Sexy Lies

I'm only 18.

This is my first time.

I'm employed.

I've got a big fat car.

You remind me of my uncle.

I'm versatile.

It doesn't hurt.

You're soooo hot.

I'm on the pill.

I swing both ways.

I'm a woman.

I'm married.

I'm single.

I want a divorce.



So. What about you?

Questions for New York

A city full of a million tiny deaths

little dead bird cuddling an empty tuna can behind a fire hydrant
a hundred poisoned roaches silently expiring inside the walls
Teenage mouse, quivering in the glue, brutalized in a Pepridge farm bread bag

there was a continent, once, that Columbus missed
undiscovered, quietly, it ceased to exist
and these days, I think we can say with some clarity, it never existed at all.

Girl in heels with curly hair
face like a painted sphinx, hailing a cab
What will you wear to your funeral?

Homeless guy
Wrapped in trashbags on the Bronx-bound 6
Got a dollar?

Two short stories, preferably for children, but potentially also for mildly sentient vegetables:

1. It was a bright, clear, sunny Alaskan night. The birds were swimming in the frozen rivers and the dogs were chirping from the trees. But I, oh, I was eating dirt. Don't look at me like that; it was cold, and the only way I could keep warm was to fill myself with soil. I had hoped to grow a vegetable garden in my chest cavity, but nothing would take root because I didn't have good enough taste in music. All the seeds traveled to the cooler pots on the roofs of crafty old apartments. All I got was a sad little milkweed in cargo shorts and an ugly dandelion chick who kept confessing her love for the soft supple nature of my silt. Its a good thing I've forgotten about all of that a long time ago.

2. As she dismounted the Merry-Go-Round, swinging her legs over the horse's white vinyl face and leaping to the wooden planks below, her dress caught the wind and blew up over her knees. She quickly quelled the rebellion of her garments with her pale hammy fist and flashed a sloppy grin at her friends, but it was too late. Everyone had seen it. And from that day on, she was known as "Eletra, Queen of the Damned." She had no recourse but to murder the whole town, change her name, and move to Tunisia, where she quickly was impregnated by the bastard progeny of William S. Burrows (of which there are many). After birth, the children rapidly developed a fuzzy crown of seed pods, from which burst forth a thousand tiny white vegetable embryos, which contemplated seeding a sad little plant in the corner but decided to go to the really happening grape vine down on the Avenue instead.

I wish i had something to say but I don't really have the time to say it.

There really is no point to this; which is part of the reason why there is no point to this. If i made a point to it, there might be a point to it, right?

Is there a point to this?=:

if you said, "yes," you are right. if you said, "that's a blue tit," you are also right. Now, i know what you are thinking. How can a bird have a point? Birds are hardly conical, and though their beak is sharp, it cannot really bear the burden of being the geometrical end point at which all other bird-lines (so to speak) come to union. Neither may you confidently ascribe a "point" to the bird in a metaphoric sense, because it's entirely unclear why they exist, and even if bird-kind has a function in the universe, it seems like chicken fill it far more aptly than the average "blue tit."

The answer, of course, is that "tits" have a point, being of course the nipple, and a "blue tit," by extension, must also have one, regardless to its place on the color spectrum.

This is a good example of having nothing to say but saying it anyways.

This is a good example of a human torso:

okay, you got me. there a lil'bit of arms there too. but that's not the point, is it?

what is the point?

let's write that in all caps.

SALT LIGHTLY TO TASTE

Conversation Tips!

This is what I do when I don't have anything to say.


This is what I do when I do have something to say.

Hello empty void where the soul of the world used to be. Did you miss me? This is what I was doing while I was gone: practicing for the apocalypse
I've been thinking alot about you lately. Trying to come up with a pet name. Sure, "Gaping sore of cultural bankrupcy," or, "the exquisite light show of civilization's self-cannibilization," or, "humanity's progress towards finally achieiving a 24 hour ejaculation," all are quite poetic, but they lack charm. Darkly poetic. Like this:



Scary! So NO. We need something cute, charming, marketable. How about "the Sundance Festival." Sunshine! Dancing! I'm already gleeful. I could just imagine tickling a tiny little dancing sun, giggling with heluim fusion delight as it vomits candycorn. of course, until my tickling fingers instantly melt in the 5,000,000 degree solar corona!

Okay, maybe not. That name is under copy-write. Let's just call it Adam.


Perfect! That just sums it up right there. Apparently, the only way we can find meaning in our life now is to make an incredibly attractive, charmingly effeminate, Claire-Danes-dating-actor dress up in an Astronaut suit to beg some boring girl to forgive him for having aspergers. Okay, our collective sense of guilt gets a good massage (look! handicapped people being represented, and loved by hot chicks! of course, not physically disabled. that would never be picked up by Fox), sonambulists everywhere gave it two frozen arms up, but, there are some problems. THREE PROBLEMZ:

1. For one, nerds are no longer in need of your reparitive affections, straight women. As I'm sure you already know, they get laid with the frequency formerly reserved for NBA players, excpet, you WANT NBA players to shag everything, but nerds are supposed to be bumbling sexual morons, breaking into your windows in the middle of the night to confess his painfully honest feelings. NOT ANYMORE! The dot-com revolution has somewhat dishonestly convinced mainstream america that the 'nerd' is something desirable, or at least something resembling a nerd, in the way in which a python, having ingested a pig, resembles a pig. America has swung its junk onto the skinny boy with big glasses and a remarkably defined adam's apple, and so now former duesh-bros everywhere have put on pressed shirts and glasses and act the nerd, though their shit-eating grin usually gives them away.


THE POINT is, this man is totally bangable, despite whatever costume he breaks and enters my home with.

So that's crime number one. "NERDS" don't need your love, hot bland women of America. Go find a real nerd. To give you a clue, he doesn't want you to find him, unless you are a busty she-elf in bondage, and he smells like the canola oil he fuels his home-made car with.

2. Everyone is fucking sick of painfully awkward people. Even Michael Scott is a competent buisness manager now, and better dressed than my Dad. Zing!

3. NASA can't do anything of value and nobody cares about it. Most of us stopped caring about tiny traces of carbon on Mars when the icecaps started melting and the economy collapsed. And far-away Galaxies ceased to be a source of cosmic wonder with the advent of you-tube. Show me a extrasolar planet, and I'll destroy all your preconceptions about what cats can and can't do on camera.
SIDE POINT: Space is full of empty and cold, much like everything Rupert Murdoch has ever touched.

4. RAINMAN accomplished this far better.

5. No, this film is not Forrest Gump, which benifeted from the fact that the 20th century at least had some blood in it, and no, that does not count as reflexivity, and no, you don't deserve to cry.

Okay, okay, enough of that. Let's get serious.

MOoooOIVIes! Independent moOOOoooOVieS! So much fun, Yea! So quirky and original, yea! Cat party, yea!

The most fun I've had all week

Just add bacon:


http://bacolicio.us/http://i274.photobucket.com/albums/jj257/balser07/male_model.jpg
http://bacolicio.us/http://cache.jalopnik.com/assets/resources/2008/05/Naked-Vagina-Bike.jpg

Things I want to Break

and these:

and these:
Bring him back to life, and then break him again:

New York Times

Breaking News:
This is huge!

When good whales go bad

NARWHALE WAR

Christmas List

Its that time of the year! When the hot chocalate chirps in the kettle, snow falls in the valley, and the cybister amaryllis bloom into a beautiful bouffant of lily pink and butter white. Remember, Amaryllis like to feel snug, so choose a container that's no more than 1 inch wider than the fattest part of the bulb.

But what do I WANT for Christmas? What do I need on this day, this most special day, when we celebrate the birth of our savior, Christina of Saxony, queen of Denmark and Norway?

1.) I want a nice white scarf.
2.) A boobjob.
3.) Toys made out of children's teeth
4.)
5. BRIO

6. A return to my youth.

7. A small horse that can be trained to ride a regular sized horse.

8. A degree in Hydro-rodentia

9.
10. New gloves.

11. An easily transportable mammal trained to peel oranges to carry in my pocket.

12. Facial lesions.

13. The most expensive bagel in the world. http://thelongestlistofthelongeststuffatthelongestdomainnameatlonglast.com/expensive247.html

14. Shmaltzy dance music preformed by and for children recovering from cancer.

15. Global ANARCHY!!!



16. Rose-scented bubble bath.

... etc., anything along those lines.

Happy shopping!

This one goes out to my friend Katy Flinn...

(the first dog in space, Laika)


and will remain floating within her for eternity.

Vacuuming Again!

It is difficult, if not impossible, to write in a vacuum. Not only do the impending cosmic pressures of having all the air sucked out of any porous orifice of your body distract from coherent thought transmission, but the foamy water vapor forming in your cells and evaporation of your joint fluid makes typing inordinately difficult. Not only that, but the deadline pressure mounts exponentially. With only 5-10 seconds of consciousness remaining before the inevitable death due to heart fibrillation, the stress to form an original thought quickly is near insurmountable.

And then there is the problem of swelling. According to Geoffrey Landis, "Water vapor will form rapidly in the soft tissues and somewhat less rapidly in the venous blood. This evolution of water vapor will cause marked swelling of the body to perhaps twice its normal volume unless it is restrained by a pressure suit." How can one possible contemplate the inner realities of the physical superstructure of the universe, or discern the interaction of form and content in the later films of Fellini, while your waist line mushrooms from a trendy 28 to an unfathomable 2,904? Not only will you have to exchange your most recent purchases from Express, but your skin will be horrendously distorted; even after recompression, it will retain the sticky plasticity of a deflated balloon. Also, where on earth can one find a pressure suit that doesn't make you look dumpy?

Finally, there is the issue of internal body temperature. "There will be virtually no effective circulation of blood. After an initial rush of gas from the lungs during decompression, gas and water vapor will continue to flow outward through the airways. This continual evaporation of water will cool the mouth and nose to near-freezing temperatures; the remainder of the body will also become cooled, but more slowly." It is needless to say the playful subversion of narrative objectivity in Henry James' novellas will be unappreciated by one suffering from internal hypothermia. After such a harrowing experience, I don't know if I could even enjoy Christmas anymore.

The problem about writing in vacuums is that you end up writing about vacuums. Its the only thing you can think of, other than laughing a little bit about how silly your flesh looks, pushing through the buttons separate bubbles up your shirt, as the venal pressure rapidly exceeds the arterial pressure within a minute, other wise known as the human blow fish effect. But otherwise, it is just quiet, dark, and very very VERY empty.

Vacuum Cat:
STAGE 1

STAGE 2

STAGE 3:
A third picture could not be found, lost as it was when the Great Library of Alexandria was torched by Ceaser in 48 BC. I leave it up to my colleges to theorize what the content of said image would contain, of a post-vacuumed (presumably deceased) cat.

Atum

Atum created the fertile lands of the Egypitian Nile by masturbating and spilling his highly potent seed on the Saharan sand. I like to think this blog was created in much the same way.



It was a bit messy, Atum being infinitely proportioned and so on, but the potency of his seed was enough to justify the clean up effort. My keyboard is bound to be broken but, alas, the price you pay for inspiration. I speak entirely in metaphors, of course, and of immaterial spiritual substance.

The problem with that idea is physical substance IS spiritual substance. There is nothing soulless about the dense weaving of my skull bone, there is nothing passionless about texture of my palms, my mucus is entirely ideological. A phallus might not conceptualize dedication to political reform, but it sure knows how to penetrate into the thick of a hairy situation. It knows the essence, the impulse; the body communicates the classics in mute, it theorizes in force and weights; the complicated play of theory becomes solidified in the mechanical functioning of the human form.

EGYPT CAT:

thoughts on dead cats

The question I have to ask when beginning the dubious verb of "blogging," is of course, why bother? I hope you aren't reading this, and if you are, I have to ask you why. What dark alley of the internet led you here? What hour of desperate boredom, what profound lack of experience led you to seek thrills in the crushingly mundane existence of someone else?

That being said, I intend to have you amused by this blog, a little aroused, and hopefully not to angry. Maybe a little angry. I usually tend to make people I'm hitting on angry. Am I hitting on you? Its probably the anger of intimacy. We are this close now, two blogheads connecting through the e-space, reaching out with our e-hands and touching our e-phalluses together. Phalluses. That has bound to be a recurring theme of this blog. that, and and inconsistent capitalization, bad spelling, fragments, and pictures of cats in various states of life. I cover the gamut of cat pictures, from kittens to dead. This is a picture of a very, very old cat:
What is profound about this is it's amazing ambiguity in the "state of cat" chart. Neither purely dead or purely cute, it borders the twilight zone between labels; it blossoms from the crack between idealogical crevices from which releases all the creative forces of the universe, and by extension the most fascinating internet meems. After all, what is not ambiguous is not worthy of mention.
But I digress. Obviously, The cat is most certainly dead. Yet it retains such a wonderful sense of movement-- even a sassy attitude! Does it threaten to attack thieves of her Egyptian demigod's tomb? Or does it paw at imaginary predators, her actual hunting function long ago watered down into imagination by the bourgeoisies-- could it even be saying, "I'm in your tomb, stealin your hiroglifix?" And further more, does its state of preservation move it out of the "dead cat" category, since its lack of recent signs of decay remove the shock quality most vital to the best dead cat pictures?

These questions are endlessly fascinating and surely will inspire scores of heated internet comment debates, peppered by existential questions of the validity of such comments in the first place and porn solicitations.

Discuss, non-existent readers. Primarily, tell me why you are reading, and why I shouldn't judge you.