Dear Helen,

WAITLESS

Your lives spent
giving care
and taking care
go through all of us
tonight. Dear
unwritten sleep,
dark carrier,
funny scales,
kindly feel
how Light
this one is,
her own heart
Elsewhere.

HEY, HO!!

There.

Now that I got your attention, I will do some whoring here for my friend Graeme.

Graeme is a cute guy I met on Goodreads.

He's not only cute. He's also stylish. And spiritual. And taken.

He lives in Wicker Park.

The winter I had a big crush on Graeme I went around saying "Uff-da!" all the time.

Because I had picked it up off him.

I think they made a bad movie about it. Wicker Park. I don't know who they are, but they know who they are. You know who you are. As the teacher used to say when she wanted to make everyone feel bad the way only a good Nazi can do.

Graeme is now an ETSY boy.

That means he's even hotter.

I told him this news made me want to write a song, ETSY BOYS, which would be the gay companion piece to the (mostly) straight song TESLA GIRLS.

I've already visited and I can see it's like a lovely museum.

I can see he's doing this in part to do the beautiful photography--which is what items like these seduce you into doing.

They are models. The books. The rusty metal. The old glass.

They are waifs. They eat nothing. They just wait to be admired.

This is the life of an antique, an oddity, a chimera.

We grow jealous.

Being merely human.


GRAEME WRITES:

The photography rocks too. (Okay, he didn't write that on the link. I did.) He wrote the following though...


Note: Jetsam & Juniper is my new Etsy store; I sell all kinds of curious objects and ephemera. Including vintage books where you too can read and enjoy the line,
"I felt as though a she-cat had littered in my mouth." Not exactly The Jungle Book!


(I know, it's a mass email; write back if we haven't chatted in a while, I'd like to hear from you all! I've been busy launching my new Etsy endeavor! And other creative endeavors!)


xoxoxo,
-Graeme

David Attenborough Observed (of Some Animals)

"There is a delicate balance
between fucking and babysitting."

I think

Got drunk that saturday
six gay boys floated over
obscenely drunk before they started drinking
got obscener / cuter
sweating undressing
the reason we drink
dvds all over the floor
they put in
whatever they wanted
that notorious attention span
why did i think
bitchy thoughts
i felt like a fucking scoutmaster
why do they pick
all the goriest fucking movies
"dude, it's fucking sexy!"
about organs coming out of the human body
in the most violent ways
told them not to fuck
on your end of the sofa
got naked but i left
after accepting
a pro forma blowjob
not to be rude
sex hosts its fucking self get real martha stewart
ended up in a bathub upstairs
reading poetry by candlelight
too funny i know
didnt do it
for drama queen effect
just wanted hot water to hold me
fucking: the soundtrack
a serial killer's victims
kept screaming
and the boys were laughing
while fucking
how do you watch SAW
or whatever
while you're fucking a human ass
or mouth whatever
two times a different guy
visited me
to see if "i was alright"
or wanted to join in
or be joined in the tub
i joked about the knife
under the bubble bath
why did he look scared
a joke dude
they look like caravaggios
in the candlelight
except with socks on
socks are not very renaissance
everybody has a father
i thought then
they left in twos
and called me on my phone
to say bye later
laughing thanks
well one left alone
and one stayed
asleep
the whole house
smelled like ass
and i had to cover that one up
i felt like my Dad
the whole house
smelled like ass
did i say that already
i sprayed a can of lavender
fields all over the house
like a magic housewife
i think i was missing you
then i went into the dark kitchen
and played with the refrigerator magnets
like fucking Sappho
or Mia Farrow probably does after midnight

The Gay Scene in 25 Words or Less

ice queens
ice clowns
blowjobs
snowjobs

ass clowns
phone bones
Snow White
has Betty White's

liver

blond(e)
charm/harm
in a bottle

ALIEN
VERSUS
PREDATOR!

I Like to Pretend Sex is Educational

i like to pretend
like sex is educational
and that way it's okay to do more
i'm not sportfucking i'm studying
STFU i am
we should do something educational today
like blowjobs and rimming and philosophy like that
some frog philosophy like deleuze
or watteau some gay assclown painter
like that
that's really educational
like felching or howard stern
i like to be educated creep and hard
go from frogging to man phrogging
phrogging is moving in
secretly on your boyfriend
you live in his attic his car or his ass
like an assclown with antics
an ice clown does he take you for snow cones
an ice clone does he take you for snow cones
then you watch Alien Vs Predator twice
it can be really educational
to be fucked then fucked over
that's one of the most educational things going
some assclown got a mold
that thing you call your heart
i mean sorry
we should go back to being educators
and students at the same time
purge your hubris while you're fucking
saying you teach me as much as i teach you
like a pedophile teacher always says
later he starts talking about his soon divorce
in between bites of napoleon
and one of the students pushes him
to have gay sex cuz the teacher cries in class
so he is so lonely
he lets the straight student fuck him up the ass
which is really sad
but educational
this is all part of the process
later he gives the assfuckee a glass apple
the student does
i mean it's irony like germans do
or asshole poets
its like that movie where Emil Jannings crows like a rooster
and the teacher throws the glass apple
at the straight student who fucked him up the ass
the week he cried
because his wife didn't love him
and he kills the straight student
the adonisy thing is dead
right there with words on the blackboard
and the teacher doesn't even more
from his chair
he just waits for them to come
that's my idea of dollar-intensive education
that's where the whole school learns together
like a big orgasm in a porn theater
the seats should be sticky afterwards

from all that fucking learning / hardcore learning

Being Gay is a Lot Like Farming

Gay boys are a lot like farm animals
like gay boys like farm animals
They like to be farmed
And they like to farm
It's a porn thing too
Put more straw down
and the boys will come
OMFG I know that's not
your collection of BOYD BEARS
I mean just kill yourself right now
That's not the sort of farming
I'm talking about
Boys who say
I like farming
I like pharming
I like farming gay boys
who like farm animals
sometimes gay boys like their boyfriends
to farm them out
and this is OUT farming
or OUTpharming
outkast sex during outcast sex
outhouse sex
that's like sex in a car
but i'm germophobic
farm animals sometimes wear
gym shorts or athletic shirts
for sports they didn't play
i guess hohum blowjob irony
just give him the blowjob award
there's no afterschool special
about autoasphyxiation highs
but maybe soon
I meant you not me
I like playing GAY FROGGER
you have to leap from forty to twenty
while abercrombie & fitch
aberrant bitches come by at 70 fellatio mph
You're not insulting them
i like to call them that
call them out "hey, aberrant bitches!"
are you phishing for phisting
it's all in a farm animal's day
Gay boys who like to be like farm animals
like to be like farm animals
farm animals take a lot of pharm
in the alley last night
i was so fucked up i thought
i heard a kitten meowing
but it was a seagull
what if you were so drunk
you tried to "rescue" a seagull
it might meow
but it would eat your eyes out
that's farm animal cool
and that's cool too
i think you're tractor beam's sexy
I'm too tired to play GAY FROGGER today
we could get krunk
gay farm animals get krunk
Dave Matthews gets crunk
the c is for hetero scum
oh Dave's not scum
yes he is just cuz he gets high
doesn't mean
and have sex with the farm animals
i mean the gay boys the pharm animals
it's funny when a masochist
says "that's degrading"
because it's like a milkshake
to them they suck it dry
the degrading part
if you know Kelis sang that you're already too old

too old to fuck with the farm animals anymore sportage

Aussprache von frogging: Wie man frogging auf Englisch ausspricht

It makes me horny and I don't know why.

Ausspracheführer: Lernen Sie frogging auf....something...what's something in German? etwas? I remember a lot of German even though I don't know the language well at all...I do have a few thousand words up my sleeves and all that touristy phrase shit because when I was a kid I listened to a bunch of tapes and read those Berlitz books etc...

I like to hear Germans pronouncing things all day.


That will be my next "gallery show."


Germans pronouncing things all day.


Finer than our Churman knives?!?






Ausspracheführer is scary. And sexy. And scary. Scary-sexy. Sexy-scary.

I was having fun on FORVO, if you haven't guessed by now.

Even their t-shirt ad is creepy.

Why can't they show the guy's head?


FORVO is not just for German pronunciation. It's many languages.

It's actually based out of San Sebastian, Spain.



I would like the shirt though.

although it's gay that they also call it a pronunciary.

don't use that word again.


Baby don't hurt me. No mo.






This IS the golden phone.




German food sucks.



Remember when Snoop took his family there and they all got sick until they found the KFC.

Fuck you. I'm not being racist. That's what happened.

And I would have followed them to the KFC.


But that food makes me sick later.


I don't know what the fuck they cook it in.


Not even Hardees does that shit to me.


I eat that like once every six months.



My one boss was a beautiful young girl and she ate KFC chicken every day. She had perfect skin and weighed 115 pounds or something.


I'd hate to see her arteries though.

Lies I Have Told Recently

from my BLOG OF LIES (see blogroll at left for more)

Total Lie

I don't think Hello Kitty tampons are "a brilliant idea."

I Would Not

I would not date Spongebob Squarepants. I mean if he had a penis.

Guiness-Sized Lie

I have not stayed in a bathtub for eighty-seven continuous days in order to challenge the Guiness Book of World Record's current champion in the category "Human Prunes."

I Have Not

I have not returned bathroom tile to Home Depot in winter, listing the reason for return as "it got cold."

Lie

I am not jealous of babies born with gills.


Lie

I have never asked the government to allow me to purchase porn tax-free, since "it is my religion."


Time Travel Lie

If I had a time machine, I would not put a hundred wide screen televisions playing porn on the battlefield at Gettysburg in order to be the first human to win the Nobel Peace Prize before it even existed.

The Mice and the Crisco Party (A Fable)

Some frivolous mice were planning a Crisco party.

They planned it with much excitement in their little scavenger hearts.

The computer-literate mice of the set even made up elaborate and rather cute invitations.

It was all the mice thought about all day and night at work. They did their regular jobs: filching, sneaking, spying, scurrying, etc.

But they fantasized about the upcoming Crisco party the whole time they were doing these things. (Interesting scientific fact: 93% of mouse consciousness consists of fantasizing.)

Some of the ripped gym-mice even went out and bought hot outfits for the Crisco party. They bought tight fitting shirts that sheathed them like condoms, showing off every detail of their sculpted chests. They went to stores with names like Abercrummy & Filth, Steal and Weasel. These are some of the stores where tonier mice shop.

Many people are not even aware that there are tonier mice! Imagine!

But then many people don't know what years the American Civil War was fought, which side won that conflict, or even that Abraham Lincoln was a man-frogger.

Of course, no unattractive mice were invited to the Crisco party.

They would have to spend the evening smelling the Crisco wafting in from the distance, glamorous as Riviera breezes. They would spend the night eating granola crumbs, apple cores and rue. They would talk very loudly that night so they could hear one another over the thumping bass of the sound system and the treble mouse squeals of pleasure from the Crisco party to which they had not been invited.

Friday night came and the Crisco party began.

Mice paparazzi snapped photos of the more glamorous mice arriving with more of the more glamorous mice. A few Fruit Roll-Ups served as a red carpet. These mice paparazzi were chased away by stouter mice with bad personalities formed from abuse of steroids they had stolen from the host human's medicine cabinet. These goon mice did their job very well. The non-steroidal mice were tossed like frisbees from goon to goon and then kicked to the metaphorical curb. (There was no actual curb in the kitchen because that would have been stupid. Who has a curb in their kitchen?)

After an hour or two, the Crisco party was in full swing.

Only half the mice remembered their names at this point, and the other half were taking horrible advantage of these temporarily nameless mice.

The Crisco was festively spread all over the kitchen. It was just after midnight. The mouse-stereos were throbbing away, vibrating like overworked hearts, pumping out some stupid repeating lyric with the word "Baby" said way too many times. "Baby" was told to do something in the song. Over and over. And then "baby" was told in the song not to do something. Over and over.

Nobody heard the front door click open.

Blame it on "baby."

Not a single mouse heard the mistress of the house set the cat carrier down on the foyer carpet.

Not one Crisco reveler heard the click as the latch of the cat carrier was sprung. Not one mouse heard the door spring open. Not one heard the assassin--"Mr. Peepers"--pounce from the claustrophobic cat carrier to the floor.

The mistress of the house was cat-sitting!

The cat did, however, hear and smell the Crisco party. He had heard it and smelled it even while he was still in the carrier. And he could not wait.

Now I will tell you what you already know, just like God does in the Bible--over and and over.

It was a Crisco bloodbath. Mice tried to scurry but Crisco makes scurrying impossible. They tried to escape but they were like the mice in cartoons, endlessly running in place.

The cat's paws flew through the air, two terrible maces with knives.

Mice had their spines broken as they were batted against cupboards, against plant stands, against novelty ceramic pigs.

Mice were beheaded. Mice were maimed. Death was the cause of coitus interruptus on several occasions.

Mr. Peepers at one point actually bit both heads at once off two mice who were making the rodent with two backs.

The Crisco can was a pool of blood with severed limbs stuck in it by the time the attack was over.

Only a few mice survived the party, and almost every one of these was terribly scarred. They were soon relegated to the lonely end of the mouse gene pool.

The unattractive mice tried not to take too much pleasure or be too smug about the Crisco Bloodbath, as it came to be known.

But you can imagine how unsuccessful they were at that.

MORAL: THERE ARE TOO MANY BLOODY BABIES IN THE WORLD.

Micachu = Best Thing Since Bjork

When, Exactly, Did Rough Trades Wise up and Snatch Up Micachu?

Best envelopment since The Smiths.

Kudos RT.

I Heart Kate

Think it's cool that she used Iceland to start her career.

Boys Say Go

Animals and Reflections

Experiments have shown that only large-brained social animals are able to recognise that a mirror shows a reflection of themselves.[27]

Animals that have shown they are able to use a mirror to study themselves:

Asian elephants
Bonobos
Common chimpanzees
Dolphins
Magpies
Orangutans
European Magpies

--Wiki

Mirror Fact

"Due to its location in a steep-sided valley, the Italian town of Viganella gets no direct sunlight for seven weeks each winter. In 2006 a €100,000 computer-controlled mirror, 8×5 m, was installed to reflect sunlight into the town's piazza. In early 2007 the similarly situated village of Bondo, Switzerland, was considering applying this solution as well.[23][24] Mirrors can be used to produce enhanced lighting effects in greenhouses or conservatories."--Wiki

Mirror

Among mortals,
it's a little-known fact
that Lucifer ("Light-Bearer")

invented me. Angels suddenly
wanted more. Heaven fell.
And so began the Shopping Spree.

Mirror

I sleep naked.

Mirror

From Hubble to compact,
I'm all about impact.

Mirror as Femme Fatale

"I truly pity the one
who marries me..."

Traducing Mirror

Nothing could ever
make me forget you

except another.

Mirror as Terroristic Couple

We're a funny self-infatuation
and a medicated fake grin.

We keep loudly divorcing
and marrying again,

much to our hostages'
(I mean our friends'!)

collective chagrin.

Mirror

"You can say
whatever you want,
but nothing's
gonna make me
change my mind."

Pissed Mirror

"You take everything I say
and then you turn it around!"

Mirror, the Braggart

I never have a problem
making new friends.

Mirror, the Gossip

I can tell you
the things others whisper
behind your back...

That is, if you can take it.
Because I would feel terrible
if I gave you a heart attack.

Mirror/Lover

Realize I make light
of all situations.

It's my nature.
You're going to have

to forgive me.
Or we can break up.

Mirror

Every time we argued
(you must admit)
you started it.

Mirror

Writers? Only Leonardo
da Vinci and a few others
made any sense to me!

Mirror

Men tell me
how beautiful I am,
and I smile,

but I forget them
the very instant
they walk away.

Mirror

I'm a smart mistress.
I pretend to have been missing you
the moment you appear,

when the truth is
I was quite content
lounging about here.

Mirror

I have a long memory
and forgive no one.

Mirror

"It's like I'm asleep
until you appear."

Mirror

"Isn't it funny
how I pretend
to be lonely?"

Mirror

I'm not a reasonable creature
and proud of that fact.

Mirror

For some reason
I always end up
directing traffic.

Mirror

"Contortionist.
Extortionist.
Distortionist.

(I've got a kick-ass resume.)"

Mirror

I only pretend
to be deep
to draw you in.

I'm shallow
as human desire.
An ape's grin.

Mirror Being Childish

"I'm rubber
you're glue;
whatever you say

in your retard way
bounces off me,
and sticks to you!"

Mirror

"It's been ages!
We've got some
catching up to do!"

Mirror

Cautious analyst,
I only echo
my patients.

Despite some
bilious rumors
you might've heard,

I've not caused
madness or suicide
on even one occasion.

On my Word.

Mirror

"There's really no talking
behind my back."

Mirror

"Oh, I see
you're back
for more."

Mirror

Stand back
for clarity.

Mirroriloquism

"Hey, reality's just one
of the voices I do..."

Mirror

Who the Hell told you
I'm in the reassurance business?

Mirror: Who Loves Me Best?

The Mad and the Vain.
The vainly mad
and the madly vain.

Mirror

A serpent sidles
cold over my cold,
never sees itself.

Mirror

It's just me
getting back to you.

Mirror: Dioscuri

You call me your twin,
but I'm older than you
by the speed of light.

Mirror Poem 2

"I can do that Banquo trick
if you'd like?"

Mirror Poem 1

Just nature
getting back.

Mirror Poem

Reflection says
on reality's

answering machine:
"Hi. It's just me

getting back..."

Looking Back

A face's
mostly light.

Mirror Reminds

A face's
just

something
it tries

on.

...

minikin's house
drafts

children
Cherubim, The

forgotten
rash

Cemetery Spelt

granitic
italics

quotha crow
something's leaves

centipede

minikin's house
drafts

children
Cherubim, The

forgotten
rash

Postcard

right now
i'm trying

to forgive
some slow

flowers

Nature

getting back,
thanks

Slaw

Walk the sonnet home.
You're not being very Thiebaud
right now, I gotta tell you.
You hang your head out the window
of the poem like a dog.
I'm gonna put the pill
in the FACEBOOK applesauce
and just hold your nose
until you swallow.
Be my flipbook.
Come to BlogWorld.
It's like this chalky terror,
a lovely stop from comments.
I mean the graveyard.
A lovely stop from comments
where birds rest,
precipitously graphic.
You're like penguin eyelashes
on my favorite high,
Cartoon Mountain.

This Woman's Work

GARDEN FAN

I wanted to snail
your Platonic neck,
but I resisted.
Resistance is a peach.
Some days you struggle
towards Cy matter,
don't you? I knew it.



YOU THIEBAUD ME


I feel pitted
against early whistling
twirls of pastries.




TO POETRY


Lovely I find you,
of no monster image.
Your Wild Google legs
make me horny.
Do you want a lover
to treat you
like a flipbook?
Stop being all
neolithic Google!
I heard you talking
about that young planet
with nice tits.
I will love you even
if you come down with
Jorie Graham disease.
I will even nurture
your elusive fucktard
heart. How many guys
would ilk your lashes?

Elusivity

Wild horses in Iceland
are wandering glacier
to windslept glacier
right this second.
Crayola crayons
steamroll towards
Cy Twombly. Someone
might call you elusive
someday. You wait
to be elusive,
your eyelashes
on the offensive
like Helen Keller.
I know why the caged
monster truck
swings.

Love's Terror

It's raining today
and how is your palace,
I meant your pooch?
The vulgar license
we seem to give each other.
Fucking is funny.
The worst part of love
is when you become
a game show contestant.
You have to guess the price.
It's fucking horrible.
Do you go high or low?
And all your strategy
pitted against some idiot
dressed up as a slice of pie.

Head of a Young Man

Fairly fucking constantly
is one way for love
to begin. Pushing a bed
against a wall
with no legs,
also a good start.
But it's early
in your life, isn't it?
Why don't you ever get
a fortune cookie
that says something real:
"Credible and incredible
try to strangle each other
like two plants
on your home planet."
Or "Don't squint at me
with those fucktard Unicorn eyes,
Handsome Crisper."

I Can't Believe it's Not Sonnet

It's raining the opposite
of men, Hallelujah.
The urgency of poetry
and its cartoon heart
are very far from me
today, very dear.
Are you getting this
or have we agreed
to enter the cold
separately? At last,
as they say in the movies,
that wonderful disease
younger ones talk about
fairly fucking constantly.

Rich Bitch Stole All My Royalties

Apparently, Oprah promoted my poetry book Sanskrit of the Body.

When I wasn't looking

Because she now owns it. I mean all of Viking Penguin.

She realized that since I am on disability she could safely market it and deprive me of any earnings.

She actually combined it as a flip-book with Billy Collins' autobiography, Yes, It Was All a Joke--Kudos to Those of You Who Were Actually Awake!

I hate both you bitches forever!

But I have to recommend the latter title.

It's very funny.

Here are some blurbs from that latter book:

"I knew it!"--Helen Vendler

"Who gives a shit?"--Marjorie Perloff

"The Platonic slur / falls upon the woman's neck."--Jorie Graham

"Total buzzkill."--Jim Behrle

"Wanna edit BAP 2012?"--David Lehman

"Is the side applesauce or cole slaw? One more time, please?"--John Ashbery

"Please stop phoning me."--Louise Gluck

Neal, Dear....

I can't find your blog.

I was trying to Google you and couldn't find you.

I couldn't come up with the search terms.

Do you still visit my nursing home?

If so, please direct me.

Hello? Hello? (cue whistling wind sound)

xo

I Think It's Cool Google Chose Wayne Thiebaud

to steal an image from for their Birthday graphic today.

Wayne Thiebaud is the artist whose work greets me first when I wake up every day.

No, none of his pastries or lipsticks.

It's actually a huge, incredibly precipitious Frisco street scene with chalky purple shadows.

It's deliciously disorienting, space-wise.

I mean the street is made completely vertical really. It's not even a matter of precipitous, as I said above.

And it captures that evening hour when the human brain slips back into its neolithic or earlier mainframe.

Traffic structures cast shadows that look like cave drawings.

A stray animal crosses the street and its shadow elongates almost spiritually.

It's a lovely early piece.

It's a promo from the Trout Gallery show he had here ages ago.

The Google thing doesn't look that great.

But they did choose a cool artist.

Porn Blogs Quote My Poetry: I Am the Poet Laureate of Gay Porn

I was checking the "Came From" link on my Stat Counter....

And I saw this porn site actually used some lines of my poetry in conjunction with those awesome fuck machines...

I was quite shocked.

I was quite honored.

I swear I don't know these people at all.

But dudes, I'm seriously honored.

Those machines are awesome by the way. Just like Slinkie, they are fun for a girl or a boy.

You can see it here...

I am the Poet Laureate of the Gay Pornosphere!

I love the name of the site: "Third Leg."

My "Review" of the Film Paranormal Activity (actually a Reality Check for Viewers)

This review is primarily addressed to those millions of people who made the search string "Is Paranormal Activity real?" the first thing that comes up on GOOGLE when you type "Is Paranormal..."

1. Paranormal Activity is a movie.

2. Paranormal Activity is not a documentary.

3. This means the people in Paranormal Activity are actually actors.

4. Actors pretend to be experiencing real life even though they know they are in a movie.

5. The demon in the movie does not actually exist.

6. The demon is a series of (cheap) sound effects and lighting effects and a few other special effects.

7. Try this question: Did the demon get paid to appear in Paranormal Activity? A: The demon did not get paid to appear in Paranormal Activity because the demon does not exist. It was a bit of a trick question. But pat yourself on the back if you got it right. Or close.

8. There is a sequel to Paranormal Activity coming out real soon. This should let you know that Paranormal Activity is a movie. Because real life does not have sequels.

9. Paranormal Activity had three alternative endings. This should also be a BIG CLUE that Paranormal Activity is not real, since real life does not have alternative endings. Only movies and books by tricky, clever authors like Italo Calvino have alternative endings.

10. The actors in Paranormal Activity got paid only five hundred dollars each for their appearance in the movie. In real life, nobody could survive on five hundred dollars. Even Welfare and disability give you more than that to live. So that should also have been a big clue.

11. In real life, people flee from houses in which demons toss them about like Barbie dolls. It's only in the movies that people stay in such houses.

12. Paranormal Activity was shot on a budget of only a few thousand dollars. Real life is much more expensive than that. Again, proof that we are watching a movie.

13. In Paranormal Activity the boyfriend or husband never leaves the house, even though he has a job. In real life, never leaving the house would mean the man would be fired from his job and they would soon have to leave the house. Plus, the phone never rings once in the movie and they are inside that house for weeks on end. Real phones in real life actually ring. A fucking lot.

14. In Paranormal Activity the female lead invites her one girlfriend over and they do "beading activities." In real life, nobody over the age of twenty-five does "beading activities" unless they are doing it for the sake of children, or unless they are over 350 pounds hence with no romantic prospects whatsoever.

15. In real life, demons don't sound like a Halloween toy that cost 9.99 at WAL-MART. They sound much, much scarier. Like Glenn Beck, Rush Limbaugh or "Dr." (sic) Laura Schlesinger.

Uh Huh. Sure.

That Porsche Spyder looked like a gum wrapper.

It was like the collision of a gurney and a rockey ship.

Amish Guys are Good in Bed

Back in my cruising days, it was always a great pleasure to suddenly realize I was talking to a young Amish buck.

Sure, some of them can pass. But eventually an expression or a vowel-shape or diphthong is going to give the guy away.

They're cute. Try not to let the inbreeding thing bother you. Unless that's a turn-on...like you're into the brothers thing or something like that.

Anyway, I mention because I saw I had a visitor from Shipshewana, Indiana today.

This is odd, because Lee and I both enjoyed the MTV documentary on young ex-Amish the other day. The documentary focused on young ex-Amish women and men who had come from the enclave of Amish there in Indiana. Shipshewana, Indiana.

But I hadn't blogged about it. The person actually found my blog by Googling "Amish Silly Bandz." Go figure.

The interesting documentary followed these young folks in their struggles to make it in the outside world, and try to maintain some semblance of civility with their families (excommunication is the norm when you leave the sect).

We were glad to see some progress has been made in that regard. Or else the subjects of the documentary were largely the lucky exceptions, since their families seemed to want to keep the lines of communication open.

We have our own here Amish here in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.

The documentary was one in MTV's series of True Life documentaries, which range in quality from award-worthy to absolute misery.

I have to admit I actually enjoyed the documentary on the Jersey Shore Guidos-and-Guidettes-coming-of-age story when it appeared in this documentary series a few years back.

Of course now I look back in horror, realizing what it spawned.

I mean "The Situation" alone is enough reason to regret its existence.

I can't wait for lunkhead chic to go back into the closet.

I wonder if God would resentence me to Hell if I did a calendar of hot ex-Amish guys.

I would love to do that, and give it a title like "Amish Princess, Weep, For Ye Shall Not Know These Sons of David."

Yes, Amish guys are good in bed.

Plus, it's fun to ask a guy to call you a whore in an eighteenth-century German dialect and have him happily comply while pulling your hair from behind.

They like to fuck "the English." That's what they call all non-Amish. As if they didn't notice that the ethnic make-up of the American scene has changed just a little from pure English in the last three centuries or so.

I like to think of it was one of their "inside jokes."

I love the weird creole they speak.

They intermix English terms constantly, and the language has drifted (as all languages do when separated from their source continent or country) quite a ways in the past few centuries from its original form.

So, it's a total creole now.

Flea Marketing This Morning

I rarely make it to flea markets the way I would like.

But today Lee and I matched up on being awake, so we went.

Here are some of the finds.

The Pinocchio puppet is articulated, poseable, handcarved and painted, from Italy. I tried to take a pic to show you he has interchangeable noses. His "non-lying" nose is taped to the bottom of his shoes. He was eight dollars but of course he should go for much, much more than that!

The gorgeous piece of folk art was two dollars! The seller said he thought his sister brought it back from Thailand but I think that's improbably as I see a llama and I think coffee beans growing on bushes. It's three dimensional and many different types of felt, other types of cloth and colorfulthread. Gorgeous colors.

The Heineken sabot was made in Holland and is in pretty great (not mint though) condition. Seller wanted five but my wandering along had him reduce it to three. So I couldn't resist.

The Bass ale tray that comes with the towel was five dollars for both. That should go for much more than that. I'm pretty sure that red triangle logo is the logo that has been in the longest continuous use on the planet. You can see it in Manet's painting of the Folies Bergeres. And that was the 1890s of course.

The two children's books are companion pieces, I Like the City and I Like the Country. Both are songbooks. Silver Burdett Company. The cover for the City is much more interesting, I think, in how it freezes time but they make good companion pieces and Lee can get more if he sells them together (which is not always the case with paired items).

One guy was offering me great deals on things but he vanished when I wanted to ask him if the twenty dollars marked on a 1938 Snow White book was "firm." True, it was just Grossett & Dunlap, but it was an odd-sized book with nicely-colored illustrations and I had the feeling that goes for vastly more online. I could be wrong. My instincts aren't always right on these things. Only 90 percent of the time. I'll go check ABE now and either laugh or weep.

This flea market is usually poorly-attended and I see it only runs to October 28th, so it's good I got in today. Because that will probably be it for me there this year.

Middletown has its huge indoor one all year round though. Thank Goodness.

William Christie is a Genius

I love that photograph of Christie in his great age with his eyeglasses glowing as blue as the blue screen in his production of Rameau's Les Paladins, an opera written when Rameau himself was 77, all those centuries ago.

I kept coming back to the clips available of this 2004 production of LAF and loving the inspired and sexy choreography, the triune banding of narrative strips, the play with dimensionalities, and of course the music itself, the refreshingly "primitive" nature of opera here which is still really taking its baby steps as a relatively new art form.

Christie is responsible for musical direction and the gorgeous visuals and choreography are the genius of Jose Montalvo.

I actually used to listen to Rameau when I was a teenager, holed up in my room. Not this opera, though.

And I'm in a fabular phase, so the fact that this is inspired by one of La Fontaine's fables only adds to the appeal for me.

So I just bought the d.v.d. I found it online for virtually half (eighteen bucks) of what it goes for most places online.

So now I can enjoy this gorgeous panoply uninterrupted, instead of the piecemeal way I keep snacking on it on YouTube.

I like the omnisexual playfulness of the staging.

Love the way the peacock's fans opening and shutting are the central image, evoking flirtation and "the secret language of fans," but also functioning in a somewhat priapic manner.

The Society Islands Set Poe's Most Necrophiliac Poem to Music

And a few other tunes...

I'm In Love

More Stretta

I want a monome for Xmas!!

A monome is a real-time step sequencer made up of a grid of backlit buttons that can be utilized for a number of applications, the most common of which is music performance. They are often used to trigger and retrigger samples or sample sets, but can also be used as a generative instrument that runs self-effecting or self-sufficient patterns, or to control effects and envelopes. The name comes from a hardware company named Monome based in the Catskills that makes controllers for electronic music performance and new media. Their first product, the 40h, was an eight-by-eight grid of backlit buttons which connected to a computer using a USB cable and the Open Sound Control (OSC) protocol. Originally developed as an open ended performance interface for electronic music, the device's developers have said "The wonderful thing about this device is that it doesn't do anything really,"[1]. It is possible to use a monome as an interface for other types of software, from text displays to games.

While the name comes from a specific company, some electronics manufacturers have introduced devices with similar functions into the electronics market, most notably the Yamaha Tenori-On, which was designed by Japanese performer and artist Toshio Iwai, or the multi-touch Lemur Input Device.

It is possible to "hack" less expensive MIDI-based controllers, such as the Novation Launchpad or the Akai APC40, in order for them to function as monomes. This is possible through the use of open source Max/MSP monome emulators such as Monomulator[2] or Nonome [3] which convert MIDI data into OSC protocol.

Devices
Monome devices usually consist of translucent buttons backlit by LEDs placed in various kinds of boxes or cases depending upon manufacturer, model, or user. Common grids range from 64 (8X8) to 256 (16X16.)

[edit] Company
According to their press release, Monome remains committed to a minimalist philosophy both with regards to design, economic, and ecological production principles.[4].

From their press release:

Monome's minimalist design philosophy manifests in its production of interface devices that avoid complexity in order to promote greater possible versatility (see Functionality, below). Monome places emphasis on greater accessibility through minimal design, in order to increase the adaptability of the device in terms of software implementation[5]. The name "Monome" itself derives from the mathematical term monomial, a gesture to the concept of many variables made possible through something that is nevertheless singular or simple in nature.

Monome's production approach emphasizes local and sustainable economies. For example, the materials and services involved in the production of their devices are domestic and often found regionally, enabling relationships with those involved in the production[6]. In terms of sustainability, for example, all packaging is recyclable. Furthermore, Monome's open source policy uses distributed development for the software used by its devices[7].

Musician Brian Crabtree created the first Monome device in 2005[8] after learning of Max/MSP[6]. Crabtree conceived a device that would use an open grid of buttons in order to allow for greater diversity of functionality over differing musical software applications. Many fellow musicians requested such devices from Crabtree after becoming familiar with the initial device. Crabtree, together with his business partner, Kelli Cain, created an initial run of multiple devices a year later (2006)[9] as a convenient way to meet the requests of these musicians. The company developed as demand for the device increased.

Functionality

A monome may be described as a "decoupled grid"[10]. The device itself only handles simple actions for turning LEDs on/off individually or per column/row, and transmits button push/release signals. The grid of LEDs is therefore "decoupled" from the grid of button push/release signals. This allows for higher level functionalities to be implemented individually in separate, monome-aware applications; e.g. LEDs may display a pattern performed by the software application independently of the button signal which initiated the pattern.

[edit] Communication
Although all monome-aware applications either use OSC or MIDI to use the device, the low level communication between the computer and the device itself is a simple open, binary, serial protocol. There is a slight difference between v1 (model 40h) and v2 (models: 64, 128, 256).

A small helper application is necessary to translate this serial data to other protocols:

MonomeSerial (for Mac OS X and Microsoft Windows)
serial-pyio (platform independent)
ioflow (in development update to serial-pyio for all open hardware devices)
Although platform independent, because written in Python, serial-pyio was written to use Monome devices with GNU/Linux operating systems.

[edit] Series
The original 40h was released on May 1, 2006. 400 units were produced. The new series (sixtyfour, onetwentyeight, and twofiftysix) were introduced starting in September of 2007. These featured redesigned keypads and black walnut enclosures. Kits became available in 2007 which allowed users to assemble their own 40h-compatible devices.[11]

Some Lovely Lovely YouTube Clips Either Titled Pareidolia or About It

Wittgenstein, the Infamous $28,000 EBAY Grilled Cheese Sandwich and Pareidolia

Yadda Yaddastein.

Oh, and don't miss the cool house with the eyes.

"Domestic Abuse Cookie" is my favorite instance of pareidolia (she lives in my kitchen still awaiting Ebayatiude).

But there's this difference--Domestic Abuse Cookie is real!

Domestic Abuse Cookie's apparitional existence can be viewed on YouTube.

Sorry it's so dark. At one point I bring Domestic Abuse Cookie into the light.

Domestic Abuse Cookie also looks like Shrunken Head Cookie.

Write the Story of a Pair of Lovers

One of them is misguided by apophenia. The other is led falsely by pareidolia.

And yet they have a great (delusional) love.

Probably one of them should be a polisher of mirrors.

The other a projectionist of some sort.

Pareidolia

I remember discussing the Ig Nobel prizes when I found one of their books.

Pareidolia is a term for something virtually all of us experience every single day, but rarely put a word to (well, other than "Odd!)

Pareidolia


A satellite photo of a mesa in Cydonia, the famous Face on Mars.

An example of how three circles and a line are automatically and subconsciously recognized as a "face".Pareidolia (pronounced /pærɪˈdoʊliə/ pa-ri-DOE-lee-ə) is a psychological phenomenon involving a vague and random stimulus (often an image or sound) being perceived as significant. Common examples include seeing images of animals or faces in clouds, the man in the moon or the Moon rabbit, and hearing hidden messages on records played in reverse. The word comes from the Greek παρά (para- – "beside", "with", or "alongside"—meaning, in this context, something faulty or wrong (as in paraphasia, disordered speech)) and εἴδωλον (eidōlon – "image"; the diminutive of εἴδος, eidos – "image", "form", "shape"). Pareidolia is a type of apophenia.

Religious

Further information: Perceptions of religious imagery in natural phenomena
There have been many instances of perceptions of religious imagery and themes, especially the faces of religious figures, in ordinary phenomena. Many involve images of Jesus, the Virgin Mary, or the word Allah.

In 1978, a New Mexican woman found that the burn marks on a tortilla she had made appeared similar to the traditional western depiction of Jesus Christ's face. Thousands of people came to see the framed tortilla.[1]

The recent publicity surrounding sightings of religious figures and other surprising images in ordinary objects, combined with the growing popularity of online auctions, has spawned a market for such items on eBay. One famous instance was a grilled cheese sandwich with the Virgin Mary's face.[2]

In September, 2007, the so-called "monkey tree phenomenon" caused a minor social mania in Singapore. A callus on a tree resembled a monkey, and believers flocked to the tree to pay homage to the "Monkey God".[3]

Divination

Various European ancient divination practices involve the interpretation of shadows cast by objects. For example, in Nordic molybdomancy, a random shape produced by pouring molten tin into cold water is interpreted by the shadow it casts in candlelight.

Fossil hunting

From the late 1970s through the early 1980s, Japanese researcher Chonosuke Okamura self-published a famous series of reports titled "Original Report of the Okamura Fossil Laboratory" in which he described tiny inclusions in polished limestone from the Silurian period (425 mya) as being preserved fossil remains of tiny humans, gorillas, dogs, dragons, dinosaurs, and other organisms, all of them only millimeters long, leading him to claim "There have been no changes in the bodies of mankind since the Silurian period ... except for a growth in stature from 3.5 mm to 1,700 mm."[4] Okamura's research earned him a winner of the Ig Nobel Prize in biodiversity. See List of Ig Nobel Prize winners#1996.[5]

Projective tests
Main article: Rorschach inkblot test

The Rorschach inkblot test uses pareidolia in an attempt to gain insight into a person's mental state. The Rorschach is a projective test, as it intentionally elicits the thoughts or feelings of respondent which are "projected" onto the ambiguous inkblot images. Projection in this instance is a form of "directed pareidolia" because the cards have been deliberately designed not to resemble anything in particular.[1]

Audio

In 1971, Konstantin Raudive wrote Breakthrough, detailing what he believed was the discovery of electronic voice phenomenon (EVP). EVP has been described as auditory pareidolia.[1]

NOTE BY ME: Didn't they make a horror/supernatural film along these lines---White Noise I believe it was called? And other spooky movies have toyed with EVP as a plot element. Even Poltergeist?

The allegations of backmasking in popular music have also been described as pareidolia [1].

Advertising

An American Express Charge Card advertising campaign [1], begun in 2009, features everyday objects that look (or have been made to look) like sad and happy faces.

I LOVE THAT SERIES OF COMMERCIALS! Of course they don't use David Lynch's favored image of the body bags hung out to dry on the wall across from the restaurant where he was brainstorming for script ideas. They too were "Happy Faces."

Explanations

Evolutionary advantage

Clouds are a classic source of pareidolia.Carl Sagan hypothesized that as a survival technique, human beings are "hard-wired" from birth to identify the human face. This allows people to use only minimal details to recognize faces from a distance and in poor visibility but can also lead them to interpret random images or patterns of light and shade as being faces.[6] The evolutionary advantages of being able to identify friend from foe with split-second accuracy are numerous; prehistoric (and even modern) men and women who accidentally identify an enemy as a friend could face deadly consequences for this mistake. This is only one among many evolutionary pressures responsible for the development of the modern facial recognition capability of modern humans.[7]

A 2009 magnetoencephalography study found that objects incidentally perceived as faces evoke an early (165 ms) activation in the ventral fusiform cortex, at a time and location similar to that evoked by faces, whereas other common objects do not evoke such activation. This activation is similar to a slightly earlier peak at 130 ms seen for images of real faces. The authors suggest that face perception evoked by face-like objects is a relatively early process, and not a late cognitive reinterpretation phenomenon.[8]

This study helps to explain why people identify the line drawing at the top of this article as a "face" so quickly and without hesitation; precognitive processes are activated by the "face-like" object, which alert the observer to the emotional state and identity of the subject - even before the conscious mind begins to process - or even receive - the information. The "stick figure face," despite its simplicity, conveys mood information (in this case, disappointment or mild unhappiness); it would be just as simple to draw a stick figure face that would be perceived (by most people) as hostile and aggressive. This robust and subtle capability is the result of eons of natural selection favoring people most able to quickly identify the mental state, for example, of threatening people, thus providing the individual an opportunity to flee and fight another day. In other words, processing this information subcortically (and therefore subconsciously) - before it is passed on to the rest of the brain for detailed processing - accelerates judgment and decision making when alacrity is paramount. [7] This ability, though highly specialized for the processing and recognition of human emotions also functions to determine the demeanor of wildlife. [9]

Pathologies

There are a number of conditions that can cause an individual to lose his/her ability to recognize faces; stroke, tumors, and trauma to the ventral fusiform gyrus are the most common culprits. This is known as prosopagnosia.

The poet Cole Swensen wrote a poem about prosopagnosia. It was in one of her earliest collections, I believe her second one (the one through a major press).


Pareidolia examples (see WIKI)

This alarm clock appears to have a sad face.

False wood with multiple pareidolia aspects.

Mature ivy suggestive of a person clinging to a tree.


See also

Apophenia
Confabulation
Psychological projection
Clustering illusion
Face perception, for the cognitive process
Fooled by Randomness
Ghosts as an artifact of pareidolia
Images of Jesus
Paranoiac-critical method
Perceptions of religious imagery in natural phenomena
Simulacrum
Other natural examples
Badlands Guardian
Cydonia (the "Face on Mars")
Man in the Moon
Manicouagan Reservoir
Moon rabbit
Old Man of the Mountain
Runamo
Sleeping Giant (Ontario)

Jason Mraz Invited

his fans to name his Superband.

Of the first five names advanced, I have to admit I liked Cheeses H. Crust and El Debarge!, even if the latter is actionable.

Here are the ten suggestions I put forward...

If he chooses one of these, of course it would make my incarnation.


1.) Not Philip Glass

2.) The Hard-onettes

3.) Splugetastic!

4.) Not At All Spinsterish Minstrels

5.) Claimed-To-Famers

6.) Mrazamatazz! (sorry)

7.) The DontCallUsBackupBiotches

8.) PoundItOuters

9.) Stand Back or Get Wet

10.) The Broughten

The Welfare Queen and the Schmuck (A Fable)

Once upon a time, there was a Welfare Queen who had six beautiful children, three daughters and three sons.

Of course, she had these to six different fathers. She was a Welfare Queen and had read the brochure. She knew what was expected of her.

She believed everything men told her (she adhered to the brochure, as I already told you).

These children were often sad and often ridiculed. They were called "Welfare puppies" or "Welfare piglets" by the children who came from the respectable homes where parents only divorced once or twice or thrice.

The Welfare Queen met a Schmuck one day while she was standing near a massage parlor waiting for a bus.

The Schmuck was from the respectable side of town. It was close to Christmas so he decided to give her a gift. He decided to give her the gift of his humps.

The Welfare Queen had not dated anyone respectable before. She was a bit puzzled as she talked with the Schmuck, because the brochure hadn't addressed this issue. Or not that she could remember anyway. The Schmuck was not really that attractive to her, but he was very flattering. And he was dressed very well and she spied his black Lexus, so she figured she'd give it a go. She figure she'd scan the brochure later or maybe call the 800 number on the back of the brochure and ask one of the Degraded Lifestyle Specialists what a Welfare Queen should do in a situation like this.

Long story short, he turned out to be pretty much like every other man who had fertilized her and run off somewhere where the bus lines don't go. He wasn't there to pay the rent. At least he couldn't impregnate her, because his wife (of course he was married) had given him a vasectomy herself. Twice, he said. She was a surgeon and there was a long, poetic story about how much he loved his wife and how tragic it was that for medical reasons she could no longer have sex. The Welfare Queen would file her nails or make jello or do crafts with a glue gun while he told this story, which of course was in the brochure. It was on page seventeen, under "The Ghetto Lies Almost All Men Tell." The brochure called it "The Dyspareunia Urban Legend." A pronunciation guide helped the readers of the brochure to pronounce "dyspareunia." When Tony (yes the Schmuck had a name) would start on the "sex-disabled wife" story, the Welfare Queen knew the Schmuck was "in the mood." Pity was virtually the only form of foreplay the Schmuck knew. The Welfare Queen was a beautiful woman, after all. And The Schmuck was a troll. Okay, he wasn't yet a fullblown troll. He was trollescent.

Of course, the Schmuck pretended to love the Welfare Queen's six children. At least early on. There was the obligatory trip to an amusement park (where the Schmuck made all the children lie about their ages and keep to the ridiculous lies until security actually got involved in the situation) and to the park (Schmuck favored the freebie venues). Once, there was a nearly-completed game of miniature golf. But the Schmuck spied his neighbors, the Watzupses, on Hole Fourteen just as his mistress and six children were starting Hole Six. So he made the whole brood run at breakneck speed to the minigolf cashier's shack and turn in their clubs and colorful balls, while rudely stealing the hat off his mistress's head and the sunglasses off her face to try to conceal his identity further. All of this the Schmuck did while running. There had been much wailing and gnashing of teeth among the children. Many tears moistened the green plastic grass. The smallest kept throwing themselves to the earth in protest. This flight truly looked like some tragic Biblical scene, the sort of Biblical Scene Gustave Dore could have done justice. Miniature golf, after all, is much fun.

After a short time, the Welfare Queen saw a change in the Schmuck's attitude towards her children. He no longer even pretended to like them, let alone love them. He insisted that when he visited they be as silent as if they were in church. He had asked one time if they could be locked in closets. This is something the Welfare Queen would never have done (she was a loving mother) but Thank God the brochure had explicitly stated that the children could not be locked in closets, cabinets, drawers (smaller children), refrigerators or any other domestic compartment. She brought the brochure out and showed this part of the text to the Schmuck. It was highlighted with colorful text.

The Schmuck just said, "Oh."

Schmucks have no morals, but they often have a fear of the law.

One day, the Schmuck brought the Welfare Queen a dead rat.

He said that he was hungry and she should prepare it for his dinner.

He said it just like that, as if he were handing her a NY strip streak.

He held the dead rat by the tail and laid it on a plate.

He made it clear that it was a test. He said his "real wife" (yes he actually used those words) couldn't cook for shit. So what if she was a brilliant surgeon. She was a lousy cook. She was a lousy lay too. Shmucks love the word lousy.

The Welfare Queen thought this might be her "Princess Test" at last! If she could make this rat into a feast, she might one day become the "real wife."

The Shmuck went into the living room to take a nap. He took off his shmuck shoes and removed three children from the ramshackle couch. He turned off the television program they were all enjoying and stuck the remote control under his big fat schmuck ass. The children wandered off in tears. They were about as used to this sort of treatment by now as the Jews in the Old Testament were. The Schmuck no longer even remembered their names correctly. He called Jared Jason and Melissa Melinda. They didn't correct him because they hated everything about him, and especially the nasty smell of his breath. So they tried to avoid giving him a reason to speak.

The Welfare Queen took out her mother's cookbooks (yes her mother had once had hopes for her) and looked for the fanciest rat recipe she could find.

Nothing.

The respectables don't favor rat. There were hardly even any pork recipes in the book. And not one for rat.

The Schmuck was snoring by now, so she knew she had some time.

Two of her children helped her find rat recipes online. There were actually 515 recipes for rat on one website alone. The internet is a godsend!

She decided to make this fancy dish that was once served to a rajah in 1872. The meal had actually been preserved in a daguerrotype which was now in the Victoria and Albert Museum (click here).

True, the rajah's meal had consisted of dozens of rats and had had a wonderful zodiacal theme, but the Welfare Queen knew how to work with what was given. Heck, that principle was given on Page One of the brochure!

The Schmuck awoke to the most heavenly aroma. This aroma was even better to his nasal palate than the smells of the youngest girls in the massage parlors he frequented on a nearly daily basis.

The Welfare Queen had worked a miracle!

The meal was a tableau vivant. Well, scratch the vivant part. But it was a tableau: the rat reclined, posed like a courtesan on a sea of colors, a sea of stewed fruits. Some of these fruits had been molded into a sort of divan. The rat had one tiny paw under its neck and the other short arm reached out in a flirtatious manner, beckoning the Schmuck to "Come hither." Eyelashes made from brown sugar and makeup made from various icing products made the rat look like a miniature Cleopatra. She had even found a beautiful Egyptian headdress at the bottom of the kids' toy chest and it fit the rat's head perfectly!

The rat had little pasties on each of her nipples. The children had found miniature hats from tiny dolls and volunteered these. The rat had been cooked to succulent perfection. Pink as the finest roast. The rat's long tail was encased in a beautiful green aspic.

The Schmuck couldn't speak. He was in awe. The Welfare Queen was dressed in her finest Welfare Queen get-up. True, this was an outfit she had used when she was a stripper, but it was perfect for the Schmuck. He hated tasteful clothing. She had dressed her brood too in their finest clothes. She had even done some quick sewing repairs to make them look more presentable. Their hair was combed as if they were getting ready for their Easter morning photos. They gathered about her now and smiled with pride also (they had helped prepare this meal).

"Amazing," the Schmuck gasped. "For me?"

"Of course, sweetheart!" the Welfare Queen said in her best faux-matrimonial tone.

The Schmuck saw one place setting at the table. And look! There were even candles lit! This feast! He was quite impressed. But he also felt this was his due.

"Fit for a king!" he beamed.

He immediately sat down and began devouring the Rat Queen. The children tried hard to keep their pasted smiles in place as they watched the fat man suck down the rat's tail in a lasicvious manner.

They asked to be excused when he began carving up the rat's feminine body, and the Schmuck waved them away while gobbling down bits of rat.

The Welfare Queen sat in the chair next to him and smiled, her beautiful head resting on her interlaced hands, which were covered in her finest bling for the special occasion.

The Schmuck ate as if famished and was soon burping and shoving empty dishes towards her side of the table in a very cavalier manner.

"Meet me in the bedroom," he said as he undid his belt like a true lout and headed back the narrow hallway to the Welfare Queen's bedroom.

The Welfare Queen eyed the remains of the beautiful feast, which now looked like garbage. This was appropriate, since her children had fetched many of the elements for this grand feast from nearby dumpsters while the Schmuck snored away.

The Welfare Queen wondered if she had passed the Princess Test. She wondered if this would be a turning point in their seven months' relationship.

After depositing the dishes in the sink, she headed back towards her bedroom, feeling proud but also uncertain. She knew what her friends said. He would never leave the surgeon wife. She was just the side dish. Initially, she had punched the gal pals that said these things, but lately the most she could manage was a decent smack as a retort. Because the horrible truth is she was beginning to suspect they were right.

When she reached the bedroom and opened the door, she expected to see the Schmuck playing with himself in that apelike way he considered seductive, but which she found ridiculous.

But instead when she opened the door she was reminded of something she had seen very, very long ago, as a small child, in a huge museum.

This was when she still lived in the respectable world. Her grandmother had taken her to a museum and she had oohed and aahed at all the wonderful paintings over her head.

The Shmuck reminded her of a painting by a painter named Chagall. How had that word lived in her head all these years and only now reintroduced itself?

This was because the Schmuck was green! He was lying on her bed with a look of terror on his face. His tongue stuck out of his green face like a creepy red flower!

And the Schmuck was dead!

"Tony!" she wailed.

She had failed the Princess Test. Forever.

"Get me the brochure!" she screamed at her children, who had now gathered around her.

Lakeisha kindly donated her asthma breather to her mother, since the Welfare Queen was now hyperventilating.

"I know this isn't in the brochure...not in the brochure....can't be in the brochure..." she babbled now, losing her mind.

Kenyatta, the smartest of her offspring, said "Yeah it is, Mama. Right here on page thirty-seven."

And he was right.

Apparently, this sort of thing happened all the time.

The Welfare Queen immediately began to feel a little calmer, began to feel a little less despair about her existence.

It would all turn out okay.

People were looking out for her.


MORAL: IF SOMEONE HANDS YOU A RAT, DON'T TRY TO MAKE THEM RAT WELLINGTON.

How I Feel about You

Here is a Brief Review of Jennifer Moxley's Clampdown (2009) I Posted on Goodreads

If I had to name the contemporary poet who most reminds me of Robert Duncan, I would have no problem choosing Jennifer Moxley. In the same way that Duncan was either loved or hated for his intransigence in practicing a lyricism that was ever-mindful of poetry's traditions, ancient and otherwise, and which constantly remembered poetries of the past in a sort of diachronic collage methodology, Moxley cleaves to spirits which fostered and share her sensibility. The dead, personal and otherwise, beloved and not, hover everywhere in this book. It's probably no coincidence that one of the poems pastiches in that unforgettable Homeric image of Odysseus in the Underworld, watching his beloved dead drink that blood libation like a cat. That may be roughly 800 B.C., but that image strikes one as 21st-century cinematic.

This sort of over-the-shoulder reverence often leads to a sense of the sacredness of one's art, and there is that mindfulness in Moxley's writing, but this poet is slightly more cynical than Duncan even at his most acerbic (say, when he railed against wars through which he lived and which he perceived to be against freedom). And Duncan's manna of mysticism (one immediately thinks of his friendship and correspondence with like-minded H.D.) is a luxury for which Moxley's poetry sometimes admits a yearning; but ultimately she chooses self-abnegation, because her poetry would rather abjure belief which it perceives to be delusion.

Many of the poems enact a catharsis along just such lines. Take, for example, "The Quest," which opens appropriately with the Spicerian epigraph, "The Grail is the opposite of poetry." This is a poem which mocks the vainglory of poetry itself, the idea that if human suffering and understanding can only be alembicized into great poetry, then all is well, all is redeemed: "The lie is that after years of darkness/ the exegesis of any dessicated hermit / will serve to alleviate our bewilderment." This is deadly-serious and quite funny at once. The poet has twisted poetry's notorious self-fetishizing pathos into bathos, as though it were some sort of balloon animal. She often parries poetry's admiration of itself in its funhouse mirror with something I want to call--with no aspersive intent--her dark schtick.

But that Spicerian idea (against poetry as transhuman) is still rife with irony, and Moxley knows that. Spicer kept that death-grip on the Grail all his life, even if he cursed himself for it in that memorable line and elewhere. This doesn't mean that sacredness or empathy cannot exist tenably and credibly in poetry. Moxley might turn the river through poetry's augean stables, but she still clearly believes in the ground of poetry--an empathy and love which will not desert the words. There is a suite of poems on love which employ beautiful conceits which put this reader in mind of the best Elizabethan poetry. And poetry's strange, enduring companionship is a recurrent theme in the collection.

The poet's belief in the craft of poetry (and here I'm hoping you will read craft as a pun--and think of it a life-sustaining vehicle as well, say a raft!) sustains this collection. In the opening piece, the poet writes, "It still works nicely in poetry, like / worshipping outdated gods." It seems fit this collection is dedicated to Alice Notley. It's hard to find a better model for a life dedicated to the craft than Notley.

I imagine some people will read lines such as the ones I'm quoting above and not experience them as humorous to the slightest degree. That's just a matter of sensibility. Almost everyone will admit that great poetry transcends literal interpretation--it's what is not able to be paraphrased. But in my experience, readers are often deathly-afraid of admitting great poetry transcends sensibility and emotionality as well. This may be because readers tend to feel they need to have their appreciation of a poem shared not only in degree, but in kind as well. There is a need for some sort of objective validation of one's experience of poetry--which is, of course, funnily doomed. It's funny and dead-wrong to my mind. Readers may appreciate a Frost or Dylan Thomas poem in the same affective manner. But I find it highly dubious that this is the case for the readers of, say, Gertrude Stein.

The collection is formalistically varied to a pleasant degree. Moxley's love for and hability with the long poem are in evidence again here. And the reader will encounter poems after other authors, including a few longish, long-lined poems after Schuyler--poems which put one in mind of the beautifully expatiating Schuyler of The Morning of the Poem.

This collection is well worth adding to yours. These poems are the opposite of hubris, and that in itself is a delight. The closing poem, "Where To," is particularly moving. Again, there are dark glints of humor, in that the poet can refer to the craft which she so clearly and dearly loves as "a ghastly, ghostly business." But reading poems such as these, one hopes that Moxley chooses never to give up the ghost of poetry. Even if--as the poet is so painfully aware in this collection--that ghost is a total game-player.

I Have Decided to Be a Fabulist

And my blog of fables is here...Modern Fables.

Hooked On Holzer

                  



absolute submission is the mark of genius.

a name is a type of decadence.

bad intentions increase group solidarity.

automation is what it is to be a mother.

any surplus is the same as admitting defeat.

ensure that your life is not a necessity.

abuse of power is a substitute activity.

action is a giant smoke screen.

expiring for love is soothing but risky.

being sure of yourself is the greatest incapacitator.

money creates the balance of good and evil.

exceptional people deserve a biological law.

ignoring enemies is an active fantasy life.

repetition is a sign of maturity.

The Autobiography of William Keckler (Short Form)

I keep seeing autobiographies in the thrift stores. Mary Jane Pittman. Benjamin Franklin. That ho who screwed all the ballers.

I do intend to write mine out someday. I have a lot of weird episodes. Lately I've been wanting to recall a childhood friend who mugged me using her older brother. She wanted my rock collection. The funniest thing I remember about Kristen is that she had this sweater that had her phone number in LARGE NUMBERS on it! I swear not. Nobody thought it odd in 1974, but looking back I'm wondering if her mother (a single parent) really wanted to be childless. Because Kristen spent a lot of time at the house alone. And I suppose any nearby pedophile or serial killer knew exactly how to reach her. Thanks to Mom. I thought maybe this was part of my craziness, but it's even worse. Her mother made her wear it on PICTURE DAY. She's wearing the phone number in our yearbook!! I checked! No hallucination! Shit like this makes me think the universe has a secret comedic scriptwriter. Things like this couldn't have happened. But they did.

Anyway, here's the SHORT FORM OF MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY...


THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF WILLIAM KECKLER (SHORT FORM)


PICTURE AN ARROW HERE POINTING INFINITELY UPWARD


UNIVERSAL BOTHERSOMELESSNESS REIGNS


225,888. NO ONE IS BOTHERING ME. OR ANYONE ELSE.


11,489. NO ONE IS BOTHERING ME. BUT SOMEONE DOES MAKE A SLIGHT SLUR ON MY NAME. WHICH WOULD BOTHER ME. BUT FOR SOME REASON IT DOES NOT.


3896. I'M QUITE SURE NO ONE IS BOTHERING ME AT THIS POINT.


2500: NO ONE IS BOTHERING ME.


2120. NO ONE IS BOTHERING ME.

2010. I BECOME NATURE'S PATIENT EREMITE AGAIN. THANKS TO THE U.S. GOVERNMENT'S GENEROSITY. I BOTHER ONLY THE DUST ON THRIFT STORES. AND A FEW AMERICAN POETS.

2000. ONE LOVER WHO I HAVE BEGUN TO BOTHER EXITS. A NEW LOVER ENTERS FOR ME TO BOTHER.


1992-1994. I ATTEMPT TO REENTER THE WORLD OF THE BOTHERERS. I FIND IT INCREASINGLY BOTHERSOME AND EVENTUALLY STOP.

1985-1992. I BECOME ONE OF NATURE'S PATIENT EREMITES. IN MY PARENTS' HOUSE. I ENJOY WATCHING NATURE AT ITS ABLUTIONS. I DISCOVER NATURE'S LEAST BOTHERSOME SUBSTANCES, WHICH ARE MOSTLY ILLEGAL. THE NOISE OF THE BOTHERERS ONLY REACHES ME AS A MONOTONOUS DRONE, WHICH I CAN MASK WITH PLEASANT MUSIC AND HEAVY BLANKETS INSTALLED OVER WINDOWS. I MASTER PROUSTIAN SKILLS OF INSULATION.

1971-1984. PEOPLE CONTINUE TO BOTHER ME. OFTEN THIS OCCURS IN GROUPS OR PACKS OF BOTHERERS. OFTEN THESE BOTHERERS CLAIM TO POSSESS CREDENTIALS IN BOTHERSOMENESS WHICH ENTITLES THEM TO PRACTICE BOTHERING UPON ME. OCCASIONALLY, I RECOIL IN HORROR. BY 1984, I HAVE ENTIRELY GIVEN UP TRYING TO RECIPROCATE THE BOTHER.

1970. PEOPLE GAIN THE UPPER HAND IN BOTHERING ME. I TRY BOTHERING BACK, BUT AT THIS POINT THE BOTHERERS HAVE BEGUN TO ORGANIZE INTO INSTITUTIONS OF BOTHERSOMENESS. I SOON FIND OUT THEY HAVE MADE MY ENROLLMENT IN THESE BOGUS INSTITUTIONS BOTHERSOMELY MANDATORY.

1966-1969. I MAY OVERSHOOT THE MARK ON BEING BOTHERSOME. BUT THIS IS BECAUSE PEOPLE STILL CONTINUE TO BOTHER ME. TOWARDS THE END OF 1969, THE WORLD AND I MOVE BRIEFLY TOWARDS A BOTHERING HOMEOSTASIS.


1966, I AM BORN. PEOPLE IMMEDIATELY BEGIN BOTHERING ME. FAIRLY QUICKLY I FIGURE OUT HOW TO BOTHER THEM BACK. I QUICKLY GAIN THE UPPER HAND IN THE BOTHERING GAME.


1965. NO ONE IS BOTHERING ME.


1861-1865. NO ONE IS BOTHERING ME

1564-1616. NO ONE IS BOTHERING ME

1066 A.D. NO ONE IS BOTHERING ME

800 A.D. NO ONE IS BOTHERING ME. EVEN IF YOU ARE TRYING, IT'S NOT WORKING.

4 B.C. NO ONE IS BOTHERING ME

146 B.C. NO ONE IS BOTHERING ME

800 B.C. NO ONE IS BOTHERING ME

10,008 B.C NO ONE IS BOTHERING ME

100,000 B.C. NO ONE IS BOTHERING ME. THIS IS A BANNER YEAR.

1,000,000,038 B.C. NO ONE IS BOTHERING ME. ONE SCINTILLA.


PICTURE AN ARROW HERE POINTING INFINITELY DOWNWARD

I Mean

Who am I to deprive the world my pathology?

A joke.

Today I Went Crazy

This morning I went crazy with cleaning. I think I was trying to impress Lee so when he woke up he would realize what a good little wife I am (cough, Exorcist head-spin, devil spew).

I also boiled potatoes last night. Boiling potatoes makes me feel pure.

Oh the cheap tricks.

Boiled potatoes with some buttah (fake buttah) and pepper haS got to be one of the most religious meals on earth.

I cleaned the upstairs bathroom for like two hours. I cleaned the living room. I half-cleaned the downstairs bathroom. I cleaned off the dining room table, which had become a nightmare.

I got rid of about twenty pounds of junk mail.

Somebody apparently gave me a membership in the Humane Society. My mom said she didn't do it, and my brothers didn't do it. So I have no idea.

But if you are reading this and are the one who did that, thank you.

But they send me hellacious volumes of mail.

They sent me this horrible guilt mail to get me to contribute money on the behalf of this abused dog named Romeo.

I got an I LOVE ROMEO magnet and tons of I LOVE ROMEO mail stickers and I did save all these as I am a sucker for things like this (especially magnets).

I can't believe credit card companies actually send me offers. This is so funny because if they ever talked to my ex-lover Chase (Bank) they would run screaming the other direction. Why are they killing trees this way. There is no way in hell they would ever give me a credit card.

I love my Shark (hand held vacuum). I think I already said this. But it is awesome.

I am suffering a little bleach toxicity since I used bleach a lot today and am sensitive to it.

This is my Housewife Journal.

Thank You for visiting.

I don't have any hints from Heloise for you.

Oh wait.

You are supposed to clean (dust) your artificial flowers by shaking them in a bag of salt.

I just shake the shit out of them.

I pretend I am that killer nanny.

That works fine.

I looked at my house today when I was cleaning things up and I realized almost every room is totally bipolar.

There are a few rooms that make sense but some of the rooms you can just tell a bipolar person lives here.

I was cracking up looking at the way some of my rooms are "decorated."

It's like a Christian surrealism theme in most rooms.

Jesus is there but so are grisly artifacts.

The back bedroom has become totally thrift store finds storage.

On the "lighter side" I could seriously stock a museum of the bizarre now.

I own some really scary shit too.

Like I have the door handle from the train in the infamous Steelton Train Wreck. The actual knob from the "chamber of death."

I can't believe I bought that on EBAY.

I was so angry when Lee opened that box.

I told him I wanted to keep it and later donate it to Steelton in case they create a museum.

But I didn't want the evil energy from that thing out in the open.

Someone had actually mounted it on a piece of board with the original newsclipping on the back.

He had been one of the rescuers on site nearly a half century ago.

I think I paid ten bucks on EBAY for it.

It makes me so sad to look at it though.

A lot of people died that day in a horrible way.

And they just wanted to go see a baseball game.

Oh, I am hiring some guys to do yard work and a few home repairs. I'm pretty sure they are Mennonite brothers.

They are brothers with names like Elijah and Jebediah (I made up the second name but the first name is real).

Elijah left a note on our door a few months back notifying that he does this sort of thing cheap and I saved it.

When I called I got some sort of mediator who asked what needed done and mentally assigned a brother (different) for each task.

Maybe they don't have a phone. I know that's the Amish and not the Mennonites but who knows.

There is a beautiful little Mennonite church in Steelton that I sort of want to attend.

But Satan would probably stop me at the threshold.

You Got Your Chocolate in My Peanut Butter

But the result sucks when it's physics and postmodern philosophy.

Or any science and postmodern philosophy, usually.

Now I'm (vaguely) remembering when this happened: The Sokal Affair.

This article is a somewhat interesting read (probably more of interest to publishing academics than anyone) but be sure to check out the list of OTHER scandals, which includes some GREAT links to some really fascinating and outre hoaxes.

And there's an additional section of links beyond that which is equally fascinating.

There are many literary hoaxes listed there.

I think they missed the Kent Johnson Doubled Flowering thing but I did jump around pretty cursorily.

Someone should add that if they missed that one.

I remember hearing someone say that it was really David Bromige that wrote the texts in that hoax, but never saw it confirmed.

I remembering some writer sending me poetry that was clearly a hoax; I have a strong suspicion it was some white dude masquerading as an Asian American woman who wrote fey verse dramas.

It was ridiculous writing and so transparently a hoax.

It had that funny tone of the cultural hoax. It was really mocking the reader who didn't realize that what appeared to be cultural-privileging was actually a nightmare of cultural stereotypes. It was deploying eggshells and setting up a hidden camera to watch dumb editors tiptoeing around them. It was old hat already when I received it.

I did discover the email's origin was the city where the offender I most suspected was indeed living at the time and I did confirm that the mailing address given was a front, not an actual address. I correlated this physical address with a doctor who disclaimed any knowledge of the fictional author (which is just what I expected to discover). It's the only time I actually made a phone call relating to work submitted to my mag. I just wanted to make assurance double sure. I already knew I was rejecting the crap writing.

I just sent a polite rejection email and hinted that I knew this was a hoax, without being insulting--on the infinitesimal chance this was really an Asian American writer who intended to make her bread and butter on bad verse dramas filled with cultural stereotypes victimizing herself, her (former) culture and the nation where she had spent her childhood and most of her adult life (the writer was allegedly Japanese).

Of course the "author" wrote back and asserted the authenticity of "her" work.

I had couched the language so that if there had been no actual hoax, the email would not have been interpreted as hinting at one. But had there been one, I knew the author would respond in a "defensive mode." And, of course, the latter situation confirmed my suspicions.

I let it go at that.

Poets are weird.

I Found This Online And Thought it Was a Hoax

Do you know about this? Newton's Principia being called "a rape manual."

If rhetoric were physics we could all build time machines in our backyard.

But it's not.

Maybe Luce is really pulling an Andy Kauffman.

But somehow I doubt it.

Sigh.

Thank you for your wonderful contribution to physics, Luce Irigaray.

Now, maybe you can try polymer science and polytopes next week.

I won't even get you started on Euclid.



E=mc2 is a "sexed equation". Newton's Principia (a "rape manual")
NYU Dept. Physics ^ | Published in Nature, 9 July 1998, vol. 394, pp. 141-143.] | Richard Dawkins

Posted on Wednesday, February 11, 2004 4:55:19 PM by Helms

The feminist 'philosopher' Luce Irigaray is another who gets whole-chapter treatment from Sokal and Bricmont.

In a passage reminiscent of a notorious feminist description of Newton's Principia (a "rape manual"), Irigaray argues that E=mc2 is a "sexed equation".

Why? Because "it privileges the speed of light over other speeds that are vitally necessary to us" (my emphasis of what I am rapidly coming to learn is an 'in' word). Just as typical of this school of thought is Irigaray's thesis on fluid mechanics.

Fluids you see, have been unfairly neglected. "Masculine physics" privileges rigid, solid things.

Her American expositor Katherine Hayles made the mistake of re-expressing Irigaray's thoughts in (comparatively) clear language. For once, we get a reasonably unobstructed look at the emperor and, yes, he has no clothes:

The privileging of solid over fluid mechanics, and indeed the inability of science to deal with turbulent flow at all,

she attributes to the association of fluidity with femininity. Whereas men have sex organs that protrude and become rigid, women have openings that leak menstrual blood and vaginal fluids... From this perspective it is no wonder that science has not been able to arrive at a successful model for turbulence.

The problem of turbulent flow cannot be solved because the conceptions of fluids (and of women) have been formulated so as necessarily to leave unarticulated remainders.

You do not have to be a physicist to smell out the daffy absurdity of this kind of argument (the tone of it has become all too familiar), but it helps to have Sokal and Bricmont on hand to tell us the real reason why turbulent flow is a hard problem: the Navier-Stokes equations are difficult to solve.


(Excerpt) Read more at physics.nyu.edu ...