Carcharodontics

At times like this I wonder how much I lose by considering myself somewhere in between residential stasis and vagabond transience and newly-arrived-freshly-openedness. Somewhere in the interstices between those three nodes, or circulating between them at all times, or simply occupying all three spaces at once. Am I trianglular - wholly a trinity - or an impulse bounced from receptor to receptor? Constant motion is a kind of stasis, I guess. Sharks, swimming, drowning, etc.

Also, my Lazy Sundays have gotten downright Torpid. I'd never make it as a shark.

Rumplemintz Holiday Massacre

Well Liquor drunk isn’t the same as Top Shelf drunk – tell you something you don’t know, you say. It’s not the stomach churning, why oh why did silver tequila from a plastic jug seem like the right way to save up for my new Huffy? abscess-potion qualities that I’m exactly talking about here, though said qualities of Well Liquor are hereby noted and unpleasantly sense-remembered.

Rather it’s the nasty turn that happens oh maybe after Well Liquor beverage number four that’s troubling. Here we’re talking about a sort of perceptual shift, the vertical knob maybe nudged too far, the bar, the world stretched squat and fatty. Imaginary errata snows down but never settles, and your thoughts take some kind of perverse turn – the reptile brain moves a little bit closer to the surface and you can feel it there like a half-dead gila monster pushing its way through layers and layers of gray cheese, snapping pathways and cutting off impulses as it tries to slither its way to the backs of your eyes and flick its tongue out of your mouth. This is what happens at high altitudes or great depths. Imagine maybe this is what happens in the instant before Hillbilly Hollywood murders.

Everything is Accelerated

A cruel thing I like to do is leave Myspace friend requestors waiting in limbo for weeks like I'm taking a long time to mull things over and make my decision, when really I'm not thinking about it at all!

Thing that is happening: I am moving to New York in order to become a fashion accessory for a Lower East Side cupcake shop promoter (don't ask). He will wrap me around his neck like a mink stole, or a pet snake - he's also requested I make "some kind of animal noise, Nancy." This move will occur sooner than was expected. Memorial Day Weekend, I make Chicago a memory.

Sketch of a House

It’s a house, but only because people live in it. Two crooked stairs lead up to a porch – three folding chairs (two folded, one un-) lean to the right, while the floorboards of the left side of the porch are broken and buckled inward, like a great foot had slammed down from the sky and dented the once-fine carpentry. The screen door flaps perpetually, though, weirdly, there isn’t any wind – the misshapen house is somehow aware of any pertinent structural damages that might clue the visitor to the manifold repugnances that once took place between its crooked walls. Mildew creeps from caulking around the sills, etcetera. One window is covered over in a blackened sheet of scrap metal.

It’s a house, but only because people live in it. From a distance of one hundred yards, the precise number of bushes foresting the cement walkway remains indeterminate. Each bare branch interferes with the next and it’s all a complicated wash of overlapping and bifurcating tendrils, such that no one can say for sure that each bush is, say, ontologically distinct. Or alive, either. Upon approaching, the bush-wash breaks down into distinct bushes, but the walkway breaks up – cracks riddle the cement slabs, each of them seemingly pried from the earth and dropped back carelessly, each now slightly maligned from the others., and so the house winks, another sign as to its cognizance of its owners’ many past degradations.

Snarking

This is sorta old news, but I couldn't help but laugh when I saw this Spin.com article about artist Daniel Edwards's sculpture of a naked Britney Spears giving birth to her son. Edwards claims the sculpture is a pro-life statement meant to help encourage those struggling to make "the right choice." Yes, if you're trying to convince anybody who happens to become pregnant not to abort, no matter how incompetent a parent they are, there's no better spokesmodel than Britney Spears.

Your honor, if getting down is a crime, then lock me up and throw away the key!

It's been a while. Okay, busy month. Here are the talking points:

1. Spent a weekend in the studio and came out with three songs, one of which I'm happy with, two of which aren't mine. The spin? Bumbling neophyte throws slapdash song together out of spare parts, jams shards of My Bloody Valentine's Loveless beneath strings and screams really loud through vinyl and into pickups. One pint of whiskey later, pure fuzzed-out screamy Frankenstein demolishes studio. Frank takes nap and dreams about unsewing his own limbs until only a pile of skin, catgut, and Frankengut remains. Dreamful illogicity bypasses the practical difficulties of self-dissasembly (i.e. the ol' "When crucifying yourself, how do you pound the last nail into your own wrist?" problem - not as abstract as Russell's Paradox, but just as vexing). Frank's liberated consciousness drifts ever-upwards, until PB Shelley traps it like a firefly in a jar. It dies of neglect.

2. My good friend Nick visited from San Jose. It was fun, but also made me nostalgic, which is a feeling I hate. It's not your fault, Nick. Not your fault that my golden days are gone. Not ... your ... fault ... Oh God ... (Also, some guy in a bar asked Nick a question about me, referring to me as "[Nick's] Little Bald Friend," which, for an instant, made me see myself as a forest-dwelling dwarf. Like a psychotic David the Gnome.)

3. Last weekend I went to New York to visit Jessica and CUNY and the New School. Fun as always. Bobbed my head and did the Charleston at Hip-Hop Karaoke. Ate a cupcake. My favorite incident at the Whitney Biennial occurred after a screening of Francesco Vezzoli's "Trailer for a Remake of Gore Vidal's Caligula," which is, as you might guess, a trailer for a movie that doesn't exist. It's very tongue-in-cheek and very funny. While Jessica and I were leaving the screening room, some guy who had also just seen the film told a friend, "Don't bother. It's just a preview of Gore Vidal's Caligula," and without a hint of irony. So great.

4. Accepted admission at CUNY. In a continual gesture whose ramifications I don't want to contemplate, I habitually mispell CUNY as CUNT in IM conversations and emails.

5. It's my birthday this weekend. Up yours, 22!