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Thursday, August 30, 2007

I personally believe that US Americans are unable to do so because Osama.



People Magazine gets cute with our favorite beauty queen: What is the driest place on Earth?

www.mapsforus.org, because “The children of America need maps”.

Miss Teen South Carolina Tube Map

Also:



In BoingBoing's comment section, reader Tim Howland shared this revelation:



“I think that everyone has missed something important here; she's actually been pioneering a new art form- a combination of Hindi Ghazal poetry and blank verse. Look at the transcription:”

I personally believe that us americans
are unable to do so because osama.

People out there
in our nation
don't have that,

And I believe that our education
like such as south africa and
such as the Iraq.

everywhere "such as".

And I believe our education
should help the US
should help the south africa
and the iraq
and the asian countries
so we can build up
our future.

“The themes are clear; she's worried about the way we are reacting to the war on terror, the way Osama Bin Laden still is free, and the way that we are being "educated". The irony is simply dripping from the last stanza. She was able to deliver this call to revolution absolutely deadpan, cunningly pulling the wool over America's eyes- and people here have the temerity to mock her intellectual accomplishments? She is the latter-day heir to Rosa Luxemborg- only, without the boathook.”

Sunday, August 19, 2007

"Usually when things has gone this far...

...people start to disappear."

Click Button to Play: Young Folks--Peter, Bjorn, and John

Wednesday, August 08, 2007

One Way Conversation (cont'd)

You're part of this dire plot

Please don't tell me that you're not


He could've let it go. But he was a reporter. He was scrupulous about the truth about people -- their dealings and the goings-on between them... especially the goings-on between himself and others. What did it matter? But he couldn't leave it alone. The truth was more important than the consequences of knowing, always.

His perch on the balcony was precarious. What if I were to fling myself from here? he thought. The imp of the perverse taunted him, beckoning from the ground below. He looked down at Grant Park. Chicago made him feel strangely large. It was smaller than New York, but more expansive. It seemed as though he could wander around Chicago and see all there was to see within a weekend. Every time he returned, he felt more confident. Very unlike New York, a city he would never feel confident in or familiar with. Too vast, too crowded, too busy. A city in the midst of exponential-seeming change, New York was a labyrinth that never stopped. But here -- Chicago was finite. He took in the city from his balcony, breathing the carbon monoxide out of his mouth and nose as his eyes watered slightly.

He turned toward the room to glare at her in bed and dozing. He could leave at any time now, he had to fight the urge to do it. But he had to know everything. So he sat on the edge of the bed. He couldn't bring himself to touch her.

She knew him well. That was her power, the knowing. She drew her legs up and folded her arms above them. Her short black hair was stringy this morning. She brushed it past her forehead with one hand, narrowing her blue eyes. "Who are they," she stated.

"Who are they." he replied.

"Why don't you guess? You want to guess." She smiled, not a little cruelly, but also with weariness. She was indulging him, a jealous, masochistic side of him that she did not admire. "You know more about what I do than I do myself, don't you? I'm sure you have a likely theory."

"I don't think I know you well, not at all. But yeah, I do have some likely lads. One is the director of the film your husband is financing. The other is the cinematographer."

She exhaled. The pale skin of her face reddened slightly beneath the delicate freckles, and was silent. She scratched her knee, bloodying a loose scab.

He looked down and waited before saying, "I guess I think I'm pretty smart." He almost felt bad for her, but it wasn't hard to ignore the impulse.

She looked at him and nodded. "I guess you must," she replied, in time with the rhythm. Her eyes were suddenly quite red, and tears ran streaming from them, over the clumped mascara.

He smiled tolerantly at her. It was an act, of course. She was being a child because she'd been caught. What amused him was the stinging in his own eyes, how they tingled as if in empathy with her more generous ducts. He smiled even more. It was a feeling that brought him back to childhood... a warm but vague sense-memory simply of being a child.

"Okay," she said, and the waterworks came to a close.

He had to chuckle out loud at the brevity of her ruse. "And..." he said.

"What?"

"Your husband. He's upset. But I wonder why, exactly. He knows that you're seeing both of these gentleman... in addition to me. So is it because 3 is simply too many, or...?"

"No, that's not it," She laughed with just a little bitterness. "It's just business."

He sat still for a moment, uncomfortably so. His scalp tingled a bit the way his eyes had previously. "How so?" he asked.

"Well if they found out about you -- or each other -- they might feel a little..."

"Embarrassed?" he suggested.

"Humiliated?" she suggested.

"Ashamed," he answered.

"Bored," she said, pointing to herself, smiling, and getting up.

"And this is why Nathan is upset," he mused, somewhat incredulously and somewhat under his breath.

"He has to protect his investment," she said as she walked to the bathroom and turned on the faucet.

It was six in the morning and he'd only had three hours of sleep. He took his overcoat from the closet and caught a flight to New York.

What the Queers are Doing to the Soil

Click Button to Play: Stuart--The Dead Milkmen

One Way Conversation

At a certain point

he only wanted

to make himself

hard to forget.


That morning he found himself alone but for the married woman he'd almost loved, who was sitting on the floor next to the bed and half-dressed. He looked her over, ran his fingers up her robe until she woke. He'd had to wake her.

A line from an old movie kept playing in his head. "I won't play the sap for you," he said. It was a the line of a passionate, determined, noble man. She looked up at him without even attempting to understand the words. Then she stood for a brief moment before getting into bed.

"I won't play the sap for you," he repeated.

"Uh-huh," she replied.

"I know you're seeing someone else."

"My husband," she said, tapping her cigarette over the bedsheets.

"No, someone else. It's obvious."

Hours earlier she'd told him she couldn't see him anymore. When asked why, she'd said because of her husband. She said he was upset. But that didn't make sense. She'd always said her husband knew about their affair. He'd encouraged her to have one, because he simply wasn't interested in sex anymore. One day he'd just said that this part of his life was over. And so he encouraged it, even paid for weekend getaways for just the two of them. So why the sudden change?

"My husband." she repeated.

"Your husband likes me."

"He does, he thinks you're a great guy."

"I am a great guy. But your husband isn't upset about that. He's upset because you're seeing more than one of us 'great guys'. And that's probably against the rules of the game, or whatever bullshit rules you two play by."

"You sure did like the rules last night. I've never heard you complain about the rules before."

"Well that's when the rules were on my side. Not the side of this new scumbag you're meeting up with."

"Would it make you feel better to know that its not new then? And that in fact there's actually two other guys? And that the only reason Nathan is upset now is because he recently found out about it?"

"Surprisingly no, that actually makes me feel worse. Not because I'm in love with you, but because your treachery and unaccountable nature immeasurably lowers my faith in all woman-kind."

"But also you're in love with me."

"Well sure," he said. But really, the real meaning of the words escaped him. He was just playing along to the particular rhythm they shared, comfortable in the small allowances they each made to sustain it. It was worth speaking in half-truths to keep the undercurrent of dark humor alive. But that brought them to a natural pause in the conversation. He was grateful for the break. The liquor and the smoke had gone on long into the night and crept through to morning. His legs tingled, folded beneath him.

He'd found himself so far behind that it was impossible to catch up -- saw his memories piled on top of another in a heap, like a bad accident, all at once. Tried to sift through what he hesitated to call wreckage. But if he could pick it up now, it'd be alright. Just let it shift into gear, nice and gentle...

Read the rest of "One Way Conversation"...

Tuesday, August 07, 2007

Big Kid Face

Click Button to Play: Big Kid Face--Jules Shear

He has a big kid face
His face is growing up last

Sunday, August 05, 2007

How to Stop Time

Nuclear Power Tower I go over the plan once again:

I work in a factory that manufactures components to repair the factory. The system repeats itself and it doesn't stop. But I am subversive -- the plan involves cosmic justice.

When I plug into the mainframe in the cleanroom I can hear music. The music is whistling through me and I am screaming piercingly in tune with it. A bird flies through a window and out another, just as the sonic boom that marks the start of lunch hour shatters the rest of the glass. The robots eat their lunch at rows of tables covered in moss and fungus and crawling with lizards.

In the dark of the factory is where I am creeping, with my hooded aspirations.

I wash my hands in the nuclear cooling tower and dry them with the pneumatic filter, which removes particles as small as 50 nanometers in size. They ask me to stop -- they'd like me to stop. There is a sign on the nuclear cooling tower that reads, "Employees Must Remove Contaminants from the Compressed Air Stream Before Returning to Work".

Management has reserved the right to request that I stop. They have reserved that right in writing. But I will not stop. The machinery I am working -- well, it spans the whole length of the factory.

The robots have automated the process by which they avoid me. But the plan encompasses this as well. Their new routes trace patterns that alter the rhythm of production. Now the factory parts are slightly longer, more translucent, covered in caterpillars. A sheet of glass is now a sheet of rainwater, while a metal bolt is now made of pink light. They continue to use the parts to maintain the factory. The new parts replace the old parts differently than intended.

So, when I arrive at the factory I am greeted by an x-ray-beaming monster made of hydraulic pistons and covered in fern-skin. I flash my security pass. When my security pass is read, entire floors of the factory light up with red birds.


We are working to manufacture

the parts of the factory

that manufacture

the parts of the factory.


When I arrive at the factory the robots dream static lines of lightning that draw slowly down from the sky and stay.

When I arrive there, the hologram-powered think-tank fuels the ghost of an idea. We have a meeting to discern the nature of the idea. They would like to cancel the meeting. But I have already held the meeting -- it is in the past.

They'd like to keep the meeting from happening, but the meeting continues to have happened in the past...

I'd go over the plan
with them again, but
there is a standing order
for the plan to stop.


Well, I don't stop

until I get what I want,

and what I want

is not to stop.

Wednesday, August 01, 2007

Defeating the Tyrant Gently

Harrison Cutter gets down. The bed is soft, like a padded heart. The woman in it is breathing silently. Her body is bruised up from all the fucking. He doesn’t know how much from him and how much from her husband.

The sun is coming up and he sneaks out onto the balcony that overlooks Grant Park. Something greets him, a warm breeze that smells of exhaust. This is when she wakes up. She is always confused when she wakes, like she's survived a long journey, just barely. She is just barely alive now, barely there at all. But she finds a cigarette on the bedstand.

As she smokes, he tells her, "You can't ever know anything about it."