Monthly Archives: September 2008

Running diary

Yesterday I ran a 10k. I ran it in 49:38.0. I placed 81st. I am mostly posting this here so that I remember my time for the future, so I can beat this time. I am happy with this time, I ran hard, wasn’t hung over, almost yakked crossing the finish line. I think I am going to try not to drink coffee within an hour of racing in the future. I think that may have had something to do with the yak-feelings. Operation: Do Not Be Humiliated by my Athletic Family in November is proceeding according to plan! I went out too fast. It was hot. Talk to you later,


hey leah

A few months ago, I was in my office, working into the evening, experiencing what K. Marx called estranged labor. I decided to step outside for a moment and lean on the front of our building, watching the erotic parade of Valencia St. on a Thursday night etc. Almost immediately a sideways-moving camera crew rolled down the bike lane and a band walked by playing a song. Still feeling alienated, I shot psychic venom at them, pretending I was an old Armenian man standing in front of my bodega, sneering at the hipsters to whom I sell my Odwalla and unsalted cashews. Then almost immediately I received a text message from Molly saying “I was just in a Walkmen video”! And then I realized I just was, too.

And lo, six months or so later, IT’S TRUE! (around the 2:13 mark)

‘Mope’ by Caroline Bird

Sometimes the day goes silent, mouths
move in the street, people change, glide,
the click of a new slide in the projector,
chewing gum loses its flavour, people
kiss now, talk later, watch through glass,
pass through, pasteurise, curtains twitch
behind averted eyes, everyone is looking
for a word that isn’t love, because love
is loud and the roads are blanketed,
we pick up the phone just to listen.
It takes research, graphs, ammunition
to say goodbye, each sentence
requires a hundred more, but darling,
my tongue is sore, I want to lie you down,
here on the pavement, put my head on your neck
like there’s a geyser beneath us
that could flood the whole town.
Sometimes the day stops, people freeze,
one foot on the bus, or standing in crowds
holding bottles in the air, like realizing
your skirt has been unravelling since breakfast,
and the day empties out,
lifts upside down, shakes like a purse,
my lip is burnt, my clothes smell of smoke again
and I love you. It’s raining. Just look at the rain.

from Trouble Came to the Turnip by Caroline Bird, which has been shortlisted this week for the Dylan Thomas Prize. She’s 22 years old, lives in Oxford. I think this poem is about me. Just kidding. I like the part where she says “pasteurise.” The last line makes me feel squirmy and embarrassed but then I chide myself for shutting myself off from love and the world. I like how this song samples Suicide. I have completely lost the ability to be productive for more than eight minutes at a time.

UPDATE: The more I think about it, the less I like this poem. “Pasteurise” is ruined by rhyming with “averted eyes.” I keep almost being excited about a skirt unraveling since breakfast until I realize how… boring it is. Her clothes smell like smoke because she was in a gastropub with other poets, not because she was kneeling over a lamb burning in a ritual pyre, as she should have been.

Here is a sexist response poem I am about to write to expunge her “rain” from my “brain”:

My skirt has been unraveling since
The steak burnt
In umbrage. Oxford is a sex-stuffed boulevard.
We are not friends. Your carpal tunnel
Syndrome is not sexy.
The dons don’t like dub.

Genesis P. Orridge is nonvegan.
My boyfriend is a Welsch scholar.
My girlfriend has Celtic thighs.
Freud’s afternoons in Oxbridge were like a pair of couches fucking.
Nobody’s blood is shooting up your nose.

Milk through a high-pressure nozzle
Hits newsprint with a sound like rain.
Your jumper hits the floor.
Is this poem going to draw a lawsuit?
Will you meet me, naked, in Santa Cruz?
Naked? British? Lonely? Unhinged? Sober?

A shaved ferret weeps openly on Mother’s Day.
A woman has drawn heiroglyphs in Sharpie on Damon Albarn’s throbbing erection.

San Francisco, 2008

Ray, Charles

Tore this out of Artforum yesterday and taped it up in my wall-less cubicle. Charles Ray is sort of the David Foster Wallace of artists to me. I saw his retrospective at MoCA in Los Angeles around the same time in high school that I was being centrifuged around and around inside of “E Unibus Pluram” and Infinite Jest. It wasn’t as door-off-hinges blowingly transformative of an experience as reading Wallace was, but it still scraped more than a few barnacles off my teen peepers. The Ray retrospective was one of three seminal art-viewing experiences I had in in high school at MoCA (and at their space down the street, the Geffen Temporary Contemporary). The other two: Richard Serra’s Torqued Ellipses and the Paul McCarthy retrospective.

Join me this month as I take you on a journey filled with countless additional asleep-at-the-wheel end-of-day oblique memory-comments about contemporary art I saw when I was seventeen. To subscribe, just click here to PayPal $90 to BeefWeakness Knee-Life Art Tours, just kidding, talk to you later,


Not to mention: 4 years on, I still haven’t finished high-school pal Rimpletide’s fugging triumphant Charles Ray interview! And I call myself a BeefWheeler!