The Fable of Fonterloughighoblo

Getting ready for the big day, one of the elves comes to me, he has his hat in his hand. And I haven't ever seen an elf with his hat off, so this can't be good. He says they can't find the list. I'm so goddamn busy I'm ready to shit bricks and mail them to Timbuktu. What list? I ask. THE LIST. Says the elf. Jesus Jumping Christ in Red Plaid! I exclaim. Did you ask Mrs. Clause? Yes! says the elf. So after that, we tear up the workshops, warehouses, storage & lofts, we rifle through the stables, look under every tree, present, box, trunk, hay pile & bail, turn over every wreath, look in every nook and cupboard, to no effect. Cookies and Cockeyed Crumpets, we're F--d! No List. Who had the List, last? They name the elf, Fonterloughighoblo, and he's not here, so we all go to his house. And lo, there he is, passed out dead drunk, and the list is in shambles, all over the place. I can't make head or tail of it, the pages all mottled, crumpled and smudged. I see he used some of it to start a fire. So there it is, with no list we had to improvise. Because of Fonterloughighoblo, 2006 was the year everyone got a crate of Spam.

Newsflash - Hills Block the View

Hills really do block the view? You must be joking.

On the Side of the Road

We saw this today, at about 8.30 in the morning.

empty room

i loved the empty room
light pink
with the cat
laying in the middle

night time
it was blue
as if
filled to the brim with rain

the
next morning
ordinary furniture
attacked

News Flash!

Thrown over into our booth at Islands yesterday at lunch. JAKE LIKES EMILY!!!!!!!

Selected Excerpts from a Journal

(Selected excerpts from a Journal, transcribed exactly as it was written, circa 2001.* The pages were found in the junk raked out of a partially burned house on Elm Street, in San Carlos, CA, in 2006.)

----

August 2
....Just finished moving into Bellingville, TN.**

August 4
Just my luck -- whose kid has the two-stroke scooter? Who lets thir fucking kid ride the goddamn scooter up & down the road at 2 in the morning?

August 5
Of course, nobody knows who the kid is. Then, later, when I go to the police they let slip that it is, apparently, one of their kids. The police chiefs’ kid.. Can I speak with him? Who, what?

August 12
I go to Martin Blackwell's house. Our absent chief of police. A faded note on the door all words blurred except: florida

September 13
There it goes again -- I get out there with a maglight. Under the dark moon, I hear the scooter shrieking along -- and my light shines all the way up the windblown road, leaves flying and it shines on nothing. Cliché blast of icy wind, the sensation of being brushed by something -- what?

I instinctually begin to back up. I shine the light where I hear footsteps, up the drive. Just blowing, twirling leaves. I turn and when i start to climb the stairs i'm bengmuffled by something - prssing on my arms tripping me panicking I get back inside, drenched in sweat, trembling, I realize what it felt like -- a hand. No bike. No person.

A word a name whispered in my ear. Who, I promptly forgot. A girls.

September 15
There is a shadow in my yard, at twilight. My imagination may be getting out of hand. but after seeing it hang around at dusk, flitting around the yard in my peripheral vision, I imagine me saying to a shadow in my yard.

What do you want?

Fun. Says the shadow. I want to have fun.

What does that mean? Who are you?

Nobody. Says the shadow. Nobody now.

September 17
Tan Martin Blackwell points a .44 magnum at my chest and says his son is dead. He was killed by the first gulf war.

If I come around again, he will kill me. If I ask around about his son, around town, he will kill me. If I tell stories about scooters he will kill me. I don't know if I hate him, if I feel pity for him, I just say goodbye.

He watches me close the fence to the drive, tears in his eyes.

October 4
Carl sits on my porch. Carl rides his scooter at 10 at night. Carl's girlfriend used to live here, back in the 1980s.

At the library, I look up his obituary. Carl died after his discharge. The librarian tells me he walked into the woods with a rifle and blew his brains out. Who else sees me? The phone rings in the middle of the night. The voice sounds faint, slurry. I'm warning you. Stay out of it.

October 7

Via the internet, I try to find the family that lived here. I stay away from the library,

November 11
Dictating from St. Johns Hospital

On Wednesday, October 10 a police car pulled away from my house when I come home. I find Blackwell in my kitchen.

I woke up one side of my face warm, the other cold. Blackwell in firelight. In the woods. My hands tied.

I can remember what he said, almost word for word.

I want to tell you about my Son. My Son. He was the first in this family to ever go to college – football scholarship to the state school here – no big deal but it was something for us. He was so proud of himself, you should have seen him on graduation – poly sci. I didn’t even know what the hell that was. Then he joined up, because he said some day he was going to run for President, he had it all mapped out on note cards, I still have them. And he needed to serve so he joined up and he was decorated – he was a goddamn war hero. Saved his squad from an entrenched position, something like that, but he came back changed. Had no fire in him anymore, was good for nothing, we tried to help him but his mother, she got killed by a drunk driver. And he rode that goddamn 2 stroke scooter after that. Was fucking a 17 year old girl who was running away from home all the time. What a fucking mess. So she runs away again and my pal sees her in Memphis, loitering, on drugs, so he calls and I have them do a special job for me -- a bag on her head to bring her back, because she’s pregnant. They hog tie the bitch and she strangles accidentally on the way back.

Blackwell puts more wood n the fire, takes a piss. Pushes back his hat.

Then my son, he kills himself when she doesn’t call or come back. I never meant to kill her. I never meant to kill anybody. I see her face on milk cartons now and again. She’s buried right over there. Under the tree. So you get up writer. Here’s the conclusion of your story, ain’t you happy, Mr. Writer? You’re gonna get up, go over there, and find her, and her baby. Get up you son of a bitch.

Nosy son of a bitch, poking your nose in where it wasn’t wanted. Fucking with things that don’t concern you.

He propelled me forward, over the fire, and into the tree, and I fell, scattering bones, A skull with fine straight white teeth stared up at me, with a few strands of faded blonde hair. And by that skull, there was a smaller egg like thing, with two holes.

I could see his silhouette, the gun coming up. The first bullet grazed my skull. My eyes were full of blood. As I started to move, another bullet broke my left arm.

I ran and ran, pitch black woods, down a cliff, then into a stream and over rocks and he followed for awhile shooting but then he couldn’t go on.

I think I heard him arguing with...and then they found him face down in the stream with two handprints on his shoulders.

----

* There is a Wednesday, October 10 in 1984, and in 2001

** There is no Bellingville, TN. There is a Billingsville, MO.

love is here

love is here
like a star

up there

yes that far
away

this here stiry

this here stiry is a gost story and i am teerified out of my mind right now typing with one hand bdecause i have fallen downstairs and i think i broke my left wrist after seeing a headless man and nosw ther are two of them is coimg slowly towards me all bloody this is our house our house our house

ADULTS

You know what I hate most about people? It is when they become ADULTS. You become ADULT when you lose your Imagination. After you lose your Imagination, unavoidably, sooner or later you become Offended by things you don't understand. That is the second thing I hate about people, when they decide to be Offended about something. But that is what ADULTS do, they can't help but become quarrelsome and divisive, because having no Imagination makes a person depressed and easily startled -- and we fear what we do not know. We are then ready to be Offended by something or someone. And people without Imagination are afraid of being afraid, they are afraid of fear, they are afraid of others, and eventually, they are afraid of themselves. For these reasons, ADULTS live a piteous, miserable existence.

Now That I Think I Am Awake

Right before I wake up, I dream I go downstairs and tell Phoebe to take a bath. While Phoebe gets in the bath, I notice the bathroom floor has small plastic Barbie shoes and other doll accessories strewn all over it. Then I wake up, I go downstairs, and I tell Phoebe to take a bath. This time when she's getting ready for her bath, I see that the bathroom floor is clear of doll accessories. Then I wake up again, this time hopefully for real. I go downstairs, I avoid telling Phoebe to take a bath, and I get a cup of coffee. I wait for a bit, and I don't wake up again. So now I'm awake, I think. How are you doing today?

persistence

he wrote terrible
poems

each one more
terrible than the last

and he kept
sending them to

this small
magazine that

really didn't
use poetry

and he knew
in his heart

someday he'd
get published there

POST YOUR POETRY

lies sadness
ENTER CONEST
confession to god
PREVIOUS WINNERS
FIND POEMS HERE
separation
POETRY IN MOTION
PREVIOUS WINNERS
stupidity anger
POST YOUR POETRY
ON THIS SITE
revelation
100 GREATEST POEMS
EVER WRITTEN
FIND POEMS HERE

he carries pebbles

he carries pebbles
around in his head

she has a house
full of designer furniture
in her mind

william totes endless baseball
scores brimming with
romance

alice is full of songs
like thousands of exotic birds
all escaping at once

a memorable fancy

to W.B.

i dreamed the reason why there is sin in the world
is because god miscalculated
how far a soul could be positioned from his presence
and remain inherently pure

calling grandma

i call you up
after the operation

you sound angry
i ask you how it went

you say pretty badly
but you're okay

you're eating lunch
and thanks so much for calling

i say i'll call tomorrow
i hang up the phone

a useless
hunk of plastic

one man revolution

you are a one man revolution
with only one idea
ruling a country of one

sometimes

sometimes i think
what it is like to be all grown up

is to realize that there are people
who are better than you at everything
you love

better than you by a million
times they just do it wow magic
just grace

but i keep on going
because mostly i'm stubborn
sometimes i'm sure i got some thing coming up inside
like a diabolical flower
massive crude
natural thing

Joe

In the dark San Francisco night
In North Beach somewhere back in time
I dreamed we wandered the cavernous
mysterious night
from bar to bar

Until we found in a back room
A card game going on
With people all so familiar with each other
Laughing and drinking
Sweating and throwing down cards
Telling wild stories and bragging

And who was there but Joe Di Maggio
So Young and slim and his face shining
Full of himself and his friends
Yelling out and laughing in the dim light
He wore a brown suit and the table shone

I was dumbstruck because
I knew he was dead as I watched him move
Among the sillhouttes and smoke

I was in a time I had never existed
But here he was in my dream
In his prime

(I had this dream a few nights after Joe Di Maggio died)

The Forbidden Chairs and Tables of the Piazza San Marco

In Venice, in the Piazza San Marco, you are firmly not allowed to sit on the chairs and tables set out there. Even if you are ordering a cappuccino or mocha, you are not allowed to sit in the chairs and tables associated with that cafe. No, no, it is impossible! Impossible! Please do not ask why. After getting your drinks, you review phalanxes of empty tables and chairs. They are roped into sections for each cafe by braided thin steel cables coated in plastic. Mysterious and remote -- empty of all butts -- conceptual art under wheeling clouds of pigeons. (BTW - a mocha is a drink you give a little kid, and civilized people drink a cappuccino in the morning, not in the afternoon, you stupid American.)

Night Sashay

In
San Francisco
Depressed & pissed off
I watch a man who lives
In an apartment next door
Straighten things out
In his living room

It is dusk
Night falling hard
Like a ton of bricks

The man moves about
Doing things
Picking up rearranging
Magazines and paperweights

Objects I cannot see
Yet it is easy to imagine
What he does the way
His shoulders move

I can make out what
He is wearing

A sweater
Blue jeans
He is bald

I am surprised
When I see his head bobbing
Very low next to the side
Of the back of the couch

His forehead almost
Disappears past the ledge of
The window

The he straightens up
Looking at some odd thing
He found back there

He continues to busy
Himself

The window becomes
Yellower

Light is falling
Falling falling dying
Just like my emotions
Seem to be smoothing out

Indifference soaking
Into my eyes
My mind
My body
My soul

And as this happens
He looks out and sees me
Sitting across the way
Typing

Staring

He walks out of the room
With a few things
In his hands

A minute later he comes back
Hands empty
Maybe he threw the shit
Away who knows

He stands there
And he looks at me
And I look at him

He moves over
To one side of the window
And as the drapes close
Bit by bit

I imagine how
They must go

Swish

Swish

Swish

Swish

Swish

Trying to Find Out Why Steve Brodie Jumped

When I was about 8 years old, my parents decided to get my sister and I a set of the World Encyclopedia...these were the quaint days before people used thing called "The Internet" to look up stuff. My parents had to put an order in for it, it cost a buttload of cash, and it was to arrive at Christmas. I must say, it was a big deal to get a set of the World Encyclopedia, we were all very excited. So my dad asked me, "Son, when we get the World Encyclopedia, what will be the first thing you look up?" He was probably thinking I'd look up something about Geology, History, or Astronomy. But I said, quick as a flash, "I'm going to look up why Steve Brodie jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge!!" "Who?" asked my father. I then explained to my dad that there was this Bugs Bunny cartoon where Steve Brodie jumps off the Brooklyn Bridge...but I knew that in real life no rabbit drove him crazy. So I was going to find out the REAL reason why Steve Brodie jumped off the bridge. By that time my pa had lost interest in the answer to his question. And when the Encyclopedia arrived, I found there was no reference to Steve Brodie. I wondered about it, and then one day when I happened to see that cartoon again on TV, I realized something. Then I thought f*** Bugs Bunny. F***ing cartoons.

An Austrian Christmas Story

Early, I know, but after seeing the damn Christmas decorations & merchandise going up at the local hardware conglomerate last weekend, this came to mind. So have a Merry Christmas, extra, extra early!

i.

In Austria, for Christmas, the hotel puts on a Christmas Eve bonfire and sing-along for the kiddies. After some songs, Santa shows up with presents, and our daughter gets a few nice little toys. Hot chocolate and cider for all. Very cute. Then I look close at the red paper bag the gifts came in, and I see that there's a sticker on the bag of a big leering Devil. He has a small child over his knee, the kid's pants are down, and the Devil is getting ready to paddle the crap outta the kid with a birch S&M switch. The kid looks terrified, tears spilling out of his eyes, and the Devil looks like he'd gonna bust a nut because he's so happy. Next to the Devil are chains and a wicker basket, to carry the beaten child to the flames of everlasting damnation. Then our daughter asks, "What are you looking at, Dad?" I say, "When you're bad in Austria, you don't get a lump of coal. No, you get beaten by the Devil and you get sent to Hell." I show her the sticker, and after a pause, she says "Oh."

ii.

After we get back to the hotel, I want to snag the Devil sticker to show everybody in the States -- but when we aren't looking, my daughter shreds it into tiny bits. "Oh!" says June. "You didn't like that did you?" "The Hell won't get me!" says Phoebe. "Why do you say that?" I ask. "Because if I'm bad, and I go there, the Hell won't be there!" "Where will he be?" I enquire. "He'll be out SHOPPING! Shopping for STICKS to smack BAD KIDS WITH!!" Phoebe yells, jumping up & down triumphantly. So, case closed. And I hope when I get sent to Hell, the Devil happens to be out at the Mall, replenishing his Infernal Devices. Or better yet, the day someone is damned, Hell just breaks down and can't be repaired. Just be extra good in Austria, don't forget that.

Estranged friends

Estranged friends
I miss you so
I’ll always miss you
Though things seem bent broken
Stretched all out
Beyond recognition or feeling

Here is something in us that loves
This way
Loves completely and entirely without effort
Naturally for ever and ever
Inexhaustible radiant complete
But it still hurts

(Poem Written on the Side/ Of an Old Envelope)

dedicated to Jennifer, who told me

A flock
Of birds
Few past
My window
And I could only
Watch them
For a few seconds
But they fluttered
In my head all
Day
A ghost flock
Of birds

A friend of mine
Sad she
(as a child)
Harbored a
Pigeon in her
Ear for
Almost 3 years*

She says
At the time
She thought all
People harbored
Birds in
Their ears

This is true
And also untrue


* My friend told me when she was about 3 years old she was walking down the street with her mother on a sunny windy day, and she was startled to see a white pigeon fly by close past her ear. When she turned, she couldn’t see where it went. So she concluded that when she cupped her hand to her ear, this soft noise she head was not the ocean, it was the pigeon now nesting in her ear…

My Odyssey

I.

One time I followed this
Beautiful young woman to
Her house from the N Judah line
To see where she lived

I wondered if she had a boyfriend
As I watched her in the twilight
Switching on the lights in
The apartment

I watched in the dark
From across the street
Through the slits
Of the venation blinds and I wondered
What the hell I was doing

She closed the blinds

A television spouted
Blue light in another room
And I walked home

II.

Last night
(two weeks later)
I got very drunk and I started
Knocking the carefully arranged
Bottles that I had
Supposedly meticulously set
To be out of my way

I picked up all the bottles
And I put them under my bed
And put on my coat and scarf

I took a bottle with me

III.

Outside it was silent and cold

I walked along
And I decided to go to her house
Again

Once there I amused myself
By drinking the beer
In the shadows of trees and cars
Looking up at the dark windows
Where I had seen her

I knew I was drunk
And it was cold
Very cold out there in the street

I was surprised how cold and quite
It was

Everything was so contained
And I stood there in the night
And I wondered what I was doing
What the hell was I up to
I was acting like a fucking nut

I found myself opening the
Waist-high gate that was on the
Side of her building

As I entered the slot-like
Side yard I felt as if my head was
Bobbing independently of my shoulders

I looked up
And I could see
A few stars and the cold
Seemed to fall away

IV.

For some reason
I felt very amused
With myself

I was now very amused
Just standing down there
Doing nothing in someone
Else’s backyard in the dead
Of night quite drunk
Off my gourd

I nudged the cement
Retaining wall with my
Toe and I figured out
Which back porch was hers

I was that she had wrapped
Several of her plants
To keep off the chilly air

The cellar was locked

I pissed on the cement wall
And then staggering home

While I was unlocking
The gate to my house
A cop car passed me going
Up the street

Birthday Field of Dreams

After I graduated from college, I moved in temporarily with my parents in Petaluma, California. For awhile I worked nights as a security guard, of all things. I thought I’d make a go at trying to establish myself in Sonoma County, where I grew up.

So one day that was a day off for me, I woke up at 2.30 AM and I had nothing much to do, because Petaluma closes shop at about 10 PM and all my friends were asleep. It also happened to be my birthday. So I decided to watch “Field of Dreams” for an extra special happy birthday to me.

For some reason this night I kept on wanting to cry in certain parts of the movie, but I also kept remembering that this was, after all, just a movie – these people I was on the verge of crying over were actors who delivered lines convincingly.

Still, when the movie was over, I rewound it and watched it a second time – playing the good parts over and over again. When the sky had the faintest suggestion of light in the east, I decided to take the dog for a walk.

We walked a few blocks down to the main drag. As the dog crapped in a newly ploughed field that was the empty lot next to an ice-cream shop, I saw legions of commuters zipping down the boulevard, going to god-knows-what jobs where they probably got pencils grinded up their asses day-in and day-out.

I watched them and I was bored to death, completely alone with nowhere to go, and I am sure they wondered why I stood there on the corner, by the ice-cream shop with a Dalmatian watching them all zip along.

~

Later that morning after the dog had gone back to bed, my father gets up, drinks a V8 and reads the newspaper in the bathroom. He’s gone by 7.30. Then my mother gets up.

It’s funny that I think about this on today of all days, but it’s been about 12 or 13 years since my old man and I really got along, or had any kind of feeling, or relationship.

High School just about killed him and me. I don’t ask him the questions I want to ask because there is no way to ask the questions that could get at the root of the matter.

I think about this as I read the weather forecast.


July 11, 1990

A Sketch Meant to Be Nothing, but Now is Something

For some reason I have been thinking persistently on this particular sketch over the past few days. I was thinking about how it looked when I was waking up this morning. I don't ascribe any meaning to it when I reflect on this sketch, because this sketch is not supposed to signify or diagram a real thing or anything that appears in external phenomenon. It just is a collection of lines, really. I drew it that way, as an exercise in connecting lines that seem to refer to something, but in fact, do not. Over time, this drawing has taken on some subtle significance for me. So here it is.

Bad Restaurant Names

1. Oops We Did It Again
2. The Montezuma Express
3. ShitzBurger
4. Messin' With The Grub
5. La Cucaracha
6. Cramps
7. Dinner With Drunken Chef
8. Cooters
9. Slappy Happy's
10. Fate's Food Festival

...she's tired...

This from one of my journals/ sketchbooks.

I mean, she's tired, really tired, and she comes to the cafe with all these books and she is so tired, with her cup of coffee & I hear someone saying in the background, "WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON -- COME ON MOTHERFUCKER -- SHOW YOURSELF!" and the music selection is ending, all this winds down down down and she is sleeping with her hair on her books.

San Francisco, November of 1994.

BLAND

We got a few of these packets with meals while we were staying at the hospital after the c-section. I know institutional mentality can be this way, but should you really advertise it on the products themselves? But then I tried BLAND and I like it. And I can't seem to get BLAND now that we are home. I want BLAND. Now I find I cannot have BLAND.

2 Poem (to P I)

Poem

Dad you are the mountain
I shall never surpass
Yet you are in my way

& God said yes
It is true


Poem


I became richer than bill gates
& bought heaven
And found out \\God was somewhere else

When it Rains, it Pours

Last night at about 3 AM the bed turns to nails underneath me. This is quite painful. I jump out of bed and fall on the floor. My wife asks me what I am doing, I tell her that the bed has turned to nails, and I g*ddamn f*cking can't believe it. She says that I am dreaming. Oh fine, I reply sarcastically, I'm only just BLEEDING all over the floor with 5,000 holes in my skin. But who cares about me? Just get back in the bed of nails so everyone else can get a good nights sleep. I'm sitting there, thinking I might get back in bed, when a flock of floating dog heads start coming out of the corner of the room, where a shadow is. When it rains, it pours.

TEST

1. God created the Universe in seven (7) days. T/F

2. Eve remembers being created while Adam does not. T/F

3. Adam and Eve had tall kids. T/F

4. Satan...

a) Knew beforehand that God was ready to put the Universe together in seven (7) days
b) Likes to eat sandwiches (ham on rye) for breakfast
c) Remembers what it was like when he was an Angel
d) Had his own rebellious plans mapped out, but also felt free to improvise

5. When the _____ came out of the ______ they were really in the _______.

a) Apple...tree...deep shit
b) Devil...garden...deep shit
c) couple..Volvo...distant future
d) mistake...actions...impromptu

6. When I think of God, I feel happy. T/F

7. God feels happy when he thinks about me. T/F

8. God loves a sit down dinner. T/F

9. When somebody is missing something, this usually means that...

a) They have sinned
b) They have "Paid their 'Dime' and 'Took Their Chances'"
c) They have Sinned, but God has forgiven them
d) They are dying

10. Satan licks the key-locks with his tongue at my house. T/F

11. If you are Evil...

a) You know it
b) You know it but you deny it
c) You realize it from time-to-time
d) You hate getting up to do your laundry

12. God is...

a) Big
b) Round
c) Angry
d) Winsome
e) Other (please specify) _______________________

13. Adam and Eve had tall kids. T/F

14. The last thing God created out of nothingness was a ______________________.

15. God likes to believe in....

a) Sin
b) You
c) Me
d) Satan

16. Adam wanted to be a Auto-Mechanic. T/F

17. Eve was a Lesbian. T/F

18. One time Satan disguised himself as a woman and had sex with Eve. T/F

19. This test is going to send me to Hell. T/F

20. Heaven and Hell are indistinct once you are dead. T/F

ANSWERS:

Today is the Day

Today is the day. I am dying, I could go at any moment, but I still have time to be angry. I'd like some juice; the last taste of juice in my life most likely, so where is the goddamn nurse? I've been feebly pushing this crocked button baton thing before Death comes in the room and rips my soul from my body -- and no goddamn fucking nurse. And I hate the view.

In Love with Everything

We go outside to have a lovely cigarette. The night is trembling ever so softly, like a snare drum. I can see the light from the streetlamp, and how it seems to make the leaves in the trees curl, intense, dusty and faded green. You say something to me, and I reply automatically, still wondering at the night and the light of the streetlamp on the leaves, as we sit on the fire-escape 3 floors up. We smoke and smoke the lovely lovely cigarette, in love with everything.

The Guy in the Red Suit

Every time something special is happening in my life, some event that I know I will be remembering for a long time afterwards as a rare and precious moment, this guy in a red suit shows up out of nowhere with his _____ ______ hanging out, babbling loudly, breaking things, throwing up on me. Now I live alone, bereft of companionship -- disowned even by my own family, all because of that weird guy in a red suit. With his ____ ______ hanging out.

break up poem, remembrance of things past

i.

i was fine
but she wasn't

because
she was a jerk

ii.

she was fine
but i wasn't

because
i was a jerk

iii.

do you remember those nights
when we were fascinated
with each other

there seemed to be no end
in the moment we inhabited

seeming solid

we were as delicate as two origami
poised by a window

with no idea how fragile
how transitory things are
through time

The Secret of all Secrets

I heard a disjointed conversation, sitting at the pub, from around the corner, but I didn't dare look. "Shhh. Here is the password, or even, the secret or all secrets....like two guys walking down a road with a mirror. EVERYTHING IS A STORY."

Just a Matter of Time

We were eager to go off to war. Mostly eager for Protecting Home and Country with God on Our Side and Kick Some Ass, why not? That is how it usually starts. Then you have your first mortar round, which was not that bad -- BTW. Boom! War is hell! Ha ha ha. What if I did get killed that day? Nah, then see your friends get shot -- a finger shot off say, or shot in the face, or shot in the groin & head -- or you see a few people get disemboweled on a rum tumm tummy day by high explosives. Laying dead on the roadside, sunny blood black in the dust with a dead goat and a few dead birds. ("They eat their own...", you said almost inaudibly about 300 or 400 times, keeping the mental tires on the concrete of your brain.) Later, you get that sentence out of your head by listening to the "Little Drummer Boy" -- as a joke going back to elementary school. One morning you wake up and turn around the points of the compass, messmates laughing. You know it so sure, you know it's nature now so purely, you will not speak it. It isn't a Great Adventure, this isn't really a War, but a Place where eventually you'll be Dead, too. And the Kicker of all Kickers -- Dead or Alive, you're coming outta this one Dead. And when you know that, what do you do? You write long emails, and you know for sure -- it is just a matter of time.

Sorry

It starts with Sorry
And then they write an Opera

Where they Sorry Sorry Sorry
For at least an hour

Only this time when you hear it
You cry every time

And you forget how angry
You were when you heard the news

For June
2006

When I was the Moon

I dream I am the Moon. I am at once all these things: weightless, radiant, cool, serene. Looking fondly down at Earth, I also find I have a very busy schedule -- lowering and raising the Oceans around the World, ducking for the Cow to jump over me, influencing Lunatics and Lovers, spicing up the lives of Crustaceans, Children, Owls and Wolves...but please, do not "Shoot at the Moon". Howl all you like, but no more "Shooting the Moon"!

The Yellow Toy Pistol

8 years ago, a fat little girl rides down the block on a pink bicycle. In one hand she holds a yellow toy pistol. Daddy is nearby, all slacks and sunglasses - hands in pockets, his gray hair swept back. The sun slants, she rides, the toy pistol wavering. But she never drops the toy pistol, and I find that fascinating.

Hazelnut VS French Vanilla

Day 1: I want Hazelnut flavored creamer for my coffee. I settle for French Vanilla.

Day 2: I want Hazelnut flavored creamer for my coffee. I settle for French Vanilla

Day 3: Ibid.

Day 4: Ibid.

Day 5: Ibid.

Day 6: Getting coffee, I become irrationally angry. I say to myself, privately, in white hot emotional heat, "Why do I settle for French Vanilla? Why?"

Day 7: I try Hazelnut creamer in my coffee. It is then I discover all along I have not been drinking French Vanilla. I HAVE BEEN DRINKING HAZELNUT.

Going to Sleep

I was trying to go to sleep a few nights ago, and so I started thinking about all the horrible things that have happened to me. I wasn't reviewing the usual garden-variety horrible things that can happen at any time, the horrible things we forget about. I was picking particularly nasty memories, reviewing some uniquely awful situations that I had to go through to get here at this place in time. Naturally, after doing this for awhile, I was quite anxious and felt like I couldn't sleep. I felt like something was wrong -- like I had forgotten a crucial detail that I shouldn't have forgotten. Gradually, I became convinced this forgotten detail would unravel the significance of my entire life. It was terrible. Then, switching gears, I realized a man was in the other room with a knife, and he was going to kill me. And then I fell asleep.

Points on How to be a True Gentleman

Category: Me

1. Always be gentle, polite, and speak kindly and nicely at all times
2. Never throw things
3. Moderate nasty habits
4. Think, "I am attractive."
5. Remember to inculcate a feeling of modesty, and diligence
6. Never kick animals, or small children, especially at parks and in nature preserves
7. Use spittoons if you chew, or a handkerchief if you use snuff
8. Avoid any kind of low drink such as Vermouth, Gin that is sold in plastic containers, and soforth
9. Attend a Church occasionally
10. Do well, and fear not

How I Ruined My Life

You buy bike racks for the roof of your car, and you swear you'll never do anything incredibly stupid with them. You watch for trees, low hanging eves, and other not so obvious dangers. You are, after all, a responsible adult who can handle these things. You'll never make the giant mistake of forgetting bikes are on the racks while driving into the garage. This will never happen. Then like a demented criminal fool who ruined the whole world, you ram your precious bikes into the roof of the house while parking in the garage. The world changes at that moment. Stepping from the vehicle, you feel like you have killed someone. There, look at that. You idiot. Meandering fool. Did the neighbors see? Oh keeeerist look at that! Why? You fall on the driveway and look up at the birdies. In one go I have killed my car, my house, the bikes, and bicycle racks.

Life's a Bitch That Way

They find me guilty. The judge sentences me to, like, 400 years of prison...I dunno, 8 life sentences. When he does that, him looking at me with his fuck grey eyes, with his stringy fuck hair combed over his bulging sweaty head, I stick the tip of a pencil into the palm of my hand. I dig a nice hole there while he talks at me, at the nature of my crime, the heinous nature of my acts. The pencil was just recently sharpened, so it goes in deep. I ain't innocent, BTW -- I just didn't think I'd get caught. If you decide to be good, or you decide to be bad, life's a bitch that way.

Test Story A

He decided to write a story with the letter "A" in it.

6.2.98

we know we can't take it with us
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
we aim to drag it out for as long as possible

to keep life lovely

to keep
life lovely

i terrorize
myself

Viva La Volvo

Clown Country

He picked up the telephone receiver, and it squirted water into his ear. He wrote a note to himself with a pen, and it squirted water in his eye. He opened the door of the hotel room, and the door squirted water all over his crotch. His keys, when opening the door to the car, squirted water up his nose. After that, when he tried to start the car, the engine moved rhythmically sounding like a large horny duck, Quaaack...quaaack....quaaack...QUACK...QUACK... --- he knew he had to get out of Clown Country. Now.

Speaking of That

Speaking of that....I know you are a Vampire and you've been trying to kill me. Damn you. All the mirrors have been stolen from my house, and that proves it. Even my silverware. Two fingers like that don't make a cross, you aren't fooling anybody. Besides, I am a Buddhist. The point that you aren't bothered by garlic just means you're an Italian Vampire. No -- back off -- seriously. I see your red eyes and your teeth and your half-hidden bloodlust. The way you jumped over the fucking couch, as if you had springs in your heels, is another indication of your true identity -- a blasphemy, hated by the sight of God, wanderer in the Outer Darkness, etc. Ouch! And what long nails you have -- all the better to clutch me with. Who has Holy Water hanging around the house? Why oh why do I have Holy Water? And where did that sharp wooden stake and mallet come from? You can writhe by you can't get away from me. I'VE KNOWN YOU ARE A VAMPIRE FOR AT LEAST A WEEK!!

Sleepy

I'm sleepy, so I decide to go outside and get the mail. Half way to the mailbox, I collapse on the sidewalk and fall asleep. I lay there sleeping for about 5 hours. When I wake up, man! Is one side of my face sunburned!

In My Office I Have a Small Window

In my office I have a small window, and through it, I can see the ocean. It is not a very wide window, but it is extremely long -- from floor to ceiling. Besides the ocean, I can see part of a white beach, glinting with cars parked by a lagoon. Between my view of the lagoon, beach, and ocean, there is a large freeway. I certainly should go visit the beach and dip my feet in the ocean that I look at all day long. But I never do. And because I look often, and I think about going there, and I don't go -- it becomes more likely I never will. All of us make these kinds of needless concessions throughout our lives. The more used you are to the process of denial, the duller you become. If I find myself quite unexpectedly at the beach tomorrow -- I shall be very very happy.

Going Out the Window

He wanted to call Linda saying it was over, that they shouldn't see each other anymore, but he knew she wouldn't pick up. So he left a message on her answering machine that was so complicated and self contradicting, it made no sense, really, whatsoever.

He kept sitting by the open window after he had hung up. He kept sitting by the open window, after leaving such a stupid idiotic message, a message that made him look badly -- a confused and selfish person full of himself. He hated feeling that he was a confused and selfish person full of himself.

The light was fading. For some reason, he took the cap off a blue ballpoint pen. The cap was smooth and pointed like a bullet. He balanced it on the ledge of the open window. He looked at the bullet shaped cap, balancing on the ledge of the open window. It trembled slightly when a gust of wind blew in the room. Soon it would be blown away. But he would save it from going out the window.

He watched, and right when the cap was going to be blown away, and he would save the cap, a roommate came in the room. Startled, he knocked the cap off the ledge, into the night. Then he realized he had fucked up his relationship with Linda, to try and keep a bullet shaped plastic pen cap from falling out the window.

a poem to my father

when i was in my 20s i wrote poems
looking into our relationship

then i gave up
i thrust through life

now i am aware that every
complicated construct i create

is another snare
another sickening trap

but for you i cannot
resist it

Some Fortunes You Won't be Getting from a Fortune Cookie

All of your childhood memories are completely fabricated.

Haven’t you done it by now, fucker?

You have no lucky number, so get over it.

The harmless pranks of your youth will become the bane of your old age.

Glorious mediocrity will be your ultimate refuge.

Mistaken. About. Everything.

It would be advisable to not answer the phone for four months.

Confucius say, "Piss-off, flathead!"

God hates you.

The Lights Go Out

The lights go out. We go outside, sit on the concrete patio, and eat melting ice cream. You ask, what if the power never came back on? What would that be like? We wouldn't have the news to criticize, we'd go to bed earlier, I say. Ice would be an expensive commodity, and everyone would get portable generators, you respond. The world would become little villages again, I think out loud. Superstition and the burning of witches, you say. Well, that could be, if for instance, for some reason, electrons no longer flow through the wires, I say. We look at the night sky in silence. Little superstitious villages -- and we'd have to do all our fucking laundry by hand, I realize. You exclaim, Shit! No! Like the show where they made that family live like Victorians! We sit and we wait. The power stays out. When the ice cream is inedible soup and my butt falls asleep, you grab a flashlight, and we visit the neighbors. We play a board game with them for several hours, by candlelight. We don't think about the future.

he wrote poems

he wrote poems that had nowhere to go
he didn't know they had nowhere to go
that was a good thing at the time

later he traveled and understood what he had done
he came back and looked at his poems
and he burned them but kept just 1

Afraid

This morning, God told me quite clearly I was going to die this afternoon. Being a priest, I suppose in retrospect I should not have been surprised that God would be telling me things quite clearly. But being a priest, I was secretly a bit ambivalent about whether God really existed. But when God spoke, I was surprised enough to yell out and fall down, hitting my head, when I heard the voice of God.

When God speaks to you, it is not pleasant, it comes through so strong. Your whole body becomes stiff as a board, as if you are paralyzed. It reminded me of an epileptic seizure. After God was done telling me I was going to die this afternoon, I got a pack of ice, and applied it to my head. Then I crawled across the floor and I called my brother.

"Joe -- its me!", I said, trying not to sound panicked.

"Oh, hi Bill.", said Joe, sounding sleepy.

"Joe -- I gotta tell you something."

"What?" said Joe, sounding annoyed.

"I just heard from God. Directly from God! It was terrible!"

"Oh?" said Joe, sounding more annoyed. Like he was going to hang up. But I had to go on.

"Joe - he said...God said --", but I couldn't go on because my fucking asshole of a brother had hung up.

That fucking asshole, here I am getting messages directly from God about me dying and my own goddamn brother won't even listen to me before he decides if he believes in me or not. Or believes in God or not. What an asshole. I hate him! I hate him!! Joe, not God, God. Are you really sure I am going to die this afternoon?

I wait, on my knees by the phone, but God doesn't say anything.

I think about my schedule, and wonder how I can avoid dying. What would kill me? Crossing the street to drop in on Sister Margaret's 5th grade class at 11 PM when they are to be discussing catechism? Having lunch with that tiresome group of ladies who are part of the boosting committee? Mass at 3PM for the departed Mr. Chiantilini?
I decide to try and talk to my lousy asshole of a brother one last time, before I could go out and die, according to God.

"Joe!"

"Aw -- what do you want?", says Joe. "I've got a hangover."

"God said I'm going to die this afternoon."

Joe doesn't answer for about 15 seconds. "Well..." he drawls, "...can I have your golf clubs?"

I hang up on him. Insolent bastard. How I hate him. All sorts of memories and instances from our childhood flood back into my head. Like the time I strapped him to a wagon and pushed him down a hill, or the time he poured beads in my ear when I was sleeping, and we had to go to the doctor to get them out. That fucker.

I wash my hands and appreciate the large bruise throbbing on my forehead in the bathroom mirror. To hell with it. If I'm gonna go, I'm gonna go. I was a bit bored with the priest thing. Or guilty too, I walk down the stairs or the rectory, and into the strong sunlight. As I squint, getting used to the brightness of the day, everything is right in the world.

Interestingly, the last thing I think about is not about Jesus, or God, or my asshole brother -- but of Janice, from an affair I had three years ago. How she moved to get away from me. Janice, who now lives in Lower Manhattan, in New York, NY. I imagine she got on just fine.

This is the only great regret in my life. How I ruined her life. I cross the street, smelling her perfume, and that is when Janice runs me over with a Ford Escort, with a screaming baby in the passenger seat.

As I bleed to death in the street, I remember what I said to her when she asked.

"No." I said. Because I was afraid. I was afraid.

Hell

I learn things the hard way. That is why I am in Hell, chained to a fiery rock for the rest of the foreseeable future. The suffering is intolerable, how can I describe it. Surrounded by demons, with their objects of torture, I pray I am dreaming.

I wake up. Yes, thank God, I was dreaming. The sheets are creamy and comfortable. I have expensive pajamas. I live in a large house.

And as I wake up more, I realize; I hate my job, I hate my boss, I hate my mother, I hate my children, they hate me. I hate my house, I hate these sheets, and turning, I see I hate you. And waking up more I realize I am in Hell.

Some Unexpected Hypochondriacal Tendencies

I saw it in the news a few days back, and then after reading about it, I was worried about getting Morgellons Disease -- particularly last night for several hours. And I was worried about contracting it again, today, for a few hours. Then naturally, the more I thought about it, the sooner I'd itch somewhere, and the less I though about it, the more I was thinking about other things. This is peculiar for me, because I do not normally have hypochondriacal tendencies. Hypochondriacal tendencies. Say that five times fast. But I have been around hypochondriacs, even lately. I wonder if hypochondria is as catching as Morgellons Disease?

Meanest Customer Support Person Ever, Ebay

Wow! I just got off the phone with the meanest customer support rep I have ever talked to. She was so self righteous and brisk -- making it amply clear how ignorant I was and how in control she and EBay are. She spoke loudly and precisely, without a hint of sympathy -- as if I was offending her by merely calling about my problem. You see, a few weeks ago I was suspended from EBay. Apparently this happens to many people for a wide variety of reasons having nothing to do with violating any rules. So I followed all their directions about getting reinstated, sending billing statements, my ID, email account information...and still I am suspended! And EBay keeps asking me for more information. They won't even tell me what I am suspected of -- other than saying "...(we)determined that you were suspended under the "Abusing eBay" section of the eBay User Agreement." So I decided to call and see if I could clear it up, or at least find out what I am specifically suspected of. The representative I talked to coldly and unapologetically instructed me to continue with the faceless & endless email appeal from the security department. In so many words, I was wrong to expect anything more from EBay. Moreover, I had wasted her time. What a nightmare!

Be Your Own Soda Bartender - Spropper

Add to the standard cup of ice: 70% Dr. Pepper, 20% Fanta (Orange Soda), and 10% Sprite. Mmmm! Spropper!

I better get my ass in gear

I have only a few days to pack my office, to pack by far the messiest office in the whole building, so naturally I get down to it and I procrastinate. People come by and see I have not even tried to pack. I cut out little paper snow flakes, I read the news, I doodle, make useless phone calls, gossip with people in the hallway, remember and forget to have a cup of coffee. When I feel the time slipping away, I feel a stab of concern that I should be packing -- but then I amuse myself by counting every yellow car that goes by on the freeway, I wonder what it would be like to live in Peru, and how the new office will feel after we are done moving. Shit, I better get my ass in gear. No? I have all the time in the world. What did I want? Oh yeah, coffee.

I wished I could have said something encouraging to you

I wished I could have said something encouraging to you, in your time of depression, but you asked me how I felt and to tell you the truth and nothing but the truth, so I told you I hated you, that you are are disgusting horrible person, and you were getting what you deserved. I told you this misfortune was long in coming, and you had everything to do with it. I also said you were lower than dirt, a scum sucking parasite in life, and you should just go off and die. You took what I said in stride, and even agreed with most of my characterizations. Then, when I looked away for one goddamn second, you grabbed me in a headlock and bit off part of my ear. "I told you what you wanted to hear, asshole!" I screamed, and I bled and tried to punch you in the kidneys. "I know!!" you yelled, as we fell through the Cafe's plate glass window.

The May Day Eulogy for Fritz Christopher, Cat

Happy May Day! Sadly, one of our favorite cats died yesterday of a rare wasting disease called FIP, Feline Infectious Peritonitis. He had been sick for about 2 months -- losing weight, sleeping longer than usual, and generally looking poorly. The first round of tests were both hideously expensive and also inconclusive -- but a month later, the second round of tests belatedly confirmed that he had FIP, which is 99.99% fatal. We kept him comfortable, we told him it was okay for him to go, and he died in the afternoon at home, on his favorite couch. For his eulogy, I can say he was loyal, clean, affectionate, never begging for food or being a nuisance in any way, and he especially loved his home. He was a jumper, he enjoyed walking on the banister, and he liked to nap in a patch of sunshine on the stairs. His eyes were large and luminous, the most expressive and intelligent eyes -- full of love. He was so happy while he was here with us -- a castoff cat from the pound. We will miss him dearly.

Kid Doppler

When I was a little kid, sometimes I liked to make the sound of a police or ambulance siren far away, then getting so close it was like, parked in one of my eardrums. Eeeee-ooooo eeee-ooooo EEEEE-OOOOOOO eeeeee-ooooooooo EEEEEE-ooooooo EEEEE-OOOOOO EEEEEE-OOOOOOO EEEEE-OOOOO EEEE-OOOO EEE-OOO! EEE-OOO! EE-OO!! EE-OO!!! EE-OO!!!! That was fun -- it was like the car was far away and it got progressively closer, I definitely could simulate the Doppler effect. You should try it. Then if you can do the basic siren Doppler sound effect of a vehicle parking in your eardrum, try imitating the sound of a freight train passing by you at 75 mph one inch from your nose. O gee -- what would that sound like?

Dream Poetry vs The Orange & White Cat

I wrote some fabulous poems in my dreams, just before I woke up. Fabulous. The poems were cryptic -- but interesting, short, and in a unusually spare style I have never used before. I can recall where the words were on the page, but not the words themselves. In the dream I was pleased the way they were working out. Then I opened my eyes, and the first thing I saw was an orange & white cat coming at me over the covers. The cat was running at about 45 mph, and he passed my head, strafing me with his tail. I heard him continue out of the bedroom, and he pounded down the hallway. Victory was his.

King Philip III of Spain

Did you know that today, in 1578, Philip III was born? He was king of Spain and Portugal from 1598 to 1621. Many historians don't know this, but Philip III prided himself for his ability to balance tables on his chin, and pry bottle caps off with his teeth. He also was fond of a game called "Baacebal", attributed by the renown baseball historian Walt Swisserson as being one of the precursors of American baseball. Because of this, if Philip III were alive today, he'd be playing shortstop. But very few people know this. So All Hail King Philip III!

Watching a Glove Play on the Freeway

Diving to work this morning, I see glove playing on the freeway. It dances around the lanes quite happily, zigging and zagging, wiggling it's fingers to the speeding vehicles. It looks like it is having a fine time out there. Then a semi runs smack over it at 70 MPH, flinging the glove high into the air. But the glove appears undeterred by this. As I watch it soar towards the sun flapping and waving at us, I nearly drive off the road. I make my exit thinking, "You lucky, happy glove!"

What I have Learned about Meetings

1. Meetings perpetuate meetings. This is because they have a life and culture of their own -- separate from the consideration as to whether they are effective or not. Secretly at the heart of it, meetings are a form of procrastination.
2. Thus, most meetings are a waste of time, because most meetings are not absolutely necessary.
3. Leading to the fact that the longer the meeting is, the bigger waste of time it is.
4. This is because (as mentioned before) meetings are inefficient, compounded with the fact that most people cannot speak and think constructively at the same time.
5. Because of this, you should reduce meetings, because they create contempt between people, and also result in confusion.
6. To force people to be concise, you should automatically reduce meeting times by 50%.
7. You should also forbid meetings that last more than two hours.
8. You should also try to have as few repeating meetings as possible.

Hello. Goodbye.

He thinks of a galaxy of funny and intriguing anecdotes while he is asleep, but he doesn't remember them when he wakes up. So today he writes down some of the lies he has told. I never cheat at Monopoly. I studied hard for the test. My car broke down. I had to stay home from work because my kid was sick. Who? What? I'm sorry I said that. I understand. Don't worry, it will be alright. Traffic was terrible. No, I am not angry. How? Ha ha ha ha, that was the funniest story I've ever heard! When? Where? I forgot. Thank you. You're welcome. Yes. No. I did. I didn't. That is not my bag. I love you. I don't love you. This is the best wine I have ever tasted. That was great food. It was a wonderful hotel. We had a good time. We had a terrible time. I'm okay. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine. It was a surprise. I never saw it coming. She's gone. It's over. I'm not a liar. You are a liar. That is a lie. I never lied about that. Hello. Goodbye.

An Open Letter to Mr. Yee, Dream Villain

An Open Letter to Mr. Yee, Whoever You Are: Please stop bothering me in my dreams, Mr. Yee. Haranguing me can come to no good -- you've been arrested now by the cops in the vingette last night, and what good did it do you? Give up your spooky shop of bizarre action-figures & fire those punks with the water pistols. If you're nice, I will dream you anything you'd like. What would you do with your own country, for instance? Think about it, before it is too late.

Oldest, Bestest Friend in the Whole World

Here are some things I said about you in the meeting that are not true, and I am deeply sorry I said these things about you when you were late to the important meeting & they asked me why you were late: 1. I had to bail you out of jail with the corporate card over the weekend. 2. You were in jail this weekend because you got drunk and went berserk and burned down a funeral home. 3. Before you got drunk and attacked the funeral home, you took mushrooms and you decided to eat a road flair. 4. Then you danced while you fed your clothes through a wood chipper. Luckily, none of these things are true. But there was a fire at a funeral home this weekend, having nothing to do with you, so unfortunately this pretty much seated the notion of all of it being true no matter what was said afterwards. It was funny at first, you have to admit, but then it got ugly and we lost the account. Why be angry at me? I am your oldest, bestest friend in the whole world.

i have a mantra

when bad things happen
i have a mantra
it goes

oh fuck
shit me
goddamn

we

we walk on water
we raise the dead
we forgive the sinners who
do not deserve to be forgiven

we carve out the darkenss
we raise the fires
we burn the damned
in everlasting flames

every day a bomb explodes
we don't know why
you press on the accelerator
the clock says 4 5 6 o'clock

boom
someone dies

we've reached the holy land
we wrote the book
we guided the unknowing
and made them observe and pray

we raised the towers
we strung the wire
beat and starved the helpless
scatted their ashes

every day a new life begins
we don't know why
air in the newborn lungs
blood rushes

cry
the baby cries

A Note

I came across this today. Sometimes I feel like this picture neatly sums up the secret to how life really is.

Happy Birthday WS

William Shatner, astonishing actor, born on this day in Montreal, Canada in 1931. Besides that one far-out T.V. show in the late 1960s that a few of us remember, he's starred in such unforgettable movies as "Star Trek: The Movie", "Kingdom of the Spiders", "Big Bad Mama", "The Devil's Rain", "Comanche Blanco" and "The Outrage". Who will ever forget WS in his series of historic, gripping performances as Ranger Bob on Howdy Doody in 1954? When will he put out another one of those crazy albums of song and poetry to Middle Earth and Bilbo Baggins? No -- that was L Nemoy. I get them mixed up when it comes to the wacky singing stuff. But here's to you -- the incomparable, irrepressible, sweaty-browed, shirt-torn-off-chest-in-your-prime William Shatner!

A Question

So I get this skanky burrito and I'm eating it & I look at the wrapper. Here's the pic. All I want to know is this: is that a gaucho with a hat, or this a gaucho with a funkywild huge fro?

Sick Cat

I don't mean to be trivial, or boring, or even stupidly obvious -- but when a pet gets seriously ill, it can be hideously expensive. I never thought about pet health insurance, but now I wish we had some. 800 dollars so far for a bunch of tests and overnight stay at the pet hospital, for observation. This morning they say they see an elevated white blood cell count, indicating infection. And now more tests today. They still don't know what is wrong with the cat. What can you do?

10 Ways to Piss People off in Foreign Countries

Note: Many travel savvy people here in the USA assume that we're hated by most people in different countries, and that while traveling, the inhabitants will naturally go out of their way to ruin your trip. This is false. To have bad experiences abroad, you have to be diligent & work hard every day to get people to be at their maximum unhelpfulness. In most situations, genuine hostility cannot be procured on the spot, but with enough time and interaction, it can be sampled overflowing in every corner of the world you decide to travel to. Here is a quick list on some ways to get the juices flowing:

1. Put a camcorder around your neck, hold a map in your hand, and walk slowly while gawking at strangers in the street.
2. Keep a loud running monologue of everything that you see, and how it is different.
3. Enter a shop, and greet the person behind the counter with a loud melodic "Bonjuuuuurrr!" then laugh on how hilarious you are. Jovially find fault with products offered for sale, saying a few of them look disgusting. Really really disgusting.
4. In a subway, ask for detailed directions while standing next to a giant subway map, with a map in your hand of the subway system.
5. Complain wherever you are staying that there isn't enough hot water for you to take an hour-and-a-half long shower.
6. Insist people to give you times in AM/PM rather than the normal 24 hours. Also, refuse to learn how to tell time in 24-hour increments.
7. Get impatient with the waiter for the bill. Ask if the tip is included. If the tip is not included, say it should be, but you can't believe how expensive it is for what you ordered. Tip 1 Euro.
8. Comment constantly on all the bathrooms you've seen. Scream if you see a squat toilet.
9. Recoil from people who smell funny. Act like they have the plague.
10. Misplace small worthless items, and accuse staff-people of stealing from you because you're an American.

Long Golden Hair in the Goldeny Sunshine

He sleeps on the lawn with his long golden hair in the goldeny sunshine, and a happy dog takes this as a suggestion and stops for a moment to urinate on his head. The man leaps up when he realizes what is happening, and the dog grabs his hat as it comes off his head. He fruitlessly chases the dog & hat around the quad, around the shimmering trees of oak, over the hill towards the library. Then all is silent and sunshiny again.

The Church Sign Generator

I was digging through my links today, and I found this one. The Church Sign Generator. It reminded me of how I missed a great photo op about 2 years ago. A church was doing some extensive renovations, and one day they put up a sign that said "CARPENTER WANTED - ENQUIRE WITHIN". That sign stayed up for a month, and I never took a damn picture of it even though I'd laugh myself silly each day I drove past it. I kick myself for not getting that shot.

Interview #3

C: Why do you have us sleep so much? Why did you design us to sleep at all?
G: Sleeping is fun!
C: Seriously.
G: Sleeping is fun!
C: Seriously, I'm not kidding. Why?
G: Dreaming is fun?
C: C'mon.
G: What?
C: You wanted us to spend half our lives laying around unconscious to creation, dreaming and thinking we are awake?
G: Now that you put it that way -- yeah!!
C: So we were designed to spend the majority of our time completely deluded.
G: Yeah!!
C: You agree with what I just said?
G: You have a great way for summing up things.
C: I don't think that was a complement.

If I do a bang up job

One day, by accident, I become elected as President of the United States. How does this happen? It is such a long story of seemingly unconnected vignettes(and even outright contrary events) in how this comes to pass, it hardly makes any sense, so I won't even get into it. Or I can't get into it. I think I may get in trouble if I get into it, to be perfectly honest. Suffice to say again, in a different way, it was purely by chance. Or was it? Many other worthy men and women offered to be elected President of the United States. But these things have a way of happening (or turning out) in the funniest way, I must say. I have to say something because I am the President of the United States. And they want me to give a speech here and sign this and that. I get to hear advice and go to meetings. The press tells terrible lies about me, or they just write terrible things (can you believe some people pay other people to do that all day)--- things that would make your Mom cry if you were President of the United States of America -- leader of the Free World and the most Powerful Man in the World, if you catch my drift. I hope you do. I have other hopes, lots of hopes. Like, I hope to get a second term too, I think. If I do a bang up job on the first term.

Cigarette Smoking

"The number of cigarettes sold in the United States in 2005 fell to the lowest level in 55 years..."

Mmmmm. News like this makes me want to go out a smoke a whole damn pack. I quit about 6 months ago. Too bad smoking cigarettes is bad for your health.

Art Installations & Ready Mades

Recently I had a couple of ideas for art installations. I want to get traffic cones and fill the municipal gallery with cones so you can't walk in the gallery. Reminiscent of an installation in the 1970s in NY where an artist filled a gallery full of dirt. I don't know the name of the artist, but I thought it was Robert Smithson. It would be something he would do. I also want to recreate a sculpture I created from stacking telephone book pages in a series of layers, and then pushing the layers together, creating a "soufflé" sculpture of the pages. I did this while I was in college, and it was fantastic. Lately, everywhere I look I see ready mades begging to be entered in shows and galleries. There's a great ready made down the street from our studio in the form of a menu whiteboard at the mexican restaurant. I think I'll go down and buy it for twenty bucks and enter it in the next open show at the municipal gallery.

Limner

One of the most shameful things I have ever done in my life was to betray one of my best friends in Junior High School to a bunch of petty bullies who also were my friends. I resisted becoming a bully to K at first, but I gave in eventually, and I bullied him like the others. This senseless vindictiveness must have gone on for a few months, and then one day I called up K and said I was sorry. K said “Apology accepted!” quite triumphantly, and the next day K made it amply clear that he had scored some kind of magnificent moral victory over me – because I had apologized. I wasn’t really that angry over this, at first I was shocked, then more sad than anything else. I couldn’t blame him, but I thought there was more of an underlying friendship. We eventually became cordial towards one another, but distant, distant. He never totally forgave me. When I illustrated the yearbook for our final year in Junior High, he also cleverly insulted me by writing in a credit under a photo of me drawing, it said I was a talented “Limner”. Years later I discovered a Limner is an ill-trained or self-taught illustrator who creates crude and awkward two-dimensional work -- mostly on tavern signs. They generally remain anonymous. Nice one K. I’ve kept the label of Limner in your honor, or as some kind of penance, for whatever it is worth.

Nice blog, craphead.

He is writing no novel, he is writing a novel. He is writing 8 novels at once. He is not writing a novel. He is writing a novel about a novel. He is writing a novel from the perspective of another character in a novel that he admires. He is writing a novel about not writing a novel about someone who is writing a novel, and this character decides to quit writing the novel. He is writing a series of short stories. He is writing short fiction. He is just another lousy blogger. Nice blog, craphead.

Interview #2

C: Is there such thing as "Evil"?
G: Yes.
C: What is "Evil"?
G: A conscious refusal to imagine, or believe anything is different.

Interview #1

C: So I wanted to ask you this question -- did you blow the budget when you created the avocado?
G: Not exactly -- but you are right about blowing the budget when I created this universe.
C: How so?
G: We call this universe "The Fractal Universe" and it was just supposed to be a elegant joke. I mean, who would build an entire universe based off of fractals?
C: And what happened?
G: Things got out of hand. Seriously out of hand. On like, the third day.
C: So you really built the universe in days? And who is "we"?
G: Don't worry about the "we" part. And yes, I started the universe off in a few days -- like a week, as they say.
C: Let me backtrack here for a second if you don't mind...
G: Okay.
C: You said "this universe".
G: Oh yeah. We, or I made mostly, a load of them.
C: You've made multiple universes?
G: Definitely.
C: Why?
G: You have multiple blogs, right? You even have a whole separate website.
C: So the universes you create are like blogs and websites for me.
G: Not really. But sort of. It's better than that. I'd like to show you the unbridled majesty of it all but it would probably end up killing you.
C: Well that sucks. How will I ever know?
G: Do you need to know?
C: I'd like to know.
G: Do you know what you want to know?
C: I want to know what the man behind the curtain is doing.
G: Ha ha. There ain't no man and no curtain.
C: If you exist, I want to know what power allows you to exist.
G: Aha. Cute. From "Her Bak". That is a nice sentiment. The big deal here, or the message for you to absorb, is to follow a correct & specific process of elimination. Then you'll realize what is to be realized.
C: Which is nothing.
G: Not quite.
C: What is your favorite color?
G: Blue.
C: You have a favorite color?
G: Yes. Blue. I like blue. Blue is a fabulous color.

Rather Than Writing This -or- What a typo!

Rather than writing this on the website I was going to comment on, I will write it here out of context. How are things? I am a Taco, you are an Enchilada, and he is a thing on the menu I can't pronounce or quite read. A Carnitas of some kind. Carnitas con Salsa Guajillo y Cacahuates? CARNITAS CON PAPITAS? Carnitas con Mofongo? Carnitas con Salsa de Aguacate y Salsa Mexicana? We don’t know. We don’t.

But still, who is more important? I am 2.75 USD, you are 2.77 USD and he is 17.99 USD. We all agree it is outrageous to charge 17.99 USD for the Carnitas plate, whatever the ingredients are. Give us multiple beers, give us salt, give us limes. Cut the limes into quarters, so they are quarter limes. Drink up.

There, now things are looking better. The waitress says there is a typo in the menu. The Cartitas plate is 7.99 USD. Feeling better, we curse God, but we're just kidding. What a typo! And what kind of Carnitas is it?

He put his Ego in the hospital

He put his Ego in the hospital, and he thought he wouldn't give a damn if he put his Ego in the hospital, but somehow Ego makes him feel so guilty he can't concentrate when he writes or paints or draws, so he ends up going the fucking hospital spending time with Ego, who looks pathetic and weak with the big white bandage on its head where he hit it with the beer bottle.

Then, much, much later when Ego is feeling better, Ego sneaks up on him, puts him in a choke-hold and rubs his nose on the carpet. Ego rubs his face on the carpet so hard he gets a nose-bleed.

The difference is, dreams are faster

There are whole unique geographies and cities that exist precisely in my dreams. Some of these geographical and urban locations resemble places in the waking world -- I have portions of London, Paris, New York, and even Santa Rosa imbedded in my consciousness. These places are intricate, huge, and unforgettable in both worlds. I feel the same stab of pleasure and recognition when I visit these places awake or asleep. But in dreams the pleasure is unexpected, because you never quite know when you'll be visiting a place well known & visited before. In dreams you do not know where you are going. Waking life is like this as well -- not knowing, but outward life moves at a snails pace. You can conveniently curl up with your cup of coffee and imagine for hours or days that you know where you are going. But sooner than later life's turns will show you that, in 99% of all things, you never really knew anything (fact or location) for certain. Just like in a dream. The difference is, dreams are faster.

17CC6CA

091DEAEFA9C22914E271C9DBA5A5C241B58B1ACEAF98B16A3F8906B4D
?HX?535cf4d0898eaa70e2dcdf5583209ffd3ba99413836d0850b48cbc31d26b
8833db96f557c92e3a58b26a858787d27e4c2b7e961d28559a3a3839b07fc8e4
0ba2f08add6e524e47abe31c9a174c8b973eb4e9f4d410e55352852be7241fdc
e3838d7d47bdadb573b14f669e66e97a7688fe5350fee037b659915716229714
a0954b378d48e590d8a9eb5a33eef5ef968b73d189ec92ba8968ada1c8b1fda4
61d405bb54bf1ea22048d20ee8e64030654a9d743b71434c0572d43cbe15d507
e2cc33f675db3740b252bc1cd9945fef6beea8c7d3aca032c6a9f8c7a872f2b6
1343dc0d9a5168fe8b085be25aa4ed2a0a7bf7e97289125b8b12870346e84756
980ac7e7f2923fcdd2beabb8abb62ad2bf63d91b3a7434a422cfc319c458a16d
8202234e0df4cab42a36d2b88c91ed046f976fafd9351a6acae41fa4559fc8e2
0e343a807f356459f218c1bd34deaa55e68059e87d06e111150e22313461df7c
cb87b70d8dcaae590d6348d27ee60ce35911741f292cdc9746636181a90755db
b1043423d4163e0512f3fd9b0f7e28cce7301c77ee3d4803a7f05e5ba0178bef
8ef87da697de56ba758c1837b283a4844cf853d8f42a2330de01ee19c2d7775a
1520d595b603d0ac03d69971a4af59165df11f47f4fa964f1a7ef6d2f4100c85
81e4776caf80897af28ad374dfc9e6747a1cd889f66f5bc7f64962220c6ae0cd
0f4f5da0ba5aa702ee2898a1afc87a7a5d6f?H

The elevator of the future

At the large shining software conglomerate, the elevator is fantastic, but it won't take me where I want to go. I want to go nine floors up. The elevator of the future takes me everywhere else -- up down, left right, inside, and outside the building, around the neighborhood, back inside the building, it shoots over horizontally to the mezzanine - where it does a few barrel rolls and split-s maneuvers. It does an immelman between floors 7 and 6 going down to floor 5. Now that I am late, I yank this "Disengage" type latch and the elevator slows down, settling back in the lobby. Then I wake up and hear my daughter cleaning her room.

He meets himself one day

He meets himself one day on the street, seemingly by accident. When he gets over the shock, and they are sitting down in a small cafe, he has several questions spring to mind.
"Are you a time traveler?", he asks himself.
"No. Not exactly.", his double says, a bit uncomfortably. "Today is not now. I am in the future, and this is an illusion. Like a memory projection, reconstructed from my past memories."
"What do you mean, exactly?", he responds.
"I guess I am like a memory tourist. This is a memory. You are a memory of me when I was a young man.", the double says and tries to smile.
"What's wrong?", he asks.
"I -- we are dying in the future. This is a sort a final trip down memory lane, literally.", says the double from the future.
"Oh.", he responds.
"I'm so sorry to put you through this.", says his double, "This was one of my favorite days in my - our entire life."
"What happens today that makes it so special?", he asks himself, feeling crushed and excited at once.
"Today you are going to meet the girl of your dreams. And she will love you for the rest of your life.", says his double, "Only this time you won't have to meet her by pure chance. I know where she is right now. Get up. My gift to you."
And later, his double said gently, "See there she is."
And he said, tears welling up in his eyes, "What should I do? How long will my life last? When you go will I go as well? What should I say to her?"
"You should meet her. I don't know. I don't know. I'll tell you exactly what to say.", His double replied.

Run for your life

We were in a ghost world in the dream -- it resembled the Wild West from the 1880s but converted to green stained glass. To keep the ghosts from getting us, we smeared cans of tuna oil over our heads, which also kept us pleasently warm, because of the fish oil. If the ghosts suspected something otherworldy when they came close to us, we'd sing special songs that would confuse the ghosts into looking the wrong way, or thinking the opposite thought. In this way we walked and mesmerized ourselves into the town of the ghosts -- I had a hit to do. For this, I had a Colt .45 in the dream, but I only had 2 bullets. So when we lingered in the square, I walked up to a ghost filling station, I asked if I could buy ammo there. The ghost attendant though about it for a second, and said, sure, why not? I asked for one hundred and fifty rounds of ".45 long colt". The attendant knew I knew what I was about, and he smiled, giving me several heavy long tubes of ammunition. Ghost ammunition. I asked how much, and he said, seven dollars. It should have cost me twice that. What a deal. We hiked to a box canyon, where no ghosts were around, to try out the ghost ammunition. I found when you fired off a ghost round, the gun kicked like a real gun, but there was no sound whatsoever. The bullet would put a large hole in whatever you pointed the gun at. A very very big hole. Mortals, I realized, were not meant to have ghost ammunition. It was too devastating. When we walked back into town, to perform the hit, the word was out -- we were invading mortals, and I had been sold ghost ammunition. There was no stopping me. Run for your life.

I'm sorry

I'm sorry, I didn't mean to rub you the wrong way. No, I'm kidding. I absolutely fucking wanted to rub you the wrong fucking way absolutely, motherfucker. What? What? No - ha ha ha ha. Just kidding. Ah. Yeah, well fuck you too.

a dream

august 14

i dreamed that god decided to cut back
downsize heaven

laid off half the angels
fuck the union

(the devil
recruited them)

So Chung Tzu and I are hanging around....

So Chung Tzu and I are hanging around, going to cafes and bookstores in the Mission District. "I can't stop thinking about her." I say, as we leave the cafe. We walk down Valencia, and we duck in another bookstore. "I can't stop thinking about her." I say as we look at old Horizon Magazines. We walk up towards Dolores Park and get a snack at a taqueria. "I can't stop THINKING about her!" I exclaim, but Chung Tzu doesn't say anything. It is as if he was stone deaf to my words. So we go to Dolores Park, and we get there right when the sun is getting ready to set -- the sky is like lemon, and the windows of the building on the east side of the park are blazing gold, the air is full of birds. There is such overflowing of beauty, that my mind goes completely calm and absorbed with the world. I have no thoughts whatsoever. And at that exact moment, Chung Tzu leans over and screams in my ear, "SO DON'T THINK ABOUT HER!!!"