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I hear you, believe me, I hear you, my fan(s). "John, whatever happened to the February entries?" And I say, "I'm not sure. I tried to upload them on the 2nd, but it wouldn't stick. I lost a whole two nights trying to upload it. (I like uploading all-at-once because I want to be forced to type my password, *********, as seldom as possible.) So it's over at my other website, waiting for you, my fan(s)." It seems there's a redesign going on. Something about reading months as they are 'in progress.' I wish I'd been warned about this beforehand!
"Hey no baby baby I wasnt neglecting you baby it wasnt my fault I dont know what happened I tried I really tried I had it all ready for you baby it was full and fat and ready for you but I just couldnt up
it you know what Im saying I just couldnt up
it it wasnt something wrong with my machine there was something wrong in I dont know the air please forgive me baby baby please I promise not to miss another month Ill do whatever I can to
you Ill make you so happy babe."
With a woman I'd never seen before I got onto an elevator. She pressed 17 and I pressed 19.
At maybe about the 5th floor she blew up. "What the fuck is wrong with you?! Why aren't you looking at me?! You haven't even checked out my tits let alone my crotch! Fuck! Look at me! How can you ignore me like this?! After all we've been through!! I got onto an elevator with you!! You bastard!! Look at how fuckable I am!! Okay, buster, this is where I get
We'd reached the 17th floor, so she got off.
The President of the United States took in the Oval Office a phone call.
"The Canadians, they want, what, clemency or something? For who, this guy who killed two Americans? They want to trump our sovereignty in this way? Tell them what, tell them, 'Yeah, we'll let this murderer escape justice, okey dokey, but know that never again will we let any of you fuckers across our border because mayhaps you assholes will kill our citizens then say they're Canadians an' they're free from justice!' Tell those assholes that!
Hey! swaggered in did I to the tavern & sat down, SOlid, near a pool table.
A couple sucka boys started playing. I saw my opportunity there.
"Say," I cried, "Play for the table?"
The pussies shrugged. I shoved two loons into the shots and chucked another toonee onto the what the bumper to show I meant business.
Slam! Slam! Slam! Lost.
Time to raise the fucken stakes. I slapped down a fin near one of the holes.
Bang! Bang! Lost.
Had 'em where I wanted 'em. Heh.
BAM! Sawbuck. Lost.
And BAM! A C-note. Lost.
...Your host, Dianne Phinster.
Good evening. Tonight, we have a special edition.
In June 2008 a young man with an obsession killed both his parents. And his sisters. And their dog.
Everyone called it a tragedy; and moved on.
Few noted exactly what his obsession was. It seemed inconsequential at the time.
Pinochle. He needed to win; and his family paid the price.
It's more than a word ten-year-old boys giggle at. It's a multimillion dollar industry.
Tonight, we'll take you behind the pinochle environment. We'll look at the players-and the sponsors-of the game one participant called, "THE KILLER GAME."
A married woman receives a summons from the police. It must be a mistake. But no, there's no mistake, the summons is for her. She goes with her husband to the police station as summoned. They won't tell her what her crime is; they lock her up. Her husband says he'll work something out, he'll investigate. Her case goes to a preliminary hearing, then to a full trial. She is sentenced to death. Her husband is trying to help her; she's very afraid. Finally comes the day of execution. There's nothing anyone can do, and she is electrocuted.
I had a bit of time today before going in to work, so I decided to take a little nap, just an hour. I went "thp-thp!" to make the cat come and snuggle up to me. She cuddled up against my chest with her paws gnarling and clenching between my cheek and the pillow. I didn't really fall asleep, but I was close to it, enough to daydream, and that's better than sleep. Then my Ipod clock radio went off: Reunited, by Peaches and Herb. The cat looked at me, sighed, and said, "You're lucky to have me, you know."
"Jackson, I believe I have discovered a way to save $200 a day."
"Very good, mum."
"I am ashamed to say I never perceived it before."
"If I refrain from visiting the jeweller's, why, there's $3,000 a month, or $100 a day!"
"Very good, mum."
"The weekly orders of caviare could be cut down to twelve ounces a week, I suppose. There must be savings there."
"Economy, Jackson, economy! Why don't
try to save $200 a day?"
"I don't earn that much, mum."
"Oh yes I forgot hahaha!"
"I could do better."
A couple of the newspaper old-timers were out in shipping and receiving smoking.
One of them cuckled sadly and said, "Where went the old days, huh?"
Someone: "Whatcha mean?"
"You know, the days when you needed Balls for this shit. Gruntwork, you know?"
"I hear you. Now everything's all computerized-"
"On the fuckin' Internet!"
"-an' there's no place for the workin' man no more."
Tossing off a butt and lighting another: "Fuckin' kids."
Night Shift Guy showed up. Said, "Bitch!"
"Bowled for the first time in twenty years tonight."
"Scoring's all electronic!"
"No chance to cheat?"
LIMITS TO INTERPRETATION
Interviewer: So, do you think you did good?
-We made pretty songs. That's all we were trying to do.
-All of our songs were about Peace and Love. Nothing wrong with that.
Interviewer: Every single song was about Peace and Love?
-Every single one.
-We junked the hateful ones.
Interviewer: The Manson Family cited many of your songs as inspirational.
Interviewer: Helter Skelter, Piggies, Sexy Sadie.
-We didn't intend that.
-We were being poetic.
-We were reaching out.
Interviewer: If you had known back then what you know now would you have recorded those songs?
hey kids it's quiz time. time for you to guess what i am doing at the moment you read this. pretty easy contest.
place your vote. yawn. what am i doing.
talking with fear
drinking more than you can imagine
watching a movie
thinking about someone
standing in some line
watching a movie
listening to some lp
playing Fallout 3
at a restaurant with Mary
send your guesses. if you win you get to write an entry, and relieve me the horrors of this grind, day in, day out...
The moon bounced off the killing floor
At full midnight, and the boys looked
Up and saw it there high in the sky
Older than any of them and pretty and
Majestic; and Bob said to me, me alone:
"How many people have been up there? Six,
Seven, eight? And that was a long time ago."
The rubber clothes we were wearing
Didn't chafe. Our skins were happy.
That bitch of a moon didn't care, didn't love
Us. Didn't and didn't.
There was another cow to be killed and we killed it.
Moon looked and saw.
Moon was indifferent.
O'Malley came in.
"Yeah?" I muttered.
"Off the cliff."
"Cow went off the cliff?"
"The cow off the cliff: she have any enemies?"
"Don't we all?"
"Sorry. Some enemies."
"All but one."
"No alibi. Bring her in."
O'Malley brought her in.
"I'm asking the questions here."
"Why'd you do it?"
"Be smart and cop a deal, cow."
"Don't make me get rough."
"He gets rough."
"Prison's tough on cows."
"Lock this cow up."
Holmes came into the room from the lavatory.
I asked, "What have you discovered?"
"Moriarty did this." He swung his ash stick widely.
"How do do know?"
"Because, Watson, I have utilised stool analysis."
"You've never done that before."
"No, this is the premiere occasion. The asparagus speaks. Moriarty is currently in France, as we know, where asparagus is already in season. I even know the province."
"Also, I can tell by the glandular secretions that he's in love with me. As I suspected."
"That may have been me. I urinated in there."
"Ah! Never mind."
"Jimmy, hi, it's me, I'm down at the pier.... Following up a lead, now listen, I've made a pretty grisly discovery, it's pretty awful.... Yeah, in a container.... Export, to Zimbabwe.... Well, it's, it's a couple of crates and each one had in it, there are boxes kind of like those long boxes they send flowers in.... Flesh, butchered human flesh, all packed up into separate parts.... A box of arms, for example.... Yeah, awful, what looks like, I don't know, three hundred livers all mashed together.... Seems what I learned in the poststructuralist nightclass was only half right...."
When I was just a boy, six I think, I started looking and looking. But I couldn't find him.
When I was thirty-five I was still looking; by then I'd gotten married and I had two kids.
My kids moved away some time later; I was starting to feel permanent aches; I was still looking.
In dotage I still looked.
Then I died and went to Heaven and I found him. He was sitting on his throne. I said, "I've been looking for you. Why couldn't I find you?" And he said, "What, d'ye think this place runs itself?"
Enid completes her book on Byron. It took her twenty years to finish. The thing you're in the middle of will take about 24 more years to complete.
But when it's done:
The Complete Works of ..., 8,000 pp.
The Selected Works of ..., 350 pp.
The Concise Works of ..., 200 pp.
The Essential Works of ..., 12 pp.
Then, in five years, I'll release
The New Complete Works of ..., 8,000 pp.
The New Selected Works of ..., 300 pp.
The New Concise Works of ..., 150 pp.
The New Essential Works of ..., 7 pp.
FADS AND CATCHPHRASES THAT NEVER "TOOK OFF"
ice cube eating contests
"How's my little zückerpflaume this morning?"
"I do believe you're soused."
'retro' arithmetical calculating
inverted mirror writing
self-serve Bessemer converters
"Call it what you want, it's
"I ain't got the right tools!"
competitive monkey-swinging rodeos
"Thrice the value, third the cost!"
"Where'd my xylophone get to, dammit?"
up in the air!"
acting French for six days
"Invent it and I promise to lick it."
"Well, beat me black and blue!"
-Someone's at the door.
-How ya been?
-You were here just three days ago!
-Thanks! I don't have to stay the night.
-Please, go away.
-I'm hungry! Got any eggs?
-Ah! Here they are! How many for you?
-Two it is!
-I want you to go.
-Thanks! The usual bedroom for me, then?
-It's ten at night.
-Eggs lookin' good.
-You have to turn on the element.
-What a mess!
-These are raw eggs!
-Slurp, burp, slurp, burp.
-You're ruining my life.
-Faaaaart! No, really, how ya been, bro?
On Wednesday afternoon Wendy ran into her friend Sandy.
"Sandy, hi! Where you headed?"
"Ain't I told you? I got a new boyfriend, and I'm meetin' him there."
"Well, ain't that a coincidink! That's just where I'm going, an' for the same reason!"
"He made love to me for the first time on Sat."
"My man did me good, also for the first time, on Sun!"
They came to the park and there they saw their boyfriends talking to one another.
"Aw, fuck!" cried Wendy.
"Ditto! It's not the same guy!"
A LONG PARAGRAPH THEN A SHORT ONE
Started about three weeks ago. Through a passageway made narrow by construction alongside, a breeze I felt as a man passed. A close call. Then three days later I was actually struck shoulder-against-shoulder by a woman on a cell. I almost fell! Next day someone seemed not to see me at all; he plowed right through, entirely obliviously. The same thing happened again next day, then it happened
on the day after that. I stayed home for a day, but it's happened nine more times since then.
I think I'm becoming transparent.
I went to my writers' group tonight. Janiss read this totally stupid 'fragment' about a dumb girl with a dog named Max, and the badly-explicated day Max ("a
dog") was shot in the eye with a BB gun by a boy from the neighborhood. Then abruptly we jump a quarter century and this dead dog girl meets the shootist at some 'poetry reading.' He sez he's sorry. Then it gets all blurry as they fuck. It was so
"Brilliant!" I cried.
"Fantastic ... You're really pro
ing ... So moving!" others cried.
Janiss started crying. "It's based on fa-a-a-act!"
Oy boys. We're all at sixes and nines, but they out there need a record.
Look, let's just stick a bunch of lame unfinished crap on side two.
How about we start side two with a good song, though? "Here Comes the Sun?"
I don't fuckin' give a fuck.
Capitol would press our farts given the opportunity.
Take all that junk, George, do your whizmagiz, suture it. All that shit leftover from white.
Looks like it's the end of the road.
I guess so. I hate John.
I hate Paul.
I hate John too.
I hate you all.
Q: What's a 'slut'?
A: A slut is someone who pretends interest for gain.
Q: What's 'Special Politics'?
A: 'Special Politics' is to 'Politics' as 'Special Olympics' is to 'Olympics.' The USA is going through a period of 'Special Politics.'
Q: Can we stop the USA from sliding into Fascism?
A: The Constitution of the USA was written very cannily; your A would like to say 'yes,' but the Fascists could subvert it. A really doesn't know. Seems that Australia and Canada might be the only places for lovers of liberty to emigrate to.
A: You're welcome. LTPB!
I've received a shocking email. The folks who run the Bala cottage we've gone to for the last three or four or five years are willing to let us stay there again, even after the fiasco of the blooded sheets and the Three Sirens (see way above). I thought we were banished for sure. We'll be going there in early July.
But then again, why weren't we booked earlier than this? I suppose they found themselves with too much available time, so they decided to let in the B-List. Well, I'm not complaining. Lake! Canoe! Water! Alcohol! Origami! Books! Sex!
He dreamed he won the lottery: Two hundred bazillion dollars. // He collected the money and put it in his mattress, all except for half a bazillion. He took that money and he bought a mansion for the mattress. He bought the most expensive car he could find and also one of those enormous dump trucks they use in tar sands. He installed a swimming pool big as a lake. He built a fire in a fireplace you could stand up in, and rested. // And that's when I broke into his dream, killed him, and stole all his stuff.
I don't know how it happened, but someone seems to be plagiarizing me! Well, that's not quite true: rather, this person has been impersonating me. I wasn't available to write any entries for October and November last because I was serving a small prison sentence. Today, I idly discovered that there were entries for both months! Can you believe it? THE BURNING MIRROR, that's definitely not mine. I mean, could I do something so cornball? So I'm sorry if you spent time reading them. Who could have written them? Ah well, too bad, they're not going into the Collected Works!
Whaddayacall a guy who hangs on a wall?
Whaddayacall a girl who's prickly?
Whaddayacall a guy that's floatin' in a lake?
Whaddayacall a girl who's always totin' things?
Whaddayacall the guy who shows up unwanted at the end of a night on the town?
Whaddayacall that girl in denim?
Whaddayacall that mossy-lookin' guy?
Whaddayacall that fake girl who looks like she's got a lot of butter in 'er?
Whaddayacall someone who's an infinite cone?
Whaddayacall a girl who wants to hitch?
Whaddayacall a sleaze who has to pay for sex?
We went to see my mother today. I was taciturn; that's to say, I didn't believe anything I had to say would be understood. We walked up Wilson Road. I said little. "Let's get a bottle of wine," I said; and so we got a bottle of wine.
"Can you use this sweater?" my mother said. "It was Dad's, but he didn't wear it much." I instinctively buried my nose into it to see if I could smell him.
She gave me a cheque for $10,000. Now I'm on a flight to Uruguay, to finally strike out on my own.
There's something I've noticed recently... about the way I imagine things.... I've noticed that when I intentionally go into imagination... that place where I most readily weave stories... the way my head feels changes.... I remember seeing something on tv... about what happens to nuns when they pray and Buddhists when they meditate... and apparently their brains change... their brain EEG patterns change.... I wonder if these two sensations are related.... It definitely feels like going
some other place...
a place that's not quite
More lightheaded... more abstracted... more dreamy.... Yes, it's all a dream.... Folks, it's all dreams....
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