electronic sorcerer

ancient wisdom
combined with
technical wizardry
he'll electrocute your spine
you'll see things you don't wanna see
electronic sorcerer
high on a mountaintop
high on a bridge
up in the air
above the river's skin
high on a cliff
i thought i'd surely win
'cause he couldn't recharge
'cause he couldn't plug in
but i was proved wrong
when his body changed form
and i was defeated by an electrical storm

-by Modey Lemon (boyd/quattrone)

headline news

Portage, Wisconsin -- "A woman has been arrested for allegedly digging up her dead boyfriend's ashes from a cemetery and drinking the beer that was buried with him."

yeah.. he probably would have wanted it that way.
apparently she smoked the cigarettes he was buried with as well.
another interesting fact: he was buried in 1992! what the hell is this? a loving tribute or a severe jones for decade-old lager. the funny thing is the beer was probably deliciously cold, what with it being six feet underground for about fourteen years.
when they put me in the dirt i'm taking a 40oz bottle of single malt scotch whiskey and a hand-rolled Cuban cigar with me.
you bastards come diggin' and i'll haunt your ass for a million years.

kudos

to the bored cop who drove us home when we were on acid.
to Matt, for being brave (on acid) enough to hop in the front.
to LeBlanc, for being stupid enough to get in the back with me.
to the cop again, for actually lettings us out instead of taking us to jail (that special jail with the rubber walls for people on acid.)
to my parents, for being sound asleep when i crawled in the back door like a drooling, twitching, gelatinous, nerve-endings-on-the-outside-of-my-body, psychoactive druggard at five o'clock in the morning.
to the flashback.
still waiting.

carnivorous aesthetics

earlier today, somewhere on the internet, i saw an advertisement for a small oddly shaped camera. for whatever reason, the moment i saw it i thought 'steak camera.' then i thought, why not make a camera that looks just like a juicy cut of steak? the lens could be in the middle where the 'eye' is. maybe we could have various cuts of camera. club, sirloin, porterhouse? whatever. the outer casing could be made of durable rubber, so it kind of felt like you were holding a tender, uncooked steak. i think it would be great to go to some sort of social gathering, everyone in their sunday best, holding whirring, flashing steaks to their faces.
everyone say 'medium rare!'

also: i like my sex the same way i like my pizza.
hot and messy.

beachcomb revue

two mornings a week, i go up and down the shoreline of the peninsular dog park. a person can find many curious things on this rocky beach on a windy day. mostly tampon applicators. sometimes various woods and plastics. i concentrate on bottles and more importantly what might be lodged inside them.
one day i found a large water bottle full of glittering, foily sparkles and ribbons.
another day i found a beer bottle with a waterlogged mouse curled up inside, presumably deceased.
earlier this spring i actually found a sealed, glass bottle with a rolled up piece of paper inside.
a message in a bottle.
i opened it up to sadly discover it was only the reprinted lyrics to the song 'message in a bottle.'
fuckers.
today was different. today i found a very old bottle. it was half buried in the thick muck where the shore gradually turns to grass. even after rinsing it in the cold saltly water the glass was filthy, clouded. i could not see inside so i shook it. there was something inside. it took me a minute to wrestle off the badly rusted cap. i held my breath and slowly turned the bottle, spilling out its contents onto the rocks.
crap.
just another dead genie.

album of the year

'You're a Woman, I'm a Machine' by Death From Above 1979.
no question, hands down, the very best album this year.
probably last year too.
miles away from everything else.
if you disagree meet me on the railing of the MacDonald bridge at dawn tomorrow. bring a bayonet and don't bother packing a lunch.

the great white poison

hypocritical words of caution:
if there's a shark on the bottle, DON'T DRINK IT.
no wonder it's been over ten years.
woke up with an unusally nasty case of the brain snaps.
once again i became a blast-furnace.
a forest fire of frantic glands.
see you in 2015 ya bastard.

not cat food?

my cats breath smells like the flesh of a thousand unbelievers.

sound advice

-never fuck a person who calls herself 'Goat Lady'.
-don't try to teach children foul words if their parents are around.
-electrical sockets are not meant for fingers or wet penises.
-never eat a fried pigeon. we boil pigeons.
-don't wear leather pants unless you mean it.
-you can't make bacon flavored yogurt. trust me.
-if you have to kiss a homeless person, no tongue.

ditch

i'm not a linear person and i don't like doing things in a linear way. for example: beer, whiskey, beer, jager, whiskey, beer, beer, tequila, beer, whiskey, etc. i was expected to arrive at work around 8am. no dice. i did not arrive at work at all. i didn't call in (although they called me numerous times.) i just didn't show. will this cause me trouble in the near future? most definently. do i care? probably not.
the first recognizable thought that entered my damaged little mind this morning was this: "Work Is Not Happening Today."
i believe Tom Waits said it best; "well the dawn cracked hard just like a bullwhip, cause it wasn't takin' no lip from the night before."

questions for god

i washed my bathroom towel only two days ago.
it smells like week old vomit already.
why?

also, what's with the locusts?

use these words more

tempestuous
regurgitate
polydactyl
conducive
iconoclastic
thrombosis
phantasmagoria
mollusk
vagina

ten good reasons not to kill yourself before thanksgiving

-turkey dinner (it's less than a week away, c'mon)
-i have nothing to wear to the wake
-suffering is sexier
-speaking of sex... sex!
-you'll probably botch it and everyone will laugh (how embarrassing)
-wait until after my birthday
-two words: Spaceballs sequel
-fool! now you'll never get into heaven (Flanders weeps...)
-let's go dancing
-c'mon, Courtney's not that bad. is she?

Schrodinger's cat

A cat is placed in a box, together with a radioactive atom. If the atom decays, a hammer kills the cat; if the atom doesn't decay, the cat lives. As the atom is considered to be in either state before the observer opens the box, the cat must thus be considered to be simultaneously dead and alive.
- Erwin Schrodinger's Cat Paradox, 1935

return of the mack

i saw him sitting in aisle eight.
it's been almost a year.
towering over everyone like some creamy, cow-born monolith of festivities.
bringer of heart attacks and stomach cramps.
scourge of Atkins.
Eggnog has returned.
like we all knew he would.
it's too soon.
run.

whiskey from a pumpkin

mount saint helen's is back. after i was born the doctors put me in a hollowed out pumpkin because the incubators were full. i blew out the candles on my first birthdaycake through my jack o'lantern's crooked smile. once hollowed, a pumpkin rots quickly, and my urine and droolings only helped advance this process; i recieved a new womb o'lantern weekly. as time went on i quickly grew into a toddler-sized person and had to resort to wearing my weekly pumpkin like a helmet, my head constantly suspended in a reticulum of slime. an uncommon seed gazing out through triangle eyes. once, while left unattended in a department store by a narcoleptic uncle, a middle aged woman in an ugly blue sweater took me to the checkout and tried to buy me, mistaking me for some sort of seasonal decoration. i was too young to understand this and began to cry as they searched my body for a UPC code. by the time i reached adolescence it was decided that i no longer needed these pumpkin-related treatments.
my teen years were pale and squinty and awkward. so naturally i turned to drugs. it started innocently enough, weed and solvents being the order of the day. as my tastes became more advanced i began to prefer the psychoactive properties of hallucinegenic mushrooms. one grey october morning i awoke to find myself curled up in tall grass by the lip of a fog coated highway. i found the dull roar of passing vehicles quite threatening and began to crawl towards a small patch of forest to rest and probably vomit. as i reached the treeline i felt a familiar twinge streak across my face that caused me to look to my immediate left. there, like a tinly glowing sun, was a large, ripe, inviting pumpkin; a slight dusting of morning frost on it's crown. it felt warm in my cold, dewey hands. upon inspection i noticed a hole near the base about the size of a dollar. i peeled and picked and pushed my hand through, only to find a family of feild mice residing inside. they bit and chewed my fingertips as i pulled them out one by one. my heart was racing as i widened the hole. i lay on my stomach, reached around my beautiful orange globe and pulled it over my head. i was home, i was calm, i was smiling and eating seeds. i would stay here until rotting day. i used a large stick to carefully carve out a crude eyehole. it was from here that i saw a hungry male crow feasting on a family of feild mice. i knew once he finished there he would surely move on to my legs, partially exposed through the tears in my jeans. i did not care. he wouldn't get my head.
then that mountain exploded again.

my fish is a minimalist

i removed all the shnazz and fake plastic furniture from his bowl. i did this because A) i am a lazy person and i hate cleaning that shit, and B) to see if removing anything that could possibly stimulate his tiny mind would affect his personality. it has. he's become jumpy and irritated. his name is Dr.Spock and he misses his material world.
this is not cruel.
i am trying to develop his mind.
by years end, he will speak.