Friday, January 28


After what seemed like an endless week of sleepless nights, scrambling around, and desperate work, my county-required complete-this-the-way-we-want-it-or-you-will-instantly-lose-your-job NOTEBOOK OF DEATH has been turned in, reviewed, and approved.

It's official. I'm not getting fired.

...Well, not for this anyways.

[Listening to: Three Days Grace, "Home"

Sunday, January 23

Brad Hates Red States #5

Experimental musician/Performance artist Alice Malloy (shown here holding a synth controller she put inside a baby) has created a new musical instrument for herself that she's been showing off at various trade shows around the country.

It's a bra
made out of
         It's times like these when
         I truly miss being a roadie.
[Listening to: Nothingface, "Incarnadine"

Saturday, January 22


No matter what you read here, or what you think it might imply -- never forget that in the end it's all just a desperate cry for attention

[Listening to: Gorillaz, "Rockit"

Friday, January 21

Apocalyptic Fuckpit Polo

Listen to the same song over and over. Wave your arms to call attention to your invisibility. Demand that your nonchalance be rewarded for it's exceptional ...nonchalant-ness. Look at how much I'm not looking at you. See me not pushing the button over and over when the elevator doesn't show up right away.

Look in the mirror. Stare at the moon.

          wonder why it's not working
          wonder why it's not working
          wonder why it's not working

For the past couple of weeks, a handful of stray cats have been showing up on your porchstep to eat the food that you put out every morning for the only one who didn't leave. The only problem is that the ones that have been showing up look exactly like the ones who left, even though you know it's not really them at all.

Call them by the old names. Pretend you can pick right up where you left off. Scratch the ears of the milkwhite tabby that looks exactly like the one you put to sleep six years ago. Miss the days when things didn't get sick and you didn't have to make decisions that you didn't want to. Pet him on the head, stroke his belly. Drive him to the vet because it's the best thing to do and then cry like a baby because you don't have the power to make it better, only understanding enough to make it stop.

Put out the food, watch the ghost eat.


[Listening to: Bjork, "It's in Our Hands"

Wednesday, January 19

Talk Like That is What Gets a Person Eaten

Even though I'm a teacher now, and I haven't been a student in a long, long time -- there's nothing quite like the feeling that comes when the principal looks you dead in the eye and then tells you that he needs to see you in his office.

...Here we go again

[Listening to: Memories of the freaky chick on American Idol last night

Tuesday, January 18

Same Old Story, No Factual Glory

Describe yourself using one band and song titles from that band

Created by naw5689 and taken 8431 times on bzoink!

Choose a band/artist and answer only in song TITLES by that band:Bad Brains
Are you male or female:Hired Gun
Describe yourself:Fearless Vampire Killer
How do some people feel about you:The Youth Are Getting Restless
How do you feel about yourself:I and I Survive
Describe your ex girlfriend/boyfriend:Silent Tears
Describe your current girlfriend/boyfriend:Sacred Love
Describe where you want to be:Sailin' On
Describe what you want to be:Banned in DC
Describe how you live:Attitude
Describe how you love:Supertouch
Share a few words of wisdomKick Out the Jams

Create a Survey | Search Surveys | Go to bzoink!

[Listening to: The Sex Pistols, "Bodies"

Tuesday, January 11

Kill The Band

Yesterday morning on the way into work I called my father to see if he might be available to grab a cup of coffee or something during my break. It took a few rings for him to answer, but only a second to tell me he wouldn't be able to make it.

      Me: "What's up, you got a busy work day ahead?"
      Him: "No, I'm at the hospital, your mother's had a heart attack."

..have you ever noticed just how many times you respond to bad news delivered over a cell phone by saying the words, "what was that? - you broke up a little there..."

Maybe this is everybody's parents, I don't know -- but with this being the second time my mother's had a heart attack and the second time I found out about it more or less by accident, I kind of laid into my dad about his skills as an information provider. I love the man, but getting really bad health news this way is starting to get old.

He says that they didn't want me (or my brother) to worry, he says that he didn't want to say anything until they knew something for sure, he says "just go on to work, and I'll call you with an update later," but I don't think he really realizes the words that are coming out of his mouth when he says these sorts of things.

She had some tests done and they cleared a blockage, so she should be able to go home soon. In the end it turned out to be not as big a deal as it maybe could have been. But even as I hugged my father in relief, it was all I could do not to break out a little Dr. Evil on him, you know?

         I mean, how can I help make things better
         if I don't know that anything's wrong?

[Listening to: Ours, "Here is The Light"

Saturday, January 8

Autoaesthetic Fixation

In the dream I'm asleep on the couch. There are two faded green candles glowing down, falling away slowly under the tension and release of their own heat while the credits to a movie I lost somewhere in the middle roll by unnoticed.

There's a sense like a flashbulb against the window, followed by the sound of a car engine in need of attention pulling into the drive. As she turns the key and enters, she finds me sitting there on the edge of the couch, rubbing my eyes back into place.

It's quiet. The candles silently flicker, animating our shadows against the wall. I say something corny, something like, "have I told you just how beautiful you look tonight?"

          I don't ask where she's been.
          I don't care what she's been doing.
                I don't say anything at all.

I'm just happy to see her home. Breathless to find her close. Hungry to feel her touch. She hangs her keys on the hook by the door, and then smiles me to a whisper with her eyes while the candles continue to flicker, burn, and melt.

          In the dream that's what happens

But in this world it's different. Because I've been awake for a while,

                 ...and she's still not home.

[Listening to: Blonde Redhead, "Astro Boy"

Thursday, January 6

Planet Schrodinger

"Curiosity did not kill the cat," reports John Olson in "Free Stream Velocity," his book of prose poems. "Boredom killed the cat." Let that be your rallying cry in 2005, Libra. In the coming months you will have a sacred duty to elude all situations that make your eyes glaze over. To meet your dates with destiny, you must not tolerate BLAH or HO-HUM in any form. "Curiosity was born with the universe," Olson reminds you. "It redeems and is erotic."
One of the things that I like about Brezny is the knack he sometimes has for hitting me over the head. It's not like his message ever changes all that much, but he has a unique resilliance for finding new ways to say it year after year. Sometimes it comes across as overdramatic, but perhaps every now and then clear advice needs to come in fancy wrapping paper, you know?

Still, it's not like he's offering any sort of earth-shattering relevations or anything. Even in his novel, "The Televisionary Oracle," (which reads sort of like an I Ching for anyone who wants to play in a politically cynical rock band and date lesbians) the underlying theme still remains to be one of self-empowerment and better living through fearlessness.

           It's so simple, it can't help but make sense.

And yet here I am, an irradiated cat; half-in and yet half-out of the bag.

This discovery is a journey that I have to take by myself. It's something that I can only do alone. But if this is going to work, then you've got to come with me. I don't mean that you have to discover it with me, because then it wouldn't be yours. What I mean is that if I'm to go -- If I am to finally and truly make this move, then I won't be in this same place when it's all over. I won't even be in the same place if I only just take that single, first step.

I know this is years overdue. I know that you ..used to believe that I was going somewhere, and that if you stayed close to me that you could move too. I know deep down, maybe in a place you don't know how to talk about anymore, that you resent me for not being able to start that car.

I'm sorry for that

But I'm going now. I'm trying everything I can think of. It doesn't matter anymore how I figured it out, what matters is that I did. What matters is that I want you to come with me, even if an army of Lucys, friends, relatives, and a half dozen voices in my head are suggesting that I can't have both.

Eventually, if I truly want this life to discover it's potential, I'll just have to go. Which is why I'm trying so desperatley hard to get your attention. To get you to notice me.

           To keep you from falling asleep on me, again.

[Listening to: The Faint, "Take Me to the Hospital"

Wednesday, January 5

One Two Three Fourteen

        and I still haven't found
        ...what I'm looking for
[Listening to: Nine Inch Nails, "Wish"]

Monday, January 3

Actually Spoken During the Course of My Evening

    "Neither of us are whales, we just drink like fish."

[Listening to: Gwen Stefani, "Danger Zone"]

Sunday, January 2

Monkeyboys in the Facility

Remember that little to-do list I needed to take care of little while back?

Basically, after one too many nights hearing little toes tapdance across the ceiling, I decided to take a look around the attic to figure out where it was coming from. I pulled the door, climbed the ladder, and found myself almost immediatley face-to-face with Ben from Willard.

The weird thing about it is that I went up those stairs with every intention of looking for a rat. It's just that the very last thing I expected was to find one, much less have it standing there basically holding the door open for me.

Undaunted, I headed out to Hell Depot to see if I could find a trap or something to kill this thing with. They had mousetraps, but all they had were these tiny little Buddy Holly airplane looking things -- nowhere near big enough to cause my friend Templeton any real harm. So I opted for chemical warfare, bought a bunch of poison packets, and headed home.

The instructions on the box said to spread three or four packets around the infested area and then wait a day or so for the poison to get eaten. After that, it said to give it one to two more days before finding and disposing of the carcasses.

For the record, that sounded like a pretty easy thing
to do when I was just reading it off the side of a box.
It's only now with the delicate aroma of dead rat drifting down upon my household from above that I realize what it is that I'm actually in for.

The weird thing about it though is that the first time I went up there it was just something I needed to do. I skipped into the attic like it was the sort of thing I did every day for fun. This time, however, knowing that I was going to have to more or less crawl around every square inch of the place looking for what (if anything) was left of my former upstairs neighbor, I found my thoughts unexpectedly filled with a new concern:


And even if Mickey hadn't mutated into some sort of flesheating monster - it's not like I was in any real hurry to go on a treasure hunt for a decaying rat corpse. Still, the air was getting riper by the second, and who knows what kind of lovely things would show up to live in my attic if they knew dead rat had been added to the menu.

So up I went, flashlight in hand, stepping carefully over rafters and air conditioning vents, hoping to locate the body and get this whole business over with as quickly as possible.

For the record, it's one kind of shock to go into your attic and find the rat you were looking for staring back at you. But it's quite another to go looking for something that you know is there, and not be able to find anything at all.

So now I'm not only looking around the attic, but now I'm searching under and inside open spaces, secretly wondering if I'm walking into some sort of trap set by vindictive rodents.

Finally, at the far end of the ceiling I came across one of the rat poison packets, clearly chewed open and emptied of it's deadly contents. As if I needed any more proof, the packet was covered with rat poop.

Unfortunatley, it wasn't alone.

Because sitting there next to the opened packet was another little brown present left there by something that was clearly, umm...


[Listening to: Muse, "Hysteria"

Saturday, January 1

Kundalini in Furs

The other day she asked me, "Why did you do that?"
To which I honestly replied, "because I wanted to."

I don't think she liked that answer. Or perhaps more correctly (even though it sounds weird to say it), I'm not sure that she understood. And she doesn't like it when she doesn't understand things. I think it scares her a little. It's one of the differences between us that has been pushed into focus lately. Her fear is my frustration. My restlesness. My anger.

And yet it is those very same frustrations that have created the insecurities and frozen footsteps that it probably doesn't take a fancy degree or a copay to recognize. I know the things that I want, but I don't always have power over them. Or perhaps it would be better to say that I fear what might happen when I do take control. That attaining one thing could only come at the cost of another. That the things I need and the things I have are somehow separate and disconnected. That there is "this," and there is "that" - and that I couldn't have it both ways.

That's what I thought.

Then I thought that I could organize freedom. Truly I believed that I could. No longer able or wanting to believe the false image I had created for myself as a 52hz whale, I sought reflections that would look back.

How scandinavian of me is it to only now realize that the person I was actually looking for in the mirror was myself? That the understanding I was so desperate to find was my own (even if it meant possibly costing someone else's). But it's not like it was some huge secret or epiphany -- I mean, you sussed it out, didn't you?

       ...long before I did, I'm afraid.

I'm sorry for that.

Now it's like I'm caught somewhere inbetween. Somehwere between wanting to uncoil my spine, wanting to be the person I saw in the mirror, and getting her to see it too. But the more it seems that request disconnects, the more the package is returned to sender, the more I worry that perhaps I'm still not seeing things as clearly as I need to.

              Almost like trying to put a jacket on a snake.

[Listening to: Deep Inner Voices, "Noctilucent"

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