[find a title, nothing too clever]

 





















Not pictured: the Towering Slab.

Mission accomplished. Nephew's getting his baptism on this Sunday, thankfully after footie 'cause I'm selfish like that, which would probably prompt vapors from certain faux Springsteenian working class technocrats who fear Pagans of Distinction catching the Jesus bug yeah I'm looking at you; 'tis about time for a new one-act demanded by no one save yours truly & the Duchess who, being out of towne, cannot assist said truly with working out said interior guffaws in the classroom we call the Slab; & a third thing, a Bloody, inexorable Thing of sepulchral blackness v. rapturous white so unmentionable & unkillable that I cannot mention it here, there, & everywhere except on a Saturnian satellite, probably not Titan because I can't skate.

On the other hand, tomorrow is a holy day of obligation, i.e. "free" food.
On the other other hand, Worldcat is a steaming fecal landfill.
On the other other other rapidly hydra'd hand, look outside. 



Rain! Gloom! Yippee!

Reflective powers

It's funny but not standup how I've got more noodle-rattling oodles than ever, but the ubiquitous perplexity of punctilious coherence [ed. note: egads] notwithstanding, filtering the scattershot through sieves & into useable voltage, that's a gloveless climb of K2, thus a tune & a lament, like this. Upon further reflection, yes, I am an assembly line of many hats.

Apparently, there's some Serious going on in November or tomorrow or yesterday, but seriously, whatever, shit gets in the way of versification [ed. note: holy shit, I finished two in a weekish, that's like ambition Jake says ewww] & fine-tuning my slack towards chord practice. Storm of the Yeti will play live at least four times (yes, the basement walls count as separate dates) because what's left but penning a never-to-be-seen wizards, weed, & outer space epic whilst sitting in a pool of mold-encrusted pizza boxes.

Squint real hard when shafts of sunset pierce the glass, looks like jade.

Low would be the ideal, you would think. You would be fucking stupid. Entirely unfair, you would be unaware that low feeds upon itself, & in fact, isn't itself at all. One-way has little to no forks; thereat lies the mystery & wonder of gazing at the smear that surrounds & finding the outlines of stars, or at the very least talking about nothing, which is everything, its inherent un-serious-nesse the most potent serious imaginable.

I did, Yoda, so it's back to try because that X-Wing is too fucking heavy.

The braine, halvynge been drayn'd -- prithee, rhyme ys wi'thee, & thou knowst yt

A Commick, poetick miscelany, upon a conglomorated particle of fire, noise of cannon, bathroom literature, braying of asses, and an not-yet-out law'd conceited MP or three, transmited by a quandam citizen of Clevelandia, now resident at Parmastan, to Scribes Sundree, Esq; at their Inter-On-Web, dated the 9th of lousy Smarch last O.S., Windows 7 prob. And also a wormwood and poetick consabulation and altercation upon a conjunction bored, viz. pointless fisticuffs.

Studio 54

Ours isn't velvet. Cheapskates.*

*yes, for whatever inscrutable reason, the Towering Slab does now indeed sport one of these, which I'm sure won't be abused, via clever assessment of seating arrangements, by certain colleagues averse to pitching in. Cocaine not included.

Gender dynamics & The Man

Prologue: the Towering Slab, being not just a book depository, but a shelter from the elements, lures the occasional, unsuspecting homeless regular into its demonic newspaper jaw. Some admin types commence with hand-wringing various & overt, but yours truly figures that if they aren't fucking with anyone, who gives a flying dinosaur. I know pterodactyls aren't dinosaurs.

Act I: Last fortnight, if last fortnight ended last Friday, one of these regulars, affectionately dubbed Mr. Miyagi because of his uncanny resemblance to the late Pat Morita, shockingly got his physical threat on with one of our student comrades in the stacks, & as anyone familiar with library layouts knows, certain groups of corridors are naught but diffused-light, sparsely-populated spooky noochies.

Act II: Long to short, cops come over, dudes for muscle, chick to talk to the accosted who's one of the more petite chicks you'll encounter, & seated nearby, I was taken aback with gusto as to how ho-hum the long arm of authority took her considerable freaked-out-nesse, especially in light of the continued rise of muggings & fisticuffs on campus & not always in the sunless night. So, today, the jackass camped out in the student lounge, knowing full well that she'd have to stroll past to work, for the PTBs didn't ban his ass, you see. After shooting him the evil eye enough to where it's now begun to twitch, the clown vamoosed.

Act III: Being neither a mind reader nor a wizard, I've no clue as to why this played out the way it did, nor do I give a fuck about anyone's theories conjured up whilst on the can about how permitting the cultivation of fear in the workplace leads to freely ceding ever more control in hierarchical power relationships [ed. note: in other news, ice cream is delicious] & that it's even more insidious when found in low-rung places such as a college library because no one ever expects the Spanish Inquisition there, or how she ought to know ninjitsu or gonad kickball or how The State™ is a much greater threat than one homeless guy, blah fucking yawn blah.

Epilogue: As the Duchess said, this is why people become super-feminists.

As the Earl says, this is why folks hate the fuzz.

Though, in fairness, everyone should be hated equally.

Hello, Dean? You're a stupid head!

Since we remain tangentially on the subject of den Vinteren død,

that black streak bisecting the screen? A clear road. Je sais, je sais, low-hanging seed pods, but I don't host the most thought-provoking site 'round town.

Now, onto vastly more important things.

Let's pretend the season stopped there.

& that the last dozen never started? Anyway, a quarter of a century ago, & I still have my ticket stub. Hibernating in the past doesn't bother me save when it comes to this bloody arena. 5-11s & 4-12s should be rendered unto McKay. 

New Orleans @ San Francisco: The most brick-meet-head bit about these irresistibles vs. immovables is the reheated rehash browns (the other kind, though that might explain some things), of defense + running = victory parades from too many talking hairpieces. Even Phil Anselmo knows NOLA is Barcelona, pass, pass, pass, ZOMG Nawlins only nabs 27/game on the road contra 41/dome. That's still a prorated 436 points, you dumb fucks. Saints 27-20.

The Fucking Broncos @ The Fucking Patriots: 20/20 isn't always hindsight. Safeties sprinting into the box & sprinting back out @snap had more than one pal cranial scratching, if I had any pals. Sure, Tebowmania makes Zombie Al Davis proud, but mad bomber redux won't be enough 'cause Champ-no-more & The Chopped Livers will be joining Ike Taylor on the march to Madame Le Guillotine. The Fucking Patriots 38-24.

Planet Hooston @ The Fucking Ravens: If, if, if. Not you, Columbus. If Schaub, Then Win. Rowdy Yates isn't Clint, nor very rowdy, but doesn't need to be. What needs to be for the home side is the hope that the Good Fu Manchu shows up. I hope not, but know better. The Fucking Ravens 20-13.

The Fucking Giants @ Green Bay: Number 4 has retired from retiring, so stow away your oh-seven delusions, you arrogant fucking burg, there won't be any ill-timed wounded ducks littering the winter Wisconsin skies. Packers 31-19.

No, I do not know what shaden-frawde is. Please tell me, because I'm dying to know.

"It's a German term for `shameful joy', taking pleasure in the suffering of others.""

"Boy, those Germans have a word for everything! "

Oh, certain non-ethnic coworker, told you. Five bucks, pay up.