“New Year's Day… now is the accepted time to make your regular annual good resolutions. Next week you can begin paving hell with them as usual.”
Happy New Year, my friends. The nicest thing about 2006 was the three of you.
{gc}
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Friday, December 22, 2006
A Very Vegas Christmas
In case you're wondering what you've missed out on, you can view the fabulous time had by yours truly on the Flickr page of my personal photographer. Wish you were here, friends.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Crepapelle (there is a little fork in us all)
Italians are pigs
c'e una forchetta
in everyone
women like carving
naked yellow onions
with butter knives
tear drops on table
lo spirito santo
tied up and scored
saffron threads muffle
all salt cured and waiting
wild boar mouth
al crepuscolo
scamorza on the hearth
thinner than skin
una vecchia
piccolo coltello
slippery tongue
without the madonna
la zuppa di pane
cannot be made
tu ha bisogna
di tutto il cuore
to break good bread
come se dice
where would one find baked goods
in this city?
lacrime christi
in bocca al lupo
your hand in mine
c'e una forchetta
in everyone
women like carving
naked yellow onions
with butter knives
tear drops on table
lo spirito santo
tied up and scored
saffron threads muffle
all salt cured and waiting
wild boar mouth
al crepuscolo
scamorza on the hearth
thinner than skin
una vecchia
piccolo coltello
slippery tongue
without the madonna
la zuppa di pane
cannot be made
tu ha bisogna
di tutto il cuore
to break good bread
come se dice
where would one find baked goods
in this city?
lacrime christi
in bocca al lupo
your hand in mine
Saturday, December 16, 2006
beer, bier, ber before liquer...(a vegas sendoff)
delerium tremins yes
me leffe please the
belgian blonde one
golden chouffe triple
fermented abbey bless
you tiny teeny martini
ginny dirty tootsie
roll milky vanillin
vodka jewels jews olive
juice top martini talks
girty ditty shelf
best bottom sex
ever clear image
of motel 6 sink or chair or
goat cheese crunchy
water salad with straw?
body size bigger is
gay? or was it super 8?
is better walking
jealousy subjects
of night talks water?
platform moves home
is so far away here it is
so hot sleeping in all
my emperors clothing
his hand me down tie
me leffe please the
belgian blonde one
golden chouffe triple
fermented abbey bless
you tiny teeny martini
ginny dirty tootsie
roll milky vanillin
vodka jewels jews olive
juice top martini talks
girty ditty shelf
best bottom sex
ever clear image
of motel 6 sink or chair or
goat cheese crunchy
water salad with straw?
body size bigger is
gay? or was it super 8?
is better walking
jealousy subjects
of night talks water?
platform moves home
is so far away here it is
so hot sleeping in all
my emperors clothing
his hand me down tie
Monday, December 11, 2006
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Saturday, December 09, 2006
Upcoming Reading
Erica Hunt and Akilah Oliver at the belladonna* Reading Series
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Dixon Place
258 Bowery
Second Floor
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Dixon Place
258 Bowery
Second Floor
belladonna* is a reading series and small press that promotes the work of women writers who are adventurous, experimental, politically involved, multi-form, multicultural, multi-gendered, impossible to define, delicious to talk about, unpredictable, dangerous with language.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
When, in Brooklyn, a tree is stunted
When, in Brooklyn, a tree is stunted,
get down on your knees and massage its roots.
Sing Gregorian Chants. Recite Keats to it.
Don’t pull on its limbs or they may break you.
Don’t reach for its hand for it may be dead.
get down on your knees and massage its roots.
Sing Gregorian Chants. Recite Keats to it.
Don’t pull on its limbs or they may break you.
Don’t reach for its hand for it may be dead.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Pardon Me While I Open This Vent...
So yesterday morning, I was on stand-by (because I'm a flake and missed the registration date by two days) to take the GRE Subject Test in English Literature. I decided to apply to the doctoral program at the CUNY Graduate Center for the Fall of '07 because a) several professors here at City and the Grad Center told me I should and offered to write letters of rec, b) I figured out a topic I could write a dissertation about that wouldn't drive me to despair and c) why the hell not?
Anyway, it turns out there are three of us there on stand-by and only two tests. One of these people was Columbia Boy, who had been standing since 6:30 AM out in the cold in front of George Washington High School (the test site). The other was Cool, Funky Girl, who had a high-wattage smile and offered all the other GRE test takers extra pencils and clutched a dogeared copy of the Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry to her chest like a talisman.
At first, it appeared that there were three stand-by tests, but this was due to the general imcompetence and confusion of the test-givers. It wasn't discovered that one of the people with an actual appointment was indeed there until I had taken off my jacket, bubbled in all my info on the scantron, and was waiting patiently to crack open the test booklet.
So when it was clear that one of we three stand-bys would have to bow out, I took the bullet. As I got up in front of a classroom full of people, each thankful that they were not the nice guy with the freshly opened chest wound, I wanted to shout out something ridiculous and carefree like "So long, suckers!" Instead, I glanced at Columbia Boy and said "Ahhhhh, I didn't want to be a real professor anyway. I'm still banking on being a famous poet."
To which Columbia Boy said (instead of "Thanks" or "Good luck!" or simply laughing) "Me too!" Which made me want to drive my sharpened number two pencil into his eye. Fuck you, Columbia Boy: You'll still be paying off your $90,000 degree while I'm bedding all the worshipful, geeky girls who come up to me after my brilliant poetry readings across this great land of ours.
Well, not really.
So I guess that was a mitzvah, a good deed--at least, that's what I keep telling myself (instead of Columbia Boy, I should think about what a generous, inspiring professor Cool, Funky Girl will one day become). I know, I know--I can always take it in April and simply apply to the Grad Center for the Fall of 2008. But that's not going to happen. Part of the appeal of this path was a seamless transition from finishing my MFA at City into the Grad Center (and the all the lovely continuance of financial aid that implies). To wait a whole year, and be that much further into my forties (My forties!), before launching on another five years of higher edumacation? Feh.
Why am I posting this, O coterie? Well, I'm feeling slightly low about the whole thing and wanted to share and my proper blog isn't the place for this sort of venting. That I'm low at all is funny, seeing as how I never really wanted to do it in the first place (that is, naturally, until I was prevented from doing it by Cruella DeFate).
But it's okay, right? There's still that whole famous poet thing. Ha. Ha ha.
Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.
Anyway, it turns out there are three of us there on stand-by and only two tests. One of these people was Columbia Boy, who had been standing since 6:30 AM out in the cold in front of George Washington High School (the test site). The other was Cool, Funky Girl, who had a high-wattage smile and offered all the other GRE test takers extra pencils and clutched a dogeared copy of the Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry to her chest like a talisman.
At first, it appeared that there were three stand-by tests, but this was due to the general imcompetence and confusion of the test-givers. It wasn't discovered that one of the people with an actual appointment was indeed there until I had taken off my jacket, bubbled in all my info on the scantron, and was waiting patiently to crack open the test booklet.
So when it was clear that one of we three stand-bys would have to bow out, I took the bullet. As I got up in front of a classroom full of people, each thankful that they were not the nice guy with the freshly opened chest wound, I wanted to shout out something ridiculous and carefree like "So long, suckers!" Instead, I glanced at Columbia Boy and said "Ahhhhh, I didn't want to be a real professor anyway. I'm still banking on being a famous poet."
To which Columbia Boy said (instead of "Thanks" or "Good luck!" or simply laughing) "Me too!" Which made me want to drive my sharpened number two pencil into his eye. Fuck you, Columbia Boy: You'll still be paying off your $90,000 degree while I'm bedding all the worshipful, geeky girls who come up to me after my brilliant poetry readings across this great land of ours.
Well, not really.
So I guess that was a mitzvah, a good deed--at least, that's what I keep telling myself (instead of Columbia Boy, I should think about what a generous, inspiring professor Cool, Funky Girl will one day become). I know, I know--I can always take it in April and simply apply to the Grad Center for the Fall of 2008. But that's not going to happen. Part of the appeal of this path was a seamless transition from finishing my MFA at City into the Grad Center (and the all the lovely continuance of financial aid that implies). To wait a whole year, and be that much further into my forties (My forties!), before launching on another five years of higher edumacation? Feh.
Why am I posting this, O coterie? Well, I'm feeling slightly low about the whole thing and wanted to share and my proper blog isn't the place for this sort of venting. That I'm low at all is funny, seeing as how I never really wanted to do it in the first place (that is, naturally, until I was prevented from doing it by Cruella DeFate).
But it's okay, right? There's still that whole famous poet thing. Ha. Ha ha.
Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Let us close this week with the work of photojournalist James Nachtwey, whose images testify not only to the terrors of greed and war, but to a man's dedication to the truth. Like any artist worthy of the title, Nachtwey teaches us--through a medium that competes with the white noise of (mis)information, deceit, and the repetitive strain of everyday living--to look a bit closer at the world, to investigate and question all that we presume to know.
Have a good weekend, everyone. [DR]
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Googlism
gregory crosby is the author of two chapbooks of poetry
gregory crosby is he or your son vegetarian / vegan? gregory crosby and my
gregory crosby is a freelance writer and editor
Sorry, Google doesn't know enough about laura modigiliani yet.
danny rivera is one of the most sensitive and refined singers of latin america
danny rivera is puerto rico's favorite singer
danny rivera is a sweet
danny rivera is back on the job
danny rivera is a ever
Sorry, Google doesn't know enough about reagan lothes yet.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Friday, November 24, 2006
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Monday, November 20, 2006
Poem for a Birthday
(for a certain member of the coterie who just turned thirty)
Stack your plate with elegies,
fill your cup with hopium,
this is a night for ultimate poetry.
A coterie round-tables. A giant baby
suckles a thumb, fussy lines
on an etch-a-sketch, lift, erase.
Here is a cracked-out 60s stewardess
manqué. (I am ridiculous.) There are no
white Russians in Mexico.
On banquet table in latticed rectangle, a doctor
examines a kidney stone. A professor unbuttons
over-sized bread knives and sangria sweetens
in glass, slanted. (You’re not vanilla if you add
a little chocolate.) Eat-a! You’re too skinny!
Two Puerto Ricans on a river in Troy,
one man reconfigures faces.
A party favor etches cryptic. Hey tambourine man,
be Tom Petty with a Dylan delivery. Right ass cheeks
rhapsody in purple. (It takes two to make funky cold
wild thing.)
Barbie mouths Nirvana, knee-highed marquis
slams Metallica. Raise your collars, bad medicine
killed Janis Joplin and Koreans hate rap.
Couples with 80s hair meet in cafes, walk
in soft-focus fields. Your 30s are a great decade
up to 35. A train runs on another train’s track.
Stack your plate with elegies,
fill your cup with hopium,
this is a night for ultimate poetry.
A coterie round-tables. A giant baby
suckles a thumb, fussy lines
on an etch-a-sketch, lift, erase.
Here is a cracked-out 60s stewardess
manqué. (I am ridiculous.) There are no
white Russians in Mexico.
On banquet table in latticed rectangle, a doctor
examines a kidney stone. A professor unbuttons
over-sized bread knives and sangria sweetens
in glass, slanted. (You’re not vanilla if you add
a little chocolate.) Eat-a! You’re too skinny!
Two Puerto Ricans on a river in Troy,
one man reconfigures faces.
A party favor etches cryptic. Hey tambourine man,
be Tom Petty with a Dylan delivery. Right ass cheeks
rhapsody in purple. (It takes two to make funky cold
wild thing.)
Barbie mouths Nirvana, knee-highed marquis
slams Metallica. Raise your collars, bad medicine
killed Janis Joplin and Koreans hate rap.
Couples with 80s hair meet in cafes, walk
in soft-focus fields. Your 30s are a great decade
up to 35. A train runs on another train’s track.
Aftermath
The problem with a night of karaoke is that the wrong songs get stuck in your head for days afterward. Please, please, please, Lionel Richie/Metallica/Song from "Grease," get OUT of my head!
50 Fun Things for Professors to Do on the First Day of Class
1. Wear a hood with one eyehole. Periodically make strange gurgling noises.
2. After confirming everyone's names on the roll, thank the class for attending "Advanced Astrodynamics 690" and mention that yesterday was the last day to drop.
3. After turning on the overhead projector, clutch your chest and scream "MY PACEMAKER!"
4. Wear a pointed Kaiser helmet and a monocle and carry a riding crop.
5. Gradually speak softer and softer and then suddenly point to a student and scream "YOU! WHAT DID I JUST SAY?"
6. Deliver your lecture through a hand puppet. If a student asks you a question directly, say in a high-pitched voice, "The Professor can't hear you, you'll have to ask *me*, Winky Willy".
7. If someone asks a question, walk silently over to their seat, hand them your piece of chalk, and ask, "Would YOU like to give the lecture, Mr. Smartypants?"
8. Pick out random students, ask them questions, and time their responses with a stop watch. Record their times in your grade book while muttering "tsk, tsk".
9. Ask students to call you "Tinkerbell" or "Surfin' Bird".
10. Stop in mid-lecture, frown for a moment, and then ask the class whether your butt looks fat.
11. Play "Kumbaya" on the banjo.
12. Show a video on medieval torture implements to your calculus class. Giggle throughout it.
13. Announce "you'll need this", and write the suicide prevention hotline number on the board.
14. Wear mirrored sunglasses and speak only in Turkish. Ignore all questions.
15. Start the lecture by dancing and lip-syncing to James Brown's "Sex Machine."
16. Ask occassional questions, but mutter "as if you gibbering simps would know" and move on before anyone can answer.
17. Ask the class to read Jenkins through Johnson of the local phone book by the next lecture. Vaguely imply that there will be a quiz.
18. Have one of your graduate students sprinkle flower petals ahead of you as you pace back and forth.
19. Address students as "worm".
20. Announce to students that their entire grades will be based on a single-question oral final exam. Imply that this could happen at any moment.
21. Turn off the lights, play a tape of crickets chirping, and begin singing spirituals.
22. Ask for a volunteer for a demonstration. Ask them to fill out a waiver as you put on a lead apron and light a blowtorch.
23. Point the overhead projector at the class. Demand each student's name, rank, and serial number.
24. Begin class by smashing the neck off a bottle of vodka, and announce that the lecture's over when the bottle's done.
25. Have a band waiting in the corner of the room. When anyone asks a question, have the band start playing and sing an Elvis song.
26. Every so often, freeze in mid sentence and stare off into space for several minutes. After a long, awkward silence, resume your sentence and proceed normally.
27. Wear a "virtual reality" helmet and strange gloves. When someone asks a question, turn in their direction and make throttling motions with your hands.
28. Mention in passing that you're wearing rubber underwear.
29. Growl constantly and address students as "matey".
30. Devote your math lecture to free verse about your favorite numbers and ask students to "sit back and groove".
31. Announce that last year's students have almost finished their class projects.
32. Inform your English class that they need to know Fortran and code all their essays. Deliver a lecture on output format statements.
33. Bring a small dog to class. Tell the class he's named "Boogers McGee" and is your "mascot". Whenever someone asks a question, walk over to the dog and ask it, "What'll be, McGee?"
34. Wear a feather boa and ask students to call you "Snuggles".
35. Tell your math students that they must do all their work in a base 11 number system. Use a complicated symbol you've named after yourself in place of the number10 and threaten to fail students who don't use it.
36. Claim to be a chicken. Squat, cluck, and produce eggs at irregular intervals.
37. Bring a CPR dummy to class and announce that it will be the teaching assistant for the semester. Assign it an office and office hours.
38. Have a grad student in a black beret pluck at a bass while you lecture.
39. Sprint from the room in a panic if you hear sirens outside.
40. Give an opening monologue. Take two minute "commercial breaks" every ten minutes.
41. Tell students that you'll fail them if they cheat on exams or "fake the funk".
42. Announce that you need to deliver two lectures that day, and deliver them in rapid-fire auctioneer style.
43. Pass out dental floss to students and devote the lecture to oral hygiene.
44. Announce that the entire 32-volume Encyclopedia Britannica will be required reading for your class. Assign a report on Volume 1, Aardvark through Armenia, for next class.
45. Ask students to list their favorite showtunes on a signup sheet. Criticize their choices and make notes in your grade book.
46. Sneeze on students in the front row and wipe your nose on your tie.
47. Warn students that they should bring a sack lunch to exams.
48. Refer frequently to students who died while taking your class.
49. Show up to lecture in a ventilated clean suit. Advise students to keep their distance for their own safety and mutter something about "that bug I picked up in the field".
50. Jog into class, rip the textbook in half, and scream, "Are you pumped? ARE YOU PUMPED? I CAN'T HEEEEEEAR YOU!"
2. After confirming everyone's names on the roll, thank the class for attending "Advanced Astrodynamics 690" and mention that yesterday was the last day to drop.
3. After turning on the overhead projector, clutch your chest and scream "MY PACEMAKER!"
4. Wear a pointed Kaiser helmet and a monocle and carry a riding crop.
5. Gradually speak softer and softer and then suddenly point to a student and scream "YOU! WHAT DID I JUST SAY?"
6. Deliver your lecture through a hand puppet. If a student asks you a question directly, say in a high-pitched voice, "The Professor can't hear you, you'll have to ask *me*, Winky Willy".
7. If someone asks a question, walk silently over to their seat, hand them your piece of chalk, and ask, "Would YOU like to give the lecture, Mr. Smartypants?"
8. Pick out random students, ask them questions, and time their responses with a stop watch. Record their times in your grade book while muttering "tsk, tsk".
9. Ask students to call you "Tinkerbell" or "Surfin' Bird".
10. Stop in mid-lecture, frown for a moment, and then ask the class whether your butt looks fat.
11. Play "Kumbaya" on the banjo.
12. Show a video on medieval torture implements to your calculus class. Giggle throughout it.
13. Announce "you'll need this", and write the suicide prevention hotline number on the board.
14. Wear mirrored sunglasses and speak only in Turkish. Ignore all questions.
15. Start the lecture by dancing and lip-syncing to James Brown's "Sex Machine."
16. Ask occassional questions, but mutter "as if you gibbering simps would know" and move on before anyone can answer.
17. Ask the class to read Jenkins through Johnson of the local phone book by the next lecture. Vaguely imply that there will be a quiz.
18. Have one of your graduate students sprinkle flower petals ahead of you as you pace back and forth.
19. Address students as "worm".
20. Announce to students that their entire grades will be based on a single-question oral final exam. Imply that this could happen at any moment.
21. Turn off the lights, play a tape of crickets chirping, and begin singing spirituals.
22. Ask for a volunteer for a demonstration. Ask them to fill out a waiver as you put on a lead apron and light a blowtorch.
23. Point the overhead projector at the class. Demand each student's name, rank, and serial number.
24. Begin class by smashing the neck off a bottle of vodka, and announce that the lecture's over when the bottle's done.
25. Have a band waiting in the corner of the room. When anyone asks a question, have the band start playing and sing an Elvis song.
26. Every so often, freeze in mid sentence and stare off into space for several minutes. After a long, awkward silence, resume your sentence and proceed normally.
27. Wear a "virtual reality" helmet and strange gloves. When someone asks a question, turn in their direction and make throttling motions with your hands.
28. Mention in passing that you're wearing rubber underwear.
29. Growl constantly and address students as "matey".
30. Devote your math lecture to free verse about your favorite numbers and ask students to "sit back and groove".
31. Announce that last year's students have almost finished their class projects.
32. Inform your English class that they need to know Fortran and code all their essays. Deliver a lecture on output format statements.
33. Bring a small dog to class. Tell the class he's named "Boogers McGee" and is your "mascot". Whenever someone asks a question, walk over to the dog and ask it, "What'll be, McGee?"
34. Wear a feather boa and ask students to call you "Snuggles".
35. Tell your math students that they must do all their work in a base 11 number system. Use a complicated symbol you've named after yourself in place of the number10 and threaten to fail students who don't use it.
36. Claim to be a chicken. Squat, cluck, and produce eggs at irregular intervals.
37. Bring a CPR dummy to class and announce that it will be the teaching assistant for the semester. Assign it an office and office hours.
38. Have a grad student in a black beret pluck at a bass while you lecture.
39. Sprint from the room in a panic if you hear sirens outside.
40. Give an opening monologue. Take two minute "commercial breaks" every ten minutes.
41. Tell students that you'll fail them if they cheat on exams or "fake the funk".
42. Announce that you need to deliver two lectures that day, and deliver them in rapid-fire auctioneer style.
43. Pass out dental floss to students and devote the lecture to oral hygiene.
44. Announce that the entire 32-volume Encyclopedia Britannica will be required reading for your class. Assign a report on Volume 1, Aardvark through Armenia, for next class.
45. Ask students to list their favorite showtunes on a signup sheet. Criticize their choices and make notes in your grade book.
46. Sneeze on students in the front row and wipe your nose on your tie.
47. Warn students that they should bring a sack lunch to exams.
48. Refer frequently to students who died while taking your class.
49. Show up to lecture in a ventilated clean suit. Advise students to keep their distance for their own safety and mutter something about "that bug I picked up in the field".
50. Jog into class, rip the textbook in half, and scream, "Are you pumped? ARE YOU PUMPED? I CAN'T HEEEEEEAR YOU!"
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Reprieve
The hero of this story is obsolete. This is an elegy for his clock. Reprise this song and leave me be, he said as he composed his letter of marque and we collected his dead pens.
A Day in the Life of a Mudskipper
"Maybe they are cute, but they are very strong little creatures! They get into fights with other Mudskippers over food, even though their strange mouth, skin, and gills combination give them about a 95% chance of catching prey”
Thursday, November 16, 2006
The Writer Writes Down His Biography for the Sake of Posterity.
Danny Rivera lives in the Elmhurst neighborhood of Queens County, New York, where he has his choice of three separate, distinct Chinese restaurants, all of which serve such authentic Oriental cuisine as “fried chicken wings and French fries,” “fried plantains,” and his personal favorite, “hot language on a platter.”
Danny Rivera, who appears courtesy of his (illegal) immigrant parents, is a “writer” and part-time shoeshine boy. He is not working on a novel.
The following is a list of universities whose graduate creative writing programs have rejected Danny Rivera, an aspiring actor and doorbell repairman from New York City: New School University, Columbia University, Brooklyn College, New York University, Hunter College and, shockingly, City College of New York. That story I tell? It is a lie.
For his fifth grade class' production of the Broadway musical Oklahoma!, Danny Rivera was made to wear white tights. These tights most recently made an appearance during an impromptu performance of Big Black--Live!, held at the Chelsea Arms Motel (located on 33rd Street and 12th Avenue).
Danny Rivera was born, lives, and writes in New York City. His greatest achievement (and proudest moment) remains the at-bat in which he hit a searing inside-the-park home run in the first preseason game of 1994. Unfortunately, he has been hitless ever since.
Danny Rivera is from New York City, where the phrase “bitch better have my money” has a particular resonance, not unlike that of “I love you, but, really, what the hell is that stain?”
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
"When I Write I Think I've Made a Noise."
Hearty congratulations are in order to Ellen Baxt. Her first book, Analfabeto/An Alphabet, will be published by UK outfit Shearsman Books next year (June 15, 2007). As far as I can tell, the collection will contain work that has previously appeared in her chapbooks.
http://www.shearsman.com/pages/books/catalog/2007/baxt.html
http://www.shearsman.com/pages/books/authors/baxtA.html
Previously published excerpts of Analfabeto/An Alphabet:
http://www.sonaweb.net/chapbookseries2.htm#Ellen
http://www.xcp.bfn.org/baxt.html
http://www.shearsman.com/pages/books/catalog/2007/baxt.html
http://www.shearsman.com/pages/books/authors/baxtA.html
Previously published excerpts of Analfabeto/An Alphabet:
http://www.sonaweb.net/chapbookseries2.htm#Ellen
http://www.xcp.bfn.org/baxt.html
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Iraq Study Group
Iraq Study Group: A Presentation Outline
Purpose: 1) to increase documented occurances, including actual events, dates, times, places, to be rendered memorable and incorruptible, and 2) to gather and analyze demographic and psychological information about audience members.
Visual Aids: Maps, charts, graphs of us and them. Chicken-fried steak. Figures of authority.
Response-Getter: Can we avoid compromise for the sake of personal expediency?
Welcome to my Iraq. It's all about choice. and freedom. Nobody can be happy.
There is a flimmer in his eye, iron in his mouth.
We just made it better. Let's explore what's new, edited by you! and please, indulge yourself.
There's plenty more chicken fried steak where that came from.
Full spread ahead. I'd like to see that in a supine position.
Aye, team, I will have a slice of humble steak with you. I am your lay audience.
1 percent does 90 percent of the task anyway. That's how groups work.
Is this a dream? I suddenly have six heads.
Closing: How do I wriggle out of this dress?
(Do not wait for a response. Depart the lecturn without rushing).
Purpose: 1) to increase documented occurances, including actual events, dates, times, places, to be rendered memorable and incorruptible, and 2) to gather and analyze demographic and psychological information about audience members.
Visual Aids: Maps, charts, graphs of us and them. Chicken-fried steak. Figures of authority.
Response-Getter: Can we avoid compromise for the sake of personal expediency?
Welcome to my Iraq. It's all about choice. and freedom. Nobody can be happy.
There is a flimmer in his eye, iron in his mouth.
We just made it better. Let's explore what's new, edited by you! and please, indulge yourself.
There's plenty more chicken fried steak where that came from.
Full spread ahead. I'd like to see that in a supine position.
Aye, team, I will have a slice of humble steak with you. I am your lay audience.
1 percent does 90 percent of the task anyway. That's how groups work.
Is this a dream? I suddenly have six heads.
Closing: How do I wriggle out of this dress?
(Do not wait for a response. Depart the lecturn without rushing).
Monday, November 13, 2006
Hunter College MFA Open Studios
My brother, Steve, a student in the Hunter College BFA program, will be showing some of his new work this Friday at the art department's Open Studios, to be held in the school's MFA building. You are all invited to attend.
Here are the details:
Here are the details:
MFA Open Studios
Date: Friday, November 17, 2006
Time: 6:00 pm - 10:00 pm
Location: MFA Building 450 West 41st Street, between 10th and 11th Avenue
Spread the word!
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Crazy Crazy
I shall not sing a May song.
A May song should be gay.
I'll wait until November
And sing a song of gray.
I'll wait until November
That is the time for me.
I'll go out in the frosty dark
And sing most terribly.
And all the little people
Will stare at me and say,
"That is the Crazy Woman
Who would not sing in May."
--Gwendolyn Brooks
Garbageman: The Man With The Orderly Mind
What do you think of us in fuzzy endeavor, you whose directions are sterling, whose lunge is straight?
Can you make a reason, how can you pardon us who memorize the rules and never score?
Who memorize the rules from your own text but never quite transfer them to the game,
Who never quite receive the whistling ball, who gawk, begin to absorb the crowd's own roar.
Is earnest enough, may earnest attract or lead to light;
Is light enough, if hands in clumsy frenzy, flimsy whimsically, enlist;
Is light enough when this bewilderment crying against the dark shuts down the shades?
Dilute confusion. Find and explode our mist.
--Gwendolyn Brooks
A May song should be gay.
I'll wait until November
And sing a song of gray.
I'll wait until November
That is the time for me.
I'll go out in the frosty dark
And sing most terribly.
And all the little people
Will stare at me and say,
"That is the Crazy Woman
Who would not sing in May."
--Gwendolyn Brooks
Garbageman: The Man With The Orderly Mind
What do you think of us in fuzzy endeavor, you whose directions are sterling, whose lunge is straight?
Can you make a reason, how can you pardon us who memorize the rules and never score?
Who memorize the rules from your own text but never quite transfer them to the game,
Who never quite receive the whistling ball, who gawk, begin to absorb the crowd's own roar.
Is earnest enough, may earnest attract or lead to light;
Is light enough, if hands in clumsy frenzy, flimsy whimsically, enlist;
Is light enough when this bewilderment crying against the dark shuts down the shades?
Dilute confusion. Find and explode our mist.
--Gwendolyn Brooks
Million Dollar Idea
You ready? Here it is:
The French Toast Pancake.
Think of it: a light, fluffy pancake, battered in egg and sprinkled with powdered sugar.
Why has no one thought of this before?
If you can make pancakes, I'll let you in on the ground floor.
The French Toast Pancake.
Think of it: a light, fluffy pancake, battered in egg and sprinkled with powdered sugar.
Why has no one thought of this before?
If you can make pancakes, I'll let you in on the ground floor.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Blame Marquis de Riv
The Misadventures of Red and Bluestocking: Silly Staves off Pirates
It is late, the end of October. The sea is tired and happy. A spoiled prince is departing a large cream-colored vessel at an easterly port-of-call. There are many light brights in the sky. There is a young and law-abiding red lady and a bluestocking aboard the yacht. There is no where to turn but back. They move in a slow, about face. There are pirates watching, fifty pirates, dressed in tight blue coats, seething, foamy-mouthed like the sea as they watch. It is dark and light. The boat heads westward. It is slowed by cries from below, from the deep dark blue, cries of "stop! stop! stop that creamy boat!" They glide. Slow-motion swimming. Blue streaks. It takes a long time to stop a boat, the red lady explains to the blue bellow. There are words, there are no windows. They are obsolete on this kind of craft. "Is this a stolen ship?" the blue pirate asks. His uncoverd eye gleams like cerulean sea glass. "No silly", unwittingly flitted back. "Silly, silly pirate." "Argh, we want to plunder your vessel, but alas we are feeling red right now. Yar, don't cross this line again, brazen wench." The boat motors forward, towards the river. A pirate stream in the distance. "Nothing like a high-pitched silly to save the day," said bluestocking. "Nothing like a silly."
The Misadventures of Red and Blue Stocking: Black Man in Yellow Raincoat
It is raining still. Both rivers are flooded. The first November descent, stubborn, lingers. Red and bluestocking are waiting in a warm vessel, their coterie slashed in half by men. Little bald men all tied up. They are waiting for something, nothing. Gaggling. Sails are lifted, finally. There is a clattering. Clat Clat Clattering. Click Click Click. Click Click. Clik. There are high-pitched sounds. A captain in a white raincoat approaches, charges them with lunacy. "Give him a silly," says bluestocking. They move, slowly, navigating the storm. They dock to fill their bellies with ale, the ale flows like water on the shore. There is a sailor. A black sailor in a yellow raincoat. They do not want raincoats. The sails are lifted once again. Click. Click. Time passes like air, salty air. Click. There are words, red wet words. The man in yellow raincoat dives under the vessel, wait. Now. Try it again. There. Tighter. Now? Are you sure? Now. He looks up, he is more sure than any man on the sea. The surest one who sets us free. No thanks to Danny.
It is late, the end of October. The sea is tired and happy. A spoiled prince is departing a large cream-colored vessel at an easterly port-of-call. There are many light brights in the sky. There is a young and law-abiding red lady and a bluestocking aboard the yacht. There is no where to turn but back. They move in a slow, about face. There are pirates watching, fifty pirates, dressed in tight blue coats, seething, foamy-mouthed like the sea as they watch. It is dark and light. The boat heads westward. It is slowed by cries from below, from the deep dark blue, cries of "stop! stop! stop that creamy boat!" They glide. Slow-motion swimming. Blue streaks. It takes a long time to stop a boat, the red lady explains to the blue bellow. There are words, there are no windows. They are obsolete on this kind of craft. "Is this a stolen ship?" the blue pirate asks. His uncoverd eye gleams like cerulean sea glass. "No silly", unwittingly flitted back. "Silly, silly pirate." "Argh, we want to plunder your vessel, but alas we are feeling red right now. Yar, don't cross this line again, brazen wench." The boat motors forward, towards the river. A pirate stream in the distance. "Nothing like a high-pitched silly to save the day," said bluestocking. "Nothing like a silly."
The Misadventures of Red and Blue Stocking: Black Man in Yellow Raincoat
It is raining still. Both rivers are flooded. The first November descent, stubborn, lingers. Red and bluestocking are waiting in a warm vessel, their coterie slashed in half by men. Little bald men all tied up. They are waiting for something, nothing. Gaggling. Sails are lifted, finally. There is a clattering. Clat Clat Clattering. Click Click Click. Click Click. Clik. There are high-pitched sounds. A captain in a white raincoat approaches, charges them with lunacy. "Give him a silly," says bluestocking. They move, slowly, navigating the storm. They dock to fill their bellies with ale, the ale flows like water on the shore. There is a sailor. A black sailor in a yellow raincoat. They do not want raincoats. The sails are lifted once again. Click. Click. Time passes like air, salty air. Click. There are words, red wet words. The man in yellow raincoat dives under the vessel, wait. Now. Try it again. There. Tighter. Now? Are you sure? Now. He looks up, he is more sure than any man on the sea. The surest one who sets us free. No thanks to Danny.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Airline Anxiety: "Grrrrrrrr!"
Remember that airline bomb scare from last August?
Well, it seems that my best friend's wife, Jennifer, was interviewed, at Midway Airport in Chicago, about this issue by a local newstation.
Now, this would be your average, run-of-the-mill interview, but my best friend's son, Brad, started hamming it up for the camera. This is some of funniest shit you'll ever see.
[DR]
[DR]
Monday, November 06, 2006
Now for a little word from Smedley . . .
Let the officers and the directors and the high-powered executives of our armament factories and our steel companies and our munitions makers and our shipbuilders and our airplane builders and the manufacturers of all the other things that provide profit in war time as well as the bankers and the speculators, be conscripted—to get $30 a month, the same wage as the lads in the trenches get.
Let the workers in these plants get the same wages—all workers, all presidents, all executives, all directors, all managers, all bankers—yes, and all generals and all admirals and all officers and all politicians and all government office holders—everyone in the nation to be restricted to a total monthly income not to exceed that paid to the solider in the trenches!
Smedley Smith
"The Fighting Quaker"
Let the workers in these plants get the same wages—all workers, all presidents, all executives, all directors, all managers, all bankers—yes, and all generals and all admirals and all officers and all politicians and all government office holders—everyone in the nation to be restricted to a total monthly income not to exceed that paid to the solider in the trenches!
Smedley Smith
"The Fighting Quaker"
Happy Holidays to Me
My poem "Columbo Day" has just been published on Jacket as part of The Holiday Album: Greeting Card poems for All Occasions, edited by Elaine Equi. Other contributors include Amy Gerstler, David Trinidad, Tom Clark, Wayne Koestenbaum and Rae Armantrout. Good company, eh?
{gc}
{gc}
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Geek Fire
“The thesis is quite simple,” said Charles G. Anorak one late winter afternoon in the Café Espresso Roma to a small coterie of fellow coffeehouse philosophers. “The Geek is the most socially successful Nerd, and the Dork lies in the middle of the continuum between the social adroitness of the Geek and the social maladroitness of the Nerd.”
Anorak held one pudgy finger aloft as he spoke, as if explaining the world to innocents, and a casual glance at him confirmed that he likely knew what he was talking about: threadbare blue blazer, hideous green and black tie askew at the neck, beige polyester pants and a pair white Addidas sneakers, curly, unkempt red hair and plastic frame glasses that surmounted a slightly piggy nose. Add the spark of intelligence and enthusiasm behind those lenses and most people would instantly assume that Anorak was, in fact, a nerd.
Or was he a geek? Anorak could often be found holding court at the café, always engaged in excited discourses with other students, artists, bohemians, drifters, crackpots, slumming professionals, and—there seemed to be no other word for it—nerds. Anorak, who dominated these klatches with obvious charisma, didn’t seem to be socially challenged in the slightest, despite his hopeless wardrobe. On the day he put forth his Geek-Dork-Nerd theory, it was clear that the time for a clearer distinction in categories and definition of terms had come, and I pulled up a chair amidst the half-dozen regulars gathered around one of the café’s chipped and stained white marble tables. The smell of stale coffee and lingering clove cigarette smoke competed with Anorak as he warmed to his subject.
“It’s a progression, you see,” said Anorak. “Everyone starts out as a Nerd, usually in junior high school, and either progresses through Dorkdom in high school towards Geekdom or alas remains trapped as a Nerd well into adulthood.”
“Wait,” said Scott, a stage manager and would-be comic book writer. “What are we talking about when we say ‘nerd’? Are we just talking about sci-fi and fantasy fans, or computer club kids, or what?”
Again, Anorak held up the finger, smiling. “I’ve thought carefully about this. For someone to be a Nerd, Dork or Geek, three characteristics must be exhibited. One, they must be intelligent: an intelligence leaning toward braininess. Two, they must be obsessed about things that mainstream society cares little for.”
“So a sports geek isn’t a true geek,” interjected Alex, a thin, tattooed man who might have passed for hipster if not for his love of role-playing games.
“Precisely,” Anorak agreed. “Competitive sports are obviously a mainstream concern. Only if someone was into some ridiculously obscure sport, like curling, might they fit the description. Which brings us to the crucial third characteristic: They must be considered a misfit by the larger society, someone to be derided and ostracized. All three characteristics must be in place in order for someone to be a Nerd, Dork or Geek.”
“I’m not buying the distinction you’re making, though,” said Josh, a web designer whose girth approached that of Anorak’s but whose aesthetic was more Goth biker: leather jacket, greasy hair dyed the color of jet. “Society uses words like ‘geek’ and ‘nerd’ interchangeably. They all mean the same thing.”
“Further,” Anorak continued, “the Geek to some degree grows up. He’s more integrated with others, less self-absorbed, less infantile. He turns his intelligence and obsessions—whether they’re in computers or the arts—into a career. This is in contrast to the Nerd, who remains despised because the Nerd never understands any of this. The Nerd never becomes fully socialized, never understands good hygiene or the opposite sex or the simple truth that people who don’t care aboutBabylon
Anorak was on to something. As Sandy Starr put it in an essay about the success of the Lord of the Rings film franchise, “The word ‘geek’ has… lost its stigma, having been promoted from a noun to a verb, as in to ‘geek out.’ If you want to insult somebody today for being obsessive about fantasy or sci-fi, you have to resort to calling them a ‘nerd,’ which in polite society has become almost tantamount to using a racist slur.” For the word ‘geek’ to move from describing a carnival performer who bit the head off of chickens to a person who was brainy but socially inept to a person who was admired for their stock options and devotion to Japanese anime is an odd seismic shift in the cultural language. But there was something about Anorak’s formulation that was bothering me.
“Okay,” said Scott, “I can see all that. But where does Dork fit into this?”
“Ah,” said Anorak with a smile that told how this was his own little contribution, “the Dork is the transitional stage. Not necessarily transitional, I remind you—someone can become a Dork and stay there. The Dork is the Nerd who has gotten a little bit of a clue. He no longer dresses quite so badly, he can socialize, etc. But he still geeks out at inappropriate moments, either about his obsessions or just by making general social faux pas. The Dork is likely never going to momentarily fool someone into thinking he’s not a Geek, but he’s also not going to necessarily be labeled a hopeless Nerd by mainstream society. There’s affection for the Dork, whereas there’s currently love for the Geek and old-fashioned disdain for the Nerd.”
“Ah,” said Scott, nodding. “I see.” He turned to Josh and peered over his glasses, fixing him with a mock penetrating look. “Dork city,” he declared.
“Oh, please,” replied Josh. “I was popular in high school and had a girlfriend. Freak with Geek tendencies."
With that exchange, the table erupted in a frenzy of classification of friends, family and the famous into Anorak’s categories. But the very act of such classification—Anorak’s whole new delineation of the usage of those labels—was itself a thoroughly ‘geeked out’ enterprise, one that only a table full of nerds or social scientists (often the same thing) would bother to engaged in. It struck me as a desperate but understandable attempt to lift that nerd stigma into the exalted and elusive realm of cool. It was anecdotal rather than empirical. But then the best theories defy empirical thinking: they exist to spark a discourse. Or, in this case, to justify a desirable re-invention of social identity while conveniently reinforcing the pecking order within the sub-culture itself.
I couldn’t hold back any longer. “You know,” I said to Anorak, “By those definitions, you yourself strike me as a Nerd. Though I’m merely an acquaintance, I recall that you live with your mother and spend most of your time here at the cafe discussing the relative merits of the various actors who’ve played James Bond."
There was a pause, and an intake of breath around the table, but Anorak’s eyes still shone brightly in spite of my impertinence, and he took no offense. “True enough,” he replied. “But there’s one last type of Geek-Dork-Nerd that I did not elucidate, because of its rarity.” He paused, and with a theatrical gesture slowly placed his finger in the air. “There is the Nerd so brilliant and charismatic that he becomes his own center of gravity, and all social distinctions are meaningless as everyone, from every part of society, orbits him like spy satellites gathering intelligence that they could not obtain in any other way.”
Anorak held one pudgy finger aloft as he spoke, as if explaining the world to innocents, and a casual glance at him confirmed that he likely knew what he was talking about: threadbare blue blazer, hideous green and black tie askew at the neck, beige polyester pants and a pair white Addidas sneakers, curly, unkempt red hair and plastic frame glasses that surmounted a slightly piggy nose. Add the spark of intelligence and enthusiasm behind those lenses and most people would instantly assume that Anorak was, in fact, a nerd.
Or was he a geek? Anorak could often be found holding court at the café, always engaged in excited discourses with other students, artists, bohemians, drifters, crackpots, slumming professionals, and—there seemed to be no other word for it—nerds. Anorak, who dominated these klatches with obvious charisma, didn’t seem to be socially challenged in the slightest, despite his hopeless wardrobe. On the day he put forth his Geek-Dork-Nerd theory, it was clear that the time for a clearer distinction in categories and definition of terms had come, and I pulled up a chair amidst the half-dozen regulars gathered around one of the café’s chipped and stained white marble tables. The smell of stale coffee and lingering clove cigarette smoke competed with Anorak as he warmed to his subject.
“It’s a progression, you see,” said Anorak. “Everyone starts out as a Nerd, usually in junior high school, and either progresses through Dorkdom in high school towards Geekdom or alas remains trapped as a Nerd well into adulthood.”
“Wait,” said Scott, a stage manager and would-be comic book writer. “What are we talking about when we say ‘nerd’? Are we just talking about sci-fi and fantasy fans, or computer club kids, or what?”
Again, Anorak held up the finger, smiling. “I’ve thought carefully about this. For someone to be a Nerd, Dork or Geek, three characteristics must be exhibited. One, they must be intelligent: an intelligence leaning toward braininess. Two, they must be obsessed about things that mainstream society cares little for.”
“So a sports geek isn’t a true geek,” interjected Alex, a thin, tattooed man who might have passed for hipster if not for his love of role-playing games.
“Precisely,” Anorak agreed. “Competitive sports are obviously a mainstream concern. Only if someone was into some ridiculously obscure sport, like curling, might they fit the description. Which brings us to the crucial third characteristic: They must be considered a misfit by the larger society, someone to be derided and ostracized. All three characteristics must be in place in order for someone to be a Nerd, Dork or Geek.”
“I’m not buying the distinction you’re making, though,” said Josh, a web designer whose girth approached that of Anorak’s but whose aesthetic was more Goth biker: leather jacket, greasy hair dyed the color of jet. “Society uses words like ‘geek’ and ‘nerd’ interchangeably. They all mean the same thing.”
“Further,” Anorak continued, “the Geek to some degree grows up. He’s more integrated with others, less self-absorbed, less infantile. He turns his intelligence and obsessions—whether they’re in computers or the arts—into a career. This is in contrast to the Nerd, who remains despised because the Nerd never understands any of this. The Nerd never becomes fully socialized, never understands good hygiene or the opposite sex or the simple truth that people who don’t care about
Anorak was on to something. As Sandy Starr put it in an essay about the success of the Lord of the Rings film franchise, “The word ‘geek’ has… lost its stigma, having been promoted from a noun to a verb, as in to ‘geek out.’ If you want to insult somebody today for being obsessive about fantasy or sci-fi, you have to resort to calling them a ‘nerd,’ which in polite society has become almost tantamount to using a racist slur.” For the word ‘geek’ to move from describing a carnival performer who bit the head off of chickens to a person who was brainy but socially inept to a person who was admired for their stock options and devotion to Japanese anime is an odd seismic shift in the cultural language. But there was something about Anorak’s formulation that was bothering me.
“Okay,” said Scott, “I can see all that. But where does Dork fit into this?”
“Ah,” said Anorak with a smile that told how this was his own little contribution, “the Dork is the transitional stage. Not necessarily transitional, I remind you—someone can become a Dork and stay there. The Dork is the Nerd who has gotten a little bit of a clue. He no longer dresses quite so badly, he can socialize, etc. But he still geeks out at inappropriate moments, either about his obsessions or just by making general social faux pas. The Dork is likely never going to momentarily fool someone into thinking he’s not a Geek, but he’s also not going to necessarily be labeled a hopeless Nerd by mainstream society. There’s affection for the Dork, whereas there’s currently love for the Geek and old-fashioned disdain for the Nerd.”
“Ah,” said Scott, nodding. “I see.” He turned to Josh and peered over his glasses, fixing him with a mock penetrating look. “Dork city,” he declared.
“Oh, please,” replied Josh. “I was popular in high school and had a girlfriend. Freak with Geek tendencies."
With that exchange, the table erupted in a frenzy of classification of friends, family and the famous into Anorak’s categories. But the very act of such classification—Anorak’s whole new delineation of the usage of those labels—was itself a thoroughly ‘geeked out’ enterprise, one that only a table full of nerds or social scientists (often the same thing) would bother to engaged in. It struck me as a desperate but understandable attempt to lift that nerd stigma into the exalted and elusive realm of cool. It was anecdotal rather than empirical. But then the best theories defy empirical thinking: they exist to spark a discourse. Or, in this case, to justify a desirable re-invention of social identity while conveniently reinforcing the pecking order within the sub-culture itself.
I couldn’t hold back any longer. “You know,” I said to Anorak, “By those definitions, you yourself strike me as a Nerd. Though I’m merely an acquaintance, I recall that you live with your mother and spend most of your time here at the cafe discussing the relative merits of the various actors who’ve played James Bond."
There was a pause, and an intake of breath around the table, but Anorak’s eyes still shone brightly in spite of my impertinence, and he took no offense. “True enough,” he replied. “But there’s one last type of Geek-Dork-Nerd that I did not elucidate, because of its rarity.” He paused, and with a theatrical gesture slowly placed his finger in the air. “There is the Nerd so brilliant and charismatic that he becomes his own center of gravity, and all social distinctions are meaningless as everyone, from every part of society, orbits him like spy satellites gathering intelligence that they could not obtain in any other way.”
Friday, November 03, 2006
Optimism Report (or is this just hopium?)
The great mystery is not that we should have been thrown down here at random between the profusion of matter and that of the stars; it is that, from our very prison, we should draw from our own selves images powerful enough to deny our nothingness.
--Andre Malraux
--Andre Malraux
Love Report
Here and there on earth we may encounter a kind of continuation of love in which this possessive craving of two people for each other gives way to a new desire and lust for possession--a shared higher thirst for an ideal above them. But who knows such love? Who has experienced it? Its right name is friendship.
--Nietzsche, The Gay Science
--Nietzsche, The Gay Science
??? Report
"Their vaunted forgetting is just another form of murder... all forgetting is murderous instinct."
Who, oh who, wrote this?
Who, oh who, wrote this?
Grammar Report
When a phrase is born, it is both good and bad at the same time. The secret of its success rests in a crux that is barely discernable. One's fingertips must grasp the key, gently warming it. And then the key must be turned once, not twice...
I spoke to her of style, of an army of words, an army in which every type of weapon is deployed. No iron spike can pierce a human heart as icily as a period in the right place.
--Isaac Babel
I spoke to her of style, of an army of words, an army in which every type of weapon is deployed. No iron spike can pierce a human heart as icily as a period in the right place.
--Isaac Babel
Weather Report
There's a story that Samuel Beckett and a friend were taking a stroll around Paris on a particularly beautiful spring day, and both of them were remarking on how absolutely perfect the weather was, when Beckett's friend opined, "It's the sort of day that makes you glad to be alive."
Beckett arched an eyebrow and said, "Well... I wouldn't go that far."
Beckett arched an eyebrow and said, "Well... I wouldn't go that far."
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Dismissal & Reverence
The new chapbook from Category 1 member Rivera, Dismissal & Reverence, is now available for FREE download and/or purchase.
For more information, kindly visit the following "website": http://www.lulu.com/content/351013
The world of literature thanks you.
[DR]
For more information, kindly visit the following "website": http://www.lulu.com/content/351013
The world of literature thanks you.
[DR]
google search results, word for word
hopium
n. Originating in South America, this originates from one who is a relatively new instructor, and is always extremely stressed out. On some occasions, they have homicidal thoughts about other teacher's sons.
hopium addict
A hopium addict is someone who puts their own emotional needs on hold, while they wait for their partner to kick their addiction - be it to drugs, alcohol, gambling, or emotionally and physically abusive behaviour - despite all the evidence to the contrary'. Unfortunately, hopium addiction is degenerative; like any other addiction, unless you get treatment, it will destroy you.
n. Originating in South America, this originates from one who is a relatively new instructor, and is always extremely stressed out. On some occasions, they have homicidal thoughts about other teacher's sons.
hopium addict
A hopium addict is someone who puts their own emotional needs on hold, while they wait for their partner to kick their addiction - be it to drugs, alcohol, gambling, or emotionally and physically abusive behaviour - despite all the evidence to the contrary'. Unfortunately, hopium addiction is degenerative; like any other addiction, unless you get treatment, it will destroy you.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Grand Marquis Coterie Approved Halloween Poetry (tm)
One need not be a chamber to be haunted,
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place.
Far safer, of a midnight meeting
External ghost,
Than an interior confronting
That whiter host.
Far safer through an Abbey gallop,
The stones achase,
Than, moonless, one's own self encounter
In lonesome place.
Ourself, behind ourself concealed,
Should startle most;
Assassin, hid in our apartment,
Be horror's least.
The prudent carries a revolver,
He bolts the door,
O'erlooking a superior spectre
More near.
~Emily Dickinson
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place.
Far safer, of a midnight meeting
External ghost,
Than an interior confronting
That whiter host.
Far safer through an Abbey gallop,
The stones achase,
Than, moonless, one's own self encounter
In lonesome place.
Ourself, behind ourself concealed,
Should startle most;
Assassin, hid in our apartment,
Be horror's least.
The prudent carries a revolver,
He bolts the door,
O'erlooking a superior spectre
More near.
~Emily Dickinson
Sunday, October 29, 2006
6. I heard Plath dressed up in gauze:
"out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air."
7. fried green tomatoes, the actual, not the movie.
8. don the prostitute
9. Out me pour
and over me tip shout
me hear
up steamed
all get
I when spout my
is here
handle my
is here
stout and short pot
tea little a
am I.
10. "the box is only temporary"
"out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air."
7. fried green tomatoes, the actual, not the movie.
8. don the prostitute
9. Out me pour
and over me tip shout
me hear
up steamed
all get
I when spout my
is here
handle my
is here
stout and short pot
tea little a
am I.
10. "the box is only temporary"
Thursday, October 26, 2006
The Grand Marquis Coterie: Who? What? Where? When? How?
All that anyone needs to know is that the Grand Marquis Coterie--comprised of founders and current Category 1 members Laura Modigliani, Gregory Crosby, Regan "Bring the Pain" Lothes, and Danny Rivera--is interested in the following:
1. The Grand Marquis, the nameplate given to the vehicle produced by the "Mercury" division of Ford Motor Company, which has been described as "a slightly more luxurious version of the Ford Crown Victoria."
In other words, it is the Chariot of the Gods.
In other words, it is the Chariot of the Gods.
2. Dinosaur BBQ--because every coterie should have an excuse to eat ribs without the use of a bib or other somesuch stain-deterrent.
3. Words. We like words. Big words, little words. Words with colors that pop! and words that sound as they they have been translated from the Klingon. It's all good and part of the game. Also, jokes referring to Category 1 member Rivera as "leetle, leetle man!"
4. There should be something about drinking here.
5. Did somebody say Jonathan Franzen?
(Kindly note that this description of the GMC [in all of its sloppy, deranged glory] is subject to review and subsequent deletion by Category 1 members [though not without approval of the Primordial Council, the GMC's governing body, to which all sacrifices of Courvosier, Monopoly money, and high-grade plasma are made [in concordance with Section 1F of the by-laws].)
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