Have A Seat

That Dark Patch Is A Varicose Vein!!!

All That Glistens Is Not Gourd

iGourd

Pumper Kin

nediaM norI

WTF? Steve! Look out!!

The Two Scamps Tired Each Other Out

James (as Julio), Glourdia (as Sergei) and Lucy (as Awkward Girl)

G.I. G-Man

the more you look at this one, the blurrier it gets (L - R, James, Glourdia, Grae and someone dressed as Bubble Gum)

No Caption Will Suffice

...Sergei Was Sick

Someone Cheering Him Up In...

The Back Stairs At Miami...

Where Elephant Hearts Go To Die

Tom Loves Rust

tears for fears

rainy day jellyfish

A Map For Lindz

I Love This Picture

Tom and Lucy

SWAMPCORE

Steve

Arts and Craft Night at Cock and Bull

This is really what I look like

Allan

Jo

For Memoria

LOOK UP . . . IT'S ALL AROUND . . .

graffiti, a lovingly placed personality pip. drowned in knotted rope, we hang ourself by the sip. the noose, clear. the noose, a glass lipped glass of beer. here's a flask with a hip-man too drunk. sick of himself and coy. there's a fellow splendid, you know this because he tells you. you tell yourself that if you don't care, you might as well be great. you say this as if ourself will let you. he's speaking again, there. about other hims, and pomegranates -or was it just granite?- and upright ladies with downturned mouths. a space in your fist that you don't remember because you visit it too often. if you know it is escape, is it? perhaps instead you should say something or be something or find another way to look up.

Gourdmember (or the Art of Gourd Husbandry)

I get home for the weekly pre-Saphir clean-up, greet Steve in the lounge and head towards my room when 'Oh my splintery Jesus!' there's the ugliest fucking thing ever plonked in the middle of the floor. It's ugly incarnate: puce with warty protuberances all over It, throbbing with a glistening malignancy, round but not spherical, grey and mottled and veiny... my first thought is I'm a bad person: our long-suffering livingroom's developed a tumour. So I finally collect my system-shocked vocabulary to comment about It in the form of "duuuooooooode?" And Steve emerges from his room and says "Oh yes. Isn't It foul? I bought on the walk home from the bar last night. I don't really know what It is. Doesn't It look like an elephant shat in the middle of the house?"
"Uncannily so. I think I know what It is," I reply, "I think It's a gourd. Man, Steve, I'm so glad you were in the house when I met It."

Since that pivottal moment, our lives have been filled with affections for all things gourd. We did shots of vodka and smoked It up. It's a joyous little goblin and It's wormed Its knobbly way so far into our hearts that we've decided to collect a few more, you know, become gourdeners (gourd-ranchers, gourd-wranglers, gourd-tamers, gourd-handlers, Super Gourd Bros., gourdoliers, gourd-keepers, gourdheads, Supplicants to the Good Gourd Almighty etc. [we don't feel we need to 'define' or justify our relationship to It, ok?!]) I have said/typed/thought/dreamt the word GOURD perhaps 500 times in the last 12 hours. If you still can't picture It, It approximates a rancid, partially deflated, sea-sick pumpkin. Or perhaps 'a constipated limbless toad' might be a better discription, as I swear It pulses when you don't look at It directly. Steve suggested we be nice to It, as It's been through a drastic habitat change and we're not quite sure as to what powers it may possess. I'm thinking evil ones. As he MSNed to me today: "I get the feeling the gourd chose me." We're definitely going to have a whole spectrum of gourds soon (we'll likely start the first Canadian SPCG [Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Gourds]), and we'll be holding varied activities to keep them amused and socialized. Perhaps a Gourd Ugly Pageant or a 3-meter hurdles race or a few Wine & Cheese & Gourd parties. Pictures of the gourd(s) are to follow in subsequent posts. We'd also appreciate suggestions for gourd names... (so far we've been thinking either Jane or Glourdia...)

So, well done Steve for finding us a swampcore merchandising scheme. I hope I didn't give away what I'm getting people for Christmas in this post... if I didn't then here goes, you'll be getting: a gourd.
!!!SWAMPGOURD!!!

Gourd Free Zone:

Today, I found another way to determine how I'm feeling: my spitting accuracy. If I'm in a gourd mood, I can hit a flattened, blackened squidge of sidewalk gum from about 10 paces. If in a bad mood, I can't seem to get it past my chin. "I'm from Holland. Isn't that weird!?!"

Superlativest (!)

Just because on the gore-splattered sand in the Gladiator Arena of life -I’m the dozey nit-wit brandishing a pointy bifurcated twig while vainly attempting to make a twine-net look menacing (the astute among you are likely nodding your head at this point and knowingly murmuring: “ah, he’s talking about Love…”) who always ends up tripping and tearing open his own femoral artery- doesn’t mean I don’t have time to prattle on all about it. But today I do don’t have time to prattle on (it does bore me so), so I’ll talk about something else.

I am prone to psychic cramps. They tend to occlude the world and the planet (which one’s more interesting?) and panic me some… It’s just like not being able to see much of the concert, because you’re too busy trying to dodge the sweaty dreads of the giant hippie looming in front of you. Except in this case - for the purposes of this ridiculously obtuse simile - the hippie is me. In any case, the hippie must’ve eaten some moldy hummus or pine-resin or whatever, as he just rushed off towards the bathroom leaving me with an unobstructed view. Just in time for the intermission.

So, good thing I had such a good contingency topic in store! It’s good! After Tuesday’s interview, I realized how much gooder writing in italics is.

Aquariums:
Are they pets, those fish? If the word ‘pet’ implies the soothing practice of enjoying frequent physical and proximal friendship, that would prevent the term from being used to describe fish. In which case they should be call ‘feeds’. Or, in use: I have two ‘pets’, Snickers and Wooboo, the bi-curious hamsters and four ‘please-don’t-dies’, Larry, Curly and Moe. And Larry2. So then why, I wonder, as I glance out the window (in this case, I suppose I could awkwardly truncate the sentence into: I wondow why) do we keep fish?

Perhaps because we like the window (but windows, I think, by definition should be openable… wind-door?) It is strange practice removing an organism from its environment, and transferring it to a reinforced tank. Imagine the reverse, like the Porno For Pyros tune, if we were hauled into the sea, and put into upside down glass tanks and sometimes get sucked into the air filter or die of ear-rot or eat each others’ young or walk around with strings of poop from our poop-holes. It would be pretty frightening. Especially as when we put fish into a jar, there’s not too much foreknowledge as to who’s going to prey on whom. Our selections tend to be mostly aesthetical and largely ignorant to the jostling links that make up the food-chain… akin to us being snagged and slung into a cage with a tiger with neo-conservative leanings or an unstable, long-fingered clown with daddy-issues. Yes, I’m obviously still talking about Love.

All this to say:
If I were a fish, I’d swim upside down, as I’d be more afraid of something eating me from below, than above. Or definitely try and immigrate to a small pond or fish-tank, if only to fulfill the aphorisms: An immigrant fish in the pond is worth two native fish in the flusher or Give a fish a man and he’ll be fed for a day. But teach a fish how to man and he’ll be fed-up for life.

Why I Wanted To Be A Writer...

Talking about real-life (and by real-life, I mean last week's LOST episode and Evangeline Lilly's husband-beaters. Nipples broke off in the crash, I guess. They're probably somewhere in Sawyer's stash. BTW, did you know in fake-real-life she's engaged to that guy with the smack-hobbit? I read that while Googling "Evangeline Lilly" nipples. Only 83,400 hits. That's not nearly enough to indicate that they're a major feature of the show, so I imagine they're not. I said hits, you degenerate. Hits I wouldn't mind caressing for a time.) has never much appealed to me. I like to talk about how I'd like real-life to be. Rife with questions as to who's encouraged me, who I've admired and who I've wanted to admire me, I must admit that I'm not the right Tom to ask. Let me loose the gag on my inner-child for a few minutes and I'll interview the little shit.

Q: Why did I want you to be a writer? You little shit.
A: I wanted you to be a writer because it seemed like a fantastic way to do everything else.

Q: What are me talking about?
A: When asked by adults WHAT DOES TOM WANT TO DO WITH HIS LIFE? BE A FIREFIGHTING ASTRONAUT WHO CAN CHANGE INTO A VENOM-FANGED PANTHER AT THE SLIGHTEST PROVOCATION? you'd always reply: Play Lego. What're you going to do with yours? Drink more brandy?

Q: You're not making much sense here... What was your actual reply?
A: I want to be a farmer. I want to be a vet. I want to be a submersed archaeologist. A samurai knight. A space-pirate. A drummer. A mad inventor. Peter Gabriel. A BMX trickster. A General. A court jester...

Q: You little shit...
A: Yes, it's my fault. I stuck with 'farmer' as the answer seemed the most readily unbelievable, and adults seemed chronic over that whole belief thing. Also, saying 'farmer' would make them clam up expeditiously. Then I thought about it, ate a few Lego pieces, and then thought about it some more and even morer after that. I notice you're not a farmer...

Q: I harvest woe. I plant and then supplant hope. I lead the tripe out to the pastures and train my dogs to train me...
A: And during the doldrums of inactivity that people occasionally call Thinking, you realized that I can do it all by becoming a writer. I mean, you seem most adept at inactivity... Also, I remember you seeing this interview with Roald Dahl, aged and crooked as he was, where he padded dodderingly down his garden path to his shed, coaxing the camera man behind him with a wave of his pajama-clad arm, opened the latch-locked door and revealed the most modest little cubby of a room. 'This is where I write' he said. There was a four-paned window overlooking one or two rosebushes, a small wood stove and a slanted desk. A few cups of cold tea and pencil shavings. You said to me: 'I like pajamas. This is what I want of your life!'

Q: Huh. Yes. I remember now... I always wanted to live in a shed. In a shed in a tree. In a boat-shaped shed in a tree. In a boat. In a tree in a shed on a boat in a tree. Yes... mou're so right. Oop, look at that. My! How time flies. I should put mou back... see mou later. Mou little shit.
A: . . .

And that's about it.

Nipples.

The Courage

Music used for amusical purposes irks me. I like my mornings quiet, echoey... where the world sounds when you strike it. In here, this cafe, where I try and write with therapeutic purpose, the music invades and pollutes those thoughts that woke me and kept me up. I like Madonna and all, but she's not the lady I want in my head right now. I'll do my dangedest to just get them down.
My sleeplessness was not that exciting, and mainly consisted of me recognizing the need to slip in an indefinite article in some archived paragraph somewhere... but there were parts worth talking about.
I devoted much of my insomnia to contemplating the concept of vegetable oil. I know I could wiki-it, solve the issue of oil extraction briskly, but I'd feel satisfaction to solving this one on my own: vegetable oil... it's cheap and consumed in abundance, but what vegetable are they talking about? Not once in my life have I had to push away a carrot for being too oily. Are there leguminous crude slicks out there? "We don't need no lube, baby. If you just lean over and get some cabbage from the bottom drawer..." (ed: it'll be there regardless of its slidifical properties) I understand how seeds can contain oil, but if vegetable oil is made from seeds they should call it seed oil. I understand, with the whole existance of baby oil, that one does not need to deconstitute something for it have the name of that something (but it would assist matters. ed: not talking population control) Perhaps they mean that vegetable oil is to be used ON vegetables? This calls for a public awareness effort. Perhaps I finally have purpose to be awarded a grant.
Steve and I chatted a lot yesterday. We both needed it. Steve had just watched a movie about psychos and had lost his nerve. And I'd just made several realizations about my life... found my nerve? I must plunge in this way - - ->
For the past few weeks, I've been watching my face devolve into vague, indefinite lines. I don't think I'd be described as a particularly vain person, not with some of the things I've done to my image (remember, I dress like a lesbian... I find lesbians dress either like urban-commandos/fishermen or a relaxed Richard Gere. I lean more towards the former style), and I like to be thought of as positive... My face in the mirror has been wan and over-exposed, hastily drawn, features conflicting and inexpressive. Acid-washed. I've wondered about it some, whether it correlated with my mild writer's block and brooding moods. If others saw it too. I've had a few upsets lately and not known how to deal. So yesterday, I looked deep into my mirror's eyes' mirrors and declared, voice tightened by emotion, "Tom, you need to be more of an asshole." I've been using kid gloves, pulling punches (I'm afraid of hurting people, which I guess is a little conceited, but I tend to either take the hits and analyze method or use killing strokes) and avoiding the sparring that most people seem to revel in.
So I went for a 30 minute sprint and burst through the membrane of my malign tumourousness like the Kool-Aid man bringing the party to a kid's lame-ass birthday. It was a crazy run. One of those tears-mixing-with-rain-and-snot, get-my-stolen-car-stereo-back, life-reclamation runs. I puked while running. I jumped over dogs. Cars gave way. It was mad. Then I came back and looked at my face. It had begun to reassemble. I met Steve, and we talked. About how hurt we were, about how we'd deal with it, about what we meant to each other and about psychos. Anyone could be a psycho, he said. And he's right. We are a pre-meditatively violent species. And look at the restraint people show. Look how much not-killing goes on. I don't trust any of you any more. You're all ready to explode in an overly intelligent and calculated fury involving chains and rusty basement bathrooms. From now on, I'm the overtly crazy guy, ok? At least it's honest. Anyway, the motif, it seemed, was 'control'. Steve dropped that one and it brought together the many threads I'd been tugging at. I have to modify it some and qualify it as the 'perception' of control being the important bit: making the decision. In my relationship with the cosmos, I've definitely been the bitch. I'm fine with it, but no more submission, feigned or otherwise. No more deferring decision. The time is now. Seize the world and squeeze the juice. After the next smoke, of course.

Er, what else? Oh yes...
-blogs as hyper-personalities: personalities you can create and present, a different type of citizen. Not really journalistic (I'd be pissed if I opened my diary to see someone'd left commentary or witty banter. Yesterday I saw the funniest anonymous comment I've ever seen on the entire internet: BIG BLACK COCK, IN YOUR FACE. That's definitely really funny.) but fully, conceptually presented.
-The physics of a novel. In real life, there's Newtonian motion laws, semblances of relativity analogies etc., but in a novel, perhaps it's the characters that determine the physical properties. Force of Wills and the momentum they carry. In novels, gravity is determined by the weight of the soul... this is a brand-new observation for me, so I'll turn that around a bit, see how it sits.
-Lucy's Aussie roommate who unfortunately works at Miami left me offended with her casual 'roo-shooting chit-chat. So I changed the topic to cane toads, and she told me they golf with them. I don't know if she meant swing with them or at them, but still... come on! Aussies seem to have quite a few sadistic/masochistic pastimes: footie, cricket, Foster's, toad-thumping, Neighbours, other Aussies... no wonder they all say that poutine'd be a big hit over there.
-My back is killing me.
-I'm torn between using my favourite slogan of all time 'Bilge Pump' as my DJ handle, or the spoonerism 'Bulge Pimp'. It's more of a spineroosm really.
-Sometimes I really wish I were a Kodo drummer.

lighting fires to illume the murks and mires

aaaaaah. inspiration: secular blessings on these folk... they found(ed?) a community
http://ooohbarracuda.blogspot.com/
http://www.onechildleftbehind.com/blog.htm
http://mouse.scrine.com/

Comet-trails of comment tales...

here's a relink to an old post's comment thread as recently freshened by Nicole... Lie Do I?
i do like how posts keep breeding strangeness.

There while here... reflections in apple skin

Turning the compost over to cover the new scrap matter with humus, I smell my foibles. See how past injuries have caused my tendons to grow lurching in response. I see the will-o'-the-wisps of my former life... a person'll come and they'll go, but having them do both at the same time will fuck with your ability to understand consistency; to know how and when to depend. They, by their action (mostly inaction), will be the last person able to comprehend this. I've acted since to suspend others, to stop them from leaving, to stop them from seeing me for what I am. I've been coming and going for a long time.. trying to find the fulcrum, manifest the stasis, telling others what I feel and not revealing it. Funny what a final amble through the pale-sunned autumn orchard'll show you.

what doesn't kill you makes you Stranger

An elderly lady wearing her clothes back-to-front just walked past me forwards, mumbling to herself backwards. She looked at me as if I was crazy for obeying the basic mechanics of causality (which even I take fairly extreme liberties with.) Made me wonder if she had discovered a really tedious form of time-travel and how this might affect her BINGO nights. I wanted her to stick around so I could see what kind of medication she might disgorge, but she had places to unsee and things to undo and vanished. This has inspired me to dress upside-down with loafers on my hands, cartwheel into establishments and order pastries in inverted English. Strudels, if you're wondering.

In unrelated news, I got trampled by The Elephant.

wednesday

wednesday's traffic grinds against itself, at least, it does on st. laurent. people wear their wacky clothes on these humps... day-glo windbreakers; psy-trance shroom-embroidered pants; a cock-eyed lady dressed as a Dutch aristocrat wearing bunny ears carrying a sack of what could've been anything from live stray cats to, well, dead stray cats... trucks with pictures of meat products lumber up the street to stop dead-center of the road. recycling convoys back cars up several blocks. chaos reigns on wednesdays. i love wednesdays, colourful, noisy, startling.
fresh!

Putrefaction

Here comes the multiplicity: two blogs, splitten and written, simultaneously (it'll post as at different times, as i find it much harder to find pleasantries to write... which is one of the essences i attempt to recapture in The House)...

meanwhile, here i'm going to tell you all about my bowel movements.
from wednesday night to saturday i was knocked on my preverbial with the worst case of rotten rectum of all time. others' investigation leads me to believe it was Norwalk. for 3 days i carried around a stench of sulphur with magma in my gut...
actually, come to think of it, i don't want to talk about it at all. ever again. it was the worst.

Fragmentation

considering this tool's been leaving coilers all over his Who, it's time to recoil in order to retool. the fractious emotional haemorrhaging of this guy has led him to follow up an idea that's been floating around for a bit... compartmentalization... introducing, the concept page (at least, a concept for him) and the author's hallowed ground: www.who-made-who.blogspot.com

this page'll remain for all the hums and harrs that strike him. here'll be the danger page, the sketch pad, the (impersonal) outrage and the folly. so much folly. there'll be... hmm, we'll see, let's just say it'll remain the counterpoint to all things contaminating. an effort of will. will that will gooden.

When you've declared open war against rationalism, i guess anything goes...

Sorry to open this can of worms again. But the A&S found particular glee in exploring this site: www.objectiveministries.org So she took me back to reexamine a few things that I'd missed the first time. Points of interest: clickable baby Jesus, the "News" and the Chuck Norris video link as found mid-center of Objective: Misery's homepage (is he ok? perhaps we should launch a Chuck Norris rescue mission...)

and when the boot-straps snap?

i seem to drift from a weakened system of emotional immunity to the cold blue steel of a contract killer. i've been warned multiple times of my tendency to compromise myself, my investments, my earnest pursuit of achievement... but others' personalities seem so large, charming and tempting to explore. and i leave myself behind... clutching a dead tree when the floodwater recedes, boiling eggs in a draughty house, holding the photo... haunted by mistakes i fabricate in lieu of the ones i can't detail. these warnings - basically that i lose myself in the other - don't fall on deaf ears, it just that i cannot see the line demarcating what's healthy involvement and support, and what's a dangerous relinquishment of personal accountability and strivance to prosper. it is a conscious choice to have it happen, as investing in someone else strikes me (in no matter what form it takes) as investing in myself... the problem, of course, is that they might see it as dependency. the thing is: i am very good at getting to know people. usually manifesting as the recognition of a personality's pattern, but occasionally as something resembling foreknowledge: i can see what someone's going to do. with absolute certainty. i'm sure everyone feels this, to varying degree. and i've been called arrogant for sharing it before (because it's an act of intuition, there's very little factual basis evidencing the outcome), only to be proved correct by events...
i saw this latest turn coming... so, now i have the task of trying to make my life wonderful while trying not to tear myself up about why it isn't. when someone else is already torn. why's that always the way? it's not what i need VERSUS what i want, but what i need VERSUS what i think i should need...

perhaps i am a personality vampire, riding behind someone else's face. until they dump me. perhaps the chronic compulsion to help others is symptomatic of shit-poor self-esteem. perhaps life is just the corporeal expression of mental characteristics... charisma being one of the most influencing factors and contributing to a sliding scale of ethical appraisal. you are less likely to be told off for fucking someone over if you're media friendly.

i am either paranoid or not paranoid enough.

Thoth

I LIVED LIVID

I woke up furious today. Just seething through my teeth. Anger can be such a motivating force and, in the approximate words of The Terminator, more useful than despair. And fuck am I ever angry! This is unusual for me, as I’m really not ‘angry’ even once a month. I get peeved, frustrated, chafed, irritated and sore, maddened, annoyed… but not kick-over-a-mailbox angry like I am now, not bite-your-dentist livid like right fucking now… and why not? Really, why is anger considered unseemly? An undesirable quality? I see anger all the time. I saw and see it in my ex-girlfriend. She told me I was too angry. This makes Tom angry. She and I no longer speak and, to a degree, I feel betrayed. Partially by myself, but mostly by her. Because I'm not nearly as angry as I should be. And she knows it. But shit, everyone's angry with everyone else.
I am angry at Saphir for not letting me in last night without a near-forcible coatcheck. If they're not going to let me smoke inside, then they cannot ask me to smoke outside without a coat. I now have a raging cold. And I am angry. I'm drafting a Rant-Line later today, as this is going to be a serious problem for businesses as of RIGHT FUCKING NOW!
I am angry at the two old fuckers who stole my wallet last Friday at the friperie. I woke up this morning just knowing it was them. It had everything in it... my SIN card, my US Green Card, my Canadian Citizenship Card, two debit cards, my Miami Bosniaks and Montenegran's club membership card, my Pleasure Craft Operator's license, my BC driver's license, my Ontario Health Card, my Aeroplan Card, my Indigo-Chapters Rewards card, a calling card, $20, a few phonenumbers I'd never copied down, my last condom, an expired sea-fishing license (a momento), and multiple slips of paper that I keep only for reasons poetic. FUCK!
I am angry at myself for getting so far into my story without realizing that I'm attempting the impossible: a literary psy-phi novel by trying to imagine what is theoretically classed as the unimaginable. With robot battles. Faaahahahaaaaaark! (This is actually a great realization, as now I can break through the wall. And start again)
I am angry at learned helplessness. I am angry at realizing that victimization really does exist (for as long as the victim wishes...) I am angry at other people who are shocked at me for 'stepping out of character'. I am angry that I want to murder someone I don't know, never seen, met, talked to (in all senses of the words), but someone who poisoned something remarkably beautiful to me and now skulks in my life's shadows. I am pissed at your indignation in response to my anger. I am angry at the violence that everyone carries with them. Inherent. Inheritable. Brooding.
I am fucking angry.
I am angry that so many people have failed me. Especially the ones closest to me. I am angry that my skills are directionless, unaided. Honed but targetless. I am angry that I don't know how to ask for help. I am angry that I cannot tell others what I need from them without feeling that I violate their autonomy. I am angry at those that violate mine. And I am angry at myself for letting them (if I weren't to let them, I'd again be violating theirs.) I am angry that noone can talk to me about their problems: I see their problems, I feel their problems, I can't let them continue without drawing the venom. This makes them angry. I am angry at distraction, retraction and reaction, deception, deflection and defection. I am angry that there's no more loyalty. Lying makes me angry. Lying by omission makes me angrier. I am angry that I am flesh. I am angry that the environment can be so occluded by individual rapacity or collective negligence, no matter what form the environment takes. I am angry at the advice you might have for me that's tipping your tongue. I am angry that I need to be angry in order to accomplish today's needs. I am angry that your virtues will serve only to materially assist others. I am angry that people don't do for me what I do for them. I am angry that more people don't make me laugh. I am angry that I have to be angry responsibly. I am angry at the hypocrite who says 'don't make me responsible for you, I take on too much responsibility already'. She makes me really angry. I am angry that nobody overtly hates me. I am angry that I trust strangers too much and friends too little. I am angry that people don't tell me they miss me more. I am angry that I've finally accepted that the latest Black Dog album sucks. I am angry that my sister is so far away. I am angry at the bums and angrier at the people who walk past them. I am angry at rudimentary popularity tricks: 'my-club' bullshit, 'earnest' bullshit, 'social diluter' bullshit, 'inconsiderately considerate' bullshit, 'LCD' bullshit... I am angry at those who risk too much and angrier at those who risk too little. I am angry for no reason and angry for every. I am fucking angry. FUCK!

Lie do I?

Ok. I'm neither in gaol or goal. Thank you everyone for contacting me concerned, esp. regarding advice on how to throw a birthday party while incarcerated. Smuggling in silly-string is definitely a no-no then... esp. if in the inappropriate colour. I will also take the tooth-removal idea into serious consideration. I believe the method with which I will make myself indispensible will be by starting a line men's cosmetic products, 'Clam-Digger's Ochre? With that do-rag? Are you crazy?' As for goals... I postponed as many as plenty to plenty-five of them today, including not blogging. But allow me to explain: I needed to rebuff several implications that I make shit up all the time.

1) Gerbils on A Plane... Ok. So I did exaggerate the ferocity of the species: it was only a hamster.
2) I tripped Heath Ledger... It was more the fact that he stepped on my foot and stumbled. He was walking backwards through a gaggle of goggling gigglers (with enough collective ego to suck-start a bulldozer) shocked as he was that they were laughing. I am a sympathetic laugher (especially when the reason is absurd,) as is Heath, so he was laughing and curious as to what the gaggle was laughing about (his presence) so wheeled to face them, but continued walking in the original direction. There wasn't much space (we were at the Miami; Steve and I'd infiltrated the I'm Not There unofficial wrap party) and so he stepped on my foot and stumbled whilst I was asking him why the crowd were so tickled. He said he didn't know. I was too drunk to be incensed that he didn't apologize. Later we spoke briefly about CGI sheep in Brokeback. At that point, Heath had the craziest case of the pasties; that was the part that really made my night.
3) Erm, I'm sure I haven't lied a lot more than this... please contact me about other times I haven't lied...

WAX AND WEAN

alright. so, as preamble, in a titanic effort to consolidate my attentions (the experimental life-orientation method i described a few movements ago appears to lack pragmatism. i'll try to show their design later...) i'm going to stand rampant, clang the blog-anvil for a while tonight and then e-fast until i accomplish my intermediate goals (gaol)...

'tis a 7-10 split between 1st quarter and full moon and i'm as peaky as a flock of starlings. cannot wait until she passes through... 'til she crones...

i tripped Heath Ledger on Monday.

my experimental life-orientation method is stupid and it follows as such: if our sentience is a centralized community of learned limits and pattern reinforcement (and so much more), then... aw, fuck it. too stupid for words and entails attaching analog 'gravity' values to phenomena to achieve liberation from predetermined (overlooked) response. fuck this blog... i'll be back when i am.

I am a gynotikolobomassophile!!!

Hit a gold-mine here: http://www.dribbleglass.com/subpages/obscurewords.htm

er: polyorchid? MULTIBALL! this one cracks me up too: defenestration.. the act of throwing someone out of a window. my dad tells stories about the days when he used to defenestrate people.. i'd like to defenestrate Ben Mulroney, and then climb out and refenestrate him. shit, i really could spend a fine afternoon doing this repeated activity.. also, i do wonder how 'diphallic terata' can be classed as a disease (perhaps an unease?), i can't imagine it being too contagious (and i'm sure the doctors are sensitive enough not to class it as a congenital disease. hehehe.) waking up and identifying the symptom would be very kafkaesque (not really). get to call into work prick that morning. reminds me of that 'shocker' gesture, you know, the scandalous one from a few years ago that had to be airbrushed out of highschool yearbooks...

always wondered, and my postulate was wrong

ravenous
1412, "obsessed with plundering, extremely greedy," from O.Fr. ravinos "rapacious, violent," from raviner "to seize," from ravine "violent rush, robbery" (see ravine). Meaning "voracious, very hungry" is from c.1430.
(strangely not etymologically associated with 'raven')

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I think I hit upon a tremendously powerful manner of personal orientation during a fit of midnight mania last night. It might sound a little barmy today (and might even be one of the many tributaries of Lethe or at least insanity), so I'll test its viability before declaring its means... that's assuming you ever hear from me ever again.