I wanted to be a stand-up comedian, because I'd seen them on TV. Stand-up comedians lead very interesting, often funny lives, and they get to talk about them in front of people! Stand-up comedians get to say things you shouldn't say, and they get to play it off like, you know, they were only joking, and also, they are just exploring the ignorance and racism of the culture at large, and also, they are just championing free speech and the First Amendment to the Constitution, which is very important to do!
So, I wrote a joke.
Here it is:
There were two men sitting on a fence. One man said to the other man, "Why are we sitting on a fence?"
The other replied, "We are characters in a joke about two men sitting on a fence."
"And what," the first asked, "does that entail?"
"Well," the second answered, "you will say something, I will reply, you will say something else, and I will respond with something very, very funny."
The first man considered this for a moment, and then asked, "So, in this joke, am I what is commonly referred to as the straight man? Is that right?"
"Why, yes," said the second man. "You are the straight man."
The first thought about this for a long time. His brow furrowed. "No, no, no," he said. "I will not simply be someone for you to react to. I reject that as my lot in life. There is so much more that I could be. I could be a character in a philosophical allegory about existence and its meaninglessness, or perhaps its meaningfulness. Or a protagonist in a short story that perfectly encapsulates the generation into which I was imagined for countless college literature classes. My aspirations are higher than this. Good day to you."
And he jumped down from the fence, ruining the joke forever.
THE END
And since that didn't work, and I couldn't be a stand-up comedian, I decided never to write again, ever, ever again.
***
Hi. So, The Man Who Couldn't Blog will be taking a month-long vacation, as the author will be away and far too busy writing other things to write this thing. And, the absurdist books thing. And, adding to my collaborative novel, Tongue of Bee. But, back eventually.
Friday, December 30, 2005
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Carmen
This is the world, this lovely, lovely fruit hat. We all live here on this lovely, lovely fruit hat that is the whole wide world.
We live here on this fruit hat—this hat covered entirely in fruit. We are the fruit on this fruit hat. We, the fruit on this fruit hat, are the citizens of the world.
We said, "...hat covered entirely in fruit..." but the truth is that we don't know. Is there, really, underneath all of us—we fruit on this fruit hat—a hat? Or is the fruit on this fruit hat, in fact, all that constitutes this fruit hat? We are not sure. Are we attached to something? Is there a skeleton? A continuous piece of fabric or a scarf? Are we, the fruit of the fruit hat, holding the world together as both its citizens and its superstructure?
This is a mystery.
What we do know is that below us is Carmen Miranda, and she is our pillar/God. She holds us up. She, stalwart, stoic, steady, carries us all above the nothing. Her feet reach down to eternity, to the everlasting abyss underneath. She is as tall as the entire universe. She goes on forever.
We, the fruit on this fruit hat, adore our pillar/God. We adore you, Carmen Miranda, who holds us up. Who carries us. We are your burden, but you never complain. You never falter. You are so much greater than all of us.
If we were anything other than fruit, we would worship you by setting up a hundred blogs. We would dedicate them to you, our pillar/God. But, we, unworthy, are merely fruit and have no fingers with which to blog.
We can only sing. So, we sing to our pillar/God. We sing to our pillar/God because we cannot worship her in blog form.
We live here on this fruit hat—this hat covered entirely in fruit. We are the fruit on this fruit hat. We, the fruit on this fruit hat, are the citizens of the world.
We said, "...hat covered entirely in fruit..." but the truth is that we don't know. Is there, really, underneath all of us—we fruit on this fruit hat—a hat? Or is the fruit on this fruit hat, in fact, all that constitutes this fruit hat? We are not sure. Are we attached to something? Is there a skeleton? A continuous piece of fabric or a scarf? Are we, the fruit of the fruit hat, holding the world together as both its citizens and its superstructure?
This is a mystery.
What we do know is that below us is Carmen Miranda, and she is our pillar/God. She holds us up. She, stalwart, stoic, steady, carries us all above the nothing. Her feet reach down to eternity, to the everlasting abyss underneath. She is as tall as the entire universe. She goes on forever.
We, the fruit on this fruit hat, adore our pillar/God. We adore you, Carmen Miranda, who holds us up. Who carries us. We are your burden, but you never complain. You never falter. You are so much greater than all of us.
If we were anything other than fruit, we would worship you by setting up a hundred blogs. We would dedicate them to you, our pillar/God. But, we, unworthy, are merely fruit and have no fingers with which to blog.
We can only sing. So, we sing to our pillar/God. We sing to our pillar/God because we cannot worship her in blog form.
Friday, December 16, 2005
Letter
In between L and M, there is a letter. The alphabet has another letter in it.
That letter appears in a surprisingly large number of words. You see that letter quite a lot. It's all over the language.
That letter floats behind words, you see? And it's only just sort of visible. It's only sort of fuzzy, too.
That letter changes the meaning of every word it floats behind. See, so a word means something. And then, you type that letter behind it, and it means something slightly different.
Slightly different, but different enough. It adds a significant nuance. It shades the word in a certain way.
It says, "Do you suppose?" to every word behind which it hovers.
It's important, you know?
And, I can't seem to find the combination of hot keys on my computer to make that letter. But, like, I need that letter to say what I really want to say. And so, no blogging.
That letter appears in a surprisingly large number of words. You see that letter quite a lot. It's all over the language.
That letter floats behind words, you see? And it's only just sort of visible. It's only sort of fuzzy, too.
That letter changes the meaning of every word it floats behind. See, so a word means something. And then, you type that letter behind it, and it means something slightly different.
Slightly different, but different enough. It adds a significant nuance. It shades the word in a certain way.
It says, "Do you suppose?" to every word behind which it hovers.
It's important, you know?
And, I can't seem to find the combination of hot keys on my computer to make that letter. But, like, I need that letter to say what I really want to say. And so, no blogging.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Stops
I am an inventor and my time is money, money, money. No, I won't be blogging for you! Don't ask.
I am an inventor, and I'm working on a new way to brake a bicycle.
(I like to ride a bicycle.)
The brake shoes are shaped like people. They are men and they are women—some of each. They desire to be with the wheel. But, they are repressing their desire for the wheel.
The grip, though, makes the walls built around their desire split and crash and turn to dust on the ground around them. The grip brings the brake shoes together with the wheel.
And, briefly, they are happy. They are without shame. They are in the moment, unrestricted. They are happy. They stop your bicycle.
And then they feel shame. And then they retreat. And your bicycle moves on.
Sadly, they don't know that on the opposite side of the wheel, they have a rival.
Sadly, they don't know that the wheel only desires its turning, and its connection to the pavement. It is only humoring the silly, repressed brake shoes.
***
Today is the birthday of Amy Hempel. She wrote this sentence:
"The house next door was rented for the summer to a couple who swore at missed croquet shots."
I am an inventor, and I'm working on a new way to brake a bicycle.
(I like to ride a bicycle.)
The brake shoes are shaped like people. They are men and they are women—some of each. They desire to be with the wheel. But, they are repressing their desire for the wheel.
The grip, though, makes the walls built around their desire split and crash and turn to dust on the ground around them. The grip brings the brake shoes together with the wheel.
And, briefly, they are happy. They are without shame. They are in the moment, unrestricted. They are happy. They stop your bicycle.
And then they feel shame. And then they retreat. And your bicycle moves on.
Sadly, they don't know that on the opposite side of the wheel, they have a rival.
Sadly, they don't know that the wheel only desires its turning, and its connection to the pavement. It is only humoring the silly, repressed brake shoes.
***
Today is the birthday of Amy Hempel. She wrote this sentence:
"The house next door was rented for the summer to a couple who swore at missed croquet shots."
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Hand
The very last bottle rocket in the pack is the one that begs, and I mean begs, you to set it off in your hand.
The very last bottle rocket in the pack is in the plastic, just aching to move. Just aching.
The very last bottle rocket in the pack is ready to go. Ready, ready, ready.
The very last bottle rocket in the pack wants you to pick it up (you, drunk, stupid you) and it wants you to light it with the very last match in the pack (the sad, stupid, probably wet, bent one), and it wants you to hold it, and wait.
Oh, wait.
Wait for the moment. Wait for the fuse to hit the powder.
Wait for the very last bottle rocket to go. And jump from your little, pale hand.
Drunk, stupid you.
The very last bottle rocket in the pack is in the plastic, just aching to move. Just aching.
The very last bottle rocket in the pack is ready to go. Ready, ready, ready.
The very last bottle rocket in the pack wants you to pick it up (you, drunk, stupid you) and it wants you to light it with the very last match in the pack (the sad, stupid, probably wet, bent one), and it wants you to hold it, and wait.
Oh, wait.
Wait for the moment. Wait for the fuse to hit the powder.
Wait for the very last bottle rocket to go. And jump from your little, pale hand.
Drunk, stupid you.
Friday, November 25, 2005
Friday, November 18, 2005
Woo
I heard a "Woo!" from the Ladies room. Someone (a woman?!?!) made a "Woo!" in the Ladies room.
Someone's excited about something.
Here are the possibilities:
1) Someone is pregnant. They took a home pregnancy kit into the Ladies room, and used it, and found out that they have a child "on the way."
2) There is a dogfight going on in the Ladies room and someone's pitbull is winning. Some lady's pitbull has just torn the throat from some other lady's doberman.
3) Someone is not pregnant. They took a home pregnancy kit into the Ladies room, and used it, and found out they haven't got a child "on the way."
I will not blog until I know the truth! This I swear!
Someone's excited about something.
Here are the possibilities:
1) Someone is pregnant. They took a home pregnancy kit into the Ladies room, and used it, and found out that they have a child "on the way."
2) There is a dogfight going on in the Ladies room and someone's pitbull is winning. Some lady's pitbull has just torn the throat from some other lady's doberman.
3) Someone is not pregnant. They took a home pregnancy kit into the Ladies room, and used it, and found out they haven't got a child "on the way."
I will not blog until I know the truth! This I swear!
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Dedication
This is one day many of us will not soon forget, yeah?
Yes, this is one day many of us will not soon forget, I mean.
This is a day one and all of us should make sure to hold quite close and dear to each and every one of our beating—and sort of, by this, bleeding—hearts, as this is a day of mourning.
When it is, like this, a day that is—or qualifies to be—a day when all good and noble and true and honest and empathic people like you and me and them should hang down the heads we have sticking up off the ends of our necks—hang them down, you!—and cry tears for our dear and close and respected friend who has died.
He has died!
It is such a day, I say loudly and vigorously to you all. It is almost certainly such a day.
This gathered mass that you are but a single constituent part of, it is gathered to express feelings. The feelings are the sorts of unhappy feelings we all have inside us when something of a sad nature happens to happen. Like now.
And with the loss of our friend, we must hold on so very tightly to each and every other one of us! You, in the back! Come closer!
Hold tighter!
Hold tighter!
Frogger is dead! He was hit! Hit by a car! Trying to cross the road!
Hit by a car!
Hold tighter!
We met him only a little while ago, but he quickly became our friend. Oh, so quickly, it happened; he crawled deep inside of us, and found a comfortable and well-furnished and decorated home in our brain space. He lived with us, all the time.
He offered us a sympathetic ear. Always, he was willing to spend time on the telephones in his house, listening when we had something to say about something. It was like a pleasure for him, this listening that he did to us. It was like it was the least he could do, and often he would do more and even a lot more.
Hit by a red car!
Shame on the driver who paid so little attention!
Hold tighter!
This is an hour for some things, but not for others. Let us not cheapen this moment. Let us not make nothing of this hour by, say, leaving it to words on a flickering screen. Let's take these words to the streets—the blood-spattered streets!
Not to the screens. Only to the streets.
We can't blog about this. We must talk about this.
Hold tight.
Hold tighter.
Yes, this is one day many of us will not soon forget, I mean.
This is a day one and all of us should make sure to hold quite close and dear to each and every one of our beating—and sort of, by this, bleeding—hearts, as this is a day of mourning.
When it is, like this, a day that is—or qualifies to be—a day when all good and noble and true and honest and empathic people like you and me and them should hang down the heads we have sticking up off the ends of our necks—hang them down, you!—and cry tears for our dear and close and respected friend who has died.
He has died!
It is such a day, I say loudly and vigorously to you all. It is almost certainly such a day.
This gathered mass that you are but a single constituent part of, it is gathered to express feelings. The feelings are the sorts of unhappy feelings we all have inside us when something of a sad nature happens to happen. Like now.
And with the loss of our friend, we must hold on so very tightly to each and every other one of us! You, in the back! Come closer!
Hold tighter!
Hold tighter!
Frogger is dead! He was hit! Hit by a car! Trying to cross the road!
Hit by a car!
Hold tighter!
We met him only a little while ago, but he quickly became our friend. Oh, so quickly, it happened; he crawled deep inside of us, and found a comfortable and well-furnished and decorated home in our brain space. He lived with us, all the time.
He offered us a sympathetic ear. Always, he was willing to spend time on the telephones in his house, listening when we had something to say about something. It was like a pleasure for him, this listening that he did to us. It was like it was the least he could do, and often he would do more and even a lot more.
Hit by a red car!
Shame on the driver who paid so little attention!
Hold tighter!
This is an hour for some things, but not for others. Let us not cheapen this moment. Let us not make nothing of this hour by, say, leaving it to words on a flickering screen. Let's take these words to the streets—the blood-spattered streets!
Not to the screens. Only to the streets.
We can't blog about this. We must talk about this.
Hold tight.
Hold tighter.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Pill
I'm hot and it's really hot in here. It's really, really hot in here.
I should probably drink more water. Much more water. I need to stay hydrated when it is hot like this in here.
I should probably have at least, I don't know, maybe seven glasses of water a day when I'm in here, thinking about how to (but never really having a chance to) blog. I should drink more water, to keep all my cells full of water, and to not get too dry.
Did you know that if you don't have enough water, and you get dehydrated, your sweaters begin to pill? Did you know that's what causes sweater pilling, dehydration?
It's true. And, I like to wear sweaters whenever I can. And I'm probably going to start getting pills all over this sweater, if I don't get and drink more water.
It's hot in here, you see.
I should probably drink more water. Much more water. I need to stay hydrated when it is hot like this in here.
I should probably have at least, I don't know, maybe seven glasses of water a day when I'm in here, thinking about how to (but never really having a chance to) blog. I should drink more water, to keep all my cells full of water, and to not get too dry.
Did you know that if you don't have enough water, and you get dehydrated, your sweaters begin to pill? Did you know that's what causes sweater pilling, dehydration?
It's true. And, I like to wear sweaters whenever I can. And I'm probably going to start getting pills all over this sweater, if I don't get and drink more water.
It's hot in here, you see.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Wig
ME: Why is it that you are wearing a wig?
MAN WITH WIG: Aren't we all wearing wigs?
ME: No. I'm not wearing a wig. You are, and just you. So, why are you wearing a wig?
MAN WITH WIG: But, aren't clothes a kind of a wig? And you're wearing clothes.
ME: No, clothes are not a kind of a wig. Wigs are, probably, a kind of clothes, maybe. But clothes are not a kind of a wig. So, no, I'm not wearing a wig because I'm wearing clothes. Again, why are you wearing a wig?
MAN WITH WIG: Maybe, in fact, I'm not wearing a wig and you are!
ME: No, because a wig is a wig. And not a wig is not a wig. And that thing on your head is clearly a wig. Why are you wearing it?
MAN WITH WIG: Aren't we all, metaphorically speaking, wearing a wig?
ME: If I allow that we are all, metaphorically speaking, wearing a wig, will you tell me why you are, physically speaking, wearing a wig?
MAN WITH WIG: No.
ME: Then we are not, metaphorically speaking, all wearing wigs.
##
Are we not, metaphorically speaking, unable to blog?
##
There is this now. You can read it.
MAN WITH WIG: Aren't we all wearing wigs?
ME: No. I'm not wearing a wig. You are, and just you. So, why are you wearing a wig?
MAN WITH WIG: But, aren't clothes a kind of a wig? And you're wearing clothes.
ME: No, clothes are not a kind of a wig. Wigs are, probably, a kind of clothes, maybe. But clothes are not a kind of a wig. So, no, I'm not wearing a wig because I'm wearing clothes. Again, why are you wearing a wig?
MAN WITH WIG: Maybe, in fact, I'm not wearing a wig and you are!
ME: No, because a wig is a wig. And not a wig is not a wig. And that thing on your head is clearly a wig. Why are you wearing it?
MAN WITH WIG: Aren't we all, metaphorically speaking, wearing a wig?
ME: If I allow that we are all, metaphorically speaking, wearing a wig, will you tell me why you are, physically speaking, wearing a wig?
MAN WITH WIG: No.
ME: Then we are not, metaphorically speaking, all wearing wigs.
##
Are we not, metaphorically speaking, unable to blog?
##
There is this now. You can read it.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Cliff
There was, right, the best of intentions from me to blog, right? But, the thing is, right, like I was here, and ready and had the blog, and was at the blog, and ready to, right, do the blog in the way your supposed to and all that, but then, it was like, not there because, see, like, it fell.
I dropped it. I dropped the blog and it fell, right, which means I can't do it or nothing, now.
It fell. Wump wump wump. Right down to the bottom, and that's when it dropped into the glue.
Glue, everywhere. Right?
Yeah, so it totally gummed up the works and all, and now, even if I could get down there to get the blog, I really don't think I'd be able to blog, either. So much cleaning.
I dropped it. I dropped the blog and it fell, right, which means I can't do it or nothing, now.
It fell. Wump wump wump. Right down to the bottom, and that's when it dropped into the glue.
Glue, everywhere. Right?
Yeah, so it totally gummed up the works and all, and now, even if I could get down there to get the blog, I really don't think I'd be able to blog, either. So much cleaning.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Die
There's a man you meet before you die. He talks to you about all the things upcoming. He points out all the benefits of dying—and there are many. He tells about all the drawbacks of being a dead person—and, yes, there are many of those, too.
This man you meet just before you die is large and friendly, and he is also black. His hair is a little bit black, and a little bit white, and a whole lot gray. There are bumps all over his face, and he says that his name is Gumdrops. And he tells you from this moment on (starting...now!) you my friend will be called the SugarBoy.
And Heaven is a pile of sweets. And Hell is gingerbread everywhere you see. And you can choose to go wherever you want. And you can skip from one to the other, and it doesn't matter at all because God and the Devil have long since buried the hatchet in an old tree stump. No one's punished and no one's favored. It was hard enough just living. It was hard enough just waking up every single day.
We all deserve to take our ease.
There's a man you meet before you die. There's a set of rules this man lays out for you. And, there's no time to blog.
This man you meet just before you die is large and friendly, and he is also black. His hair is a little bit black, and a little bit white, and a whole lot gray. There are bumps all over his face, and he says that his name is Gumdrops. And he tells you from this moment on (starting...now!) you my friend will be called the SugarBoy.
And Heaven is a pile of sweets. And Hell is gingerbread everywhere you see. And you can choose to go wherever you want. And you can skip from one to the other, and it doesn't matter at all because God and the Devil have long since buried the hatchet in an old tree stump. No one's punished and no one's favored. It was hard enough just living. It was hard enough just waking up every single day.
We all deserve to take our ease.
There's a man you meet before you die. There's a set of rules this man lays out for you. And, there's no time to blog.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Gardening
I was on the street. I was walking down the sidewalk. Walking home. And I was at the corner of 80th and something. The corner with the light. You know the one.
At the corner of 80th and something, I was waiting for the chance to cross. I was waiting for the ambling white light guy. I looked at the cars who were waiting, too.
And you know who I saw? Ciscoe Morris! From TV. The guy who appears on all those Gardening with Ciscoe bits on the evening and weekend news broadcasts. That guy. I saw him in a car. I saw him waiting at the light. Just like me, only he was driving and I was walking.
And there he was. And do you know what he did? He reached up and dug into his mouth with a finger. He dug something out of his back teeth with a finger. Just reached up and went in. Where I could see him. I the semi-privacy of his car. I saw him do it. I saw him dig some sort of food thing out of his teeth.
I saw him.
And I forgive him. Ciscoe, I forgive you. I think it's okay for you to have that very human moment where I could see it. I think it's right on. I'm behind you. Dig away, if that's what you need. Be yourself, even though you're a guy on TV. That doesn't mean you shouldn't be allowed to be you, Ciscoe. So I say.
I forgive Ciscoe.
I can't seem to find the time to blog. You should forgive me, too.
At the corner of 80th and something, I was waiting for the chance to cross. I was waiting for the ambling white light guy. I looked at the cars who were waiting, too.
And you know who I saw? Ciscoe Morris! From TV. The guy who appears on all those Gardening with Ciscoe bits on the evening and weekend news broadcasts. That guy. I saw him in a car. I saw him waiting at the light. Just like me, only he was driving and I was walking.
And there he was. And do you know what he did? He reached up and dug into his mouth with a finger. He dug something out of his back teeth with a finger. Just reached up and went in. Where I could see him. I the semi-privacy of his car. I saw him do it. I saw him dig some sort of food thing out of his teeth.
I saw him.
And I forgive him. Ciscoe, I forgive you. I think it's okay for you to have that very human moment where I could see it. I think it's right on. I'm behind you. Dig away, if that's what you need. Be yourself, even though you're a guy on TV. That doesn't mean you shouldn't be allowed to be you, Ciscoe. So I say.
I forgive Ciscoe.
I can't seem to find the time to blog. You should forgive me, too.
Monday, October 17, 2005
Friday, October 07, 2005
Window
So, that's the way that went down. I mean, I possibly could've handled the whole thing a lot better, but at the time, it just never occurred to do so. And there it was.
But, we were talking about you before I started that story, so why don't we get back to it, eh? You were saying that in all the years you've lived here you've never once gone on the underground tour of Denton, yes? I have. Many times, in fact. It's one of my favorite things to do when relatives visit. I get them in their warmest jackets, because the ambient temperature in the underground is at least 20 degrees colder than it is on the surface, and we go to the entrance, usually in their car. I don't have a car. I've never really been able to handle the upkeep of a car, you see. It's always a leak here, a seal broken there, etc.
I suppose when a seal breaks you get a leak and that was redundant. But, maybe not. Not car savvy, me. Said that.
But, yes, we like to go on the Denton underground tour. Or, I do. So, I often get my family together, in their warmest jackets because it's so cold.
I've said that, haven't I? I repeat myself sometimes.
And, the tour always makes them interested in the history of Denton, you know? It's a nice town, Denton, and has a very curious history. How many other small towns do you know with such an extensive series of tunnels beneath them, eh? Not many. Almost none. This one and probably no others. I'll bet. I'll bet there are no others. Not one.
This town is unique in that way.
I hate it when people talk about things being very unique, because there are no degrees of uniqueness, you know? Unique or not. That's it. One or the other. Some people don't think before they speak. They just say things and they come out all wrong like that. Frustrates me sometimes, that does.
But, then, I guess it's not for me to say. It's not for me to criticize. People sometimes can't help it when they say things like they do because—I think—some phrases are like viruses that you catch. And it's hard to turn them loose. We speak in these familiar little turns of phrase because it's the easiest way to communicate or something. That's what I think.
Bacteria? Is it more like a virus or a bacteria? That junkie writer, whatever his name was, he called language a virus. But I think he may have meant it literally.
I heard some singer once say he caught phrases like people catch colds.
That happens. It happens to me all the time. I can't help it. Something gets stuck and I think it over and over and over. Sort of like telling someone to not think about elephants and that's the first thing they think of. Right? Try it. Don't, whatever you do, think about an elephant.
See? Did you?
Huh. You know, maybe you didn't, though. I guess I've always just taken it for granted that people do that. They think of elephants when you tell them not to, but how do you prove a thing like that? You don't. You can't.
Nope.
I like the part of the tour when you're under the mayor's house and they tell you that story about the way every mayor in the history of Denton has, three years into his term, been thrown from his office window. All of them! Can you believe that? Can you? Defenestration, they call that. Being thrown out a window is called defenestration. They always start by telling you the thing that's exactly the same about Denton and Prague is that in both cities defenestration is the preferred method of political assassination. And they point to the spots where, on the opposite side of the concrete, each mayor hit. They have them outlined in chalk. Like they'd have them on the sidewalk if you were up top instead of down below. Right?
That's he part of the tour I like best. And the part of Denton's history I like best.
Blog? No, I don't really think I could. I don't think I have enough to say.
But, we were talking about you before I started that story, so why don't we get back to it, eh? You were saying that in all the years you've lived here you've never once gone on the underground tour of Denton, yes? I have. Many times, in fact. It's one of my favorite things to do when relatives visit. I get them in their warmest jackets, because the ambient temperature in the underground is at least 20 degrees colder than it is on the surface, and we go to the entrance, usually in their car. I don't have a car. I've never really been able to handle the upkeep of a car, you see. It's always a leak here, a seal broken there, etc.
I suppose when a seal breaks you get a leak and that was redundant. But, maybe not. Not car savvy, me. Said that.
But, yes, we like to go on the Denton underground tour. Or, I do. So, I often get my family together, in their warmest jackets because it's so cold.
I've said that, haven't I? I repeat myself sometimes.
And, the tour always makes them interested in the history of Denton, you know? It's a nice town, Denton, and has a very curious history. How many other small towns do you know with such an extensive series of tunnels beneath them, eh? Not many. Almost none. This one and probably no others. I'll bet. I'll bet there are no others. Not one.
This town is unique in that way.
I hate it when people talk about things being very unique, because there are no degrees of uniqueness, you know? Unique or not. That's it. One or the other. Some people don't think before they speak. They just say things and they come out all wrong like that. Frustrates me sometimes, that does.
But, then, I guess it's not for me to say. It's not for me to criticize. People sometimes can't help it when they say things like they do because—I think—some phrases are like viruses that you catch. And it's hard to turn them loose. We speak in these familiar little turns of phrase because it's the easiest way to communicate or something. That's what I think.
Bacteria? Is it more like a virus or a bacteria? That junkie writer, whatever his name was, he called language a virus. But I think he may have meant it literally.
I heard some singer once say he caught phrases like people catch colds.
That happens. It happens to me all the time. I can't help it. Something gets stuck and I think it over and over and over. Sort of like telling someone to not think about elephants and that's the first thing they think of. Right? Try it. Don't, whatever you do, think about an elephant.
See? Did you?
Huh. You know, maybe you didn't, though. I guess I've always just taken it for granted that people do that. They think of elephants when you tell them not to, but how do you prove a thing like that? You don't. You can't.
Nope.
I like the part of the tour when you're under the mayor's house and they tell you that story about the way every mayor in the history of Denton has, three years into his term, been thrown from his office window. All of them! Can you believe that? Can you? Defenestration, they call that. Being thrown out a window is called defenestration. They always start by telling you the thing that's exactly the same about Denton and Prague is that in both cities defenestration is the preferred method of political assassination. And they point to the spots where, on the opposite side of the concrete, each mayor hit. They have them outlined in chalk. Like they'd have them on the sidewalk if you were up top instead of down below. Right?
That's he part of the tour I like best. And the part of Denton's history I like best.
Blog? No, I don't really think I could. I don't think I have enough to say.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Rock'n'Roll
Hey, I'm in this great new rock 'n' roll band. I started it, too, this new rock 'n' roll band that I'm in.
We're really good.
We're called The Werewolf Mummies. Which is why we're so great. We're not just mummies, or just werewolves. We're both. We're The Werewolf Mummies.
There's a band called The Mummies, and they rock.
There are all sorts of bands with wolf names, and some of them have to be lycanthropic. Right?
But there's only one band that's The Werewolf Mummies, and we're ready to rock your party.
The Werewolf Mummies. Yeah.
Rockin'. No time to blog.
We're really good.
We're called The Werewolf Mummies. Which is why we're so great. We're not just mummies, or just werewolves. We're both. We're The Werewolf Mummies.
There's a band called The Mummies, and they rock.
There are all sorts of bands with wolf names, and some of them have to be lycanthropic. Right?
But there's only one band that's The Werewolf Mummies, and we're ready to rock your party.
The Werewolf Mummies. Yeah.
Rockin'. No time to blog.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Melted
It has been many years since I have released an album. For many of those many years, I have been recording a thing. A record. It's a record I cannot seem to finish, as hard as I try.
There are hundreds and hundreds of songs. Hundreds and hundreds of attempts. Hundreds and hundreds of them, but none of them are right.
None of them are right, I tell you.
I work and I work and I just can't get it right. I can't finish Chinese Democracy.
I am Axl Rose.
And there's another problem.
I've melted.
I'm little more than a puddle in my recording studio. I have melted over my chair. I am a thin film on the carpeting. I drip.
I can't finish recording.
I can't blog, either.
****
This is a blog. There, I can blog.
There are hundreds and hundreds of songs. Hundreds and hundreds of attempts. Hundreds and hundreds of them, but none of them are right.
None of them are right, I tell you.
I work and I work and I just can't get it right. I can't finish Chinese Democracy.
I am Axl Rose.
And there's another problem.
I've melted.
I'm little more than a puddle in my recording studio. I have melted over my chair. I am a thin film on the carpeting. I drip.
I can't finish recording.
I can't blog, either.
****
This is a blog. There, I can blog.
Saturday, September 24, 2005
Father
My father tried to teach me how to blog.
We woke up at 4am, because, he said, you have to get up really early in the morning to blog right.
We woke up at 4am, and we got together all the things we'd to blog.
My father gave me the stuff I'd need, and said that it used to belong to him. I would use his stuff for blogging, and he would use the stuff his father used to use to blog.
That's the way it's always been in our family, he told me. Two bloggers, father and son. Two sets of stuff. Father's and son's.
We loaded up the car and we drove out to the lake to blog.
We went out in the boat, and we spent the whole day blogging. We blogged all day.
I loved blogging with my father.
My father died, and I have no kids. I will never marry, and I will never have a son of my own, so the stuff sits in the closet.
No one will ever use it to blog.
We woke up at 4am, because, he said, you have to get up really early in the morning to blog right.
We woke up at 4am, and we got together all the things we'd to blog.
My father gave me the stuff I'd need, and said that it used to belong to him. I would use his stuff for blogging, and he would use the stuff his father used to use to blog.
That's the way it's always been in our family, he told me. Two bloggers, father and son. Two sets of stuff. Father's and son's.
We loaded up the car and we drove out to the lake to blog.
We went out in the boat, and we spent the whole day blogging. We blogged all day.
I loved blogging with my father.
My father died, and I have no kids. I will never marry, and I will never have a son of my own, so the stuff sits in the closet.
No one will ever use it to blog.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Cowboy
I am a cowboy, out riding the range. When I ride the range, I chew gum to keep my jaw working and working.
The gum in my mouth, sometimes I spit it onto the range. My gum litters the range.
I am a cowboy, with an old piece of gum in my mouth, and I'm going to spit it onto the range.
But, I spit my gum into my palm, this time. I look at my gum, and I notice, for the first time, that in the indents and folds, there are communists. There are communists in my gum.
So, I wash out my mouth, to kill all the communists in there.
And now I am a cowboy, riding the range, sniffing out all the communists I have spit to the ground. It is important that I find all the communists I have left scattered around. I cannot rest until I have rid the range of them.
So, I can't blog. I'm terribly busy.
The gum in my mouth, sometimes I spit it onto the range. My gum litters the range.
I am a cowboy, with an old piece of gum in my mouth, and I'm going to spit it onto the range.
But, I spit my gum into my palm, this time. I look at my gum, and I notice, for the first time, that in the indents and folds, there are communists. There are communists in my gum.
So, I wash out my mouth, to kill all the communists in there.
And now I am a cowboy, riding the range, sniffing out all the communists I have spit to the ground. It is important that I find all the communists I have left scattered around. I cannot rest until I have rid the range of them.
So, I can't blog. I'm terribly busy.
Monday, September 12, 2005
Heir
Can you feel the breeze, sweeping in through the window?
I am the heir to the throne. All that you see from this window, all the land beyond, will one day be under my purview. Every mile you see, every yard, every foot, every inch, mine.
Every breeze rustling the grass will be mine. Every single column of air that decides to cross the river to the North, the boundary of the kingdom to the North, will enter and exit at my pleasure.
When a breeze enters my kingdom, it will visit me in my courtyard, and I, the soul of magnanimity, will greet the breeze warmly. And ask after its family. And ask after its people. And ask after its plans for the future.
Even the breezes will be mine to command.
When will I ever, for the life of me, have time to blog?
I am the heir to the throne. All that you see from this window, all the land beyond, will one day be under my purview. Every mile you see, every yard, every foot, every inch, mine.
Every breeze rustling the grass will be mine. Every single column of air that decides to cross the river to the North, the boundary of the kingdom to the North, will enter and exit at my pleasure.
When a breeze enters my kingdom, it will visit me in my courtyard, and I, the soul of magnanimity, will greet the breeze warmly. And ask after its family. And ask after its people. And ask after its plans for the future.
Even the breezes will be mine to command.
When will I ever, for the life of me, have time to blog?
Friday, September 09, 2005
Lit
Not only can I not blog, I can't lit blog. Which is just exactly what I want to do. I do. I want not simply to blog—and, gosh, blog the night away—but I want to lit blog.
I, for example, want to point out that the new issue of that literary journal has the same cover as the new issue of Vanity Fair.
I, for example, want to weigh in on that letter. You know the letter I mean. The one that may or may not be from the nut. That letter. The one that may or may not have been a tactic, an attempt to tar someone with a brush—an attempt made by a cabal of wealthy and powerful writers. That letter.
I, for example, want to say something about the stuff that she said about that country that she's from.
I want to do it, but I can't.
I'm unable to lit blog, because I'm buried up to my neck in sand. It's everywhere. Sand, enveloping my body. Sand, such small fine particles, gathered together to hold me in place. Sand working its way into every crease in my body—the wrinkles in my belly, the tiny deep pit of my belly button, the thicket of hair under each of my arms. Sand, fitting me.
My little pinky is moving, slowly digging its way free, but I don't think I can release myself from my prison of sand. I feel the tiny shifts, though. The sand, fitted into a little wall, spilling away and to the bottom of the hole my little finger is digging. More sand takes its place. More sand fits in place. Sand everywhere. No chance to read.
No way to know about the journal, or the letter, or the interview. No way to do anything but wait here trapped. Until I starve.
I, for example, want to point out that the new issue of that literary journal has the same cover as the new issue of Vanity Fair.
I, for example, want to weigh in on that letter. You know the letter I mean. The one that may or may not be from the nut. That letter. The one that may or may not have been a tactic, an attempt to tar someone with a brush—an attempt made by a cabal of wealthy and powerful writers. That letter.
I, for example, want to say something about the stuff that she said about that country that she's from.
I want to do it, but I can't.
I'm unable to lit blog, because I'm buried up to my neck in sand. It's everywhere. Sand, enveloping my body. Sand, such small fine particles, gathered together to hold me in place. Sand working its way into every crease in my body—the wrinkles in my belly, the tiny deep pit of my belly button, the thicket of hair under each of my arms. Sand, fitting me.
My little pinky is moving, slowly digging its way free, but I don't think I can release myself from my prison of sand. I feel the tiny shifts, though. The sand, fitted into a little wall, spilling away and to the bottom of the hole my little finger is digging. More sand takes its place. More sand fits in place. Sand everywhere. No chance to read.
No way to know about the journal, or the letter, or the interview. No way to do anything but wait here trapped. Until I starve.
Monday, September 05, 2005
Pickaxe
I'm running and I'm running and I'm running through the tunnels. And the rocks are coming at me and I'm jumping over each.
When a pickaxe drops to the ground, I grab it and I use it to bust up the rocks that come and come and come. And when a key appears, I can grab it and fall through a door.
And for a few brief moments, my life is quiet, and in the falling my life is my own. The thrumming of colors, spinning in my head as my hair blows back and my mind goes numb, and spin blue/white pinprick tingling stop.
And I'm running and I'm running and I'm running through the tunnels. And the rocks are coming at me and I'm jumping over each.
And I'm too busy to blog.
When a pickaxe drops to the ground, I grab it and I use it to bust up the rocks that come and come and come. And when a key appears, I can grab it and fall through a door.
And for a few brief moments, my life is quiet, and in the falling my life is my own. The thrumming of colors, spinning in my head as my hair blows back and my mind goes numb, and spin blue/white pinprick tingling stop.
And I'm running and I'm running and I'm running through the tunnels. And the rocks are coming at me and I'm jumping over each.
And I'm too busy to blog.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Posters
I have posters in my room. When I wake up in the morning, I see one with a cat. There's a cat on a limb and he's hanging by the tips of his claws. And he's telling me to Hang in There Baby.
"Woo," he's saying. "Hang in there, baby. Today's the day, baby.
"Today's the day you're going to blog, baby," he tells me. "Today you're going to really do it, and do it up right, baby.
"This is it, baby," he tells me. "This is so it. It's the day you'll blog.
"You're the best, baby," he tells me. "You're the coolest, and the smartest, and the most determined guy around. You've got the skills and the smarts to blog way, way awesomely, baby.
"You are so ready, baby," he tells me. "This is going to be great."
It really gets me excited. Excited to blog awesomely.
But on the next wall—the wall right below my computer—there's another poster. It's a unicorn.
A unicorn in a starscape. With a rainbow. Alone. Stately. Powerful. Too much.
I can't measure up. Not to the powerful star unicorn.
I can't blog after that.
"Woo," he's saying. "Hang in there, baby. Today's the day, baby.
"Today's the day you're going to blog, baby," he tells me. "Today you're going to really do it, and do it up right, baby.
"This is it, baby," he tells me. "This is so it. It's the day you'll blog.
"You're the best, baby," he tells me. "You're the coolest, and the smartest, and the most determined guy around. You've got the skills and the smarts to blog way, way awesomely, baby.
"You are so ready, baby," he tells me. "This is going to be great."
It really gets me excited. Excited to blog awesomely.
But on the next wall—the wall right below my computer—there's another poster. It's a unicorn.
A unicorn in a starscape. With a rainbow. Alone. Stately. Powerful. Too much.
I can't measure up. Not to the powerful star unicorn.
I can't blog after that.
Friday, August 26, 2005
Napkin
It's very difficult to get a blog these days. They are scarce, rare as diamonds. And valuable. I would very much like to have a blog. On the blog I would blog. Every day I would sit down to blog on my blog. Yes, given the chance I would certainly love to verb on my noun.
But, alas.
I do not have a blog, because they are hard to find. You can't simply go online and sign up—free!—for a blog. What kind of a world would it be if you could, do you think? Pretty astonishing. It would be a wild and beautiful world if everyone of us could have a blog of our own. We'd all be so free and so very lucky if we could—every single one of us!—have a blog of our own.
But, alas.
I've no blog. Can't find one. Can't get one. And so, I write on napkins. Little, soiled napkins. I find them and I write on them. I write about how much I wish I could blog. I take soiled napkins from restaurants and bars and hotdog stands, and stick them in my pocket, and I bring them home with me. I take out a ballpoint pen, and I grab the napkins from the bottom of my pocket, and I write on them. And I take those napkins and drop them from my window. They fall into the alley behind my apartment. People pick them up and read them.
People like you. You standing there with this soiled napkin in your hand, reading.
But, alas.
I do not have a blog, because they are hard to find. You can't simply go online and sign up—free!—for a blog. What kind of a world would it be if you could, do you think? Pretty astonishing. It would be a wild and beautiful world if everyone of us could have a blog of our own. We'd all be so free and so very lucky if we could—every single one of us!—have a blog of our own.
But, alas.
I've no blog. Can't find one. Can't get one. And so, I write on napkins. Little, soiled napkins. I find them and I write on them. I write about how much I wish I could blog. I take soiled napkins from restaurants and bars and hotdog stands, and stick them in my pocket, and I bring them home with me. I take out a ballpoint pen, and I grab the napkins from the bottom of my pocket, and I write on them. And I take those napkins and drop them from my window. They fall into the alley behind my apartment. People pick them up and read them.
People like you. You standing there with this soiled napkin in your hand, reading.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Nail
Welcome to Tool Town. This is Tool Town and I am a nail.
The Hammer is the mayor of Tool Town. The Hammer is a natural politician, as he more than any other, is able to stay on message. The Hammer just pounds and pounds and pounds. He is direct. He is relentessly on task and he has only one. He keeps the nails in line, and we love him for it.
The Screwdriver often runs against the Hammer, but he just can't win. He turns either way and therefore is too nuanced in his messaging. The Screwdriver works better behind the scenes.
I am a nail in Tool Town, and therefore I can not blog.
In Tool Town, only the screws blog.
The Hammer is the mayor of Tool Town. The Hammer is a natural politician, as he more than any other, is able to stay on message. The Hammer just pounds and pounds and pounds. He is direct. He is relentessly on task and he has only one. He keeps the nails in line, and we love him for it.
The Screwdriver often runs against the Hammer, but he just can't win. He turns either way and therefore is too nuanced in his messaging. The Screwdriver works better behind the scenes.
I am a nail in Tool Town, and therefore I can not blog.
In Tool Town, only the screws blog.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Moon/Tree
In 1971, a former smoke jumper named Stuart Roosa arrived at the moon. He didn't get to go down to the surface. He stayed on the ship. He waited for two others to come back. With him, he had a cannister filled with seeds.
The seeds were tree seeds. They went to the moon.
They orbited the moon, in a little metal cannister, and never got to look out the window.
But, trees don't have eyes, and tree seeds certainly don't have eyes. So, it didn't really matter.
The tree seeds came back. They were germinated, and sent around the country. And people forgot to write down where they all went.
Of the hundreds sent out, only fifty or so are known.
Of the others, I am one. I'm a Douglas Fir in a national park. People walk by me all the time and never know I've been to the moon.
And I can't blog. I'm a moon tree, an unknown moon tree, and moon trees don't know how to blog.
I'm sorry.
The seeds were tree seeds. They went to the moon.
They orbited the moon, in a little metal cannister, and never got to look out the window.
But, trees don't have eyes, and tree seeds certainly don't have eyes. So, it didn't really matter.
The tree seeds came back. They were germinated, and sent around the country. And people forgot to write down where they all went.
Of the hundreds sent out, only fifty or so are known.
Of the others, I am one. I'm a Douglas Fir in a national park. People walk by me all the time and never know I've been to the moon.
And I can't blog. I'm a moon tree, an unknown moon tree, and moon trees don't know how to blog.
I'm sorry.
Friday, August 12, 2005
Wrong
I was going to try to blog, but I realized that there is something fundamentally wrong. There is something fundamentally wrong with the way I write sentences. I am writing my sentences all wrong, and it's happening at a structural level. Right off the bat. Before I even begin to write the sentences I would write in order to blog, there is something wrong.
My writing is wrong.
And, you can't see it. That's the tricky part. It's not anything to do with my rather pedestrian syntax. My sentence fragments. What's wrong with my sentences? It can't be parsed. Not by a grammarian. It can't be judged by a critic. Or any reader, really.
The thing that's wrong with my sentences is buried so deep, it's a secret to everyone but me.
This makes sense—in a way. You're reading this, and it makes sense. I think it makes sense.
But, it also makes no sense at all on a fundamental level. But, you don't notice the part that doesn't make sense, because it is happening before this is typed out.
It's like, Borges said he didn't like sans serif fonts. They were stripped down. The architecture of each letter was ugly because it was unadorned. It's like that.
Or, wait. No it's not.
Or, maybe.
I just don't know.
I just know that because everything is completely wrong and fucked up before it even begins, I can't blog.
My writing is wrong.
And, you can't see it. That's the tricky part. It's not anything to do with my rather pedestrian syntax. My sentence fragments. What's wrong with my sentences? It can't be parsed. Not by a grammarian. It can't be judged by a critic. Or any reader, really.
The thing that's wrong with my sentences is buried so deep, it's a secret to everyone but me.
This makes sense—in a way. You're reading this, and it makes sense. I think it makes sense.
But, it also makes no sense at all on a fundamental level. But, you don't notice the part that doesn't make sense, because it is happening before this is typed out.
It's like, Borges said he didn't like sans serif fonts. They were stripped down. The architecture of each letter was ugly because it was unadorned. It's like that.
Or, wait. No it's not.
Or, maybe.
I just don't know.
I just know that because everything is completely wrong and fucked up before it even begins, I can't blog.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Short
I want to blog. I really want to blog. I do. It's just that I can't reach. I just can't reach.
See, I wasn't, as a child, given proper nutrition. I didn't grow big and strong. And tall. I didn't grow tall. And now I can't reach. And now I can't blog.
See, I wasn't, as a child, given proper nutrition. I didn't grow big and strong. And tall. I didn't grow tall. And now I can't reach. And now I can't blog.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Camera
My name is Steve Fridge, and I was the camera operator for the movie Oh God! You Devil. It was the third movie in series of Oh God! movies that starred George Burns. He played God. In Oh God! You Devil, he also played the Devil. John Denver was in the first one, but did not appear in Oh God! You Devil. You may remember the scene where God (Burns) is on the radio and makes it rain in John Denver's car. It was directed by Carl Reiner and Terri Garr was also in it.
There was a second, not as good movie, too, called Oh God! Book Two. Oh God! You Devil was even worse.
I read something about Plato: that there's an ideal, and real versions of the ideal, and as you get farther away from the original, they get worse and worse.
Or, when you make a photocopy, and then photocopy the photocopy, the image degrades.
I was the camera operator for the most degraded Oh God! movie.
So, I really don't want to blog.
There was a second, not as good movie, too, called Oh God! Book Two. Oh God! You Devil was even worse.
I read something about Plato: that there's an ideal, and real versions of the ideal, and as you get farther away from the original, they get worse and worse.
Or, when you make a photocopy, and then photocopy the photocopy, the image degrades.
I was the camera operator for the most degraded Oh God! movie.
So, I really don't want to blog.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Qualifications
It is incredibly important to be a blogger. To be a blogger, one must go through a very rigorous screening process. One must be vetted. One must attended seminars to learn to blog. One must have impeccable references from others. They take blood samples. There is a written test, followed by an oral exam. There are trials both physical and mental. Some train for years before they become a blogger.
Blogging is not easy. It is difficult, and becoming a blogger is difficult.
I'm lazy, and I'm stupid, and I have piss-poor references. I am in lousy shape, and have a little roll of fat around my midsection. I get easily winded. I crumble under cross examination.
I can't blog.
Blogging is not easy. It is difficult, and becoming a blogger is difficult.
I'm lazy, and I'm stupid, and I have piss-poor references. I am in lousy shape, and have a little roll of fat around my midsection. I get easily winded. I crumble under cross examination.
I can't blog.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Ringo
Hey, this is weird. I'm Ringo Starr. I'm Ringo Starr and as such I'm just not going to be able to blog.
Are you Ringo Starr, too? I think you might be. I think it is a pretty good bet you're Ringo Starr just like I'm Ringo Starr and you can't blog, and I can't blog, and everyone else is Ringo Starr, too, and they can't blog.
And the whole world is Ringo Starr and the whole DAMN world can't blog because they are the former drummer of The Beatles.
We can't blog. We're Ringo Starr. It's surprisingly important to be Ringo Starr. There are so many things we, as Ringo Starrs, need to do during the course of the day that we simply don't have the time to blog. We have phone calls to make, and people to think about, and forms to sign. We have to mow the lawn, we in our Beatle boots, which we still wear but only to mow the lawn. With our lawns mown, and lots and lots of official documents signed, we still have at least three meetings to go to today, and we will not be sitting down to blog—not even a little.
We are all Ringo Starr. That is why we don't blog.
But, here's a secret.
I'm more Ringo Starr than the rest of you. And because of that, I can blog even less than you can.
Are you Ringo Starr, too? I think you might be. I think it is a pretty good bet you're Ringo Starr just like I'm Ringo Starr and you can't blog, and I can't blog, and everyone else is Ringo Starr, too, and they can't blog.
And the whole world is Ringo Starr and the whole DAMN world can't blog because they are the former drummer of The Beatles.
We can't blog. We're Ringo Starr. It's surprisingly important to be Ringo Starr. There are so many things we, as Ringo Starrs, need to do during the course of the day that we simply don't have the time to blog. We have phone calls to make, and people to think about, and forms to sign. We have to mow the lawn, we in our Beatle boots, which we still wear but only to mow the lawn. With our lawns mown, and lots and lots of official documents signed, we still have at least three meetings to go to today, and we will not be sitting down to blog—not even a little.
We are all Ringo Starr. That is why we don't blog.
But, here's a secret.
I'm more Ringo Starr than the rest of you. And because of that, I can blog even less than you can.
Friday, July 22, 2005
Kiss
I will not be blogging today because it is 1988, and nobody blogs. It's 1988, and the late Fall, and I'm on the second floor. I'm talking to the girl I have just started "going" with. She is the girl in her grade with the bad reputation. I am unconcerned that she is the girl in her grade with the bad reputation. She's my first girlfriend. My first real girlfriend. We talk and she comes up close, and she kisses me quick, on the lips. And it's the first time anyone's done that. She says bye. She goes home. I go to my locker. It was a little colder than I'd expected, you know? Her lips were mostly dry.
It's 1988 and I've just been kissed for the first time, and I will remember the way it feels forever, really I will. But, because it is 1988, no one blogs.
So I won't blog.
It's 1988 and I've just been kissed for the first time, and I will remember the way it feels forever, really I will. But, because it is 1988, no one blogs.
So I won't blog.
Friday, July 15, 2005
Tomorrow
I woke up today ready to blog, but found that it was tomorrow. Tomorrow! Somehow it wasn't the today I had expected, but the tomorrow I had expected later. And since it is tomorrow instead of today, and I had planned to blog today but not tomorrow, I'm afraid I am unable to blog...because it is tomorrow.
Because it is tomorrow, I would like to offer you a word of advice. I know that tomorrow (which I am having today, even though you are having today today and will have tomorrow at the regular time—tomorrow) you are going to have a really good idea. At least, you are going to think it is a really good idea. It's not. Please ignore that really good idea you have tomorrow, because the consequences—though not life and death—will be unpleasant. Don't do it. Don't do what you are inspired to do tomorrow. For your own good.
Because it is tomorrow, I would like to offer you a word of advice. I know that tomorrow (which I am having today, even though you are having today today and will have tomorrow at the regular time—tomorrow) you are going to have a really good idea. At least, you are going to think it is a really good idea. It's not. Please ignore that really good idea you have tomorrow, because the consequences—though not life and death—will be unpleasant. Don't do it. Don't do what you are inspired to do tomorrow. For your own good.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Fire
I was going to blog today, but I can't because I'm on fire. I'm on fire and my hands are too hot to touch the keys.
I was taking a nap on the couch, and I was wearing my glasses, and it was the middle of the day, and the sun came in through the window, and magnified through the lense of my glasses, and lit my clothes on fire.
Now my body is on fire. I'm completely on fire, and I can't blog.
I was taking a nap on the couch, and I was wearing my glasses, and it was the middle of the day, and the sun came in through the window, and magnified through the lense of my glasses, and lit my clothes on fire.
Now my body is on fire. I'm completely on fire, and I can't blog.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
My Twin
I have been unable to blog recently because I have discovered that I have a twin. Somewhere. I'm not sure where. I just know I have one.
Out there.
A twin. Another me.
How am I supposed to blog under such conditions? With a twin of me, perhaps, somewhere searching for me? Or, am I searching for him? Have I been searching all this time?
I wonder what our twinspeak would be like? You know, that language twins tend to create, to communicate with one another?
What word did we use for "bread"? "Milk"? If my twin finds me, or I find him, and he speaks to me in our language, will I remember the words when I hear them again? Will he ask for money?
Really, will my twin ask for money?
Out there.
A twin. Another me.
How am I supposed to blog under such conditions? With a twin of me, perhaps, somewhere searching for me? Or, am I searching for him? Have I been searching all this time?
I wonder what our twinspeak would be like? You know, that language twins tend to create, to communicate with one another?
What word did we use for "bread"? "Milk"? If my twin finds me, or I find him, and he speaks to me in our language, will I remember the words when I hear them again? Will he ask for money?
Really, will my twin ask for money?
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Thumbs
I would like to blog today, but I awoke and found I had no thumbs. Instead of blogging, I think what I should do is go out and look for my thumbs. They could be anywhere. They could be on a plane to Mexico. They've always wanted to see Oaxaca, because they are fond of howler monkeys.
I, too, am fond of howler monkeys, but can't just take a few days off to go to Oaxaca to see howler monkeys, to live among the howler monkeys, to pick bugs from the fur of howler monkeys—not like my thumbs. I have responsibilities. I have a job. I need to be at work, and I can't go carefree to some Mexican province to camp out with howler monkeys like I don't have a thing to worry about.
I will most likely get a call from my thumbs. They'll need money to get back.
My thumbs—such romantics. They like that song Pink Bullets, when the singer from The Shins sings: "Over the ramparts you tossed/The scent of your skin and some foreign flowers/Tied to a brick/Sweet as a song/The years have been short, but the days were long." And sometimes, my thumbs tie flowers to bricks, and toss them over fences. And then, they hitchhike back home.
Until I find my thumbs, and have a chance to blog, perhaps you could go here:
this is the link to follow.
where you will read an interview with Todd Hasak-Lowy, a writer who disputes he has written a depressing book.
I, too, am fond of howler monkeys, but can't just take a few days off to go to Oaxaca to see howler monkeys, to live among the howler monkeys, to pick bugs from the fur of howler monkeys—not like my thumbs. I have responsibilities. I have a job. I need to be at work, and I can't go carefree to some Mexican province to camp out with howler monkeys like I don't have a thing to worry about.
I will most likely get a call from my thumbs. They'll need money to get back.
My thumbs—such romantics. They like that song Pink Bullets, when the singer from The Shins sings: "Over the ramparts you tossed/The scent of your skin and some foreign flowers/Tied to a brick/Sweet as a song/The years have been short, but the days were long." And sometimes, my thumbs tie flowers to bricks, and toss them over fences. And then, they hitchhike back home.
Until I find my thumbs, and have a chance to blog, perhaps you could go here:
this is the link to follow.
where you will read an interview with Todd Hasak-Lowy, a writer who disputes he has written a depressing book.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Dow_sizi_g
Today, I was r_ally _xcit_d about t__ prosp_ct of bloggi_g. I _ad a lot to say—about Sa_dra Day O’Co__or, about t__ book I’m r_adi_g (A_tipod_s by Ig_acio Padilla), about that m_mo _v_ryo__’s talki_g about mayb_. But, __r_ I am at my comput_r, and it tur_s out t__y have dow_siz_d t__ alp_ab_t. 5% gon_. A_d t_is is w_at I g_t. Look at t_is. 3 importa_t l_tt_rs, _o mor_.
My blog is i_compr____sibl_.
God, t_is is_’t bloggi_g.
__r_ ar_ t__ l_tt_rs t_at ar_ missi_g:
S__?
A_d, I r_ally wa_t_d to blog for you. I apologiz_.
My blog is i_compr____sibl_.
God, t_is is_’t bloggi_g.
__r_ ar_ t__ l_tt_rs t_at ar_ missi_g:
S__?
A_d, I r_ally wa_t_d to blog for you. I apologiz_.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
The Rapture and Why I'm Not Able to Blog Today
I woke up today, ready to blog. I really did. But, then.
I was brushing my teeth when the Rapture happened. I was pulled into the sky by the force of my faith. Who knew? I told God I was an atheist, and therefore not eligible for the Rapture, but he insisted. I had, he told me, allowed myself to be saved in my sleep. I had been born again in a dream.
That dream did slowly come back to me as I sat at God's knee. In patches. In impressions. I rarely remember dreams.
God told me that that was enough. It counted, my dreamtime sanctification.
This—my new residence in Heaven—is why I cannot blog today. There is no blogging in Heaven.
I was brushing my teeth when the Rapture happened. I was pulled into the sky by the force of my faith. Who knew? I told God I was an atheist, and therefore not eligible for the Rapture, but he insisted. I had, he told me, allowed myself to be saved in my sleep. I had been born again in a dream.
That dream did slowly come back to me as I sat at God's knee. In patches. In impressions. I rarely remember dreams.
God told me that that was enough. It counted, my dreamtime sanctification.
This—my new residence in Heaven—is why I cannot blog today. There is no blogging in Heaven.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Angry
Today, again, I just can't blog. And I think I know why.
Today, I am just way to angry to blog.
I'm angry about nothing in particular. Someone got in my way when I was riding my bike to work. There was a garbage truck in the alley. I'm not having coffee today.
All this and nothing. I'm angry.
I'm angry and I just can't blog.
Today, I am just way to angry to blog.
I'm angry about nothing in particular. Someone got in my way when I was riding my bike to work. There was a garbage truck in the alley. I'm not having coffee today.
All this and nothing. I'm angry.
I'm angry and I just can't blog.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Blogging is so beyond me
I want to link. I want to give my readers links. I want to link to the Boycott War of the Worlds petition because Tom Cruise is so odious and Scientology is so odious and we just shouldn't support them.
I just want to link.
I want to add a link to the Powell's website--because they are NOT Amazon--and I want that link to point to The Moviegoer because it's such a wonderful book, and Binx Bolling is such a wonderful character, and I want a whole new blog where I write as if I was Binx Bolling blogging, but I can't.
I just can't.
I'm having enough trouble with this one.
I just want to link.
I want to add a link to the Powell's website--because they are NOT Amazon--and I want that link to point to The Moviegoer because it's such a wonderful book, and Binx Bolling is such a wonderful character, and I want a whole new blog where I write as if I was Binx Bolling blogging, but I can't.
I just can't.
I'm having enough trouble with this one.
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