i scare myself!!! wtf!! password: weird
it’s true! this heart is burning up! mostly as a tribute to walk the moon, which i only really listened to today (kenyon gasp! encore, encore! i feel the tingly sprigs of associative fame!). on a more medical note – my heart is also literally burning. lack of AC, august, etc. etc. AND THE FACT THAT I AM MOVING right now! with, apparently, all of young new york — which the new yorker has appropriately couched in this week’s shouts & murmurs, “EVERYTHING MUST GO” — “i command you to BURN EVERYTHING.”
that article and this walk the moon song are all billowing together into this labor day weekend’s chthonic motif of HOT HOT MOVING HELL.
in other news, this garden looks like intestines! it’s the marqueyssac gardens in france (what actually came up when i googled ‘intestinal gardens’). dis was originally the estate of louis xiv’s counselor, bertrand vernet de marqueyssac (woof), but it didn’t get gussied up (intestinified) until the 1860s when its new owner planted boxwood, linden, cyrpress, and stone pine trees and carved them into crazy anatomical goobs. just another reason to love trees. those trees in the foreground look like salt shakers too (also those weird little cakes with maraschino cherries on top, and cylindrical breasts), which is obviously +++.
ok y’all, time to move. goodbye east williamsburg, streets full of shit, hello prospect heights — you don’t gotta be bertrand vernet to have gardens (prospect park!!!!!) in your backyard : )
“it’s very dark in this alleyway, lionel, but i’m glad you showed it to me.”
“let’s not pussyfoot it willy, you know what i’m here for.”
“you know the last time i made it out of the factory edward heath was milling about. the queen presumably still had great legs.”
“certainly she did not. you can’t be queen and have those legs trolling about.”
“’71…then it was all ‘mungo jerry’ and ‘the osmunds,’ shagging and ‘mug-o-lunch’…”
“aye m’lady. mug-o-lunch.” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wRshtfZ6qk8
“such a great year for flavors…”
“you had quite a bit of paperwork in ’71 too, didn’t you, willy?”
“how do you mean.”
“what from all of the accidents. the transitive properties of your so called SWEETS, willy, your demon sweets.”
“those children were all bad eggs.”
“don’t be a brash willy. those triglycerides have corroded your head.”
“say do you smell that? something smells foul. this alleyway gives me the creeps, lionel, i’d like to leave now.”
“hand it over willy.”
“lionel, you know very well i–”
“we have an agreement, willy.”
“lionel you know agreements are not really my forte, slugworth, ipso facto”
“the gshshgoppptrrzz willy.”
“i’m sorry lionel i don’t quite understand, what is it that you want?”
“grasshoppers? certainly! right away, lionel! at once!”
“lionel you must annunciate better. we aren’t czech for god sakes, we have vowels. british vowels! vowels are the kernels of english omnipotence, lionel. the british have made them global phenomena, lionel, like tea, so you must use them! they demand your allegiance!”
“have a better try, lionel, let’s have the very best of shoreditch hear you. the editors. the critics–”
“WILLY WONKA, GIVE ME MY GOBSTOPPERS.”
the bar i would open would be piñata-themed, but not overtly – just full of little destructible tanks of goodies. the piñatas would come in all forms. there would be the classic donkey, yes, but there would also be naturally occurring piñatas like beehives stuffed with honeycomb and fake blowfish stuffed with milk taffies and ruby gum balls. there would also be disco-balls stuffed with funfetti (crowd pleaser, kid friendly). the floor would be bubble-wrap quality, producing little poofs of pixie sugar with each step. upon entering, patrons would be given little bats so they could order a donkey “on tap,” thenceforth striking the closest donkey with goodies to spare. for decor, there would be pictures of the great pinateers on the walls: conquistadors and Ecuadors and commodores all tipping their hats to their papery foes before striking them empty of their indigenous spoils. the darkest kept secret of the bar would be that ONE piñata could NEVER be bashed and bore the immortal fruit of a thousand imperial colonies: ancient earth gummies, mother of pearl gumballs, unicorn teeth, dead sun chocolate, and berries from a million hills. this immortal piñata’s strategic location was in the back of the bar, next to the toilets, where no one ever went because they’d be preoccupied by the maze of other dangly piñatas. the chalkboard out front would lure passersby with “$4 margs + a million tootsies! free when you bash the donkey!” it’s not really a good idea for a bar really, nor are there many puns to draw upon, but i guarantee having piñata carcasses strewn about would create that plush post-party, dystopian chaos that’s this summer’s (and last+next summer’s) biggest hit (i.e. kanye’s scariest album yet, baz luhrmann’s gatsby on crack, the bling ring, etc. etc.). at best, the bar would be so great that ken burns would make a movie out of it so that all my little piñatas could have the sepia-toned afterlife they deserved. i hear heaven keeps piñatas fully stocked with mayan chocolates and life-giving pomegranate seeds, so have you any concerns, don’t– i will retire the piñatas when they are due, and they will live happily ever after in piñata heaven.
secondly, i want to go to ibiza! eyyyy miercoles!
I. seventeen flushes elapsed before I finished my project in the plum-colored ladies room: replacing each one of my teeth with a new, “upgraded” tooth. I’d purchased them – “FIREFOX ENAMEL 4.7” – on a whim in Duane Reade. it’s summertime and I, like every woman in the app biz, faced the seismic pressure to GLEAM. as an innovator (a sort of “CSS cowgirl” if you will), I don’t balk at modern technology. especially if it purports the seductive grin of a snow-toothed woman. on the box she looks so happy and bright. like her, I too am poised at the apex of evolution– but I admit– my teeth are two generations behind. though the model’s teeth seem slightly too large for her mouth, I take it for some “fresh architecture,” the dental avant garde, and ran my finger comparatively over my own humbly-sized grin. jocular walrus begone! i thought with box in hand.
II. the box read:
Purpose: Look better than ever is easy with totally new teeth. Simply replace old teeth with new teeth in FIREFOX’S Three Easy Steps.
Directions: Arrange FIREFOX teeth in correct order prior to replacement. Extract old teeth with FIREFOX-PLIER one at a time, starting with top front teeth, then bottom front teeth, then remaining teeth. Insert new FIREFOX teeth one by one. Make sure alignment is correct by slipping root into preexisting root canals. For best results, upgrade FIREFOX teeth yearly and brush with FIREFOX ALBATRON TOOTH PASTE.
III. & so, two weeks later on business in Berlin, I found a warped version of myself cowered in front of the bathroom mirror attempting to “align my roots with current root canals.” I had replaced all but my two front teeth before the convention, but the pain was wild. I realized shamefully how closely I resembled Edward Munch’s the scream– such an outdated relic! after the seventeenth flush I heard the speaker announce the winner of this year’s tech grammy. I thought of all the hard work my Germanic ancestors had put into hoisting me into the peak of intellectual and aesthetic evolution, and how my double helix of personal fortitude was Jack’s Beanstalk compared to your average street-person. how i was to prevail. how now was the time to make good of my dentifrices. I jammed the final tooth into place and ran into the auditorium to accept my award.
I have no regrets about my purchase even though my mouth remains so inflamed that I can no longer speak. fortunately I communicate entirely through tweets, hashberries and ##soundclouds. my children, now four and seven, are poised to become the next tech-innovators of lower manhattan and will soon be the lawful patrons of FIREFOX 6.8 teeth. smile, bratz 😀
the bathymetric surveys are complete, the pressure
reader says to please plant a hundred spuds into
R&L temples; this is the epi(gr)(t)aph of an insane person; I’m well aware
it’s just that Woody Allen and Phil Lesh are at opposite ends of the tightrope
in dinky mankinis singing Andrea Bocelli in round,
overwrought and underwrought & caught
assright on the tightrope—
I am the effulgent tidying of hairpins on your Victorian Ghost
princely constellations of nectarines
I want to pick every last one.
to the Bank!
where was I—
somewhere on Henry Street, wearing pants, about to deposit a
rent check in good faith, in crisp weather, for account number
ending in: Current Location: adrift:
off-course, apostasy, hazy-eyed ration kids, Sundays without Licorice!
the small king Rolfe knifing pomegranates in the bath, sequestering rubies,
sugarplum tangelos, perched in the lithosphere, preening brain fibers,
or nectarines! or Flight Alerts,
for the Archibalds,
or bacon-skinned archipelagos vacationing to Middle Earth,
in broad-brimmed hats, V-flights & sonar,
aquatic jungles and “pop turtles” plucked from thistles in
very dangerous seas, rife with seismic thrush! and on land, the ice squawks,
of a thousand angry puffins bearing presidential faces incanting, “Rushmore
in the flesh! Rushmore for the beak!”–their edict. Bombasts. Snaffoons. A real pigeon,
then a subterranean rumble. a brown pebble dislodged from my shoe.
a cat popped off that fence.
and fence, fence?
point A to B, fence. to:
account number ending in 00925.
I’m at the bank now
and a problem told me it just wants a hug.
i just finished the marriage plot. when you finish a book and realize you adore it, what do you do? I bought too much produce and cooked three kinds of soup. then I did some floor stretches and made the decision about where I want to live and work next year. then I thought about all of the places I could find a sleeping bag and what would be an appropriate trade if i took a homeless man’s – clearly a really, really warm blanket. after that lapse in judgment I googled soothing pictures of igneous rock layers and hummed “glory days.” i’m still not sure whether or not song titles belong in quotes or italics; i would rather put them in italics but know quotes are right. i wondered what it would be like to own a bird. if david foster wallace’s mouth really tasted like metal and cigarettes. if mitchell looked more like david sedaris or rick moranis – and that maybe a similar confusion kept madeleine’s lust for him at bay. i’m wondering why there are horns tooting outside my window at 11:24p.m. on a sunday. if studying yeast for a summer would make me depressed too, and if leonard’s haploid/diploid allegory for love is really true (i hope it is not). what a staph infection might look like on my shin. i kept seeing leonard running around in his vintage cape like a little bat, what his swollen leg-hair follicles looked like at their worst. i saw still frames of madeleine nibbling an oreo at the sweaty manhattan house party, the sounds from leonard’s walk in the snow, and a vision of his brain synapses dying like world energy supply satellite images percolating in reverse. i thought about madeleine’s semi-hot yearbook picture, mitchell’s deodorant stick versus the mouse-nibbled survival kit breadstick, the uneaten pie between leonard and madeleine waiting for their lease to be drawn up, phyllida’s voice on the phone, a similar mishap i once had to madeleine at the toga party, and of course, roland barthes’s poisonous injection: “once the first avowal has been made… ‘I Love You’ has no meaning whatever.”
forgiveness is at the heart of this book which makes it both the best and the worst. it’s why we entertain the mitchells and endure the leonards and hold out for the heathcliffs.
good luck duck.
she toppled out of the cab, droll little mouth sinched along the seams of her prada clutch, paying in cash to avoid the 25% tip credit minimum. as soon as she materialized on the curb, a tiny cat descended on a cloud and clenched the end of her boa in its teeth.
but the kitty grinned and pressed the button on its cloud and zoomed back to heaven.
why all dem renaissance painters paintin fruit?
Radiolab “Color” Recap:
The light SHATTERED and became a rainbow on the wall.
“A colored image of the sun.”
Newton said. And gathered white was the sum of all colors, the kaleighdoscopic prism brain, not savory puffs of God’s baby breath.
The poets were pissed.
“He’s removed all the poetry from the rainbow!!!!!” pitchforkpitchforkpitchfork
But thanks to good old Goethe and the ghost of his purple crocus (NOT the Middlesex reckoning of the bud), we know that colors are tricks of the imagination.
No perfectly objective view of color.
And that was a conclusion brought to you by poets and scientists – warring tribes of Right and Left, ions of the withering brisket, summertime sultans, & Petes in the petri dish. My heart halves equally in the palms of your holy lands.
I’ve missed you all!