so i spent about an hour of my time in a foot locker in downtown chicago this past sunday, on a ridiculously nice day (why not spend an hour in foot locker). i had a sachet of snus in my mouth owning to a mid-morning attempt to quit smoking. by the time it was 5 pm i wasn’t quitting smoking anymore, i can tell you that. anyway i was killing an hour before i went to go get my bicycle from an undisclosed west side location where it had to be stabled following a special treats-intensive meal at said location (i apologize for the long explanation for why i was in foot locker). i bought a hat to soothe a heartache, and looked at t-shirts, and in general sort of considered the various tetrapods. i raised an eyebrow at one thing.
i mean, i know there are a lot of Jayhawks in the chicago area, and i don’t really follow the NBA closely, but Nick Collison is a totally mediocre PF for a mediocre team, isn’t he? I got huffy because it seemed to me that the only reason this jersey was stocked was that: Nick Collison is a white dude. I looked around for Wayne Simien or Paul Pierce or even any KU swag. None to be seen. Clearly racialist (something)-mongering. possibly monger-mongering. Anyway, the world kept spinning until i saw this t-shirt:
kelly green, as a sports-haberdashery non sequitur, clearly inscribes that the wearer of said gear is unmistakably going to/intended to be a caucasian (and probably a shitferbrains). now, here we have a kelly green bulls t-shirt printed under the subbrand of noted Bulls PG (and generally better than Nick Collison-level player) and noted Caucasian Captain Kirk Hinrich. Now I’m just about convinced we’re looking at some kind of categorical sportswear racist agenda. Until i saw this and realized fake irish people just like things that are green.
although a business associate did point out that Ben Wallace might be somehow ethnically Scottish, so that makes him as celtic as anybody.
now that i think on this, it’s surprising there isn’t more targeted marketing towards the “white and proud of it” demo & dollar. i mean, that’s more or less what baseball, in its entirety, is getting to be, now that i think even further. lo and behold, when i was getting my bulls hat (that’s right, the cavs are dead to me) there was a white sox hat done in the style and colors of the wonder bread logo. it ever featured the proprietary wonder bread balloons. this is america, man.
“if fleas had rituals they would be about dogs”
i forget where i read that quote as a epigramme to something, and i also forget what it was supposed to indicate or who said it. i forget a lot, as it turns out. one thing i did not forget is that i agree with the lack of a sentiment underscoring it.
some variations:
if my dick was a person, he would have no limbs and wouldn’t have a central nervous system or a recognizable face, and he’d be penis-sized
if algebra had no variables, it would be regular math
if i tried harder and got out of my own way, maybe i’d start to feel proud of myself
if i stopped thinking completely, i’d be less fun to talk to
am going to go on some kind of self-deprivation rampage in the near future. this should be pretty entertaining. restricting televisual and comestible inputs to basic starch. a PBJ will taste like GD foie gras by the time all has been spoken. i was considering half-heartedly mounting the alleged “master cleanse,” mostly for the allegedly hallucinatory BMs. but to be earnest i don’t think i’d thrive on that kind of biodiesel. there is a sociology of sports science post to be made after i get some cellphone snapshots resized at the office on monday. some kind of fucked up butcher. my serious scientific work involves kelly green as a visual rhyme for Caucasian-ness (Caucasuality?), kirk hinrich, the university of kansas, a hat i purchased, the CTA and cormac mccarthy.
science fact: there are fighter jets harpooning through the skies of the HPK right now. i’m going to wring sooty joy from wobbly hope that this is the beginning of the canadian invasion and i’ll be sunning myself under the downmarket heat lamps of liberal socialism sometime next week, after the CPD stacks their rifles in neat haystacks and prostrates themselves before les forces canadien. what i meant to say was that i hope this is something, even though it (the noise i heard) is currently smokewriting n-o-t-h-i-n-g above my rooftop torre de la justicia.
recent hits: the afore-hattipped Suttree, Cache.
things i have watched recently and found myself apologizing to the painted walls of my apt for exposing to them: Moonstruck (i have no explanation. i was bored, someone pressed it on me). Venture Bros. If the world wanted a cruel and rancid send-up of Johnny Quest the world would have asked for it. I mean, I had one or two laughs but good lord. What evil lurks in the heart of culture-industry stoners who hate themselves and others. i think the Moonstruck question really controls the bar here, why did i watch a “cruel and rancid send up of Johnny Quest” if I knew all along that’s the sort of thing that makes me cry tears of briny hate? because i’m not a genius, is the answer you should already know by now.
the following sounds are coming in through my open windows: late-20something white people chuckling, a strangely metronomic baby with an pragmatic cry, the fighter jet again, beer bottles being thunked down intermittently on the railing of a chicago wood porch. there are some metaphysical sounds i hear as well, foremost of which is 18 remaining of 20 marlboro lights and a diet dr. pepper. the main invisible sound is a soulful caribbean afro-hispanic grandpa made out of clouds crooning “fausto…. carmona…. fausto…. carmona” while crying teardrops shaped alternately like sacred hearts and chief wahoo. THIS IS OUR YEAR.
Spent an hour last night rearranging the furniture in my apartment. by rearranging i mean i moved the dresser into the closet then decided that not having a desk wasn’t worth the tradeoff of having the dresser where it belonged (you see, the dresser is the desk) then i slid it back across the floor. i did all of this while listening to back episodes of This American Life about Harold Washington.
bowl of cashews
bowl of cigarette butts
caffeine free diet coke
caffeine free bourbon
laxative tea
moving the dresser back to where it started
content sharing plus extra secret free secrets:
“The only reason I like girls,” Amis wrote in a letter to Larkin in 1953, “is that I want to [hug] them, which is adolescent, cheap, irresponsible, not worth doing, a waste of time, not much fun anyway really, a needless distraction from my real vocation, destructive of any real power of understanding women which as a novelist HOOHOO should be important to me. . . . All I have to do now is stop wanting to [hug] girls and I shall have the thing licked.”
REMASCULATE, v.: to regain one’s masculinity after engaging in a less-than-masculine activity. Example: “My girlfriend dragged me to The Notebook. I had to remasculate by watching all four Die Hards.” (Urban Dictionary)
In view of my previous weariness of office, and vague thoughts of resignation, my fortune somewhat resembled that of a person who should entertain an idea of committing suicide, and, although beyond his hopes, meet with the good hap to be murdered.
It is a profound temptation to try hammer rick ankiel into a rude representational shape of america AD 2007. i am glad rick ankiel exists and i question the motivations of reporters from new york city (said as with a mouth full of curdled milk) mining trash receipts for evidence that someone did something that wasn’t against the rules at the time to crow about. although i suppose people would go to the trouble of crucifying a common thief like Jason grimsley, there’s plenty of timber for rick ankiel.
anyway all i want to say is, fuck the world and everybody in it. i love you rick. keep on TCBin.
