Category Archives: prosody

Domo Corpusti

OCEAN: The black flag wavers for a fucking second, not safe for work, a grand glugging gets going and the waters of the world drain away.

BUSTY CACTUS: They drain? Don’t you think they’d evaporate first?

OCEAN: Naw. No. They drain. Through mine anus. Through mine geo-bio-tunnel. Which, I should add, can be quite sensitive. There is a monolithic crustacean scurrying back and forth there right now, and it’s driving me fairly batty with Enchrodinicius [flutters his eyelids]

B.C.: Aight

O: Yepp

B.C.: Wanna tangle

O: Nope

B.C.: Cooking school vacation?

O: Naw

BC: Comic book store

O: Naw. When I feel like this, all I can listen to is stuff from Apraxia records.

BC: These guys?

O: No. Where did yo find that.

BC: Tee hee the internet

O: You’re a terrible person [stabs the busty cactus in the face with a pen knife]

BC: [horrible screeming (sic), cactus blood everywhere. this is a nightmare. weeping, moaning, awful]

O: [horrible screaming]

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Food Contra Knowledge

For many, like the Buddha sippin some madhupyasa before attaining enlightenment, or a 125-lb engineering student at UC-Riverside eating a Cup-a-Noodles as he finishes the night’s final problem set, food is fuel, an essential tool without which progress would never be made.

For me, food is an obstacle. It’s a breaded fortress-wall that separates me from intellectual triumph. On a Sunday morning I wake with five drained beer bottles winging around my bed like cartoon head-injury birds. I drink my stupid San Francisco fad-coffee and read upon the New Yorker. Awesome thoughts begin to pierce my Helmet of Complacency:

What if Rondleskins were Unkindled from one other, releasing the possibility of Nodelessness? No one has ever contemplated this unlikelihood. The Godhead owes me a Master’s Degree. I’ve become engorged with Progress! My belly is Full with Mastery*!

Then I eat a bagel, and my thoughts become like the sun-baked mud-statue weathering its first rainstorm. My giant, proud Cincinnatus melts down to crap.

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It’s days like this that I wish I was a friend and colleague of Q-Tip, the rapper from A Tribe Called Quest. I would love it if Q-Tip were hanging out with me today, letting me have sips off of his Vitamin Water, making jokes, sharing with me all the particolours of his sensibility. Why has the Lord denied me this very simple Right that all men should have, the Right of Chilling with Q-Tip whenever I’d like to, esp. on a Sunday which, through no fault but my own, I must spend indoors, in my sunlit, many-couched office?

No one is crankier than the fully functional crankshaft. No animal’s metabolism is faster than the cartoon rabbit’s. There is a society of microscopic homeless men and women who live in my carpal tunnels, just as real and full-sized people live in the New York City subway tunnels.

This street fair must be shut down. These rabbits must be eaten. This woman must be respected. These signatures must be accounted for. These lymphnodes must [do the medical thing that lymphnodes do]. You two charlatans make a lot of hay from the idea of “free-association.” Contrarian that I am, today I’ll grab the mantle of constrained association. Fettered association. The Lateral Argument.

You cannot write about your friends without losing them. You cannot write about food without eating it. You cannot read this blog without feeling a harsh boredom that starts in your bowels and radiates outward. There’s no such thing as a “free” association. I’m a Calvinist when it comes to spontaneity. I have no idea what I’m talking about. These are just “notes.”

Wired Magazine just bought this blog. They’ll be paying me $900/month to write about technology and faith in the 90s and beyond. This is my first entry. It’s been through round after round of edits with my very smart and affable editor there, and now it’s finally making its way to you, the Malaysian teenager who is this blog’s target demo. In the coming weeks, “look out” (in the most urgent sense, e.g. There’s an angry African Grey about to dive-bomb ya head!!!) for essays about the Midwest and Postmodern aesthetics, Game Theory, Memesnacks, Yelp Fatigue, Chow Hounds, Chow Prostitutes, Twitter Pain, Taxonomies of Prof. Wrest., Megafauna, The Hot New Trend in Pornography: Silentporn; Punctuation Fatigue, and so on. The site will be password protected beginning tomorrow, so to stay in the Club, just email me.

There’s no such thing as nudity, in my new conception of the world. If a television plays in the bedroom, and no one is there to watch it, is it still entertaining? Really, I’m just kidding. I don’t owe you an apology, because, like the vampire’s boyfriend, you weren’t invited.

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weak impulses

McCain also has the amateur chess player’s weakness for making an impulsive move just to see what will happen

(Russell Baker, NYRB, 11/6/08)

I share John McCain’s amateur chess player’s weakness. I’m impulsive when I play chess, and in real life. I’m an amateur chess player when I decide to click on some shit on the internet, when I blurt out my order in a doomed taqueria. It’s why I’m not going to win this election. The exit polls are just this moment beginning to come back, but I’m almost positive that very few people will have voted for me–or for my running mate, “Goalie.” No one will write us on to their ballot–legibly or otherwise. We have failed. We will have failed.

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I’m planning on taking the winter off–to take stock. I’ll rent a cabin up north, maybe near Nunavut. I’ll take an ax to a brick of frozen dogshit– Chop it up into managable chunks. I will try to take my heart into my hands and just scrub the brick of dogshit down–until it shines with its own wet melt. My pantry will be stocked with chocolate, sugar, cocoa butter, skim milk, peanuts, lactose, milkfat, soy lecithin, artificial flavors, salt, cornstarch, partially hydrogenated soybean oil, dextrin, coloring, gum acacia, and possibly some almonds. I’m going to try to make dark chocolate M&Ms in my little Nunavutian kitchen. But I’ll emblazon them with P’s instead of M’s. And I won’t eat them. I’ll dig a little pit out near the dogshit cube and mound them in. Every night, after whiskey, I piss on my homemade M&M’s. After a month or so, Ill’ve built a frozen companionate sculpture–something to keep the cube company. Then I’ll ship the whole thing back to New York on flats of frozen Evian and show it at The Dana Gallery in Chelsea. Pricetag: $1,200–just enough to cover my airfare, the ingredients, and a modest commission.