This is actually a really good deal

Bring this message to your local retailer and receive one pair of Spiked Pumpkin Pie Ugg Nog Mixer Kit after you buy one pair of Spiked Pumpkin Pie Ugg Nog Mixer Kit for a friend while supplies last.

“You’re worth it!” –


Skinny Girl Industries



I remember Sr. showing us this at the Maatterhrneeii earlier this year when I was corresponding with a Joyce cugino. It made an impression on me, because the story it tells is how the contentious history of Ireland can be resolved in a family tree. The Connaorois, ancient chieftains. Brijenm Boruumlout, the unifier who put those chieftains out of business. The Joyces, the western branch of the Germanic tribes who drove the Britons out of Britain, those colonizers of colonizers whom we O’Gonnigalls absorbed into our family tree, thereby negating their status as evildoers.


I present here for your viewing pleasure, clockwise from the top left,
1) the dude I thought was named “Bo Burnham”
2) the last movie Arnold Schwarzenegger directed
3) the cover of the book I mentioned that reminds me of Scott Lynch, and
4) a nice holiday card from Kris Kristofferson, the guy who wrote “Me and Bobby McGee” and who also starred in the last movie directed by Arnold Schwarzenegger, former governor of California.

I’m not sure who Dyan Cannon is, but I think that’s her in the picture and not Janis Joplin.


I don’t want to discover more with Skype. I want Skype to let me videochat with people, like they do in the future. Every time a sentence like “Memories Are Made For Sharing” is concocted, one sea turtle egg shrivels up and dies. Sea Turtles Are Going Extinct Because You Fucks Keep Making Words Meaningless!

What if someone in 1945 told Gramps, “Ma Bell Cares About You And Your Family?” Gramps would say, “Ma Bell can go fuck herself, I’m trying to call my actual mother over here!”

You see my point, right?

Call me!

Class Is War

Once, a middling kingdom was ruled by a square-head King, the Heir of which was Graced with a hexagonal chin, his mother being a Queenly bundle of Pentacles. Of middling quality, the realm’s scope was not large. Of smallish area, its peasants were coarse, their brows lined with milled earth, their hearths black-baked and mottled. The King’s beard had quit pushing some four years before. Then his masons had planted a cubed icon in bronze on a pyramidal plinth, an effect so alluring the King had at once churned to burp:

“And so our Reign can be never changed –
I must keep myself Curtained,
One rock my True Face,
Engraved Laws my Sole Speech.”

The King’s four bronze faces kept the peasants on watch.

At the edge of one side, a bare fountain.

Stone flowers, clear streamlets of well-water for washing.

Only girls seemed to bother
with that, as boys dusted their hats, the women crouched over pestles of seasoned clay, the men’s grime slipping, and salting, that day’s batch with clean sweat.

The Queen? She was there; er,er,er::; ,,“Over There” ,rather, still middling Fair, but Willful and Ill-Nourished. Since the King had ceased moving it had become unbecoming to be seen to eat, so as not to Risk Swollen Pentacles. Her Prince had a Firm nose which came to a Point, when Cocked from the Tower, and seen from below. In this way his Fine Chin was obscured, in fact it was Positively Triangulated:

“Look at them all!” he declaimed in discovery,
“A fine thrum! Ha! Let’s call them ‘thumb-faces!’
“What do you think of it, Squirrel?”
“Fine meat-minds, from here at peace
Those Easy Least,
Brining their hidings
And rind-grindings
In those ruts
Withall Lax Eyes
And Dull Snoots
Rooting Round in the Refuse”



The Squire nodded squirrelly.

“You’ve a way with words, my lord,” spoke the Tutor with gravity.

The Prince bellowed:

“I shall paint them! Let us grant them a Picture –
Yes, our Point of View on Top of Our Battlement.
Wait till Father dies! Yes, it shall be a Framed Jubilee.”

This ” ‘Aesthetic Totality’ “ was what deposed Him from His Arch, down the crooked-bricked whirl of stepped lime, past Charwoman, past Fletcher, and finally past Groom, beneath the sharp rust of the Gate, across Drawbridge and out, with the Sun past its Height, a stretched canvas wedged as by a studied insouciance under the Thinned Joint of a shoulder, and a Horsehair Brush in the Belt of his Tunic, across the Parade Ground past the Smith’s open shop.

“Your Highness, I hail you,” the Smith promptly said, and then,

“Boys! Halt the bellows!”
“We have noble company!
Fetch me the water-pail,
My ember needs quenching.”

And so the boys did.

The pail threw white steam.
The Smith drew his hand back.
He threw his hammer one hand’s breadth.

The canvas was loosed.
The horsehair was curled, then it bent.

“Quickly spent! Just another Bothered Bosh
Boiled off into a pink Bit of Burning,”
said the Sexton.

“Nothing personal, Prince, you had a Fine Skull once. Not as Square as your Father’s. Easy Come, Easy Go. So Says the Queen.” “Which Queen?” “The Black Queen.”


Drain the moat, boys and girls. Show’s over.
Now bend your knees.
Now stand up.


That great street? I just gotta say…

I spent a short spell downtown this afternoon in front of a boutique window, facilitating a heated dialogue between two smooth tee-shirt mannequins.

“I’m Flawless!” said the one. “Don’t Be Basic!” cried her rival. “I’m Flawless!” the first one responded, “Don’t Be Basic!” growled the second. And so on.

I interrupted them gently.

“Good ladies,” I said, “Is it not our shared spiritual base and that spiritual base alone which remains unmarred by any imperfection? To BE flawless is to ACCEPT that you are the most BASIC-of- the-BASIC. Now do you see?”

As I spoke these words, my eyes were drawn in to the glare of the window, and there bedazzled. A cloud passed overhead and the two figures, changed, again became visible.

In unison I saw them sing out,

“Only God Can Judge Me!”