maybe you should just drink a lot less coffee

and never ever watch the ten o'clock news

Before, he used to go about in an old cap, a hood tied tightly,
with wooden knucklebones in his ears, and around his ribs
the hairless hide of an ox,
the unwashed covering of a worthless shield, consorting
with bread-women and willing whores, that scoundrel Artemon,
contriving a fraudulent livelihood;
often he had his neck in the stocks, often on the wheel;
often his back was scourged with a leather whip, his hair and beard plucked out.
But now he rides in a carriage wearing golden earrings, that son of Kyke, and he carries an ivory parasol just the way the ladies do.

-Anacreon

If I was a master thief, perhaps I'd rob these guys.

all in the game

The Wire got me thinking about some shit from awhile back that apparently I don't care about anymore: Allhiphop.com. Growing up? Fuck me.

I’m pissed that the site is more developed, with pretty serious advertisements and too many things to click on. I am amusing that they still don’t really have the rights to the songs they post. I stayed because a flash across the screen showed that Eminem and Dre had tried again, ensuring “Dre on beats and Em on the rhyme.”

I thought it was bad, but this got me:

I'm an itch you can’t scratch
That’s sick of me [Maybe this is wrong?]
But, hey!
What else can I say?
I love L.A.!
Because over and above all, it’s just another day.

(I totally manipulated the presentation of these lines)

I initially thought he said “a niche you can’t scratch,” which is why I listened again. One insatiable niche came to mind: the auto industry. I thought it was some insight from Detroit’s finest.

This might be the most offensive song that I’ve ever heard, from probably the most offensive artist in recent years. It’s great that Em is still analyzing the game from the promise land, but the image of him cracking a bottle of Champaign in Los Angeles talking about his payroll-long dick while Detroit is eating shit seems insensitive. In a choirboy shout out at the very end of the song, some dude pathetically invokes Em’s former place of glory: “Shout to all Detroit. Stand up for your man he’s back.” A vague reference to something he used to know.

Could the revamped image of Eminem do something for the ailing motor city? The idea is just sad with the release of this track. I mean, I don't even know very much about the market, but I'm pretty sure saying "fourth quater pressure! it's on!" is something that would be best left out of the world of the popular culture right now. As far as I can tell, the parralels to the market situation are inadvertant. I'm scared to think that he's creating these frightening connections on purpose (pouring Draino down a volcano) just based on what he has to say about his life in L.A.

In fact, I hope this stirs the same controversy that he caused with degrading remarks to women and gays. He’s a heterosexist, womanizer, and disillusioned, hypocritical classist! Keep him away from the children.

Maybe it’s a good idea for the nation to follow his example and forget the place. I’m tempted to look more closely at all the insolent things he says while Detroit is listening, but I can’t pursue this any further.

I responded to my ubercreepster this morning:

I think I've got the lotion, ubercreepster, to set your wheels in motion. I was required to fill out a personal statement yesterday to fulfill the application process for a program that I think I am considering. One of many personal questions they forced me to consider concerned my interests. They phrased their question as follows:

What are your interests?

How I slaved over this question! I was certain the only relevant response was an indication of my interest in the questioner's program. Heck, I wanted to tell my interviewer, my interests are the same as yours. Clearly we want something similar, otherwise we would not be undergoing this strange process of acquaintance. I understood that this was an inappropriate response, as it seemed necessary to assert some sort of individuality in order to distinguish myself as a candidate. The following was my signed response:

I am interested in doing what I am told. For I know that what we want is the same. If you think that my service or companionship will help you achieve what you want, then by golly whatever we share must serve the same purpose for me.

A text message:

The world is certainly mocking me, Patrick. I am certain of it. What I believe to be a single endeavor inevitably ends up in many places. You, Patrick, appear to be part of this conspiracy. The conspiracy against me in which there is a crowd that dissects my perceived intentions and presumes them to be more than they are. Can you see how this would make me feel like I must eventually be in multiple places at once, when I only want to be in one? This is how the world mocks me. This is why I cannot desire anything with superb confidence. I am too concerned my objective or passion will be misconstrued. Why must my existence be validated (invalidated?) based on this conglomeration of these conceptions? Patrick, sometimes I intend my words to expire with time or another form that makes them somehow distant or foreign. I think this happens very easily. I don't want to use the word "metatextual" for fear of reactionary remarks. I believe in a metatextual outline intended to govern communication. I feel like this has been violated. I'm not sure if this violation will be beneficial or not.

I know this confession will not be redistributed beyond my control, left out like an old fruit, inviting every irresponsibly reproducing fly.

Funnier yet

What I meant was "lftr pllr"

I wrote "lftr" on one set of knuckles and "pulr" on the other tonight. It wasn't original, but I feel strangely authentic. Also, pissy.

we don't talk much anymore

Aphorismism

One sees his own value reflected off the person closest to him.
You are your associations. Hide from them.

Ben and Jerry's

How many people will receive a free scoop of ice cream and not make it to the polls? The old hippies commit voting fraud.

I thought it would be cool if they only offered free ice cream to under eighteens and illegal immigrants.

fuck Culture

player hater?

Twice in two days a photographer doggypleaded me to pose in his photographs of the new dorms at Reed. "It will take like five minutes," he assured us this morning. We stared silently back at him and uneasily at each other. We didn't know what we were going to do anyway but we were pretty sure that looking like liberal arts college kids for this guy was not it. "I'll buy you coffee. All you need to do is sit down or stand around over there." He pointed towards the new cafe.

The cafe was empty, as usual. New is bad when it is concrete. New is good when it is abstract.

We continued our conversation as he shepherded us into position. He reminded us of the coffee deal although no one was interested. In fact, when I met Greg that morning, I told him that this was the only morning so far for me on campus that I allowed the coffee in my thermos to get cold. I was on my way to pouring it down the drain.

As the photographer barked at his buddy to fill some empty space in the cafe and gathered more students, probably secretely pleased to have an alien excuse to keep them from their books (we can't figure out how to do this ourselves), he assured us that these pictures were strictly for the architect and would not be otherwise shared, "except with the school, maybe, and I don't know what they'll do with them."

I read the Times, and wished that he understood that we were cooperating, even though the irreverant dick in me wasn't allowing the communication. I just wanted him to stop justifying this before it got worse. I don't know why Reed hired architects that need to admire their final product with students articifially scattered throughout, but I don't think that was the case. The guy was just lying and doing his job. If I had called him out for it, I would be honestly voicing the way I felt about the situation, but I would have had to pursue this distraction even further, and recognizing him as a person meant sinking to his level, kind of like the United States talking to the Iranian terrorist Ahmadinejad.

Anyway, Reed is no place for that righteous bullshit, and I'll pose unhappily for what they call architectural photographs. I thought my cold coffee was something to be proud of. It really turned me around to be offered another cup.

bar close

A walk at 2:30 in the morning means a walk at bar close, a discovery of the hooligans in neckties. We tried to share our popcorn with them, but sharing goes two ways. You can't share with a hooligan in a necktie.

Madison #2

I left Madison this morning. Oops on the underwhelming sequencing.

Madison #1

It's way colder in Madison than I expected, and I struggled removing my blankets this morning. My sister's place was empty, and I was disappointed that I slept pretty late. I obviously remembered some things from last night, including the name of a coffee shop that Allie went to study for her last midterm: Steep & Brew.

Trying to get a jump on my reading, I ended up paging through a notebook. I was glad that I was alone when I saw this note in hardcore scrawl floating in the corner of a page. It was from Margot Minardi (just for the record):

Suspend these notions:
1. History is fact
2. History exists in the past


Hardcore Scrawl:

Allow me to outdo myself

My Grandiose Walks

I honestly thought that I would chain smoke and think about my love life last night. I did neither. I didn't have a lighter.

Is this wrong?

Inflation is merely a mechanism (one of many) for government to spend more money than it has.

Rage covers are cool!

He kind of sounds like Iggy when he wants to.

Sticking to my gunz

I have a lot of suppressed disrespect for many people I went to high school with. I disapproved of everything. I thought to myself, "you are hurting me the way you selfishly disregard me." There was strife at high school. Call it high strife. I questioned where the heads of my contemporaries were. Granted, I don't know where my head is or was, but I needed a reference point somewhere.

All I am trying to get at is a story I was told about an aggressive slacker, let's call him Dean, that in my eyes was both admired and feared. When a former schoolmate returned from his "rehab" program in Utah, there was a lot of excitement. He was the only one we knew who had a different recent adolescent experience than the rest of us.

Dean was blunt: "I'm sick of his negative shit."

In Their Eyes

Space

i know that the reason that this page exists is because i thought it important to occupy a space on the web that is dedicated to my bullshit. i'm switching to myspace.

Girl mama talkin

eyes toward library white wall
two kinds of strife
hiding near the window

Trimet Poetry

There are cutesy poems on the buses in Portland. We're in college so we criticize them. "There's so much bad poetry," or "Mediocre poetry is so easy," we say. We're usually the only ones talking. Portland should have gotten quality poetry or no poetry at all. We were sure of this when a local girl dropped this Bukowski on us:


there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day

and the best at murder are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace

those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love

beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average

but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you
to kill anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect

like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock

their finest art


She was nicer than we were.

new kids on the blogs

In case you were wondering why I haven't posted in 12 days, it was because I was stretching. I can almost touch my toes.

Meanwhile, those kids from back home have been hitting the bench press. T. Hawks is pushing twice his body weight. Props to everyone. I guess this means we're smarter than facebook users.

Tyler
Santera
Rory

We're ashamed of ourselves!

More Leisure

Legislation in congress right now could make a lot of good people upset in like 20 years. These people wonder what economic situation could have possibly prompted such legal language to exist. I'm learning that crises are prime opportunity for power seizure, albeit subtle.

Sunk Costs

In Portland, the 79 line runs down SE 82nd Street, which, if you go far enough north, turns into shady lane, as they say. A Craig’s List bicycle ad brought me to the area. The bike was bright and blue and had skinny tires, which seemed right on because all I really wanted was something that went fast, and I had never been to that part of town.

The guy had a cool dog (which shouldn't surprise me anymore), and his lady-friend was hosing down the bike. It was fly.

“Ahhh, I should have posted that the tire was flat. I meant to get a new tube today.” That meant I couldn’t ride it before purchasing. I gave him his asking price. I was already way out there, and I was feeling guilty for leaving my bio partner alone.

I missed biology pre-lab, but I got to see the TriMet commute in its fullest, the highlight of which was a group of twenty-something girls, fitted for soccer practice with neon shin guards and cleats.

The kid Nathaniel picked up the slack on setting up the stickleback trap. That’s what being a team is all about. We caught the most fish anyway.

The next day in econ class I learned about something called sunk costs. And the brakes are fucked up.

FUN!

The Knife: "Heartbeat"





They're Swedish! Love the visual repetition.

No Fun

Day 1

Thought documentation coming slowly.


Page to be in format of weary prisoner.


Don't demand too much.

More tomorrow.