This blog in audio form

The author of this blog is also the "genius" behind the "band" Friday Nite!. Check out their new "album" and download it for zero dollars right here:




41 "songs". Quantity over quality.

Free Associations Based on Historically Accurate Names of People and Places in "Braveheart"

William Wallace Alabama shakes hands across American flags of our fathers day of the dead

The Battle of Stirling silver medal heads and shoulders above the rest in peace

Edward Longshanks for the memories like the corners of my mind the gap band on the run

Princess Isabelle is a bell tower of power plant

The Battle of Fal-Captain-kirk land of the free home of the brave heart holy shit full circle

Ya Filthy Animal

I saw MacCaulay Culkin once, at the height of his fame, walking from a make-your-own-music-video boutique in an upscale Chicago mall. I was there to play mini-golf, eat frogs' legs and blue ice cream, see the fountain spray over the river. The celebrity run-in was jarring, momentous. I had seen his work with my father just weeks before. It moved me. I was about his age, maybe a slightly older 14, he in his leather jacket obscenely decorated with baseball diamonds, a middle school entourage in tow. He was short, even for his age. I, too.

And now my nostrils breathe fire in the burnt brown shadows of a nameless television show, the red reflections of clothing sales living in the sheen of the coffee tables. I am having trouble seeing clearly these days. Today, when I pet my dog, I swore the moment was a dream. I still do. And then, when M died in the Bond movie, my own mortality was plainly evident. It does not matter that I will not die poignantly, my enemy saying that yes this yes this was was the was it was the way it was supposed to end. My ending is an ending, unpoignant. The absence of a negative. The absence of a positive. A narrative with no arcs

And Culkin slaps his cheeks, his mouth an "O" 

Cops, Robbers

They say that everyone has a novel in them. Here is mine:

A rider rides a bicycle several times a week. The distance of these rides at first seems lengthy, but eventually we realize that in the grand scheme of things, no no even in the scheme of bicycles and their riders, they are not. These rides are not linear. The rider always ends up where he started. This continues.

Besides slight changes in wind speed and direction and weather, every chapter is exactly the same.

The steel grey, the reflective wrapped teal, the honey, and a creeking

If the temperature and time are just right: 58 degrees, slight breeze, no humidity, the waning sunset,  the bike disappears and you are flying.

(Actually, the universe is shaped exactly like a human, and we are living in the fingertips.)

Oliver Sachs

These visions like present tense dreams, forgotten and hazy as they happen:

Sitting speechless, looking away, a face tremulous and raging indigo. The bus riders' eyes bulging in unison. The spine of a fish, laid out in two dimensions, outlined in neon yellow, weeping softly behind the plate of glass. We are all waiting for the concluding statement, the one that makes sense of all of this. We do not realize that this, too, has already passed:

"Pterodactyl."
"Pterodactyl."
"Pterodactyl!"
MWAW.

And we are matter. We are compacted energy. And we are matter, mattering.

I do not think 't

All of the sounds at once. Every leaf blower. Every dish washer. Every motorcycle acceleration. Every grocery store check out scanner. Every conversation.

So that there are no more tangents.

Nature

I am watching nature on television. Carnivorous caterpillars devouring flies. Giant sea eagles, wings like eruptions, plucking birds from the air. Male grouper swarming through clouds of eggs to fertilize, but distracted, not seeing the sharks.

I am watching nature on television. Enormous seals fighting for air holes. The wolverine dragging an elk leg to its nest. Fresh water eels growing up, being eaten.

It, devouring me.

35

It has been:
16 years since I sat in a pizza parlour drinking shots with first names until I threw up.
29 years since backyard relay races and goodie bags.
5 years since I sang karaoke with a spider costume on.
8 years since she blindfolded me and drove me to a cornfield and then a castle.

Forgotten Narratives Part 2

In case you were wondering, the world actually ended last year, and we are now in those last remaining flashes of light, the last gasps of air, the few flickers of vision before it all goes black. Throes. Spasms. Contortions. It is an illusion, like the chicken's head on the ground, detached by the farmer's axe, watching her own body run around the yard for a few more laps, wondering "What...is...that?" before the last spills of life blood drain from her neck. A painless, final, hallucinatory reality.

And all of these pieces fit to prove it: the deer on its hind legs, reaching for leaves, its antlers too new to fall off, stretching over the wire fence, the neon green women running, a coyote in the middle of their pack, dazed but unafraid, accustomed to the sounds of Nike Plus.

Those beings, now: An order.
The Deer eats the Leaves,
the Coyote stalks the Deer,
the Neon Pack consumes it all:
Everything in its path.

And our long shadows stretch out before us.

Our tears of joy are not because we are happy, but because we long for a happiness that has passed and we can no longer grasp. The child near the river, jumping at the sight of the lizard he's only seen in pictures, his squeals convulsive and involuntary, (and down, off to the left, the sun's sharp whiteness rebounds off the river) the lizard calm, the father's hand just there, just grazing his shoulder to say go ahead, reach, son reach, but to to say I'm here I'm here here if you need me son son as he reaches down son to new reality too too new real.

A joy I can't understand, a joy I can't hope to even remember, tears of joy.

And our long shadows stretch out before us.

Proud to be American Cheese

Proud to be American Cheese is indignant about its ignorance.
Proud to be American Cheese must be eaten, or the terrorists have won.
Proud to be American Cheese takes national anthems at sporting events very seriously.
Proud to be American Cheese is heavily processed, has no discernible flavor, and is loaded with calories.
Proud to be American Cheese contracts mercenary corporations to do its dirty work.
Proud to be American Cheese will park, go to Wal-Mart, drive 100 yards across the parking lot, park again, and go to Lowe's.
Proud to be American Cheese's color does run, contrary to popular belief.
Proud to be American Cheese hasn't read a thing by Mark Twain, but has seen the Disney version of Huck Finn.
Proud to be American Cheese doesn't pick up on the racist undertones of most of its rhetoric.
Proud to be American Cheese is why they hate our freedom.
Proud to be American Cheese is proud that the French talk bad about it.
Proud to be American Cheese melts smoothly due to a heavy reliance on oil.
Proud to be American Cheese would gladly stand up next to you and defend her still today.
Proud to be American Cheese is true Americana.
Proud to be American Cheese is made in China.

Will they call your name?

They said there would be silence as they showed the pictures but the mournful music lingered. I know because I listened on the radio, their faces obscured by choice in technology, leaving violin swells. But I see them, sepia toned, faded into, on blogs and Facebook feeds. Anonymous names of former students, former children with dreams, sold out by their teachers who gave them few options. Immigrants chasing now chased and dead.

The Weight of Water

The story of the basement flooding: When
the rain came down for days and days,
the sewer grates were overflowing, and
the carpets were indelibly stained.
The bottoms of the boxes couldn't take
the weight of water, so, when we lifted, all our stuff fell into
the pool below. And so floating in
the shit and piss with
the leaves and sticks
the rain brought in were

all our childhood memories,
all our A's on our papers,
all our baby books and clothes.

Rhinoceri: A Study

A 

rhinoceros's eyes are on the side of its head, and a 

rhinoceros's skin is made of scales. But they don't categorize by a 

rhinoceros's eyes, so its a mammal instead of a lizard.

My babies make 

me who 

I am. And on a bike ride 

the clouds doubled 

the size of 

the hills like 

the sides of rhinoceri and we rode through olive grove's sticky roads to 

the valley where berryessa lay.

Torn-up newspaper [some]

When it comes down to it, this is all just some stern drive to a distant, unknown point in a desert wasteland. And when the driver mumbles ominously, "Are you gonna ask where we're going?" we reply calmly, collectively.

Nope.

A Summary of My Trip to England, Written in Globe Theater-Style Scene Captions

Chunk 1
1. Sitting in the front row for a lecture on literature after 19 hours of travel
2. Bike ride through cow pastures
3. Wandering around Oxford, wondering which archway a fictional character had his picture taken under.

Chunk 2
4. Arrive at London flat to a tiny, tiny room/Return to Oxford
5. Bike ride with strangers/Can't keep up with strangers/Lost in English countryside/Drinking/Meet new roommates/Drinking
6. First day of Shakespeare Camp, feeling like an awkward kindergartener/Flat 13 makes power play
7. Team Midwest conquers London/Why do PhD candidates feel the need to apply critical theory to everything?, or Sometimes, it really is just a statue
8. Meet Glynn, fairy godmother from hell/Find out I am "fucking awful" at walking/Stare at pole, pretend it is Henry V
9. Proper English lady makes noises like a 2-year-old/Find out I am too tense and have bad posture/ Team Don't Fuck Around will cook for booze
10. I have a speech to memorize? Just so you know, I am not going to memorize this speech

Chunk 3
11. Tower of London=Several examples of Henry VIII's cod piece/Brit dressed as penis
12. This guy on the London Eye? He had a shirt on that had a woman in a bikini holding a machine gun on it. Oh, and a gold chain and matching bracelets. I think he was from Russia. I wish I got a picture.

Chunk 4
13. Back to school/Practice, nervousness/Cod piece becomes a theme thanks to Taming of the Shrew
14. Stepping on Globe Stage for the first time/Play magically comes together
15. I am a fucking actor
16. Return to the Tate/We still have class? But why?/Scene chunking panic
17. Return of Return to the Tate/Trying to remember what was for dinner besides champagne
 18. Vacating the flat/Summer camp conclusion woe/47-year-old mosh pit for Peter Hook

Chunk 5
19. Stonehenge and some other very old rocks propped up in the ground

Chemical Reactions in Our Cells

Every goodbye is a tiny death.
Every re-union an endless joy.

Welling into earth, the farmer found only clay.

In the moment, it feels interminable, but at the end, years from now, we will look back, counting seconds, swearing that there are some missing, that we are owed another, at least one more, just one more, please please just one. These moments, here, now, forgotten. Mismanaged. Spent frivolously.

the brain of the moment is in the hottest fires.

Drink the grapes. Wrap towels around round arms with olives in hairs: These are the few. The happy few. The merry ministers marching.

Late Morning Shards of Light Through British Glass

Downstairs a construction zone, busy with buses and business suits barreling away. We sit, constructing, waiting for the lateness to resume.

In a private court, a boy cried out and intensified the quiet

Thousands of miles to go. Green hills and oceans. Cities. Millions of people. The stark middle. Red rocks, a gambling wasteland, and you.

(home is where the hearth heart hear her he is here is home)

Blog In Reverse

David in reverse.
Zombie apocalypse in reverse.
Islands in reverse.
Food in reverse.
The table was moved in reverse.
One less barf bag in reverse.
Scuba diving in reverse.
Flower painting in reverse.
Perfumed mouthwash in reverse.
Jean jackets in reverse.
London in reverse.
Road trips in reverse.
Gold rush in reverse.
Natural history museum in reverse.
Ferry in reverse.
Facetime in reverse.
Dramamine in reverse.
Mission Delores in reverse.
Remote control in reverse.
Curls in reverse.
Shakespeare in reverse.
Sharpie in reverse.
Internet in reverse.
Track lights in reverse.
Mozart in reverse.
Mass in reverse.
Cafe latte in reverse.
Chuck Spoliar in reverse.
Mountains in reverse.
General public in reverse.
Madness in reverse.
Ghost ride the whip in reverse.
Camel toe in reverse.
The Cure's "Let's Go To Bed" in reverse.
Henry VIII in reverse.
Urine in reverse.
Chihuahuas in reverse.
Ale washed wits in reverse.
Jerry curl in reverse.
River in reverse.
Police siren in reverse.
Skyscraper construction in reverse.
Wind in reverse.
V in reverse.
Week two in reverse.
Children in reverse.
Age of Enlightenment in reverse.
Surfing in reverse.
Double entendre in reverse.
666 in reverse.
Taking pictures in reverse.
Theft in reverse.
Yes in reverse.
Facebook invitations in reverse.
Horse race in reverse.
Queen in reverse.
White noise in reverse.
Renting housing in reverse.
Grey in reverse.
Fat in reverse.
Pretense in reverse.
Bus stop in reverse.
Spaghetti Western in reverse.
Martinelli's Sparkling Cider in reverse.
Masculinity in reverse.
Body piercing in reverse.
Punctuation in reverse.
Vibrate in reverse.
Sam McPheeters  in reverse.
Fuel efficiency in reverse.
Wind tunnel in reverse.
Some loud British accents in reverse.
Efficiency in reverse.
In reverse in reverse.

What The Fuck Blog

What The Fuck Blog is about
what the fuck,
like,
"What the fuck is this blob?
What the
fuck?
Who reads this?
Seriously?
Who's blob
is this?"

What The Fuck Blog
is for people who don't air
personal laundry.

What Happens When I Drink: A Musical Diagram In 10 Songs

Stage One: Showing Off

Before any gathering at our house, my diminished sense of self-worth compels me to comb my record collection for albums that might impress my guests. Depending on the guest, this may mean pulling out the copy of Led Zeppelin's “In Through the Out Door” that would change from black and white to color if you were to wet it, or digging up the gay-Mexican-anarchist hardcore punk band discography no one outside of 200 people in Chicago has ever heard of—whatever album that might spark an easy conversation before the first couple of drinks take effect.

Example Texts:

• Damaged Goods—Gang of Four
• Bitchin' Camaro—Dead Milkmen
   
  Stage Two: Irony
  
  
  Once sufficiently lubricated, I am immediately in the mood for cheesy sentimentality, karaoke bars, Miller High Life, Steely Dan. Luckily, most of my record collection supports this tendency. If I am in a bar with a jukebox rather than imbibing at home, then I jump immediately to Stage Two.
  
  
  Example Texts:
• In The Air Tonight—Phil Collins
• Flashdance (What a Feeling)—Irene Cara
• Don't You Want Me—Human League
  
  
  Stage Three: Dance Party
  
  
  At this point in the evening, I have little control over my actions. If I have put the right combination of poisons into my body (usually champagne, gin, or large amounts of caffeine consumed concurrently with beer), the result is a manic, epileptic fit of dancing. The soundtrack to these seizure-like jerks may very well flow seamlessly from Stage Two. But if I get my way, hip hop is the catalyst to my personal and self-inflicted embarrassment.
  
  
  Example Texts:
• It's Goin' Down—Yung Joc
• Ni**as In Paris—Kayne West & Jay-Z
  
  
  Stage Four: Existential Crises
  
  
  Nothing illuminates the utter pain and futility of existence quite like an excessive amount of alcohol, and it is in these early morning moments that I turn to sad-bastard singers with accents or twangs, whose music taps into some deep, otherwise unacknowledged, joyful sadness. Usually I listen to only one of these songs per night, on repeat and at full volume, belting the lyrics to no one until Anna comes upstairs and tells me to go to sleep. These are pathetic, embarrassing moments, but also my most cherished.
  Example Texts:
• White City—The Pogues
• Two-Headed Boy—Neutral Milk Hotel
• The Losing End (When You're On)—Neil Young
  
  
  
  

Works Cited 

 

Cara, Irene. Flashdance. 1983. MP3.

Collins, Phil. Face Value. 1981. MP3.

The Dead Milkmen. Big Lizard in My Backyard. 1985. CD.

Gang of Four. Entertainment! 1979. Vinyl recording.

Human League. Dare. 1981. MP3.

Neutral Milk Hotel. In the Aeroplane Over the Sea. 1998. Vinyl recording.

The Pogues. Peace and Love. 1989. Vinyl recording.

West, Kanye & Jay-Z. Watch The Throne. 2011. CD.

Young, Neil. Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere. 1970. Vinyl recording.

Yung Joc. New Joc City. Nitti, 2006. MP3.

Lyrics for my new song

So...

Wait this isn't part of it.

Let me start again.

So...
Back there, where I said, "This isn't part of it." was part
of it,
but this is not part of it.

But this is part of it, which is not part of being a part of part of it.
Not this part. Forget this part. I am
moving on the the next part, which is definitely a part of part of it, though which part is part and parcel of this whole part.

When I said this is part part of it, which is not part of being a part of part of it that was actually part of something else, but not a part of this so I could play that part but that is not a part of this part, which is part of it, and should be taken apart.

Just to be clear: the first part was not part of part of it, but then the part after that part was part of something else. This though, is also not part of it, at least the part up until the part when I said part.

So...

Shenandoah at 67,000 miles per hour

At night
the Hunter and the Bear
barreling through India ink,
neon lights twirling,
barely bleeding.

The bear,
the hunter: The hunted.

The next day
Thousands of deer
congregating in the campsite:
finicky snacks, sipping shit coffee, flushing toilets.

"Did ya git a good deal on that Gemini?"

On Thursday, I am scheduled to discuss my "writing process" with a bunch of high school students in a creative writing class.

Hello class. I have a blog. I am not going to tell you the location of this particular blog, but I will tell you that it is quite possibly the best blog ever created (by a white). Here's why:

1. This blog is FUCKING HILARIOUS.
2. This blog is frequented by pornography spammers from both Japan AND Russia.
3. This blog is on a steady decline, which would be a bad thing if I had not taken ownership of it in the third item of a post dated April 29, 2012.
4. This blog has dreams of its own to one day own a Papa Murphy's franchise.
5. Former NBA superstar Rik Smits is a personal friend of this blog.
6. Like Neil Young's "Time Fades Away," this blog will never be re-released, intensifying the pleasure of owning it.
7. This blog has been seen long-boarding on the streets of Sacramento with its hair bleached and spiked and reciting catch phrases "on-point" and "that's money."
8. Did I mention the fucking hilarity of this blog?

Caption Contest

These pictures need "hilarious" captions. Want to help?

The world is turning. I hope it don't turn away.

Enter this purgatorial state. The crowd of people, the wooden table (a relic of the 1950s), the fingers, a knuckle crack, a note, a note, a couple more, a lonely animal, a flyer for an Indian reservation. Plants, coasters, the blue haze remnant of a blinking eye lingering, the man alone at the microphone.

I think I'll get out of town.

Suddenly I remember land lines, these ancient ties to the past, a hard wire connection to another person.
Suddenly I remember land lines,  overwhelmed now by digital static. Three letters.

Upon watching a homemade video and then checking the web link for the festival at which the video's producer will be appearing.

Everything has a press photo, and it makes me ill.

A half-bored interest in food

 The fattest men weigh as much as bears. Lumbering towards their man-cave walls eventually removed by chainsaw, on a semi-network broadcast, fed to me, fed to them, a miracle will save you. (I am not sure the metaphors they use are as gracious, as powerful, as mine.)

The fattest men weigh as much as bears. Murderous, chaotic, hostile.

A State of hibernation, and self-discovery

I think you, you should not keep it.

You should destroy it.

Album Titles (and the bands who created them) I Am Making Up As I Type Them

Traction Socks--Open Heart Urgery
My Best Friends Wedding's Best Man Best Actor--Part Yert
Return of the Grow--Pawstricken
Drew Up--Lit
Men With Great Futures Create Wes--Jeep
Can You Bleieve This? -The Dead Squalk
Not for Nothing, Jesus--Nunn0))))))

Some people turn to God, others turn to gods

I am the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of Man.

Leap Day Haiku

and that's one small step
for man; one giant leap for
Mankind (the wrestler).

Eye: To

I I too too sing America too
To the land of the free too too I sing
too to the Mall of America
I too too
too too
Sing America: The horse with no name
The the in the in the desert in the
I too
to
I tu tu
And the home of the brave I
I
I to
The home
of
The Mall
of Themerica
I too too
"I, too" 2
Am ashamed.

i write from the stomach.

For some reason I put off sleep when alone. Like like there is some reason to be awake. Maybe it is a desire to not sleep alone, like like if I wait here long enough, your plane will land, you will disembark, you will open the door and make this cold, dark room warm.

In other news, the gray sheets do do quite fit the grey bed, fasting is the new eating pork, and I am still working on my knife skills in case I am called up to the whittling championships.

An Anonymous Wall of Digital Sound

010 START
020 REM "ananonymouswallofdigitalsound"
030 PRINT "No message"
040 GOTO 020
040 END

In Search of a Paper Bag

The hallways will always get longer, lined with pictures of former supervisors and chiefs of staff, their facial hair strange and foreign to modern eyes. Linoleum echos of footsteps on hard, waxed surfaces reverberate. Cold florescence. An edifice. A monolith.

One day it will be our faces on the wall. Distant memories. Questionable fashion choices. Yet the edifice remains.

(It was the Greeks who got it right, not Shakespeare. Our tragedies are not the faults of fatal flaws. They are the inevitable results of monolithic, immovable forces of nature.)

Best New Dreams, 2012

1. I find the ultra-rare first Poison record that everyone wants...the punk one with the cover that is reminiscent of the Minor Threat discography, only it's Brett Michaels in blue and black relief. I show it to everyone I know. No one cares.

2. I get a job at an antiques dealership, only to discover that there is a sinister, real-life role-playing game going on in the back room. Quickly, I realize that my job is not to stock antiques but to figure out who is trying to kill me. Everyone I know is there; everyone is a suspect. I turn around to realize that I am suddenly alone. The warehouse doors are closed, and there is water pouring in from under them. The room is quickly filling with water. I climb a pile of junk to a skylight and escape to the roof. When I return to street-level, I can see that everything in the antique shop is damp, but the water is gone. I go back into the store and head to the bosses office. Behind that door is the person who tried to kill me. I open the door, and sitting behind the desk is a glowing red cat. I pick the cat up by the neck, choke it, and throw it out the window.