The dry air,
the dry air
and uncertainty
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Oh it wasn't very merry going to the cemetery for the ending of Don Gato: Lessons in Love and Death in Second Grade Music Class
There was not a sweeter kitty (meow meow meow)
in the country or the city (meow meow meow)
and she said she'd wed Don Gato.
in the country or the city (meow meow meow)
and she said she'd wed Don Gato.
On weight loss: 2 poems (the first one is dedicated to, and in the spirit of, David Agraz)
Since I've started doing 2 hours of yoga every morning, I've dropped something like 17 pounds and I have that... healthy yoga glow and posture and whatever. People are... treating me differently.
Every five pounds I drop
the amount I get hit on rises
by an order of magnitude.
Either it's the weight, or the posture, or the pleasantly animal musk that floats off of me every morning, or the fact that I'm always a little tired and out of it. It might take the edge off. I remember in college, I figured out that the best chance I had of being able to talk to people at parties was to not sleep the night before. It took the wild, zingy, nervous edge off.
Anyway, I was at a cafe the other day and I asked a question in passing of the exceedingly charming, ripped-jeans-surfer-hippie-sexy barista and suddenly found myself being chatted up. She leaned over and checked out my iPod and told me I had excellent taste. The next time I showed up there, she told me I was getting my macchiato in "the best cup in the house," which, at first, just seemed like a pink cup, until I looked a little closer:
The text reads, for those of you who can't read in mirror-image:
BOOBY TRAP
The Very Best Show In Town
Curator tells me that I was, indeed, being flirted with.
(For those of you who are still looking, the second poem is the cup.)
Every five pounds I drop
the amount I get hit on rises
by an order of magnitude.
Either it's the weight, or the posture, or the pleasantly animal musk that floats off of me every morning, or the fact that I'm always a little tired and out of it. It might take the edge off. I remember in college, I figured out that the best chance I had of being able to talk to people at parties was to not sleep the night before. It took the wild, zingy, nervous edge off.
Anyway, I was at a cafe the other day and I asked a question in passing of the exceedingly charming, ripped-jeans-surfer-hippie-sexy barista and suddenly found myself being chatted up. She leaned over and checked out my iPod and told me I had excellent taste. The next time I showed up there, she told me I was getting my macchiato in "the best cup in the house," which, at first, just seemed like a pink cup, until I looked a little closer:
The text reads, for those of you who can't read in mirror-image:
BOOBY TRAP
The Very Best Show In Town
Curator tells me that I was, indeed, being flirted with.
(For those of you who are still looking, the second poem is the cup.)
neologism watch #2
I realized today
that you can engage in such
sublime acts of ass-hattery
that you become an asshatchery.
that you can engage in such
sublime acts of ass-hattery
that you become an asshatchery.
Today I aspire to become more like Martha Plimpton in several ways, except perhaps the having-kissed-Corey-Feldman way.
Me and Martha Plimpton
in a fancy elevator,
narrating audiobooks.
in a fancy elevator,
narrating audiobooks.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
On opening a new bottle of Springbank 10-year scotch
Imagine the Loch Ness monster binging on a box of Turkish Delight sweetened with aspartame, taking a nap, and then unleashing a mean piss on a new bar of Ivory Soap. Now imagine deep-throating that bar of soap.
This is what Springbank tastes like.
This is what Springbank tastes like.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
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