Sunday, February 28, 2010

alternate subplot ending



James and Donna, together

Alternate ending:
James rides back into town on his motorcycle during the last episode. Donna hears his motorcyle, and slowly turns her head. The meaning of the moment is palpable. At the last moment, James skids, because he is actually terrible at riding a motorcycle, and hits her, flying off of the bike and killing them both.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

a friend in california

this morning, a large brown envelope of 100% recycled material.

(thank god.)

tear it open, loving mystery(/hatingmystery).

remember the hows and the whys of your few crucial friendships. the ones you fear at times may sink you, the ones you know matter, no matter anything.

"have one on me" is the most appropriate thing streaming anywhere on your whole stupid planet right now.

this one, she knows in no uncertain terms the importance of these things.

alicia, you're a rotten bitch and i love you so fucking much. thank you.

my mystery on a wednesday:

no time to wrap it around me as one ought, quite yet, this being a workday and everything. a quick though loving perusal finds these, falls for these, adds these to the list we keep nowhere that can be found. 

Your animals
are not so unspecific. (poem at home)
You are only/ here to leave me alone. (poem with lifestyle)
Most of what we say will hardly matter. (a heap of language)
and, hilariously, gorgeously:
Even in danger/ you're a writer, liar.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

why don't you get over yourself and get under this

one happy saturday, naomber and me took a stockpot and added about a quarter cup of oil to it. then we turned the burner way up and threw in a few kernels of unpopped corn. then, we heard a strange sound. it was the corn popping! so we added another half cup of unpopped popcorn, and shook the pot around. when we got tired of shaking the pot, every three to five seconds, we set it back on the burner to make sure the pot stayed hot. we shook, shook, shook til the corn stopped popping, and then we let the popcorn sit a minute.

since we're crazy and nuts, we split it up between two bowls and poured a shit ton of melted butter over both of those bowls. then on one bowl of popcorn, we put some seasoned salt! like lawrys or old bay! and on the other, we just ground up some black pepper. then we tossed the popcorn all around those bowls with some tongs. I used those tongs on my grill last summer when I made some brats. but that's a story for another time.

then we watched beaches!!!!

lookit this fucking boner party

no names. follow me. i wanna turn you inside out.  

bear(s) of the week

butt pervert.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

the books know us better; or, notes on a [Sun]day


Here, God says, here is your cupful of days.

If you don't believe in God, you still get your cupful of days. Some will be spent making love, some will be spent high, some will be spent reading
Ulysses, and some will be spent alone. Some will be spent around a table, a meal about to be passed, a steaming bowl of rice, some sautéed kale. It's someone's birthday, someone you have known for ten, no, twenty, years. To your right is a woman you slept with seven years ago--at the time, you thought it might work out, but it didn't. Across from you is the woman you are with now, and at this point it could be forever, whatever that means.

Some of the days you are given will be spent in a strange city, and at the end of the day you will know that you have spoken to no one except the girl you got your coffee from, no one except here. There will always be days like this.

This and lots of other amazing sentencestuff can be found in Nick Flynn's The Ticking is the Bomb.


strong shoulders are IN this spring!

we're fighting.

good guy: i'm guided by a force much greater than luck.
bad guy: what force is that, douchebaggery?

counterpoint: no, we're not

my mean is how I say, "I love you and you're great and I'm really glad we live together."
so, too bad your face is a toiletbrush and you've got on your sensitive pants today.

Friday, February 19, 2010

everything is fine. here's a dachshund swimming.

who you calling melancholy, you ignorant slut?

friday morning

maybe it's just something about my head hurting the way it does this morning, the wine i drank by myself again last night. this swift and unsettling movement toward feeling something big and important and possibly terrifying, revealing. what makes vulnerability more efficiently, uneasily, as a hangover?

the point is that i'm listening to st. vincent, and i plan to for at least another hour or two. it's heartbreaking loving some music so fiercely, because there is no harder way to embrace it. you listen and that's the most you can do. i want to fucking touch these songs and put my face up to them. the anxious feeling that there's some better or fuller way to love something and wanting to more than anything and failing to every moment, because there really isn't a better or fuller way than to just shut the fuck up and listen and that is the most you can do. just shut the fuck up and listen.

love something with me

*it has been brought to my attention that this post may suggest that my emotional well-being is somewhat compromised.*
untrue. i'm great. just dehydrated and longing for some softer place than this shitty desk chair to rest my tired bones and close my eyes and nap and murmur and listen to pretty things until spring comes back to us at last. that's all.

besides, if i were going to broadcast my misery on the internet, i'd probably get a tumblr and depict my emotional unraveling via cryptic, decontextualized mary gaitskill quotes and meaningful photographs*

*joke! joking! please stop worrying about me and make some goddamn plans for the weekend! good christ!

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Sunday, February 14, 2010


boy, are the awesome!

they are good looking.

they are frightening.

they are the subject of this hilarious cartoon.

and they are in this neat song.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

post hoc ergo propter hoc

K brings up a good point. there are a lot of logical fallacies, and I think this as good a time as any to take a walk through the garden of my favorite ones:

post hoc ergo propter hoc
this is a very cool phrase to wear on a t-shirt. please note, as K is so fond of not noting, that this logical fallacy does not mean correlation is not causation (that one is called cum hoc ergo propter hoc). that is not one of my favorite logical fallacies; that is my favorite statistics principle.

pheph has to do with chronology and causation. people often assume that because A happened, then B happened, that A caused B. they are sometimes wrong. sometimes there is a secret C or even a D and an E that actually caused B, and they don't even know about it.

straw man
I like this one because of the name. I like to think that straw man could be a job on a flip cup team or something, like "hey, you be the lead and you be the anchor and you be the straw man!"

in light of what straw man actually means, the above suggestion would also be insulting.

straw man is when you and someone are arguing, and you take their argument and rob it of substance such that it sounds totally flimsy and ridiculous and then you can easily light it on fire with a cutting statement like: "great idea. let's just let everyone die so that you can have some oranges." it is a real pain when someone uses it on you.

slippery slope
it's not quite true that if I give oliver a piece of bacon from my plate every now and then, he will incessantly beg for food while people eat in his presence and will eventually turn to a life of stealing pita bread from the kitchen table while we're not home and burying it in his bed. that is mostly not true because he was always doing those things anyway and it doesn't really matter how much we reinforce his behavior by giving him bacon right from our plates.

the pro-life platform and those sticklers at the aclu really like this one.

ad hominem
this is certainly a crowd-pleaser during election seasons.

C: let's turn the living room into a ball pit. it will be such fun.
K: that's a lousy idea because you're a hobag.

there are many more awesome logical fallacies, but you don't have to take my word for it.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

everybody in the club

get tipsy.

Or don't. I am not in the business of telling you how to live your life.

But say I were, I might make the following suggestions:

Rhino Fest 2010
Chris Bower
"Little Boy Needs Ride" and "Notes to Molly"
Friday, February 12
Prp Theater, 3502 N Elston

This Friday is the very last Friday you can pay what you can (and they mean it, too) to see two outrageously delicate and sadly hilarious one act plays by a man whose voice (both the vocal and written one) has never failed to intimidate and tittilate (don't be a child) the nuance-loving shit out of me.

Events like this, and like dear Kyle's reading at The Whistler the other night, and like sweet Dinger's Inchworm Series make Chicago winters tolerable, on occasion memorable, and on some nights, even as good as it fucking gets. Words, beers, pals, pathos - put on some coats and we'll make it through this together.

And seriously, have you the time and $0 - 15, get after this on Friday. It'll be way better than the Two Way.


I've been hanging 'round this corner for some months or so I can't remember. Waiting, I think, to write something I thought might have a fighting chance while reading, reading, reading. It's a lovely place, this elimae,one worth bookmarking. And say you did bookmark it, say you took a look sometime in March. I haven't just been waiting. Sometimes, from time to time, I try a thing or two.

Dave Eggers, claiming to save literature once again.  

I like The Believer and from time to infrequent time will find myself laughing out loud and in strange places about something on McSweeney's (Nietzsche's angel food cake is objectively hilarious). But I'm unconvinced that an extremely insular community of writers, journalists, photographers, and professional ass-as-hat wearing Peter Pans with a Jesus complex and a nose for half-baked poptard quirk is going to save the already dead broadsheet and triumph over the New York Times, which we're positive has been fucking with us for some time now anyway.

the one you're with.

Not because of Valentine's Day and not because it's winter and sure as shit not because you're terrified that you are going to die alone if you don't soon find the right thing to wear down, wear down, wear down. But because there are countless ways to share, show, and feel that shit, son.

My recent favorite ways to say "Sweet creamy christmas I'm in love with us:"

Super Mario Bros Wii
Meat sandwiches and Twin Peaks
Premature Summer 2.0 plans
Mexican Coke/Surprise
Wet shoe removal
Secret ingredient: sugar
Bacon-wrapped jalepeno poppers
Touching the blanket (not a euphemism. I touch my blanket and remember all the ways that I have loved)
Not-so-cryptic literary quotes/songs about California
Christmas secrets regarding the bump-it that may or may not have been included in one's stocking

Fuck it. Let me buy you a beer and I'll just tell you the rest.


Tuesday, February 9, 2010

bear of the week

With thanks to solomon * for the tip.


ornery little darlings

Emmi is one of those girls you don't get to see so often. Her appearances tend to coincide with particularly awesome evenings. Quick - someone say something clever and preferably in Latin about correlation and causation.

Or don't. Don't. Maybe just watch this, and remain as always on your toes. Never know when that broad's gonna show up next.

See what they did there? Why don't we get together sometime and try to make something half as rad. Mexican seven layer dip does not count.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010


an excuse to use the "epic internetting by an old person" tag avails itself.

The OGs

An entire section called "Grandma's Heroines." I like to think she's full of typos.

two things, entirely unrelated


from the goddammit-why-didn't-i-think-of-that-years-ago files, courtesy of naombor
procrasturbation: to procrastinate by masturbation.

Monday, February 1, 2010

for your reference


my goddamn apocalypse

 Maybe this, then, is the ultimate upshot of our endless, self-wrought swirl of sour disappointment, of never having our impossible needs fully met, of constantly being thwarted in our desire to have the world revolve around our exact set of specifications and desires.

Why are you so terribly disappointing?