The other day I was attempting to set-up Mouse Trap with a bunch of younglings. They were setting this puppy up far more efficiently than your anti-hero and so I remarked, "Wow, you guys are much better at setting this up than I." And one younglings responded: "That's because we're kids; we're good at setting up games". In this moment, I realized I am no longer a child.
In an unrelated announcement, I am using an agenda for the first time since grade seven. The madness of my life was paving way to a coup d'état against myself. This movement towards organization should deter the rising internal forces from conquering me. However, this whole organization business has illuminated me to the oncoming pestilence that may sink my rowboat anyway.
*Warning horn*
The nadir of the semester (and likely life) is coming. Work now, or embrace the plague and the woes that accompany it.
Frig! I even forgot to mention that I must find summer schooling now! Oh!
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Saturday, February 23, 2008
MGMT
How does one put aside time for studies these days? Between pounding pavement, improving my foreign relation deftness via settlers and dangling on soft pond ice, I may conclude that there is no time! Laura Dern! Sometimes I think I am just the most trivial existence under my personal observation. Other times I think I should purchase an aglaonema and care for it like Léon.
Thanks for the reminder to pick up my police background check, blog.
Remind me to study now.
Irukandji.
Thanks for the reminder to pick up my police background check, blog.
Remind me to study now.
Irukandji.
Friday, February 15, 2008
On The Road
We're roaring up the freshly paved road to the nation's capital at first blush tomorrow. With Dean Moriarty's rapacious desire for incessant 80 miles an hour in his beat green jalopy, we'll arrive quickly and dangerously. When fatigue overcomes us, we'll crash some sordid character's sleazy apartment in the Red Light District to rescue some princesses.
Nextly, we'll pour down Quebecois Avenue to Montreal and emote care for the French heritage and likely emulate Jean-Luc Godard for kicks. We'll subsequently dig the streets for ripe antelopes and enigmatic dharma bums until the ebbing of the sun --when we punch into poetry jam sessions and gone jazz blasts.
Nextly, we'll pour down Quebecois Avenue to Montreal and emote care for the French heritage and likely emulate Jean-Luc Godard for kicks. We'll subsequently dig the streets for ripe antelopes and enigmatic dharma bums until the ebbing of the sun --when we punch into poetry jam sessions and gone jazz blasts.
Monday, February 11, 2008
The Horror! The Horror!
Upon writing my typical two thousand words-a-week for missions class, I noticed some strange consistency in my writing, and then I realized: I'm so reformed and I don't even know it!
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Ol' '55
I've been injected with four gigs of beatific tunes. My auditory system is working overload and inhaling some weird spasmodic noises. The best on the bunch is Tom Waits, obviously.
Some day I'll shoot the breeze with Waits: we'll converse about peculiar topics like mutated insects or how to properly dig the streets. Afterwards, we'll hit the road and hang our hats at some beat jazz joint in Denver and rendezvous with our dear old compadres Jack Kerouac and Dean Moriarty. After a brief amiable reunion, with Nick Cave serving up some cranberry juice from the bar, we'll roar out to California and slave at a southern vineyard for a while -- you know, for heck of it -- and eventually save up enough cash to head back out east to New York where Waits is playing a gig at the Blowing Tavern at eleven. Of course, we'll need to accumulate enough green to bring back Marylou -- a totally gone Mexicali looker I encountered in the fields.
By Jove! That was a futile digression. All I desired to say is that I've got some pleasurable new tunes. Also I need more Tom Waits; two albums is deficient. Also I wanted to say that sometimes I feel like a dead car battery and I need a boost. Of course that boost being Tom Waits.
Some day I'll shoot the breeze with Waits: we'll converse about peculiar topics like mutated insects or how to properly dig the streets. Afterwards, we'll hit the road and hang our hats at some beat jazz joint in Denver and rendezvous with our dear old compadres Jack Kerouac and Dean Moriarty. After a brief amiable reunion, with Nick Cave serving up some cranberry juice from the bar, we'll roar out to California and slave at a southern vineyard for a while -- you know, for heck of it -- and eventually save up enough cash to head back out east to New York where Waits is playing a gig at the Blowing Tavern at eleven. Of course, we'll need to accumulate enough green to bring back Marylou -- a totally gone Mexicali looker I encountered in the fields.
By Jove! That was a futile digression. All I desired to say is that I've got some pleasurable new tunes. Also I need more Tom Waits; two albums is deficient. Also I wanted to say that sometimes I feel like a dead car battery and I need a boost. Of course that boost being Tom Waits.
Friday, February 1, 2008
A Dull Lustre
My life is incessant loitering.
I wish to immerse myself in this black and white fiction: I pity a young and slightly retarded fellow who wanders down the middle of the road, sweeping dust frantically. He doesn't realize what he is doing is frivolous, nor does he care; for the sweeping gives him purpose. I envy him for this. I pass him by in my filthy '32 Chevy pick-up with this strange ambivalence. I call him back to town. He briefly glances up --his face so pale and unaware -- and the wayward breeze blows his cap from his head. He turns and chases his cap, broom-in-hand, and I can't help but notice his peculiar run: he prances from side-to-side, with very short and robotic leg and arm movements, and again I think: so unaware. I stare at him a while, then carry on.
I approach the Danny Shakes joint to collect my pay. I climb out of my truck and I'm met by a wall of thick, sultry air that engulfs my entire body. I languidly push my way through this natural incubator, and pull open the door to the beat burger joint. But the air inside is just as relentless and unforgiving as it is outside. Danny had to pawn off his air conditioner a month ago. "It'll get 'em buying more Coca-cola," was his frequent defense to the complaints. Naturally, he couldn't tell them that he couldn't afford it -- even though everybody knew.
The place was empty and desolate, save two kind eyes. Guinevere wiped her brow with a red handkerchief and sighed, "Hey Duane, here for ya pay?"
"Yass, ma'am".
Slowly, nudging herself from her indolent repose, she arose and shambled toward the back, where the money was secretly kept in an old vase. Guinevere didn't say "vase" like the rest of us; she said "vase" emphasizing the "a". Some folk thought it made her sound snooty, but I quite liked it. Guinevere had a difficult life: barren and uneducated, she had married a drunk who beat her with his leather belt. She used to show up to work with bruises and a contrite face. She unsuccessfully tried to divorce him four times, until finally when her deadbeat husband attempted to rob a corn farmer and it was a 12-gauge shotty that divorced them eternally. "Here ya go, Duane: 3 dollars and 40 cents."
"Thanks, Guinevere."
Neither of us could think of anything more to say. I turn to leave the sullen Guinevere behind, and exit into the street, but I'm left with a malaise that had been making a home of my stomach lately. I'm about to climb back into my truck when a red convertible passes through town. Aboard the fancy jalopy is Jacy Farrow: an ingenue with a delicate face but eyes wild as an antelope. She frowns in my direction, and I bashfully raise my hand to acknowledge her. Her head may of nodded, or it may of been the wind blowing her hair -- I don't know. Some had labeled her: The Golden One. But not the aforementioned slightly retarded fellow; his swept so blithely that she was just another mere person to sweep around.
I wish to immerse myself in this black and white fiction: I pity a young and slightly retarded fellow who wanders down the middle of the road, sweeping dust frantically. He doesn't realize what he is doing is frivolous, nor does he care; for the sweeping gives him purpose. I envy him for this. I pass him by in my filthy '32 Chevy pick-up with this strange ambivalence. I call him back to town. He briefly glances up --his face so pale and unaware -- and the wayward breeze blows his cap from his head. He turns and chases his cap, broom-in-hand, and I can't help but notice his peculiar run: he prances from side-to-side, with very short and robotic leg and arm movements, and again I think: so unaware. I stare at him a while, then carry on.
I approach the Danny Shakes joint to collect my pay. I climb out of my truck and I'm met by a wall of thick, sultry air that engulfs my entire body. I languidly push my way through this natural incubator, and pull open the door to the beat burger joint. But the air inside is just as relentless and unforgiving as it is outside. Danny had to pawn off his air conditioner a month ago. "It'll get 'em buying more Coca-cola," was his frequent defense to the complaints. Naturally, he couldn't tell them that he couldn't afford it -- even though everybody knew.
The place was empty and desolate, save two kind eyes. Guinevere wiped her brow with a red handkerchief and sighed, "Hey Duane, here for ya pay?"
"Yass, ma'am".
Slowly, nudging herself from her indolent repose, she arose and shambled toward the back, where the money was secretly kept in an old vase. Guinevere didn't say "vase" like the rest of us; she said "vase" emphasizing the "a". Some folk thought it made her sound snooty, but I quite liked it. Guinevere had a difficult life: barren and uneducated, she had married a drunk who beat her with his leather belt. She used to show up to work with bruises and a contrite face. She unsuccessfully tried to divorce him four times, until finally when her deadbeat husband attempted to rob a corn farmer and it was a 12-gauge shotty that divorced them eternally. "Here ya go, Duane: 3 dollars and 40 cents."
"Thanks, Guinevere."
Neither of us could think of anything more to say. I turn to leave the sullen Guinevere behind, and exit into the street, but I'm left with a malaise that had been making a home of my stomach lately. I'm about to climb back into my truck when a red convertible passes through town. Aboard the fancy jalopy is Jacy Farrow: an ingenue with a delicate face but eyes wild as an antelope. She frowns in my direction, and I bashfully raise my hand to acknowledge her. Her head may of nodded, or it may of been the wind blowing her hair -- I don't know. Some had labeled her: The Golden One. But not the aforementioned slightly retarded fellow; his swept so blithely that she was just another mere person to sweep around.
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