am going to go on some kind of self-deprivation rampage in the near future. this should be pretty entertaining. restricting televisual and comestible inputs to basic starch. a PBJ will taste like GD foie gras by the time all has been spoken. i was considering half-heartedly mounting the alleged “master cleanse,” mostly for the allegedly hallucinatory BMs. but to be earnest i don’t think i’d thrive on that kind of biodiesel. there is a sociology of sports science post to be made after i get some cellphone snapshots resized at the office on monday. some kind of fucked up butcher. my serious scientific work involves kelly green as a visual rhyme for Caucasian-ness (Caucasuality?), kirk hinrich, the university of kansas, a hat i purchased, the CTA and cormac mccarthy.
science fact: there are fighter jets harpooning through the skies of the HPK right now. i’m going to wring sooty joy from wobbly hope that this is the beginning of the canadian invasion and i’ll be sunning myself under the downmarket heat lamps of liberal socialism sometime next week, after the CPD stacks their rifles in neat haystacks and prostrates themselves before les forces canadien. what i meant to say was that i hope this is something, even though it (the noise i heard) is currently smokewriting n-o-t-h-i-n-g above my rooftop torre de la justicia.
recent hits: the afore-hattipped Suttree, Cache.
things i have watched recently and found myself apologizing to the painted walls of my apt for exposing to them: Moonstruck (i have no explanation. i was bored, someone pressed it on me). Venture Bros. If the world wanted a cruel and rancid send-up of Johnny Quest the world would have asked for it. I mean, I had one or two laughs but good lord. What evil lurks in the heart of culture-industry stoners who hate themselves and others. i think the Moonstruck question really controls the bar here, why did i watch a “cruel and rancid send up of Johnny Quest” if I knew all along that’s the sort of thing that makes me cry tears of briny hate? because i’m not a genius, is the answer you should already know by now.
the following sounds are coming in through my open windows: late-20something white people chuckling, a strangely metronomic baby with an pragmatic cry, the fighter jet again, beer bottles being thunked down intermittently on the railing of a chicago wood porch. there are some metaphysical sounds i hear as well, foremost of which is 18 remaining of 20 marlboro lights and a diet dr. pepper. the main invisible sound is a soulful caribbean afro-hispanic grandpa made out of clouds crooning “fausto…. carmona…. fausto…. carmona” while crying teardrops shaped alternately like sacred hearts and chief wahoo. THIS IS OUR YEAR.