra buck a pound to the connoisseur, and my savage wit is only compensating for my equally barbaric palate.

Fungal Crème

2004-09-26T17:10:00.000-04:00

It turns out that Portabella, née Portobello, is a marketing fraud.
Tired of throwing out their too-large rejects, the Agaricus industry here in America decided to trick the public into thinking extra large mushrooms were extra delicatastic. By making up an italian-sounding name. With predictably great success. So now we can buy little overpriced white mushrooms or large way-overpriced brown ones and get no more nutrition or other benefit for our buck. Good luck to them converting their caves into lighted factories to grow other, even more lucrative but phototropic, species.
FUN FACT !! Did you know that mushrooms growing in a ring are in fact all the same organism? It's true! The biggest part of the mushroom is a seething, writhing network of cell-tubes called "mycelium" that spreads from your front lawn, where it occasionally throws up its "genitals," or private parts, the mushrooms, and then into your basement, up through your walls, and into your closet! In fact, scientists believe that Boogeymen are actually yet a third form of mushroom body with the abilities of movement and hunting. Scientists in Switzerland recently discovered a one-thousand year old mushroom spanning thousands of square feet, which only proves what pussies those frenchies are, because OUR biggest mushroom, in Oregon, has grown over 2,500 years to span thousands and thousands of acres! USA No. 1 4-EVA!! US RULZ, UROP DRULZ!1!

Jarvelbert Humpercochran, thou art punk'd

2004-08-30T14:08:00.000-04:00

Pulp Shatner. Yikes.
   The man himself didn't hear the half of it. The other night, after she drove me out of the barl with her Punchi Barru attack (a signature move, really, along with the Spectacle Slapoff) the brides ran into the young Ms. Matthews, young Belknap hoods in tow. She said, Hey, I saw that guy the other night. No, it was a different black guy. (She said that second sentence. End quote.) The girl said ya, we got it all sroted out adn shit, so blabbedy on with excuses and likely lies, and the brides said, Mother Nursure shining through, Sure you did, hon, and stroked her arm. There is a woman who spends too much time with the elderlies.
   We accidentally got drunk last night and I got angry at her for getting change for a $ten and then putting an entire sten into the jukenet. It seemed... insane. I have only so much sad affection to give for these (drunken or not) vignettes, these one-scene one-take zero-script plays of hers. And when I run out of sad.
   But supplies are coming in... CDs and secret provisions for the 9/18 apolitical party, thematically Because-911-is-too-soon-and-what-kind-of-bastards-do-you-take-us-for-who'd-cynically-manipulate-a-national-tragedy-for-our-own-political-gain. Secret secrets, secret even from those old ooze-secreters himself and the biodroog-one-million.

A striking curl of events

2004-08-29T16:46:00.000-04:00

I have often wondered whether, in spite of their general fulness of shit, whether the hippies' claims of synchronicities- scoring a free bag from the dude they gave a ride all the way up 66, meeting that one chick again from the Dead show in Tulsa who was, it turns out, the daughter of his mother's best friend, the two of whom went to a Dead show in Tulsa- have anything to them. Cynical I may be, and a skeptic, but I, too, want to believe. The hippies would have one believe that belief alone is enough to tighten the knots in the karmic web, albeit in words less succinct.
     A few days ago, a colleague of mine asked whether I'd seen a Mr. N~~evin~~ D~~exter~~ lately. Old N___ had disappeared for about nine months, after as many months of constant drunkenness, yells like one brain-damaged, and general asininity. (One presumes that the arrest following his fore-ending of a convenience store dumpster whilst U.I. might have some relevance.) Your man, too, knew of N____; the last time they crossed paths, the latter and his woman gave your man a ride home, where he gave, by way of thanks, N____ a punch in the throat, and his lady a shoved-against-the-fridge kiss. I can vouch that they had it coming; N____'s woman is tempting and he himself is a nimrod. Not that he's all a rotten apple; his behavior was largely caused and affected by his father's recent passage and inheritance-leaving. I can't justify his oft-claimed claims of intention to work in some chemical capacity for The Terrorists. But I bear him no ill will, nor, after reading, might the reader.
     N_____ had been sighted recently by the colleague, and indeed by myself as well. His sighting was of the old legume loping along the street, and I myself spied him briefly in an old haunt of drink of his. As it happened, I happened upon him again that evening, wobbling down the sidewalk. That might have been the end of it, in an uninteresting way, but I gave your man's brides a ride home later.
     At the foot of a hill, we came across two young men pushing a large Bronco-type rig across the street and up the hill we'd come down. Rarely too stingy with a good deed, if it's not overinconvenient, I pulled over to push along. The leader of the twoman rubberleg band thanked me, explained that some girl had asked him to move it, and that the keys were in the backseat, which they weren't. I said, Oh, and looked at the other pusher, who was Mr D___ himself. He said, I remember you, and then lomped away, nary a lookback. I was struck by it all. One tries to do a good deed... That might have been the end of it, but I picked up your man's brides the other day.
     I walked into the clinic, and the receptionist motioned for me to wait whilst she finished her- doubtless pressing- telephony. I quickly realized that she was talking about the brides herself, and then she used my name, and spoke of "pushing it". Well. She wrapped it up with a truism: Small world, and turned to me. I agreed with her, and explained why.
     Apparently, this Mrs. David Matthews and her husband had gone to see Lynrd Skynrd this wednesday last. While the cats were away, their mousy daughter allegedly played Old-Enough-To-Drive. Allegedly, she drove their truck away, lost the keys, and asked a young skinny black kid to move her thousands of pounds truck. Mr. N___ D____ happened upon him just as I did on the two of them, and the tangled web was woven complete. And one tries to do a good deed.
     I am left with the tentative hypothesis that if one attempts to do good, then interesting things will happen. I rather doubt it, but it is a starting point, and in any case, there's no less for me to lose than society by experimentation with it.

Belate

2004-08-29T15:54:00.000-04:00

Apparently, July has arrived, and only a month or two late. The cicadas have been doing their thing now that the contemptibly massive contemptible masses of freshmen have arrived here on campus. I saw one of their exoskeletons today, abandoned, hanging by the hookhands on an ash. A cicada's, not a frosh's. I would happily switch the two species' mating seasons, to hear the drunken WOOOOOS! only during the dog days, and the others' soothing buzzes, clicks, & whistles for the rest of the year. The only thing to do now is wait for natural selection to take its toll. What reckless drivers don't cull from the hordes, alcohol poisoning, STDs, and harrowing two-page term papers will. Harrowing.

I (no longer) hate you, Blogger

2004-08-23T15:31:00.000-04:00

~~And I hate Avantbrowser worse.~~
"- Cannot Find Server - The web site you typed in could not be found on the internet." Have you tried looking off the internet, or maybe around its corners? What a fucking stupid insulting 404 error message. I'm a big boy; I don't need such a concrete image of the goddamned internet.
~~And as for the world, let it be bereft of one of the awesomest posts that OTHERWISE would have been made.~~
Apparently that did go through. Blogger's OK, I guess. But I still Fing hate Avant's aolspeak "PROBLEM DETECTED WITH YOUR COMPUTER! FIXING PROBLEM!" retardspeak. What's wrong? The populace doesn't understand computers? Well, let's talk down to them like mongoloid toddlers! That'll help! Ooh, and let's make more oversized and cartoonish buttons for them to push. That's sure to help them relate.
Most retarded common denominator.

Your man Wedsworth

2004-08-23T14:59:00.000-04:00

So the Brides' friend herself became a bride this weekend, and we were invited to the littlest state in the union. It's a strange place.
     Everyone there drives like the assholes in VT, but there are so many more of them. Every other car with a dent in the side of the rear from parking two feet from the curb, and the rest dented in the front from parking against traffic, without, needless to say, signalling their intention. Rless sons of bitches.
     The wedding itself was mercifully short, but the organist's warmings up left a hard act to follow. This was in the oldest holy roman catholic and apostolic church in the state, all fresh-refurbished with shinybusy stainedglass- behind the altar was the standard crossifiance, but with what looked to be a volcano erupting in the City of Angels or something such. Anyway, the organist- whose piece took up probably 30 sqft- started off, a halfhour early, with some typically slow and brooding piece befitting the occasion. But then. And then.
     Remember the aliensong from Close Encounters? I do, and all the fresher now. Eventually, as he plaid, the dearly beloved gathered there that day started exchanging browslanty looks. As usual, the tardile vulgus was way behind my lead, my elbow-clutching giggle-stifling advanced reaction. The music symbolized, I reasoned, the otherworldly descent of God's blessing spirit of fecundity on these two of his children, and also that God prefers simple tones overlaying- or should I say underlain by- writhing arabesque weirdness. And lo! the LORD did hear, and He was pleased, and also didst He fire up His Holy Bong of Awesome. I only wish I'd thought in advance to do the same.
     Stained glasshattering highs and pewrumbling lows. The brides speculated that such rockery was the first meaning of 'pulling out all the stops.' That was awesome. Eventually, though, like all trips, it had to end and a brief bit of Pachelbel's beloved Kanon in D with a quick (but slick) segue to the wedding march, and that's the day the music died.
     And then wine while we waited to eat, and then wine while we ate, and then wine while we waited for the wine to run out. And then it was two-thirty and I thinkt, I'm drunk at 230, and then the wine did run out, and then napping. Alarm set for six, but it seems not to've gone off. The brides woke me at 648, saying, Look at the clock, look at what time it is. I was surprised.
     She went about her refreshening, dazed, and then mused, I can't believe we slept all night! I said, We didn't. It was still the same night, not. It was funny.
     We went to a thing, something like a gargantuan mall. On its sixth floor was an even more gargantuan ...place. It was as if Chuck E. Cheese collided with a casino at such a speed that not only were the animatrons and strippers thrown out, but a hole was torn in space- in the space six mall-storeys above Rhode Island. I swear to God, that place was bigger than the state that contained it. Earl and Bangers? Bucky and Mashed? Some two guys. Video games (among which exactly TWO had joysticks) and flashing lights, fake gambling and skeeball, every coin-op entertainment imaginable- paradoxically, they were all NWO paycard operated- stretching off into the horizon. And a cloying gauze of unreality pervading throughout. It was a fitting end to a day that started with a musical prophet rending asunder the upper firmament to let flow the holy low-pH waters of the Lord.

Lady Chafferly

2004-08-18T09:31:00.000-04:00

The nerve of some people.
   In getting into my cups this monday last, I was joined by a few so-called friends. Words were exchanged in the light and congenial publically housed banter characteristic of such ale saroons, and eventually, in a manner characteristic of such places, lines were crossed ere they were even scratched in the sand. Some lines should go without drawing.
   She called me a Chigger.
   One may imagine how this stroked me; I immediately disclaimed my offense at that, that my heritage is Chafrican American, and I was rather chafed by the of-color slur. And the pot calling the kettle home for tea! She's one to talk, the cross-eyed Guinnese trollop-cream tart bastard of an itinerant Quebec harelop sired of his uncle and aunt with a pathologically parochial highland McDago. She "passes gas," not farts, and yet can pass such judg(e)ment against my people and me and expect it to pass our standards of propriety?
   For shame and forsythia tea to soothe my abraised pride.
   This rubs my delicate sensibilities, and not in the right way.

Voice clamorous

2004-08-03T16:31:00.000-04:00

Life is harsh in the desert. It's a constant struggle against the elements: the sun's relentless bake, the night's biting cold, periodic sandstorms, and the constant search for scarce food and water. To survive, one must become as harsh as the terrain itself. In the special case of human desertdwellers, individual traits are not all that's informed by the desert. It creates its own culture. And religion.
&nbs;&nbs;&nbs;Who would create such a harsh and brutal world but just such a harsh and brutal (the religionists in question euphemistically call these traits Just) god? So it went with the hebrews, with Yahweh smiting more often than he blessed. They, though, eventually became civilized- building cities, trading with their (admittedly unclean) goyish neighbors. Notably, this process was greatly accelerated by their captivity by the worldly old persians. Compare Isaiah with Elijah- the god of the earlier prophet slaughtered his rivals, and that of the later merely subjugated them to his people (in promise, anyway). Then, of course, they were eventually diasporized across eurasia, and, being always in the minority in their new nations, developed rather a softer interpretation of God's will.
&nbs;&nbs;&nbs;Hundreds of years later came Mohammed, with a similarly dry sense of divinity. Early Islamic history is as vicious or more as the early jews'. And again, we have a harsh desert people, nomads. Again, we have a harsh desert god with ONE goddamned way of doing anything. His way or the highway to hell. Although the Koran contains mixed injunctions on dealing with other 'people of the book,' their treatment in the early days was generally on the worse side of better. And but at the peak of Muslim civilization, during Europe's dark ages, the more urbane realms of Islamdom treated its religious minorities better than Christiandom treated its own jews. With city life, with trade with diverse peoples, intellectual intercourse bred ideas that could flourish and soften in ways impossible for desert wanderers.
&nbs;&nbs;&nbs;With the senescence of islamdom, and the rise of the secular west, much of the progress made in islamic philosophy was lost. Again, in Arabia and mountainy old Afghanistan, the old tribal ways and short brutal nastiness of life have always precluded liberalization. Hence we have movements the like of Wahhabism, which is essentially anglo puritanism without the funny hats, but with turbans and burqhas. I've actually done cheated the afghans there; Rumi, for instance, with his divine love poetry was one of them. The sufis always stain the tablecloth. Anyway, sufism, with its focus on one's own relationship with the divine, has always pissed off fundamentalists, who are more concerned that everyone else is doing exactly what they should according to Abu Shaikh Whomever's interpretation. I read recently about Taliban having shut down some sufi's tomb, where young people would gather at night and sing. No fun allowed. 'tsays so right in the koran.
&nbs;&nbs;&nbs;So again, the One True Pathers are fucking up shit for everyone else both inside and out- of islam. It's not just freedom that they hate.
&nbs;&nbs;&nbs;Actually, barring most of the physical attacks and open suppression of women, this all seems somehow familiar. A semi-civilized race of desert people, obsessed with the law of justice over compassion, hold the One True key of interpretation of the holy words. They seek to destroy their rivals, the impostors who purport to have a key as well, and to assure that everyone follows The One True Rulebook.
&nbs;&nbs;&nbs;Ah, Texas Christians. If you could only focus on all you have in common with the terrorists. A similar alliance worked wonders in Afghanistan, helping Taliban against the commies. Obviously, supporting secular dictators doesn't work; look at the tattered remnants of the Shah of Iran, and of Mr. Hussein. Maybe a dialogue would help them see the light. Unless the terrorists are converted to Republicanism, the terrorists have already won.

Willor,Amstel

2004-07-28T20:02:00.000-04:00

Your man there kindly invited myself to join his little so-soing circle and I, as a man of many words, could barely refuse. Rather than force the reader to wade through a profile to get a feel for the man who is himself, I shall begin by offering the following tale of a typical night out.
     I went about my cups the other night, as is my custom of the day of the heavenly firmament. What better way to celebrate the partition of the waters above from those below than by rejoining them? This night was exceptional in that one of my bartenders presented me with a present, from his to my self: an Old Milwaukee^® hat with a poorly stitched deer on it, of a suitable hunter orange hue. I went on for quite a while to him about it, the hunter, the orange, the yellow beer of orange hunters, the authenticity of the hat- beyond the registered TM symbol, it had a solid fabric back. This is in contrast to the ironically resurgent mesh-backed, or trucker, hats that the Emojugen are wearing with straight faces as they mope around their record store workplaces alternately making people feel inferior and attempting seduction of girls by making them feel inferior. The point being that Old Milwaukee ^® has no need to go out of its way to impress people with high-faluting trendy meshbacking, and had it been mesh, then 9:1 odds say that it'd have been silkscreened by some shaggy unkempt idler terrified that any of his friends might see him in the mall getting his kioskwork commissioned. That he in turn could hold his sighting them there against them would not occur to him, so clouded would be his eyes with the obscene profits to be made selling his knockoff wares on eBay. I say, Sir, I believe we have met. Phonneas Manjack, was it?
     After about a half hour of my exposition, other circumstances called my good man away. He was presently replaced by a man who may be called Will, but who certainly drank Amstel Light. By then I'd stown away my various effects in said hat lying on the bar, and Amstel asked about the hat. He made some joke about a moose, while I patiently explained, again and again, that it was in fact a deer. Embarassed as he was, he assured me that he was only kidding, although I certainly missed the jest. He told me that he'd never seen a moose, and I, seeing the chance to regain control of a night swaying awry, regaled him with the Tale of the Manchester Moose. He could not believe that the moose had a police entourage for the protection of the public. I assured him that it was so; a moose is every bit as vicious as your man's typical suburban soccer mom. Another unfortunate trait the two share is the (erroneous) sense of invulnerability that comes from having too high a center of mass, the one from its legs, the other by its SUV. Neither is a beast with which to be fucked.
     He said something then about my getting shot for wearing the hat outside. This was another of those "jokes" of his, whatever that may mean. I assured him that he was quite mistaken, that not only would I not be mistakenly be shot by any hunters, their vision confused by my hat's namesake, but that not even the (nonexistent) gangs of the area would take offense, as they have all mutually agreed that Hunter Orange is the universal non-gang color. He didn't "get" my jibes any more than his. Alas, poor Amstel. I knew him.

Reraisment

2004-07-20T15:53:00.000-04:00

   Last week I received a paycheck. It was an envelope with keys, a few subway tokens, and a ticket to the worst Afflection ever inflicted on a Phil Dick story. Almighty Christ, why don't you clench your jaw a little tighter. To show the strain. It also had an actual check in the envelope. A small one.
   As I am a graduate student, my stiped is trimmed over the summer. From academic-year biweekly wages of $110 over my half of the rent, it's reduced to 10 under my rentshare. Last friday it was cut still further to $151 below, which would leave me with about 148 dollars to subsist on in any given month. As appealing as is the ideal of the anchorite scholar, I like my ivory towers to be of some dead thing's bones, not my own jutting out of my palsied scurvious frame.
   Apparently, the administrator thought that since my TAing assignment had been cut (insufficient enrollees to pay a professor and an assistant), that I was cut off. Which, if anyone cares to do the math I've encoded above, would be exactly ___ dollars less biweekly income than my rent, and a pretty squalid state for me. I had fearfully anticipated this, and not looked forward to the character it would build.
   Happily, the office boss has greased the unhatched chicken, and apparently the Department is going to fund the remainder of my summer, teaching or not. In fact, I'll be getting a raise. To the tune of about sixtythree dollars more than my rent.

Headless horsefly

2004-07-19T16:00:00.000-04:00

   There are these strange little flies around my apartment that I've never seen before.
   Small, less than a quarter inch long, and like brown with some type of stripes on their big wings, folded into a triangle when at rest. I want to say small feathery antennae. I've lived in quite a few dives and never run into the things before. Maybe that's the thing, that they're some kind of nice neighborhood pest. My own and a small few buildings aside, I live in what's called a nice neighborhood. Ancient single family homes three storeys with like roof-notch little porches.
   And then there's my dinged-out flophouse, asbestos tiles and paint not-flaking-but-entirely-flaked-off-of the porch, paperboard walls thrown up and slopshed with paint of undignified tones. Retarded upstairs man yelling at his (apparently Normal) girlfriend and their rotten boxer howling when they're not home to fight, kid across the hall wearing his black&redbulls sweatsuit every day, howling back at his own dog and taking his mouse for rolls around the neighborhood in a mini-hamsterball. The pay-washer broken often as not, broken swingplates opposed to each and every doorknob.
   I was showing it to li'l B, whom the brides brought over last night. He hadn't seen the place yet after my six months there, and showed up last night for the same reason as he'd previously stayed away, viz., the lad. They do some fighting, those boys. Not least of all when they're trying to quit smoking, as they normally are. Brief talk, no gossip really. He asked me for a story and I couldn't find one. Funny, that.
   Some people drink to forget; I drink because I'll forget anyway.

Fire drill

2004-07-17T18:42:00.000-04:00

   I was waiting in saturday Dover traffic (such as it were) wondering, among other things, what was taking the light so long. And I felt the advantage slipping yet again. Every second I waited there, the terrorists were winning.
   It is as if the Transformers had cyberformed the earth, using huge stockpiles of energon found largely under historically Palestinian soil, and the Jews, resentful of the xenons' perceived luxurious lifestyle and constant encroachment upon their culture, declared guerilla revolution against the Autobotian empire. This time, they've found, it's not as simple as marrying their raped sister to a transformer on the condition that all male robos got circumcised, and then slaying them all on the third day when the pain is at its worst. They must fight, like real-life Palestinians, using vastly inferior technology and by any means possible.
   Every mile driven, every second sat in traffic, every engagement of the ignition, dinars and shekels roll into the horrible pockets of Terror. Lest the reader be misled, the oil-terror connection is nowhere near as insidious as the drug-terror relationship. Surveys have shown scientifically that more than 100% of every drug transaction goes directly into terror's coffers. With the petro connection, it's much, much less than 100% of the profits. A lot of that money goes to, say, citizens of the many enlightened unconstitutional monarchies and other types of mesoöriental governments where citizens are still regularly arrested for protesting their inability to vote. Vote, indeed. Who gave them the right?
   Even the citizens of the freeëst country in the world are not Constitutionally allowed a vote. That we can vote to ask our electors to vote for our candidate-of-choice is a privilege, not a right. "Such powers not specifically appointed to the federal, et c., are appointed to the States or the People et c." And a good thing, too. Imagine how much worse off we'd be if we had a popularly elected president who didn't know anything about the oil business.

Swing low, sweet autobot

2004-07-13T14:26:00.000-04:00

For some reason, my hand bears the phrase, PLIGHT OF THE BUMBLEBEE.
   I've never really been able to sort out my feelings about the Littlest Autobot. Somewhere between annoyance and condescending affection. All of those god damned transformers shows had the same fatal flaw: Too many annoying kids, too little focus on future robot destruction. If I wanted to watch foolish hu-mans gumming up the works of an otherwise well-oiled machine, why would I watch a show about robots? Come on. Of course, it was Bumblebee's sole purpose in every incarnation of the show to cart the children around, and whether it was his personality in itself or too much exposure to their puny carbonaceous lameness, he pretty much did the same thing as them: get in the way, fuck shit up, and waste time, valuable time that could've been spent battling.
   And yet there is something endearing about him- the ultimate loserbot. I can imagine him in his youth coming home with broken mirrors, his muffler dragging, sniffling back tears after the bigger robots had bullied him all day at roboschool or whathaveyou.
   I just don't know about that guy.

I've won! new orientals scantier*.

2004-07-10T14:38:00.000-04:00

denizen nouns, kneeling, diffusers
  Slovenian infants slow Kronecker
  reopened prophecy logged downstream
sewed
implore tiling artichoke, braided vagrant
  tutors annunciate Hubert:
  blueberry gagged fiction Boers inscribed.
droops rises truant (unlike Dutch utilities),
   departs raincoat, ailment plaintive.
backplane fillers rivalling blender quiver chinner

Three quirks for sp@m dad.a !!

*Punctuation added.

Here Comes Me again

2004-07-08T16:16:00.000-04:00

Hi.
This is my first time here, and already I want to stab my keyboard for not letting me use the tab key in this composition window box area of the monitoring view screen.
Dear me.
Do you like jokes, dear binary wedbiary? I do, but I have the strange pathology of immediately forgetting the cause of my laughter. That's why I smirk so much, in laughter's stead. To better remember. Some people wrongly think it's an arroging condescendant thing that I do. They're probably right.
Incidentally: ~~braghlk sqr~~.