its good to have low expectations. now i'm at eileens roasting a wienie. kai really went all out for his barbeque. color me impressed. maybe later i'll go to emilys graduation bonfire. and then tomorrow we're going to have a pizza pie for peters birthday. i start german class in two weeks and the luxury of being paid to fondle books all day in less than that!! i like summer all of a sudden.
i found someone who wrote this on something and it gave me a start. "Someone told me to flesh this out, so . . .
Because I will remind you of why you liked sarcastic people when you were younger, and why you find them tedious now. Because I always take the time to ask myself, 'what would Robert Downey Jr. do?"

it is a rendezvous of commas and metaphors, of questions and question marks. the pause, the stillness of breath before the fall, is still it seems to be worth it all. though i fall asleep under another's sheets i feel your breath on my sweat from all those nights that you never slept. ha ha i wrote stillness and then still, harder to rip off n. than you thought eh?
"now that my ladder's gone,
i must lie down where all the ladders start,
in the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart." -- william it was really nothing, said a jumped-up butler boy (oh all right its pantry ok, pantry!) cuz keats and yeats are on your side, but you lose. saddest blog ever reprezentin' suedeheadz all over da world, no repentin' happy b-day moz! here's something for you: a true story, cuz its time the tale was told of how you took a child and you made him old, you made him old.

"that is why we have hurricanes and the hurricanes have eyes in them: it is temelcoff looking for his lost sight." this was the story my father used to always tease me with when i could not fall asleep under thunder. "you'd better close your eyes, or else you'll start the storm again and i'll have to send you off like temelcoff!" builds character, he figured, i guess. it never seemed strange to me that my father in all his munificent torpitude gave me the skies to command. back when he used to tell stories we lived together in a tiny house on the outskirts of town. it rained all the time and the tall tree branches cast a constant filmy web over everything. god with glaucoma he called our weather. later on, when i was away and in love i tried to retell the story, but i found that there was not enough moisture in the air and my mouth had gone dry. i tried again in the fall when we sat on the dusty ground under his window and watched the whirling of the leaves. i opened my mouth to speak but he kissed me instead. the randomness of this gesture, so unassuming and yet out of character, made me forget. that weekend, his own slipped away and so whose to say i should tell such stories anyway?
i have a vivid memory of watching a battle at a party, a pair of drunken pugilists light on their feet and heavy on the captain. the match was not going well for the person i was supposed to be cheering for. yet i could not help admiring his opponent's feral agility. it was such an intoxicated yet also adroit and dextrous dance, a marvel to behold. he no longer boxes for me, not that he ever did anyway. still sometimes i think of these two images juxtaposed together: the strutting self-assured choreography he displayed at lydia's house versus the unexpected recklessness with which he kissed me. now all i can do is write, words shooting out of me in sharp chipped bursts like machine gun fire into empty night. darling etoile etoile, there is no need for tears if there is one less star in that sky. today whenever temelcoff yearns for sight this is the light by which he searches for his wandering eye...the light that never goes out beeyatch!!
whats snoop dawg's favorite household cleansing product? bleeach! jus checkin' to c if i wuz still funny apart fr. all dis sadness. nope, never funny in da first place. but hey still better'n pee in a bucket.

"you are still the best storyteller around, but i am the best organ player."--rothko is still sadder than hans haacke despite his residence in boardrooms across amerika. and i merely wish to be the monkey next to the organ grinder. dance monkey dance! i dont know why i cared so much about high fidelity. that was weird.
sean you inspire me to be pre-haircut mia farrow a la rosemary's baby instead of the morton's salt girl for halloween. i think you realize the deep significance of this shift despite the eerie superficial outward similarities between mia and the mortons salt girl (down to their cool yellow dresses, kicky little pointed flats and short mod bobs!).
will aimee's 8th grade grad party be funner (yes funner) than sen's where?house graffiti party? why are those kids you kids so fascinated by that circumference of time anyway? didnt dong & co. have an eight grade grad party recently also? as if the sparkly plastic belt and pink jelly sandals you wore in eight grade didnt unnaturally cinch your waist and pinch your toes for dum boys who bored you anyway. but i guess twelve year old girls fucked shit up, at least according to high fidelity. i finally got around to reading that book cuz i like the movie and um it sucks. it took me so long just to slog through the first-five-loves-that-make-men-jerks beginning and he made girls sound so lame, like we're asleep apartment houses with nobody home waiting to be "broken into" or quirky entities to be endured. nick hornby and his churned out by details magazine perfect target consumer for the late 20s market narrator isnt even a remotely interesting jerk. at least the other nick is inventive w/ his vitriol. anyway, smog circa julius ceasar is the new god, cuz when you walk out, its no parade, with bears dancing and monkeys drinking and other animals doing things i cant remember. and i am going to be so drunk at your, all ya'lls, weddings.

ich liebe party!! ich liebe party!! lieben sie party!?! guest blogger j.hudson says american keyboards are different. i forgot how funny it is to see girls falldownallover that old boy of mine. last chance to experience the chud is this saturday the 19th @ 2912 lorina street. flammfest!!! bring your own flamm. liquor however, will be provided. cross street russell, one block up from shattuck, white house, keep off the front porch please! rock action sean spun that radio right round tuesday night into wednesday morn. even the bartender was impressed. maybe nopie and the rest of readyville destroyed all monsters on monday and established a new world order, but who's to know since we only saw nopie outside smoking cigarettes as we passed by waving in vain. party party party saturday saturday saturday lorina lorina lorina . princess blog blog blog signs out for good.

confucius say: man who stand on toilet high on pot. he also say: some women are like monkeys, they wont let go of one branch until they have another one in their hand. wisdom curtesy of mickey. hey mickey you're so fine you're so fine you blow my mind hey mickey. cl girl is soo lame. on a related topic, the last two issues of artforum have admittedly been semi-excellent and interesting. its their 40th anniversary yo. the series they've commissioned 'writing the '80s' has some gems + highlights including john rajchman's 'unhappy returns' w/ deleuze falling off 'the po-mo maps of the '80s' and a reprint of lyotards cheeky 'immaterials' plan for centre pompidou, the super sad 'Outside the Box: Unpacking Craig Owens's Slide Library' by James Meyer and homi bhabha. for a good gossipy read Challenging Art: Artforum 1962-1974 by amy newman is enlightening and disheartening. for a great book on a great and supposedly hilarious artist go to gary shapiro's earthwards: robert smithson and art after babel. the book that showed me how to love the bomb (cuz if its not love then its da bomb da bomb da bomb da bomb that will bring us together) is lyotard's The Assassination of Experience by Painting, a monograph on french peinture jacques monory who paints en bleu. it is all about diving headlong into the fall instead of clinging w/ your fingernails to the rocky edge. and i fell. i know i know i'm such a whore about this. oh but arthur c. danto sucks and thomas crow's article 'marx to sharks' was so stoopid. i'm no huge crusader for tim clark or social art history but "No one counted on those surveyed becoming the ones to do the surveying themselves, nor did anyone consider how art's own elevation would suffer in the process" is so trite and so allan bloomish circa 'closing of the american mind.' please. that is so 1988. can we get over that now? headlong into the fall baby, headlong into the fall.

yes the omayang show was kinda wierd. there were some hovels and crying, yours truly included. i suppose i am just doing it to myself now. but the boys of the band were really good, rum diary was overrated, sorry rob from performer magazine and pinback were surprisingly good. dong was especially nice since he tried to put everyone on willcall yet i can never make him smile. dont know if its imposed on his part but i can live w/ that. leslie i lost your number already. i said 'made her cry' not him, never him. escaping eskimos are hard, especially when theres so much rain and then the snow turns to mush and you're just sloshing through some vast dark tundra alone and lonely. i feel strange and isolated. also giddy and apprehensive. the disintegration of camraderie, of joking sidelong glances and shared slant-eyed winks going over the hood of some unsuspecting stranger in the street is unbearable to me. i dont want to be around to watch the ashes swirl and fly dispersing the last pieces of yucky dust that used to be trust. you think its like this, but its really like this. you think you know what i'm talking about but really i know nothing. je ne sais rien. i wanna be your friend, really i do. but you already think those things about me so why bother? the situation on 38th saddens me. the miracle on 52nd overwhelms me, just a little. the winter past on 61st haunts me, always. its still raining in oakland and its gonna rain all day and all night and inside and outside but i live in berkeley now...