Who what where when why, and how.

Yesterday, I received via email -- O cold, postmodern disconnect, thou maketh me tear at my breast! -- my first officially official rejection, merci, magazine that dare not speak its name. Putting aside for a moment any humorless jocularity about now qualifying for starving artist assistance, 'twas a series of strange sensations pinballing in the caverns of my skull.

To begin, beneath the loamy verse: how I view my stuff. A beacon of cringe, so why submit in the first place? (Various & sundry humans -- yes, I know two or three -- encouraged this tiny lark to grow into a carrion-chomping vulture, but all failure, as it were, falls decidedly on these shoulders.)

Few have seen few, even fewer have been posted, some have professed enjoyment, others remained politely quiet, though one person did in fact pelt my house, not with rotten vegetables, but slugs from a twelve-gauge. We all can't be Super Franzen Up Up And Away, bub.

So again I (& other equally strange beings, it seems) query all you excellent-to-awful people, why submit, why reveal snapshots poorly (though valiantly) composed to those who, in this particular case, aren't the subject of the work? If I may be permitted to wax rhetorical, is not the craving for recognition innate in all of us? To take one extreme(ly obvious) example, nihilists don't blog since they're busy foraging for roots & screaming at the stars, I blog, you blog, everybody blog thus evidemment we want someone to glance at our something, even if they're not reading us -- save the parsing for I'm aware that a familiarity coupled with close readings of non-confessional texts can glean kernels thought cleverly hidden by the author.

The desire for validation -- or, if so inclined, Validation (or having something important to say or respect or appreciation or communion with fellow travelers or whatever synonym you prefer) -- is that not a passing fancy but something worse, a weakness, especially disturbing at the feet of the self-appointed gatekeepers of culture; Jack Poet & Jill Novelist are in print, so that's what I want, of course of course, horse? One rejection from one (or more, I've no clue) reader doesn't change that; the universal arbiter of taste is fickle for if she wasn't, you'd all be midnight headphoning Opeth just like me, goddamn cretins.

To step further in this garbled incoherence, can this quest -- and here I, for the sake of argument, set aside the notion of pure art for art's sake 'cause I know that's a whole other wormy can but this sentence is already beguiling accepted syntax so let's save that cataclysm for tomorrow -- be classified as a temporary bout of hubris; on my part for saying you should pay attention, or on theirs hell no we chose to dismiss this tripe, now who's the cretin, hardee har har.

In today's magical, Jetsonian world, there's a neo-egalitarian internets at a chunk of the planet's fingertips where the amount of time & care (often sizable) poured into the mold of a single piece can be (fleetingly) experienced, even if it harbors distinct artistic limitations & believe me, I'm well aware of mine as the degraded, plastic facsimile of long-rotted Romanticism. Different language & approach, but all the salient, tired elements are present, variation on the same clutch of personal themes orbiting the same handful of people & past scenarios every. single. time be electronically damned. Hell, (relatively) cheap self-publishing is readily available for the old school bookworm if fabulous web pages ain't your gig though, in either case, be wary of the omnipresent monster lurking on the periphery ready to bite your goddamn head off:

[N]ow he was being asked to take into account the potential effect of his writing on a completely anonymous readership. This effect, moreover, was not only impossible to control but also irreversible. Once something is printed, it is out of the author's hands for good, no matter how strong his will to perfection. -- p. 95-96, Kafka: The Decisive Years by Reiner Stach.

Fucking yikes & amen.

Writers, poets, painters, musicians; deeply skilled, hardworking artisans or drunken sub-amateur scribblers, we're going to imagine regardless & since I, or anyone I know, isn't sailing their economic boat upon the creative sea, we are so s-m-r-t, why seek [insert euphemism for validation here] at all? One too many, I guess. At least it didn't cost a dime.

Genius, really

What happens in Vegas, heads overseas on a B-2.

If I may be serious for a moment, what are we doing putzing around with outdated bumblebee weaponry? Didn't any of the engineers at General Atomics see Real Genius while growing up? Plus, for each Al-Qaeda #3 killed, a lifetime supply of Orville Redenbacher.

Crappy Blog® post template 3.0

Roll d100, just like your geek quotient was normal.

01-10. Captions, fun optional

11-20. The soundtrack to Satan's eternal C-Span torture

21-30. Music for a nursing home lifestyle

31-40. Steal brilliant, obscure piece, pass off as your own

41-50. Patrol of 3-8 kobolds

51-60. Work-safe pornography

61-70. Scour the local newsies, toast the stupidity

71-80. Scour the national newsies, toast the stupidity

81-90. Scour the international newsies, toast the stupidity

91-99. Drunk post

00. Spontaneously combust

Going for a stroll

I had no plans on posting, but I simply had to share with each & every one of you lovely creatures the sheer cliff & joyful drop of this serendipitous day, for I have finally found my fashionably favoritest footie faction:











If you're new to the internets, click to embiggen.

Screw you, those bankrolled by Russian oligarchs!

Time is on no one's side

A scent, a word wears the mantle of minuscule catalyst for the macrocosm of fire, though I wonder if superheated illusion grows best in a bed of absence. Regardless, the text becomes denser, then more sparse, a disdainful glance cast upon the former as the latter's assassinated & we begin again. Getting it just right can only ever be never getting it just right. Thus poor copies of Sailing to Byzantium, minus lines of boats, gold & empire, this fragment then scattered, now long buried in other lands on subsequent voyages that always end in the same place all letters land. One is seven ages ago; hypothesis is put to the test.

This case is unsolvable!

The outside book drop is a veritable Treasure Type Q; never know what arcane goodies one will unearth. Alright, the magic books are usually way overdue engineering texts & those rods of smiting are only chewed-up pens or pencils, but a misty morning past gifted me this shiny, elegant collectible card, unadorned with any of that ostentatious verbiage known as "information."

Coworker after coworker was interrogated & each returned naught but a puzzled visage & though one could say there's a passing, stylized resemblance to the late, great Billy Mays, do you really feel compelled to buy a Hercules Hook?

Thus, I pose unto you, vague acquaintances, who is this man?






















First correct answer receives a year's supply of OxiClean.

Over 1900 Wednesdays served

Ever have one of those days where you definitely honestly have negative integer desire to post, but the Illuminati have sent their hollow earth lizard men goons to convince you otherwise & thus you are torn, first figuratively & then literally which is why its a good idea to keep one of those traveling sewing kits nearby, skilled sewer sold separately?

If said covert organization -- no, not the skilled sewer & I, though if we were, we certainly wouldn't tell you, otherwise there goes the secret & all the attendant perks & benefits -- were under threat from Iran, would Hussein X sell them 60 billion in arms or simply send on a strafing run John Bolton's moustache which is imbued with magical properties?

Since this is true & a pox upon ye house if ye believe otherwise, heathen, does this, by extension, prove the efficacy above all of the fu manchu or does the Rollie Fingers have a say & before ye scoff recall that he went into relief pitching solely because he recognized the great difficulty inherent in the power/responsibility dynamic?

Burnoutman, Burnoutman,
Does whatever a burnout can!
Smokes a bowl, any size,
Catches chips just like flies!
Look Out!
Here comes the Burnoutman!*

*I mean burnout in the 'fuck this blogging gig' sense, but these revamped lyrics are far catchier than what I originally had, plus, stoners, hardee har har.

And now for something completely different.



Old craft celebrating the November release of the new LP from America's finest. It's the little things that keep each year from being a perfect copy of all the other mediocre batches of 365.

P.S. I see the plague hath mercy on no man.

Evil Blog Together*

"There once was a man named enis."
There once was a man named richard dawson. Your point?
"Fred willard those lazy no good commie pinko pigs rant."
What a stupid meme.
"Tithonus by 500 bc."
I'm not that old yet.
"On this viral globe."
As a famous man once opined, life is downbeat monsieur noir. Forgive me -- mademoiselle, for I am floating in a sea of reverie.
"Nympho librarians?"
Know any?
"Chennin blank pornstar."
It's Blanc, by the way.
"Much fucking emo."
Oh, dry those eyes, sweetie pie, cthulhu ear taper.
"That sounds Revolution 9 demonic."
I'm not a big Beatles fan.
"Forge dubalone."
The mob over matters of taste? Oh, dingus fargle.
"Jaye p morgan gong show flash."
Whoa, slow down, sexy pervert girl.
"Ennui you illiterate."
You're in a mood, Dr. Fuckeye. What's next, gluing poliyet?
"Homer metal."
Now we're talking.
"Indians habitual cunt lick."
Are you coming on to me?
"Brazil fuck."
Quite far to travel for that, don't you think?
"When did the 8 track come out?"
Sometime before salma hayek hard masturbate movies don't change the subject.
"A foolish fool."
I'm no politician.
"Bomb bomb bomb flash."
What did I just say?
"Silent civil servant."
What, no prestidigitarianism?
"Im gonna get something to eat."
Ouch.

*all phrases in italics are actual keywords your fellow automatons used to arrive.

Poetry as survival

Swiped from a book by Gregory Orr that was perched on the return shelf when I came in. I've never read it, but the title seemed a worthy starting point since even the cool, vaguely overcast stroll downtown sparked nothing. Too busy enjoying, I suppose.

I'm well aware that a welcoming, temporarily (curses!) omnipresent (I should move to Norway) chill won't be making its annual appearance until later this month (next month? November? Can't ever tell these days), but the fact that summer, the great deceiver, is being ritually slain by a series of weak, low pressure paper cuts has given me cause to slowly smile.

Ouch, that fucking hurts.

Lily of the monolith, whose acid scent plucks miniature limbs to pen crinkled, makeshift basketballs, time to wake. Bad verse is bad verse, autumn or no, & the season's a writing cliche to be sure, but I've dug the rustle of colors hustling out of boughs since I was a wee little scamp, those antediluvian eons before I uncovered the perverse joy of watching the local sports franchise alternate well-timed chokes & offseason implosions.

Improvement's been marginal at best -- check out ma poubelle, proof of deadly three-point accuracy, we're all witnesses -- but when you dig something, you best do it as often as you can, lest what digs your final resting place bleed its ink over all twenty-four hours & that stuff's a motherfucker to erase.

Hang on a sec, navel gazing's an eye strainer.

Okay, I'm back. Aw shit, the sun's out, though this pic rouses my happy:














I'm doing my damnedest to avoid politics, really I am, but chortling knows no lord. Histrionic Yankee ballotmania over hung chads, poorly aligned print jobs & Snidely Whiplash e-voting, while a nation of dead wedding parties gets one of those cool king-size National Geographic foldout maps.

And they recycle their waste, blue bins & bags on the curb every Friday. Hint hint, America. Now I feel dirty. Best go write.

You know the drill (it's in your skull)

Act I, scene 1.

Praise of noting choice must be paid with pain.
Forsooth, I am looking at you, Tengrain.



You're welcome. I know you're jonesing for their new album, drops in November. Do kids say drop these days? Did I ever say drop?

"No."

I am unfamiliar with the slang of youth outside of like, which, I hear, like, 750 times each hour at work. Fascinating how certain cultural artifacts maintain their tyrant-like (settle down) grip & others, such as gnarly, fade into Ozymandian obscurity outside symposia & peer-reviewed papers. Or has that reentered the lexicon, too?

Hermit joy's paid with sorrow, not barley
When I know not thou hast borrowed gnarly.

Fin.

Home and away

'tis windy, rainy & through bibliothèque glass, a veneer of earthy grit's draped over the courtyard's swaying trees & the spaces between; above, one of a thousand appropriate pieces chosen at pseudo-random. Politicked out & I don't even politick much.* A fine sign, I suppose.

*I blame you all. Write about fuzzy little bunnies, ice cream & Cthulhu, dammit.

Chain chain chain?

While everyone else is waxing leafy on tea partying -- there are no better Dums, understand that as myth as you understand unicorns & leprechauns & Sasquatch, move on with your life & be glad there's extra entertainment this November to distract you from the Browns' inevitable 1-6 (yes, I'm being generous) start -- I'd like to discuss something of far more import, the aesthetics of arrest.

















Thumbs up to frogmarching the corrupt, but chains? What banality.

My suggestion:












Frog legs, frog legs, frog legs so fine
Jail is the place you should dine
There's bread legs, water legs, gruel legs, too
White-collar frog legs, barbecued?
Inmates want a snack so here is the one:
These frog leg burgers are 'a scared straight, hun

C'mon down, you're on the Price Is Variable According To The Whims Of Our Corporate Overlords!*

"Up for bid, the 2012 presidency, closest without going over. Ralph?"
"5 million, Drew, and by the way the Democrats and Repub --"
"Yeah, yeah, that's nice. Sarah?"
"Gosh, 800 million."
"Barack?"
"What's the top bid again?"
"The top bid is 800 million."
"I'd like to bid, um, 800 million and one!"

*I haven't done one of these in months, and I don't know why because they're tailor-made for lazy bastards like yours truly, so thanks to Ethan for unintended, belated inspiration via the goofiest pretzeldential shot I've seen in eons. What, you thought I was going to postmortem the Clowns? Sure, & then I'm going to watch replays of The Drive & The Fumble, walk on hot coals, break into & subsequently romp through a federal bioweapons lab, inject air bubbles into my circulatory system, at last high diving into a vat of hydrochloric acid, the scythe of embolism striking whilst airborne.

P.S. I just got called sir. Saturn, a pox on thee.

Flash is the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe & everything.

I still haven't read that or any of his works, but that's the number this week, so, there you go, a fresh batch of illusory clever, one whych be free to thee.

"Well, this is goodbye."

"To requite your gallonde of godbwyes, I regive you a pottle of how-dyes."

"What?"

"Yower courtesie is manifest; for yew'd rather haue one farewell then twenty godbwyes."

"No, no, no! You knew I was leaving, you knew I had to -- had to! -- and what do you do, you purposely play -- dammit, you think Allenby sang don't walk in the rain for no good reason? Now you've come down with a case of yeomanry!"

"Gallants, godbwye all."

"Stop it! No goodbyes now, I've got to get you to the hospital!"

"So shall the noble and moste necessarye science of phisicke, with the ministers thereof, escape the sclaunder, which they haue of long tyme susteyned."

"Yes, yes, yes, doctors are respect -- why am I even talking to you, just get in the goddamn car."

"Men of Paracelsian parts are fittest to Mountebanke Satan's Chimistry into sicke Churches and weake Iudgements."

"Look, Jerry, you just told me, ah shit, now you're delirious. Dammit man, listen! There's no fucking Paracelsus, no Agrippa, no Dee, no devils, no charlatans, well no that's not true plenty of those in Washington -- Jesus, you can't you even laugh anymore, can you. C'mon, Jerry, you gotta stay awake man, please! Gotta run this red light, Jerry, I'm begging you, stay awake!"

******

"I'm sorry. We tried everything. If only he had manifested symptoms earlier, we could have caught his illness in time. My condolences."

"Thanks, doc. Well, Jerry, you sonofabitch, I warned ye & now the tymbur of ye hous is roten be the rayn that falleth theron. Egad! Mine concupiscence, like thine, deserve black helles damnation!"

Ashes, ashes, we all fall down unless we've got a cape to break it, worked for Superman

The dude will not abide. Welling up for the deceased? No, that £3000 bill.

Now, I've given this preliminary thought, but I can safely say that any representative from the oeuvre of this guy* shall not be appearing. What did in fact cause a cataract of tristesse was my failure to convince a coworker to spin a track of his on her radio show.

People donate CDs to the station for a reason, dammit: the dearth of caped recording artists on the airwaves must be rectified lest the terrorists win.

I wonder if I'd command more authority at work whilst similarly dressed.














Not pictured: anyone affiliated with this library.

There are more than nine circles, right?

Ho-hum. Another year, another last place finish. At least we've got LeBr --

AFC East: The Fucking Ravens' turnover-aided playoff smackery notwithstanding, the Pats faced a sickening list of pass defenses last season & Mr. Gisele still pirouetted his way to over 4400 yards & 28 touchdowns. Plus ça change. The Jets are the sexy pick of transplanted Yorkists everywhere, but I foresee a Boleyn finish for the dirty Sanchez. Thus, the Fish could bite, though Ronnie will get bit (again) during Ricky's last puff to glory. The Bills are fucking awful.

AFC North: Speaking of The Fucking Ravens, roll d20 for insult. & they say nothing good comes out of sexual harassment, says son of Paul: the Bengals mayhap nab another playoff spot, unless Dick breaks out the Players Handbook & resurrects the '76 Steel Curtain. I was always partial to Spiritwrack myself. The Browns are fucking awful.

AFC South: Death, taxes, this site remaining a punchline, the Colts winning the division. Since the playoffs expanded in 1990 -- that's twenty straight seasons for those of you counting in your cubicle -- at least four new teams have made the playoffs. Four. Therefore, with football being more of arms & the man I sing than ever before, why not Planet Houston? Vince Young: if, thus, until. The Jaguars, outside of Gumbercules, are fucking awful.

AFC West: Barring alien intervention, this is a race for second. Even Saint Tim, Sword of Faith, Son of Man's Man & Fisherman's Wharf Busboy No. 13 cannot avoid Olympian bolts nor even the (less) woebegone Chiefs, especially you, Jamaal Charles whom I have in my keeper league run to daylight hint hint. Well, Mr. Campbell, at least the checks will clear & when you're on the sideline by midseason with a broken collarbone, perhaps fortune will smile upon thee & Big Al will lend you one of his shiny disco outfits.

NFC East: Applicable to everyone, natch, but the health of fat people will determine this division, so flip a fedora & choose between The Fucking Cowboys (no way their defense is as good), The Fucking Giants (no way their defense is as bad) or The Fucking Eagles (no way the fans don't boo Kevin Kolb). Oh, each year since 2003 there's been at least one worst-to-first. Listening, Donovan?

NFC North: If Aaron Rodgers stays upright, blank cranium. If not, make way for a man who's come back more times than Jason, Freddy or Kissinger. Sure, Rice is no Rice, but no Rice? This Rice wasn't that Rice until Retirement un-ed himself. Wake up, Greg Lewis. Jay Cutler's Pick Parade & Matt Forte's Cleavage are easy targets, so rescan the bullseye & see a bland offensive line culprit -- & now they've added noted quarterback guru/killer Mike Martz? Even Peppers can't spice up these ingredients. Almost there, Detroit, single-digit losses, almost there.

NFC South: Is Drew Brees dead? No? Then America's worst sports town finishes second. Don't waste your precious time on the non-entities.

NFC West: San Francisco by default. Why? Arizona has no NFL-calibre quarterback, none. I had the displeasure of seeing Derek Anderson week in & week out yes even this historic monstrosity who knew therapy was so expensive, Pete Carroll can't game the system like he did back in Californistan & the Rams are fucking awful you're gonna die Sam Bradford hardee har har.

AFC playoff seeds: San Diego, Indianapolis, The Fucking Ravens, New England, Houston, Miami.

NFC playoff seeds: Green Bay, New Orleans, The Fucking Giants, San Francisco, Atlanta, Minnesota.

Super Bowl: Indianapolis over Green Bay. It's a quarterback's world, Ray Lewis is only living in it. Why not the Chargers then? The curse of Marty liveth long. See Cleveland, Kansas City post-departure.

My pitiable Browns: 4 wins, 3 arrests, 21 interceptions thrown, 9 games missed by Jerome Harrison due to injury, a dozen cases of whiskey, 34 bags of pizza rolls & 1 Josh Cribbs public demand to be traded.

Eat, drink & be lazy, for tomorrow, who cares.

What reading this blog is like.

As usual, I have a gruel of nothing prepared for the equally dismal aftermath of my trop court weekend in which I solemnly celebrated labor by not laboring -- the five minutes of flashing (fiction, pervs, the other'll cost you) counts not, mirror mirror on the wall, what's the raison-d'être-iest of them all?

Too much, no entry. Too little, illusory brilliance, because this site exudes a fine mist of psilocin-laced electrons. A post, a post, my kingdom for a post, or a mushroom pizza.

Snarky joy on not being employed today at this institution? As a hidden grey fold recently opined inside the innards of my inner ear, such an itchy irritant cannot compare to the annual, late summer return to Cleveland of the mosquitoes of Jehovah, swarming in each & every eatery for a five-hundred block radius. Praise ye, brain, for this remembrance; brown bag 'tis & more, for, when finished consuming, brown bag is saved, praise Jesus!, to consume its own meal of phlegm & bile & oh, who cares.

In a speech scheduled for delivery Wednesday afternoon in Cleveland, Obama will restate his long-held position that the nation cannot afford to extend tax cuts for the wealthiest 2 percent of families, White House officials said.

The officials added that Obama would not threaten to veto any compromise which extends the upper-bracket cuts

I'm poorly skilled in two-dimensional, thus these seventy-two dimensional boards are beyond the scope of my mere mortality, knight to toilet 4.

September 7, Flash 41, a date which will live *dramatic pause* in infamy.

Un/surprisingly, this week's entry contains neither torpedoes nor dive bombing nor exploding.

Mercy me, no wonder humans are always going to war.

He walked in and slid the photograph across my desk. Silence sweat cool air, a slump & an elongated rustle. I watched him fumble through the hillock of envelopes to grab the letter opener, in the dark a surgeon's blade, ambling over my still warm form to clumsily cut through tough, wooden flesh to get at the punched sunlight within.

Of course the silence was probably split when the lock caromed off my leg & onto the hoary planks. He looked to be gently laughing as he fingered his prize, mock admirably exchanging its gleam for the dull contents of his pocket, a crisp, white handkerchief to calmly wipe his brow. The song of a passing wood thrush, the soporific buzz of the radio I had turned down after he called, his habitually muffled speech as he dialed the third man, nothing, I could hear nothing.

The lamp visibly crackled as he switched it off, continuing with the third man as his feet slipped in glee out into the narrow hall. I tried to follow, the warped frame's unseen gate bidding me stay.

You'd think as a reward for a poisonous betrayal the gods would grant a ghost faculties beyond the sense of sight. Revenge may be a dish best served cold, but watching your assassin delicately gloat in the shadows, vital facts forever out of earshot, is colder still. Destined to be imprisoned in the middle of nowhere with your only companion a photograph of your murdered lover, forever, the coldest meal of all.

Wind power

I don't feel like bellowing about old cracker goopers getting their name in lights at the rock hall of fame, an idea that, aside from being a financial non-windfall, is inherently fucking stupid.

I don't feel like screeching about young draft picks ripping up the second knee in order to have a matching pair for nights out at Playhouse Square.

I don't feel like guffawing about the comedy of permission because, oh, what's the point, not as if the sun isn't going to go red giant & devour us whole anyway.

The Great Leveler

Big bucks with Public Square executions, Ted.

Harrumph. No wonder Ohio's freefall continues unabated. What self-respecting businessman would dare create jobs in a state of cowards?

At least my county's mien is threaded with sartorial bravery.






















Off to interview for the waiter position at Famous Ray's.

Nepotism, ice cream's real good, sun's up in the East, down in the West,
no big deal fuhgeddaboutit check out those threads, yo Paulie.

As much as I find Jupiterian (Jupiteresque? Jupitertastic?) jollity in these & other cracker oscillations, I can't say that these smart alecks are incorrect, but I'll let the final, bleak word go to DC United's angriest fan:

Clearly I am not the mediator for the job of uniting crackers and hippies against the financial elite, but say someone emerged, charismatic, eloquent, brilliant, passionate: neither party would endorse him (or her), the media would deride him as a lunatic, tribal dog-whistlers would have both crackers and hippies condemning him as a traitorous motherfucking CINO or HINO respectively, and if he still was succeeding, the elite would have him killed.

And that's why I spend my free time listening to Slayer.

Old school

Ask and ye shall receive.



Check out Kerry King. Once upon a time, I too was not fat(ter) and bald(ing).

Speaking of those large & in charge, here's some more past blasting caps:
















Given the song's subject matter, I suppose I should have thrown up the famous handshake, but when's the last time anyone saw Tip grace the internets?

You're welcome.

The rest is noise

Sure, I could have put up a video of Hussein X's televised vae victis in sober dress, with pungent comment following, but wouldn't you rather read nothing* while listening to sweet something?



La démocratie en Irak!

*I realize pungent commentary by yours truly would certainly count as nothing, but I'm not that** self-deprecating.

**I'm kidding. I'm awful. But the office of pretzeldent is still a den of yokelry, said the broken clock.