Thursday goodies!

Oooo I can't wait for the VP debate this Thursday.
It's gonna be better than any Will Ferrell beer movie,
and I'm going to sit with a big bowl of popcorn as I watch Palin miserably sink to the bottom of the political ocean, searching for secret hand symbols in the audience, hopefully providing her with a decent response.

Here's the thing:
Joe Biden isn't a bully, aggressor, misogynist, extremist, or anti-women.
Fuck, I'm pretty sure he can pull it off in the sack every now and then.
Palin says she watched Biden work Washington in the "second grade". A.K.A. calling him old and contrasting Obama's "Change" campaign.
Hello! Earth to neurons, maybe it's a good thing Biden has something up his spine!
Something called intelligence.
A man with EXPERIENCE (I can't seem to say that enough) instead of a crazy gun holding, power hungry, animal killing liar.
Instead of making fun of the enemy, why don't you prove them wrong with experience, factual evidence, witty retorts, and what your promising a failing country? Show your skills, instead of bashing the knowledge of others!

Right in time for Halloween, trick or treat.
Gimme a musketeer.
Give Biden a chocolate specialty, limited time offer: P-Crunch. So he can a big bite, a juicy morsely chunk from her "qualifications".

Let the entertainment begin.

30 Days of Gone

I was in some type of shallow lake, river, pond, but there was a sewer entrance on one side. Can't remember if that was the only way in, don't think so. I think I jumped in. While in the water I think I was searching for something, a necklace? Definitely something of value. I felt something touch my legs, and could taste the algae and germs. There were mounds of seaweed wistfully grabbing for my own tentacles, but I wasn't frightened. I did mention losing hair and limbs last night. After I retreated from the pond and relived myself from the murky pond a chunk of my right calf was missing--all the way down to the bone. Panic wasn't an option because nothing was bleeding, only horrible to look at. To look down and see nothing. To condemn your own body. The white was very white, and I think it was a symmetrical chunk taken, not ripped, torn, or gnawed. It wasn't even raw, but dry without air.

I was banished. My skin started to retract and act in a backwards fashion. Raw brown, crackly itches and tears. My face seemed to be falling over. Gravity was taking over in extreme fast-forward. I couldn't see what was wrong this time, I had no option to look. No questions. No defense. I didn't have to pray. Only put in a group with people like me to make the differences, well, similar.

What's Correct

America is bankrupt
America is in the midst of a serious health crisis
America is flooding
America is gas shortage
America is bullies
America is fat
America is anorexic sans French
America has stolen
America is obsessed with celebrities
America can't afford college
America is drunk
America forbids tag
America is reality driven, but avoids what's real
America isn't a revolution but a recession
America is lonely
America is racist
America is ignorant
America is it's only ally
America is unpaved
America is walmart
America is avoids independents on all accounts until it's announced by goumba johnny on the radio
America is loud
America is neon
America has a shortage of pumpkins

wannabe?
lets go flood the gates, and change the shades of grey without imitating Staind.

coffee, pastries, tea delights (3)

Welcome to Wonderland

Lewis Carroll once wrote, “Well, when one's lost, I suppose it's good advice to stay where you are until someone finds you. But who'd ever think to look for me here?” Looking to get lost, indulge in some English Tea, or find a wonderland amidst the city streets? Pay a visit to Alice’s Tea Cup and you might not want to be found. This cozy alcove is hidden on the Upper West Side, with an extensive tea list for any liquid junkie. As you walk in aromas of lavender, ginger, and jasmine awaken your senses. It’s hard to pick from the delectable menu, with trays that would make the mad hatter go, well, crazy.

As you sit, the wooden tables are adorned with porcelain teacups and saucers varying in design. The atmosphere is precious, almost like a child’s room, though the menu is anything but childlike. With simplified yet classic décor, Alice Tea Cup avoids cliché by a pound of tea. The main dining room’s border displays flowing, cursive quotations, colorfully painting Alice’s adventures. The confusion of the Caterpillar’s ideals, clever Cheshire’s rhymes, and the White Rabbit’s rushed banter will put you right in the whimsical midst of Wonderland.



At first glance the tea list might be a tad overwhelming, but the staff is friendly and informative, recommending flavor combinations to your liking. Green, black, white and red teas are available by the pot, as well as decaffeinated, organic, and herbal blends. Hot or cold, the teas are delivered quickly in pots, which easily endure five servings. A menu, akin to one Alice might find in the Queen’s kitchen, has elegant descriptions of each blend, offering origins of specific brands, foreign spices, and flavor descriptions. Since the leaves are turning, try Margaret’s Hope, a Darjeeling Autumn blend sure to spicy up your brunch outing. Bring a small party here to sample fine sandwiches and pastries, and on your way out meander around the small gift shops-- filled with Alice’s history and character influences from over the ages. A favorite is the caramelized pumpkin scone with butter and raspberry jam, simply melting in your mouth. Another imaginative delicacy are the delicious crepes; And with fifteen sides to choose from (you get two), we recommend strawberries and marshmallow fluff. Alice’s Tea Cup is a wonderful and anti-intimidating way to expand your tea pallet.

Too much tea for one sitting? Alice’s Tea Cup is too steps ahead, providing to-go cups upon request. The walrus once said, “The time has come, my little friends, to talk of other things”. So go. Talk of many things for hours in this scrumptious world offering Wonderland’s finest flavors…enough to keep the Queen happy.

coffee, pastries, tea delights (2)

Tiny Tang.

You’ll say goodbye and hello over and over. The East Village’s Ciao For Now has the relaxed atmosphere of a family diner, but the flavors of an upscale café. Forget the monopoly, and grab a lemonade or coffee off Avenue A for a pleasant afternoon. Though the décor is not overtly impressive, the mood is inviting. Chairs surround only three corner tables, reminiscent of miniscule Happy Days set. Diners share table space, and quietly acknowledge, instead of invading, your personal area.

Located at 512 E. 12th St. between Avenues A and B, Ciao for Now give you more for your buck with a standard selection of coffees and freshly made sandwiches that are too good to pass up. Try an avocado and cheddar sandwich, topped with guacamole and cucumber with one of their freshly squeezed juices (we recommend grapefruit). Sample the Cobb or Roasted Beet salads with an iced orange juice, for a healthy lunch in a hip place, sans pretension. The fresh mozzarella with pesto, artichoke and tomato between sourdough is simply divine with fresh vegetables and gooey cheese, served fast. Whether you’re coming from work in heels, just rolled out of bed, or finished a class, Ciao For Now welcomes anyone, even if you’re not Italian. Favorite pastries include the ginger snaps and chocolate cupcakes alongside the lovely aroma of a caramel latte.

A young crowd normally stops in to grab a pre-packaged sandwich or yogurt, but the locals enjoy people watching on the two outside benches. With a relaxed vibe, the food is anything but, baristas focus on your special requests. At times, Ciao for Now can become stroller central, crowding the already small space. Music may or may not be playing, probably depending on who is working. Make sure the laptop is fully charged, for outlets are difficult to find. The line moves quickly as managers shout out orders, typical, but assertive, aware of New Yorkers pace. You’ll leave, but say “Ciao” pretty soon when you return. Until next time, Ciao For Now.

coffee, pastries, tea delights (1)

Whatever Size, It’s an A

Little hipster heaven is B Cup, the East Villages coffee shop providing a colorful escape from the brick buildings across the street. Located on the corner of East 13th and Avenue B, B Cup has an array of caffeinated beverages and treats to cure any sweet tooth. Hide away in the corner with a big mug of hot cider and a ‘Big Oreo’, reminiscent of Honey I Shrunk the Kids. Gobs of vanilla icing fill the center of granola cookies; jars of banana cake lure you to the counter, making a decision is nearly impossible. Good to go alone for moleskin artists or bloggers; though also a great atmosphere to catch up with old friends, or for small groups looking to sample all the goodies.

U2, The Verve, and Tori Amos swoon just loud enough to block out the conversation next to you, though don't be afraid to sing along, you are in the East Village after all. Small tables are usually full in this coffee haven with thoughts of wanderers and students filling the cool ambience. Only in its second year, B Cup fits right into the neighborhood’s vibe and grade range, reducing the pressure for A-students everywhere. Patient baristas are welcoming, whipping up tasty Vanilla Infused Coffee or Iced Ginger Twist at the perfect temperature. Try B Cup’s Iced Irish Cream Latte, and you might acquire a wee ole’ accent.

Faux finish orange walls, purple, pink, and yellow painted windows provide colors the coffee the bean just isn’t capable of. A fall breeze plays with hems and scents, blowing flavors back and forth, nose to nose. Though gaudy clutter doesn’t always attract, B Cup combines a relaxed atmosphere with an artsy-feel, filling up the space with clunky jars, comfy chairs, and mis-matching tables. Colors The Beatles dreamed about drip down on the bricks and columns, brightening up the dark wood-paneled floor. Wi-fi access is available, but B Cup is cash only, so bring some extra change in case you put you decide to put ‘that diet’ on hold. Let your tastes buds relish the appetizing Brie and grilled chicken sandwich, or the Goat Cheese Wrap. Sit at the window stools with a yogurt and people watch, or grab a spot on the couch and zone out to Snow Patrol. Newspapers and magazines are available wherever the last customer placed it, encouraging you to unwind and avoid the rush happening outside.

you dissed who?

Letterman on McCain's no-show:

"Somebody's putting something in his Metamucil"

"This just doesn't smell right. This is not the way a tested hero behaves."

But McCain wasn't in Washington to fix things. Instead he was
A) Answering for Katie Couric on CBS [same network]
B) In the same city as cancelled appearance, [New York]
C) In the same time slot at Letterman [11:45PM]

Look's like the white man is running scared.
But more importantly, why would someone dis Dave?

words glory, oh words

I need synonyms for:

aroma
flavor
taste
treats
delectable
spice
waver
bold [as in taste]
decor

writing about drinks is difficult when you're trying to avoid being redundant.

While I wait for you I'll be singing "One More Cup of Coffee" Desire, Bob Dylan

White, Mayer, and you

"Rich Kid Blues" Consolers of the Lonely, The Raconteurs.

Jack White, sexy. Check.

pink board shorts too old for one's drawer cling to the pasty sticky dryer sleeve,
cotton balls mouth balls hedonists balls blue balls
Lauren tennis sweaters purposely placed atop golf clubs and dandy granola, rich boys but something dirty.
SB's attack the gold chains and boards, smile at the wealth you sad sad face we like a random smirk.
All this drama all these watches all these sofas to lay, write, lay, play, lay, write down
Paper with dollar signs stuffed in the assistants wallet, shared success, sunshine.

seven-a theater review

In Conflict
Directed and adapted by: Douglas C. Wager
Based on the book by: Yvonne Latty
Barrow Street Theatre
27 Barrow Street New York, NY 10014
At 7th Avenue, South of Christopher Street
(212) 868-4444
By: Ashley L. Mathus

Winner of the Fringe First award at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe, In Conflict is an eye-opening production, urging American audiences to just listen. Based on Yvonne Latty’s novel, In Conflict is a stunning two-hour retelling of sixteen diverse interviews, staged to spark heavy emotions as Iraq veterans enlighten us with their experiences. Stifled emotions, post-war life, and political views drastically vary, as the production asks, why? The audience is left with feelings of helplessness, sadness, and guilt drawn from a current vital topic.

Temple University’s current and post-graduate students adapt, some more successful than others, accents, post-trauma physicality, and interminable despondency. As the lights dim, recognizable “Army Strong” commercial illuminates contradiction, the prelude to disturbing recounts. Our birds-eye view is directed towards an authoritative horizontal line of eleven, standing tall and proud, right hand raised, pledging ‘allegiance’. The allegiance once vowed is in question, now home. Interviews revealed dubious lifestyles, which in turn severely questioned coping issues sans government support. They embodied individualism, some answering with vigor and passionate ideals, while others disclosed disabilities, raging against a disloyal country. Service abroad provoked a homosexual male’s resistance to re-enlisting; another’s AWOL motives, but justified a female’s college tuition responsibility. Danielle Pinnock, (Lisa Haynes, an Army Reserves Sergeant from Oklahoma), has a memorable performance as her weakened disposition, candid responses, and emotional gaps depicted accuracy. Damon Williams, (double-cast as Private First Class Herold Noel and Marine Corporal Jamel Daniels) outshined others. A convincing performance channeled Noel’s nightmarish PTSD-related manner, and Daniel’s amputation despair, illustrating suppressed anger over daily obstacles.

Observing the students’ attachment to their inspirational non-fiction hero’s pulls at heartstrings. They defend patriotism but confess fears; some can’t help but turn their back against the flag they once saluted. The evident struggle of equilibrium between post-war and everyday tasks ricochets paranoia and social disorders. Truth hovered over the battle line, shouting irreversible memories in the media’s face. In honor, the cast bowed to the veterans, seen through plasma screens on right and left stage. In Conflict succeeds; a first person point of view is heard without political agendas tied to it.


[Look for review later this week on showbusinessweekly.com, thanks!!]
[Please please please go see this if you're in the area! It's wonderful, inspiring, and vital to current political dramz]

six-a theater review

Break Out
Choreographed by: SevenSense Creative Team
Directed by: Jun-Beom Juen
Union Square Theatre
100 East 17th Street New York, NY 10003
(212) 505-0700
By: Ashley L. Mathus

Break Out manages to combine slap stick comedy with excellent dancing for an unexpected outcome. Successfully avoiding 75 minutes of overwhelming exposure to one quality, a clever story line about prisoners momentarily escaping their confinements weaves talent, flawless timing, and awareness from this Korean troupe. Ten dancers merge toprock, downrock, freezing, beatboxing, popping, locking, and yoga, raising the B-boy and B-girl status.

Pre-curtain, da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man loomed over the set, transformed into an iconic breaker pose, the one-handed handstand. Reminded the genre spawns from street-history, historical images of Romans and astronauts were projected as break dancers alongside tribal audio. Upon entrance, text typed itself behind the dancers, introducing character traits, which explained their technical silliness. Breaking the fourth wall, the dancers always worked as a team, running through the isles, disturbing the peace, crowding the stage with windmills and butterfly kicks. Hysterically minimalizing their popping and locking for the escape scene, plush headless dolls were strapped to the dancers’ heads while moving through an ant farm-like escape tunnel. Exposure to detailed bodywork demanded physical attention, proving the elasticity of the genre.

What’s pleasantly surprising is the humor behind the dance. Campy facial expressions were often the endnote to stylish choreography. Dance music propelling yoga poses atop a car or hospital gurney’s made the talented prisoners, loveable. The beatboxing security guard used his gun as a microphone, creatively integrating his only prop. The performance transitioned with ease, moving in slow-motion unison, and then shifting to solos without hesitation. The dancers’ timing was near perfection, never missing a beat with a sharp head jerk or an immediate pause. Meandering around stage lighting similar to a game show, their ever-present bonding and limber comedic timing made for a rhythmic romantic comedy. A somewhat magical bound book, one of the only props, got lost along the way, almost emulating the backdrop when convenient. The prisoner’s dreams were crushed, literally, as symbolic crumpled paper covered rock on the beachy backdrop. Break Out ruptured through the story line, finishing on a high-energy look-what-I-can-do attitude.


Look for review on showbusinessweekly.com in a few days, thanks!

September 19

was in my inbox this morning...

"If Sarah Palin defies the conventional wisdom that says elections are determined by the top of the ticket, and somehow wins this for McCain, what will be the reaction? Yes, blue-state America will go into mourning once again, feeling estranged in its own country. A generation of young Americans - who back Obama in big numbers - will turn cynical, concluding that politics doesn't work after all. And, most depressing, many African-Americans will decide that if even Barack Obama - with all his conspicuous gifts - could not win, then no black man can ever be elected president.

But what of the rest of the world? This is the reaction I fear most. For Obama has stirred an excitement around the globe unmatched by any American politician in living memory. Polling in Germany, France, Britain and Russia shows that Obama would win by whopping majorities, with the pattern repeated in Africa, Asia, the Middle East and Latin America. If November 4 were a global ballot, Obama would win it handsomely. If the free world could choose its leader, it would be Barack Obama.

The crowd of 200,000 that rallied to hear him in Berlin in July did so not only because of his charisma, but also because they know he, like the majority of the world's population, opposed the Iraq war. McCain supported it, peddling the lie that Saddam was linked to 9/11. Non-Americans sense that Obama will not ride roughshod over the international system but will treat alliances and global institutions seriously: McCain wants to bypass the United Nations in favour of a US-friendly League of Democracies. McCain might talk a good game on climate change, but a repeated floor chant at the Republican convention was "Drill, baby, drill!", as if the solution to global warming were not a radical rethink of the US's entire energy system but more offshore oil rigs.

If Americans choose McCain, they will be turning their back on the rest of the world, choosing to show us four more years of the Bush-Cheney finger. And I predict a deeply unpleasant shift.

. . . . For America to make a decision as grave as this one - while the planet boils and with the US fighting two wars - on the trivial basis that a hockey mom is likable and seems down to earth, would be to convey a lack of seriousness, a fleeing from reality, that does indeed suggest a nation in, to quote Weisberg, "historical decline". Let's not forget, McCain's campaign manager boasts that this election is "not about the issues."

Of course I know that even to mention Obama's support around the world is to hurt him. Incredibly, that large Berlin crowd damaged Obama at home, branding him the "candidate of Europe" and making him seem less of a patriotic American. But what does that say about today's America, that the world's esteem is now unwanted? If Americans reject Obama, they will be sending the clearest possible message to the rest of us - and, make no mistake, we shall hear it."

five-a theater review

Enter Laughing: The Musical
Written by: Joseph Stein (play), from the novel by Carl Reiner
Directed by: Stuart Ross
The York Theatre Company
St. Peters Theatre 619 Lexington Ave. New York, New York 10022
212-935-5820
By: Ashley L. Mathus

Enter Laughing: The Musical hysterically exploits David Kolowitz’s (Josh Grisetti) attempt to leave 174th Street for Broadway. Though his character is seriously lacking talent, it’s the 1930s, and Harrison Marlowe (George S. Irving) with the persuasion of his daughter (Janine LaManna), begrudgingly agrees to cast Kolowitz. Gristetti’s animated portrayal allows the audience to subconsciously follow the posted instructions, “Enter Laughing, Exit Hysterical”.

Playful impersonation facilitates Kolowitz’s nerve to audition. Not surprisingly, he imitates his theatre colleagues physically, vocally, and emotionally. Lost in the confusion of stage direction, cues, and line memorization, Kolowitz forgets average concepts, such as walking and talking simultaneously. A miserable first attempt produces the vocalization of stage directions: “Enter laughing”. Marlowe, infused with anger and alcohol, impatiently explains apparent differences. Grisetti comically trots on stage––as if a merman was learning to use his legs––only to protract laughter in multiple octaves. Success results an uproarious response to various relationships witnessed in theater. No intermission, please.

Adapting a Mel Brooks physical diction, the ensembles’ entrances are cued for audience laughter. Amidst the drama, the company echo’s Kolowitz’s distraught nature, wailing behind the scrim ignited by demonic lighting. Irving, ‘the butler’, comically sings about Kolowitz’s fantastical fortune and irresistible stature; dropping names such as Dolores Del Rio, Joan Crawford, and Betty Davis, all who seemed enthralled to shack up with ‘busy’ actor extraordinaire. Kolowitz’s traditional Jewish parents scarcely subside their barefaced opposition, equating more chaos and wardrobe mishaps. Even the live pianist succumbed, lending Kolowitz his suit only to drape a prayer shawl over his shoulders (and boxers) for the remaining musical number.

Random and timely entrances of an energetic ensemble complimented Kolowitz’s hilarious stage fright. Stereotypical stage manager, Pike (Erick Devine) has riotous corporeal entrances, frantically chasing Kolowitz behind the scrim, blatantly handing props through the wings, and barely reading lines under his breath. Enter Laughing peaks as Kolowitz’s gangly grand entrance renders catastrophic stumbling onto le stage. Wide-eyed and terrified, an immobile figure purposely stood bewildered towards the waiting audience. We played our part too, laughing at his foolish entrance, taking pleasure in falling prey to the title.


(Also look for my review on Showbusinessweekly.com, thanks!)

yea, I'm in love

a follow up dessert drink to the previous meaty post.

a poet and pinot

A selection from Bixby Canyon, by Allen Ginsberg

"Sand castles Neal, white plasm balls round
jellies-
Skeleton snaketubes & black
nostrils' seaweed-tail dry-wrinkled
brown seabulb & rednailed
cactus blossom-petal tongues-
Brownpickle saltwater tomato ball
rubber tail Spaghettied
with leafmeat,
Mucus-softness crown'd Laurel thong-hat
Father Whale gunk transparent
yellowleaf egg-sac sandy
lotos-petal cast back to cold
watersurge.
Bouquet of old seaweed
on a striped blanket, kelp tentacle spread
round the prayer place
Hermes silver
firelight spread over wave sunglare-
The Cosmic Miasma Anxiety meditating nakedman
-Soft Bonepipe!
Musical Sea-knee gristlebone rubber
burp footswat beard ball bounce
of homosexual Shlurp ocean hish
Sabahadabadie Sound-limit
to Evil-"

Hello, Columbus?

First the game loss, now no power?!
To all my friends in Cbus w/o the electric light, here's to you:

"Car Songs", I Know You're Married But I've Got Feelings Too, Martha Wainwright

"Turn the key and warm up the vehicle, windows fog and I'm in my little bubble"

OR

If you wanna dance in the dark with candles, as Murz, Anton, and I once did, try "Electric Feel" Oracular Spectacular, MGMT.

That is, however, only to be used if you're at 100% MacBook battery power.

Burn your memory.

Started off the week last night with circular forces, alas I saw the new movie Burn Before Reading.
You know, the film with all the fabulous ensemble: George Clooney, Tilda Swinson, Frances McDormand, John Malkovich, and Brad Pitt. For some reason everyone has trouble remembering the title of this movie, but when you mention who's in it, a nod of aggressive certainty surfaces.

Before the movie even began, the preview's sound scores sounded amazing, with dramatic booms of gunshots, cries, and protests galore (no doubt was advertising Milk, the upcoming Sean Penn flick). Couldn't tell you anything about what the movies looked like though, because the screen was blank. Noise, but no picture. Something was clearly wrong with our screen. When an audience pays $10.75 each, half the evening revolves around the previews...Dane Cook can tell you all about the excitement. I personally don't swing either way, just as long as I see the opening scene of the movie I actually paid for. Two old ladies, a row in front of us, were complaining about the screen problems, questioned the theater's ability to hire people, "They must've picked these employees from the street!", imitated dimming the lights with vulgar hand gestures, and protested about our free tickets. But did they ever move from their seats? No. Just sat there bitching about technology and prices. If you're going to talk but refuse to act, then at least keep your complaints low enough so the teenagers drinking Bacardi in the back won't hear you. "Can I get a free hot dog?!" How fat can you be?

Burn Before Reading is pretty much a movie about nothing. The nothing is worth checking out however, if you have the time to spare. Beware most of the comedic moments are given away in the movie trailer, but John Malkovich saves us from solace with his dual character presidential personification in the concluding scene. The Coen brothers can do whatever the hell they want, because well any studio and actor will beg to receive the notoriety they so cleverly produce; but the arrow missed the center mark swaying from moments of dark humor and paranoia to random humor accepted by straight-laced society (a.k.a. iPOD funnies). Do ya have to dumb it down that much? The paranoia of paranoia was funny to me, because I too have once thought everyone was after me for some reason or another, and felt there was no where to turn except Venezuela.

McDormand has a dull middle-class vibe, and for some reason irritated me throughout the entire film. Her ability to shut people up before listening to them drove me crazy, and I prayed the cameras would stop panning her bulky figure and cheap-looking bob. That was probably meant to irritate me, and therefore fell prey to the Coen's objective. (Spoiler alert) Pitt had his moments, and the best one happened a split second before his death as he hid in Swinson's closest with the biggest grin I have ever seen on his aging face. His expression was like someone on extasy who encountered jesus' hand on their neck. Clooney's best scene is the unveiling of his 'gift', for his wife, to McDormand. The surprise: A chair that rocks back and forth with a dildo in the middle of the seat, optimizing time and space.

Overall, the nuisance of a predicament which should have never escalated as far as it did brings chaos to everyone except where the movie started, the C.I.A. The big honchos don't seem to care, but are bewildered but the sequence of events. People who originally seemed like a threat are either dead by accident, or work at a gym. McDormand has positioned herself to ultimately get her useless surgery, and we learn divorce is the sixth element to paranoid people in Washington DC.

It's a train ride, for me

Takin' the train docked, parked & settled near river bends of shadows, streams, ashes and heros.
Experimental vexation. Combinations of wind patterns and surprises leads to fallen figurines loved by their own unknown.
You are the body, outlined in view by someone 3'3 and curly brown hair, looking at frames with an ideal picture, idolizing you.
Boy oh boy do you have goals for them, goal, skoal, holes dribble dribble drop down to lunges, forced to pick up the remains.
This is the side with seeds, the side with an historical glimpse too close for comfort.
Lay me down where the plants keep growing, and weeds take their lead from sunflowers and daisies and pomegranate leaves for those lovable worms crawlin' up your green sleeve of purification.

funnies

"I was working a club in Newark, and somebody bent over and his gun fell out on the floor. And everybody was checking their coats to make sure it wasn't their gun." _Wanda Sykes

" As a writer, George Carlin was the closest thing to Jonathan Swift we got. He was like a weird combination of Twain and Swift, with a little bit of old-time New York what-the-fuck. 'Anorexia: What do I give a shit if some little rich cunt won't eat?' "
_Robin Williams, quoting Carlin.

blank.

I mistook a Missoni sample perfume bottle wrapper for a chocolate candy bar,
craved in my mind by putting off other certain activities.
I want to have cigarettes delivered to me as i stumble to stop, but quickly forget only to realize I'm not in college town anymore, and taxes are higher here than Mount Everest.
That, and no one delivers. I thought I was on the east coast.

I either pay for wi-fi or listen to guitar hero in the background. Oh wait, that was July. Shit I guess it's September and we're still spinning sounds of decadence and glory to finishing something we wanted to finish a year before it ended.
Letterman's in the background, and I just read an article about him, so I feel a bit guilty.

Mocha freezes itself on my

[not technically mine but I paid for them so I own this exact publication until i leave it somewhere, and someone claims it and I have to defend my name to a stranger by flashing my ID]

pages as they rip curl into waves of failed reigns and bully's, ganging up on mean fellows and female hurricanes. I just had a thought, but I forgot because the Internet is too slow and my mind forgets as fast as it creates. Oh wait, that was my thought: Impatience. Yes. Is it me or this thing in front of me telling my subconscious it really should be going faster?
WARP SPEED.
"Faster, Faster!" (I'm quoting Alice, or was it the Queen? 4th grade was so long ago.)
GO GO GO GRAB THE NEW 3.410984792 MILLIONTH VERSION OF THIS PROGRAM.
Before you blink it's there, on the screen.
IT READ MINDS TOO, AND ISN'T THAT FABULOUS.

wait.
i changed my mind.
I don't want you to know where I'm going or where I'm from. Delete me from your inventory, please. Shouldn't I have a say in where my own social security number is seen? Google maps bam boom beam me up scotty lets go visit space and play with the stars. You think that's old terminology? Welcome to the now, and in space we even have Tide. Go clean, go home.

Bam baby flip dip side to side

"I'm gonna make you very very very very very very very famous.
Annnnd then I'm gonna make you very very very very very very rich."

Solid.
Inbox dynamite.

Anton's response:

track:

"America Is Waiting" My Life In the Bush of Ghosts, Brian Eno & David Byrne

Makes me think of dodgy edits, funky sneakers, empty gas pumps, sped up news, and a dance teacher/colleague.

Onward and downward!

Reading an older version of The New Yorker today on the beach, and came across a hilarious bit from Anthony Lane's piece about the first week of the Olympics (which, p.s., I miss terribly). Anywho, it cracked me up...

"It will be scant consolation, however, to Lord Coe. Formerly Sebastian Coe, part of the shining generation of British middle-distance runners in the nineteen-eighties, he now heads the team that will bring the Olympics to London in 2012. I tried to pick him out among the V.I.P.s on that first Friday, but without success. He may have been hiding in the men's room, calling home to order more light bulbs. You can imagine the rising panic in his voice: 'They had two thousand and eight drummers, all lit up. Yes, two thousand and eight. And what have we got so far? Elton John on a trampoline.' "

Ha Ha Ha.
Gotta love it because, well, yea we'll see.

Bad advert.

Someone PLEASE tell me why Bristol Palin decided to put on an OSU sweatshirt when she adorned the cover of the New York Post?!

This is unfair advertising for THE Ohio State University.
The girl (and her jock boyfriend) are still in high school, but people who don't read could possibly think their unlawfulness stems from a great college.
I know this won't be covered in the press, because who cares what she's wearing besides Page Six; however, it was an unlikely chance this would happen.
Oh but it did.
And happens to be my alma mater.
And makes me really agitated.
Just tell me he won't be scouted for our hockey team and we'll be even.

I refuse to post the pic because the image is jaw-dropping and scary every single time I walk past the coffee table.
[Not your preferred coffee table book, by the way.]
I think that model sweatshirt was sold in 1979, because I've never seen that nutty arrangement at SBX. Ever.

Damnit, that wasn't the first thing I wanted to see with my morning coffee.
Go Bucks!