i seen it
homemade mario lemieux t-shirt. what is up. the family that this dude was part of featured also a carolina panthers hat and a commemorative USA-themed texas rangers hat.
come back to me in my dreams
banana nutriment battle rap #7 has been released. it’s called:
available position: busty woman with infinite patience
and it goes:
also philosophically indifferent to my failings
tasteful sweatiness would not be objected to
one of those very small nose piercings, diamond or fake diamond
eyebrows of sharp definition but not at all overplucked. no big scraggly eyebrows please
also has several thousand dollars to loan me at present
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boarding school kleptocracy –>kennedy’s brain trust –> The Best and the Brightest –> David Halberstam < — The Education of a Coach <— bill belichick <— boarding school kleptocracy
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STUDS LONIGAN: i am still hammering out why i loved this book so much, other than A) chicago nostalgia B) conceptual nostalgia for things that you only get in chicago, such as an all encompassing feeling of ownership-lust C) the interplay of wanton sin and crushing guilt D) seemed like a good idea at the time.
our great benefactor Moacir has been telling me how well, crushing and powerful this trilogy is; it’s not such that i didn’t believe him as that i expected he meant that it was in part melodramatic–a thumbnail sketch (say, the back jacket copy) certainly reads as melodramatic, but it’s anything but, unless you want to go ahead and admit that the whole great depression era was a bit maudlin and embarrassing by the end.
one very superficial realization that i had, Studs compared to other chicago-canon novels: the space of Chicago, as it is written in Augie March, is mostly a question of people–each phase that Augie moves through, from West Side to dog-washing in Evanston to furtive abortions in Hyde Park to Mexico (which reads like an extension of Chicago — their journey to and from is all but unmentioned). Chicago in Sister Carrie, or The Jungle, is a wilderness. Chicago in 47th Street Black is,.. well I have to go read 47th Street Black. In Native Son, I can’t remember. In Joshua Ferris, it’s a cubicle farm and could be anywhere. In Studs, in particular on the eve of SL’s death, as Old Man Lonigan looks over his old neighborhood in Bridgeport, has his hubcaps swiped and watches a parade of socialists, he and I realize that all of the forced-march relocations that happen in the book mirror the plague-like ravishment that Chicago represents. It’s not growing, it’s rotting, in some sense. Anyway I haven’t written or thought through this, but if any of you out there wrote off Studs Lonigan as either Bullshevicky 30s agitprop lit or stale naturalism or just tin pan alley, you’re missing out: get wise to J Farrell, get live.
MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I BEHOLD
By William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
war in a babylon
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“in which the city is at once an endless text always promising meaning but ultimately offering only hints and signs of a possible and final reality”
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idea mostly inspired by kids in the hall: everytime you use the word ‘city’ stop yourself and replace it with the words ’sausage factory’
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“in which the sausage factory is at once an endless text always promising meaning but ultimately offering only hints and signs of a possible and final reality”
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your love keeps drawing me closer
i have been jawing with people about the non-utility of twitter. ordinarily one problem solving principle i would use in such a case would be to deny the conceptual existence of the other person being correct or even just not retarded. in this case, though, in the service of a foulmouthed joke, i am willing to allow that twitter exists and is not exclusively a tool for special needs education (neither of which i think is true). my response to hypertrophic internet shit is as follows: i am going to start a twitter called, pete’s bowel movement almanack, which will consist of updates, which can be beamed out BATCH COMMUNICATION STYLE, to dozens of people via SMS or facebook or like, a federal prisoner database, talking about any craps i took that day and my editorial comments on said craps. Stay tuned for subscription details! UPDATE: Bathroom Update!!
observation: if a young adult dude in say the 1890s went around having a tv show or general lifestyle foreskin the entire substance of which was “Hey remember all those kids’ songs and books and shit that we were mad into in the late 1870s and early 1880s? THAT SHIT WAS THE BEST I LOVE THE (18)70s!!!!!!” he would have been drowned in the nearest septic tank and probably had his various body parts scattered to the four winds, and his penis ground into dust and fed to chickens. i allow for various changes caused by technology and mass culture and two world wars etc but now, people get paid to make unfunny observations along the lines of “I TOTALLY REMEMBER METROID” or “I WANTED TO BANG PEOPLE EVEN WHEN I WAS A YOUNGER MAN WHO HAD NEVER BANGED”. what i am saying is, grind those people up and feed them to chickens. quoth the don, making motherfuckers nostalgic and making motherfuckers pay attention, totally different biological processes.
am undertaking a summertime re-read of Moby-Dick, get up ons.
Also, I’d like to announce my first micro-capital campaign. Please stay tuned for information about how you can donate to the Help a Dude Get Rockwell Kent Illustrations from Moby-Dick Tattooed on His Arm fund.
WOLF SHIRT END TIMES: Full upper-body wolf costume
