Thursday, March 30, 2006


I have a brand new project that will keep me away from blogging. I've decided to meet every dog in the city of Seattle.

There's this dog named Owen who I've met. I see him, sometimes, being taken for a walk. I don't know his humans, but I know Owen.

Every time I see Owen being taken for a walk by his humans, I want to shout, "Hey, Owen!" I want to shout that as I ride by on my bike.

"Hey, Owen!" I want to do this because I think maybe he'd wave. Or, acknowledge me in some way. I want to shout.

But, I don't. I think it would confuse his humans.

Anyway, so I'm going to meet every dog in town. I go out to the lake. I walk around the lake, and I wait for a dog to walk towards me. A dog and its humans. I walk by them, and I get really near. They are talking to each other, or, if they are alone, they are talking on a cell phone. But they are never talking to the dog.

I walk very close to the dog and I stick out my hand. I get very close. But, I don't touch the dog, or bump the humans. I just put my hand right next to the dog's nose. And the dog always does the same thing. The dog strains its neck to meet my hand. It sniffs my hand.

It meets me.

And then it is pulled back to heel, and off the dog and the humans go. Around the lake. One more time around the lake.

I turn around sometimes, and walk the opposite way so I can get the dogs going the other direction.

In this way I am trying to meet every dog in town.

It's a long project. So, I can't blog.

Thursday, March 23, 2006


I do not like to travel, and so instead I eat maps. That is what I do to take the place of leaving my house and going someplace far off with different kinds of buildings and clothes and cultural ideas. I eat maps that show the places far away that I might want to go to if it wasn't for the fact that I just don't want to.

I like to eat my maps dry, and without melted cheeses. I like to eat my maps with a small hunk of bread, a think, crusty bread. I like to eat my maps with a tall glass of some kind of really strong Belgian beer, like one of those triple fermented ones that has a 10% alcohol by volume rating. I like to eat my maps with a simple fork and a very sharp knife—one that is like a razor.

I like to, when I eat my maps, use the razor to cut along whatever lines happen to already exist on the map. I eat country by country on large maps that depict the world from a great height. I eat state by state if I am eating a map of a single country and that country breaks itself up into states. This also would work with principalities or regions or whatever. I eat county by county. I could eat a city map block by block, or whatever.

When I eat a topographic map, I like to eat just the tops of the mountains or hills first. The valleys seem a little more tender, I guess. They aren't, but seem that way.

When I eat a map, I always make sure to cut away the rivers and lakes and leave them on the side. It's like deveining a shrimp.

People ask me where I've been and I say, I've been lots of places, and you can rub my belly to see.

No travelling, no blogging. Just map-eating.

Wednesday, March 15, 2006


A lot of stories begin with someone waking up. A lot of times, a person will tell you a story, and they will begin when they woke up: "This morning I got up, and..."

And blogging is, sometimes, just story-telling.

There are all these stories, all these novels and short stories and movies, that begin at the moment when someone wakes up. And I guess that's because that's the point at which things begin to happen. Mostly, when things happen, they happen after you have woken up. You wake up and, bang, stuff begins to happen and you remember the stuff, and you think about the stuff, and you ruminate deeply on the stuff for a while, and then you decide to gather all the stuff up, and when it's gathered, you figure out a really good way of ordering all the stuff.

Oh, and a lot of people choose to order their stuff in the order that it happened. That's a popular way to order your stuff, when that stuff is stuff that happened and you want to order it. If the stuff is, instead, the physical stuff that accumulates around you as you live, then you might look into ordering that stuff alphabetically, or smallest to largest. You could probably order the stuff that happens to you alphabetically, but that might not be as efficient a way to order it.

Anyway. Sorry. I got sidetracked.

So, there are the stories. And the stories mostly happen after you wake up.

I'm asleep. I want to tell a story on this blog, but I really can't because if I don't wake up, the story can't begin. I'm a story, if you think about it. And I'm not yet being told.

I'm in this place. I'm stuck in this spot way before the narrative.

Okay, maybe not way before the narrative, but really, since I'm not yet awake, it doesn't really matter. I could wake up in a second, or in an hour. No difference, really.

I'm living pre-narrative.

You may wonder what it is to be pre-narrative. You may ask me: "Hey, what are the qualities of a story like yourself, when you are pre-narrative?"

And if I don't answer right away, you may press with a pointed: "Huh?" You know how people do that sometimes? They give you a pointed, "Huh?"

Yeah, well.

I do not know what it is to be a pre-narrative story. I cannot tell you the qualities of a story, like myself, pre-narrative. Not really. All I can say is that I know I am a bubble.

I know I am round, and I know I am under the water.

I am pre-narrative, and that means that I am a bubble of air, stuck to the lip of a blind cave fish, in a tank, in a dark room, in a zoo's nocturnal house.

That's me.

That's why I can't blog.

Monday, March 13, 2006


Oh, yes, and if I were anyone else's moustache, to hell with me.

It's all well and good and true and close and wise and great to be a moustache. It feels good to be a moustache. It feels right and welcoming to be a moustache. Every hair of me loves to brush the very tip of the top lip, to stroke and rub it as the mouth moves, to skim the line where the skin goes from peach to red. Love it.

This moustache fights the Civil War, though it is only a fake Civil War. This moustache tickles a lip that wants nothing more than to fire a phony musket, and ride a horse. This moustache is right and proud to be involved in the freeing of the slaves, even if the slaves are no longer being held, and this is only a pantomime.

That's right, this moustache (me) is in the Show Business. I have a trailer that is all my own, right next to the trailer wherein the man who wears me when we are on screen stays. This moustache has a personal trainer, who keeps me full and dark. This moustache has a mini-fridge filled with bottled water.

This moustache is worn by Matthew Broderick, who is really a consumate professional.

Have you met his wife? She's a dear.

They have parties. This moustache is often invited.

James Caan gave this moustache a tip on where to find some real Cuban cigars.

This moustache looks good in a thick blue uniform, and hangs with distinction, don't you think?

No time to blog. They are about to start filming.


I interviewed a poet named Brian Beatty and put the interview up on the internet.


Crushed by defeat. May never blog again.

Actually, no. Probably will. Congratulations, Need Coffee!