Wednesday, March 31, 2010

addendum

i should probably find 12 or 13 thousand more uses for the tag "keep your hands off my msg sprinkles."

suggestions almost always welcome.

ramen: more ruiny than naomi

this was once a happy home.

and then the ramen happened.

having enjoyed a solid wednesday - one of the better in recent records, really - cc and i end the day with a wrap-up session round the table, armed with fridge juice. murmurs concerning grocery stores. self-deprecating comments regarding ramen.

things escalate quickly round these parts. could be the sun making us cocky, the strength returning to legs and hearts. could be the beer. could be the bad attitudes.

here is how it ends:
cc is on the side of packaged top ramen.
i aim to make my own stock and find the right noodles.

don't you tell me how to do the math. we're all for empiricism and stomach ache-shaped spite on the fun block. i say i'll spend less money making my own damn ramen. cc says i'm an idiot.

i'll be laughing at her from the far end of my scorched earth and homemade ramen lined path to victory.

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

listen to your aunt fran, naomi

and that goes for the rest of you, too.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

summerer

i said i wanted the sausage, and carrie got me the sausage. (brunch!)
she said she wanted the bike, and so they built the bike. (bikes!)
we thirsted and we drank. (beers!)
we remembered and we watched. (ben stiller!)

oh. spring. you've returned.



bonus: naombor got two kittens. they're like crack-cocaine, but with purrs.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

sinister



lessons are for pussies.

other ways in which this is some messed up jambalaya:
CULOO, CULAAY, no work today!
We're cabbages and kings!
i know right?! get a job leafy greens and puppet monarchs!
CULOO, CULAAY, come run away!
Where theres cabbages and kings!
who goes to bhutan for vacation? mushbrained mollusks with an overactive death drive. that's who. idiots.
CULOO, CULAY, we'll eat today!
Like cabbages and kings!
how do cabbages eat? like savages, probably. like bloodlusting murder cultivars, i bet.
i bet you taste as pretty as you smell. 

disney's on some crazy shoot, tell you what.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

two updates

I. Oliver is not dead.

II. (not) specific. An internet web log dedicated to my dedication to underachievement. And also, poetry. SPRING BREAK.

III. **BONUS UPDATE** You didn't even sign up for this one, but you're getting it anyway: I spend three days away from the internet only to return to find that health care reform has mercifully passed and it didn't even take Justin Beiber 24 hours to reclaim his dominance in Twitter trending topics from one of the greatest reform efforts our generation is likely to see.

 The purpose of this auxiliary update is threefold:
1. To point out that I had just the loveliest fucking weekend with the dearest sort of friends.
2. To express, uncontroversially and incontrovertibly and without condescending to gloating, my relief and delight about the legislation. And also a way to segue into sharing this amusing graphics interchange format image that is currently being awesome on the internet:
Obama - neo con tears
3. To acknowledge that I know what a Justin Beiber is, and that I am the sort of person who gets irrationally frustrated by Twitter trending topics. I am okay with your judgments.

barf city, usa!

[Prefatory Note: I'd ask you to forgive how tardy, but who's keeping track round here anyway?] 

We had such plans, New York and I, back there in earlier Marches.

There was to be a proper good visit with Ol' Mazzy Bear (the Lindsay kind!), weather of the gorgeous sort, as there'd been all the week prior; sandwiches - all the goddamn sandwiches; all sorts of art and not just the MS Paintings; laughing at umbrellas; brunch and hobos; etc, etc, etc.

Things started going dreadfully awry when, that Saturday afternoon 50 miles outside of the city, el capitano de continental flight #you'rescrewed comes o'er the talkbox to say (almost totally verbatim!*):
No, no - ain't no way we're landing just yet. Not with things and visibility being what they are. Sure maybe you've been checking the weather all week and seeing sun and lightness and 60s and shit, but today? Today is fuckawful and there's no way we can put a plane down in such apocalypse. So fuck your plans and also, fuck your nausea. We're doing this the hard way.
*not verbatim
With one hand on the barf bag and eyes to the heavens, I dryheaved my way an hour through some vicious circling until onward to the ground, safely, and without once resorting to public upchuck; remained, as ever, optimistic, hopeful that such turbulence out of the way, only good times lie ahead. 

Crawled into taxi, relieved to be on solid ground: BQE to Meeker, and take me to the faces. Backseat television offered the latest weather update. Of course, think I, but follow up, even still, everything will be okay. I did take a photo of the forecast on my digicam so I could share it with you here (NB my own trip shaped Saturday through Monday):

no joke.

The rain seems sideways and I've never been so thirsty in my life, but Brooklyn's soon and you know the chorus: Everything Will Be Okay. 

After some hours of hellos and updates and smiling, after a half block of cheese (spoiler alert: bad idea) and even after learning everything about South African Ninjas and their terrible dances (I'm only going to tell you once, NO), we decide on the Lower East Side and bao and some bar it doesn't matter really what it's called I call it Paradise Cove and we lose an hour and two rounds of hiccups and home for some laughs and I never could have in my very limited wisdom have imagined what would happen the next day.

We were not okay, Mazzy Bear and I. Whatever it was, it was not okay. I'd venture a guess to say we lost at least 10, 12 thousand pounds of dignity and bodily fluid between us. It was, at times, a lot like this: 

And at other times, something more like this:
dear god of my choosing, are you there? fuck you.

Not a hangover at all but something far more insidious, stomach bugs, sent to Williamsburg specifically to destroy us. There laid I in a bed not mine in a walk-up in Brooklyn in a city I've done more than my fair share of mocking, convinced I would never again feel okay; an entire Sunday, godless, restless, shaking, my friend in the next room, failed by antidotes and Vita Coco. A picture of perfect self-pity; in retrospect, hilarious. Oh but at the time.

I didn't actually, but wouldn't it have been funny if I'd kept saying to myself, Sweet jesus. Do not let me die in Brooklyn.  In reality, I was saying things more along the lines of, You're awake again. Do not think of anything. Anything you think of will make you hurl. Don't think. Don't think. Double filet o fish with cheeseOHFUCKOHFUCKRUNBITCHRUN.

FIN


Right, but the take-away here, the lesson maybe, is that there are axioms about best laid plans for reasons I'll happily believe make sense and that the best of people, the ones you fly across states and sometimes countries to see, are always - despite whatever bile and headaches and temporary shitstorms - worth the miles traveled, the inconveniences and tiny catastrophes endured, the discomfiting displays of humility and grotesquerie, always. Taking ill simultaneously was certainly a damper on what may have been a stupidly fun weekend, but I defy you to tell me a better way to solidify your mutual comfort and trust with a person than to empty your personshell of all fluid and pretense, to cast aside all aspirations toward radness and lovability and to be the funky mess of a human being you are when you are alone and unadorned and to feel, even still, that care and empathy and warmth and just some fucking friendship, you know? That's the good stuff. Lord take away my metabolism, my dignity, or my immune system, just let me keep these kids. 
Hearts and shit. Immodium 4eva. 

Friday, March 19, 2010

time lapse

planets.



planets


planets, and


planets!!!

Thursday, March 18, 2010

fashion blog!!!1!!

dear this dress,


be less stupid.

sincerely,
k "holy shit what the fuck" looky

(t)hug life

i kill people.

bear(s) of the week

Oh shit you guys.


+


_____________________________________________________________



It's basically going to be like the third act of Point Break, but with a lot more freedom and probably slightly less Lori Petty in a négligé.

Thanks to Ol' Mazzy Bear (of the Century) for the tip. 

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

impractical jokes

Most timidities have such secret compensations and Miss Bart was discerning enough to know that the inner vanity is generally in proportion to the outer self depreciation.
 ~ Edith "Blowin' Up Yr Spot" Wharton

arbitrary vanity

Alicia's taken her party to Wordpress, and we'll all be the better for it.
Arbitrary Vanity

Hot shit, a b. You make literature so damn pretty.

Friday, March 12, 2010

confession.

in the midst of packing for a quick weekend jaunt to new york for fun and friendship (with faces!), i am moved suddenly to confess something(s).

figuring what dignity/mystery/facade crafted as pride and strength i may have at any point possessed surrendered now, after spending a solid 20 minutes butt naked and barfing out the contents of my stomach in my beloved's bathroom post romantic (and rich, disgustingly sickeningly buttery rich) dinner date last night, i feel oddly comfortable admitting to you, internet, that i am nervous. (not just the lingering stomach cramps talking! real live feelings! jitters!)

about many things.
it being march and a new season round the bend here,
it being march and cutting the figure it does,
it being march and the winter lifting,
i admit that i fear my inadequacy to live up to the potential and promise 2010 has thus far presented.
i fear that i am not a particularly good writer,
that i will disappoint those who have not only voiced but demonstrated their support,
that i will not lose the winter weight and that my body will never again be beach blanket bingo ready,
that i am neither sensitive nor intuitive enough to be the kind of friend my friends deserve, 
that my dog will die because my common sense gauge on relative health is epically distorted,
that i will consistently fail to tell and show those i love my gratitude for and faith in them,
that my succumbing to the whims of my feeble stomach will prove beyond any doubt to those i adore that i am disgusting, unattractive, weak of will and digestive system,
that i will never finish a sunday crossword puzzle,
that i will succinctly and resolutely fail to live up to any expectations or hopes for my character and humor possibly held by people - friends of friends - i've never met in real life but whose amity, if anecdotes and feelings shared by those mutual acquaintances are to be at all trusted and held in any of the esteems dictated by the tenets of friendship, i should hope to win this very weekend.

i admit that i long to love my own skin.
that i've much to learn about moving around inside myself.
that i can be more graceful in this body and mind, that i can use my words more eloquently.
certainly more concisely.
that i cannot change the person i am nor can i influence how others define or treat me.
that i am a very small thing with very small worries.

i admit not only these things, but also that i'd be foolish to presume there's a single interesting or original neurotic crumb in the whole silly pile.
it is beyond no one to fear failure or to crave acceptance. it may even be a healthy exercise to, on occasion, acknowledge these moments of weakness and vulnerability, to live and speak sincerely, if only for a moment, if only here alone, nursing a volatile stomach, with only my possibly dying dog and internet upon which to heap this impulse to honesty.

thank you for listening, internet. now i've a bag to finish packing and some new friends to make.

spring break.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

63 degrees


in your face soup season.

bear(s) of the week


for the heartrustled and underemployed.

Thursday, March 4, 2010

i'll make you a pizza

insidious sublimal tactics

 

the law's gon catch up with you one day, penutbutter sandwich bandit. 

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Bear(s) of the Week

<a href="http://theloneliestmonk.kilorecords.net/album/the-loneliest-monk">Bears by The Loneliest Monk</a>

Amazing. CC and I just sort of tumbled into it at the EP Theater a few months back at the behest of stupidly talented photographer/Bears (football, not animal) fan Kyle.

Buy it here.

Dancing, dancing

Quiet street. Strewn with February's litters. Snow melting. One might even fool oneself into believing this is it and we are arrived, the worst of it quite over and only wave upon wave of even better yet to come. March, stepping softly but resolute, in a revealing pantsuit.
Hobo, emerging from his smoky corner by the 7-11: Careful, girl. Someone's gonna party that ass.*


**SPOILER ALERT** It's me. I'm going to party that ass.

New York: March 13-15
Boston in Chicago Exchange Program: March 20-22
little poem published in elimae
South by Southwest (Vote for Disrespectoids, because it's great and because it represents a lot of hard work on behalf of the creator and also cause FRIENDSHIP)
 


* This quote is a documentary. Uttered without shame or compunction at Ol' Mazzy Bear, whose boomboom is by all standard and street definitions 100% partyable.

A is for Aces


Answer form titled in ALGERIAN

1. Your favorite pattern:
Fibonacci.
Or Harris Tweed.


2. French women are like:
A pair of crimson lips appearing to you through a cigarette haze, parting slowly to call you “faggot.”


3. Describe your own scent.
Stage 1 – upon leaving the house:
a mix of scented products, all of which were first discarded out of disorganization or absent-mindedness, then found right at the moment a shirt was to be applied… all laying over a tinge of brine

Stage 2 – having postponed showering for some time:
the smell of whiskey right before it becomes whiskey. Pungent, but promising.

Stage 4 – ripe as fuck:  
Piss poured over alley garbage


4. You are trapped on a desert island following an unfortunate mishap involving a plane and a whiskey-fueled slap fight. It’s been weeks and maybe months – you can no longer tell. Hope seems a foolishness you will no longer allow yourself and you instead turn to sentiment and nostalgia, which some will say are one and the same, because some don’t quite understand the square and rectangle rule. You are resigned, maybe, but beyond your resignation and greater is your love and appreciation for the life you now know you will never return to and, certain you will die here without again gazing upon your beloved, hearing her sweet voice like honey expand like a continent over your skin, certain you will never again thank your mother or feel the warmth of your father’s pride, put your hungry lips to a bottle won by dubious, though hilarious, measures, you find a branch well pointed for a final epistle written in the sand, your last scroll. You write your parting words to the world, not so much out of hope the world will find it but rather for your own peace, because to be loved and remembered by the world is to first give love and remember. What song is in your head?

Led Zeppelin - The Rain Song
“Upon us all,
Upon us all a little rain must fall.”


5. Fuchsia?
Tits or GTFO


6. What is the purpose of climbing trees?
To get to the very top, where one’s 5-year-old eyes could probably see the far edge of Jeffrey Mansion Park, or even his preschool, if the day is clear enough. And let’s not kid ourselves: getting to the top of that tree—taller than all the others on the block FOR SURE—and knowing thereafter that he’d done it is reason enough.

Alternately, because whiskey.


7. The number seven is overrated.
Six is much better, I agree. Five both has more emotional heft and numerological significance. But seven has a pleasing feel on the tongue, and it just LOOKS good. Clearly the most vain of all the numbers. Seven: what a bitch.


8. The only good language is a dead language.
…yeah right. We both know I’m a liar and a thief.


9. Benjamin gazes down the shimmering street, screaming a(n) epithet and thinking of The Hapsburg Dynasty.


10. You know she loves you because she:
…hasn’t tried to escape.

Questionnaire a Day

Because if you love someone, you have to find out all their darkest secrets. Here is a useful tool by which to measure your potential beloved's suitability:

Questionnaire titled in Bauhaus 93

1. Your favorite pattern:


2. French women are like:


3. Describe your own scent.


4. You are trapped on a desert island following an unfortunate mishap involving a plane and a whiskey-fueled slap fight. It’s been weeks and maybe months – you can no longer tell. Hope seems a foolishness you will no longer allow yourself and you instead turn to sentiment and nostalgia, which some will say are one and the same, because some don’t quite understand the square and rectangle rule. You are resigned, maybe, but beyond your resignation and greater is your love and appreciation for the life you now know you will never return to and, certain you will die here without again gazing upon your beloved, hearing her sweet voice like honey expand like a continent over your skin, certain you will never again thank your mother or feel the warmth of your father’s pride, put your hungry lips to a bottle won by dubious, though hilarious, measures, you find a branch well pointed for a final epistle written in the sand, your last scroll. You write your parting words to the world, not so much out of hope the world will find it but rather for your own peace, because to be loved and remembered by the world is to first give love and remember. What song is in your head?


5. Fuchsia?


6. What is the purpose of climbing trees?


7. The number seven is overrated.


8. The only good ______ is a dead ________.


9. [Surveyee's name] [verbs] down the [adjective] street, [verbing] a(n) [adjective] [noun] and thinking of [Proper Noun].


10. You know s/he loves you because s/he:

 

This very scientific research instrument was created and patented by klooky, 2010. Use it however the hell you want, but don't blame anyone but yourself when you realize that no one's answers are going to be as perfect as those detailed in the post to follow.

Monday, March 1, 2010

forget snakes! beware of the tropical bullet ant.

fact:

fear is usually irrational.

I had, for the first time ever last week, the fabulous experience of being utterly terrified of something reasonable. well, it was in a dream. but it still counts.

this is what happened:

1. I fell asleep.

2. I had a normal nightmare about bad guys running after me. maybe there was some coolio playing in the background. who can tell?

3. I woke up and thought, nuts! a nightmare. I don't want to go back to sleep now.

4. I fell asleep.

5. I had a nightmare that I was very prepared to enter into a business deal with a reputable gentleman, and then found out that he was actually involved in a lot of uncomfortable deals in higher education. lots of conflicts of interest in his c.v.

6. I woke up, panicking, sweating, worse than (3) by far.

7. I realized that somehow, some of my reason wins some of the time.

am I sorry? perhaps. deal with this.