Goofy text-toys that don't fit elsewhere
My Busy DayI have so much to do (includes pictures).
The Subway Diary Analyzes Current EventsFiguring out using our patented psychoanagrammatical method
26 Jan 98Bad Alternative Song Lyrics
28 Jan 98The Further Adventures of Captain of Industry
30 Jan 98The Devil is Contentious
02 Feb 98Celebrate the real meaning of Groundhog Day.
27 Feb 98A Picture
04 Mar 98A doodle on a grim day
16 Mar 98Possible Books
How the NEA bit the dustWritten in the froth of deep Helms-hating.
(Discussions with an) Insurance AgentWhat if my sister is massacred by hobgoblins?
Baker's DozenYour mom's so fat she wears a cross-your-knees bra.
NoMoPoMo!Absolutely None
The Poetry ConverterFinally, something that understands poetry
The Islamic Republic of Dogs“We are going to war with the Irish! We will cast out the Leprachauns!”
Cross-cultural RomanceOoblat love can be so sad
23 Apr 98Smutty Essay
24 Apr 98Pickup Lines That Fail
17 Jun 98Army
21 Jun 98January 1, 2000: The Millennium Bug
Real Things, Said by Real PeopleYou tame your own donkey, okay?
22 Jun 98Microsoft Trampoline 2.0
09 Jul 98Name Your Poison
20 Jul 98Poetry in Perspective I
Rats Eat VomitFilthy, filthy, filthy things in NYC
Mortar & Expounded ClicheBeating my head against a wall.
Who's Reading? An Annotated Selection from Yesterday's Access.LogRecipient of the highly coveted Journal Something Award!
MISTAKEArchy comes back for a moment to talk to Don, but doesn't realize that Don is dead.
HmmAn experimental play.
Satya's DogA poem about a stinky dog.
Love DittyPunk rock love. It sucks.
Ftrain Winter HaikuSome haiku, you.
The Thing I DoLoving myself, loving you.
Hitler's BrainThe truth, finally.
Tom Baylor, Space TherapistHe helps extraterrestrials get their shit together.
His First Screen AppearanceHe tinks, he winks
Inner-city Geek Trash TalkDorks is angry
Wu-Tang BakeryWhat they cook at the Wu-Tang bakery.
Let's Make Fun of Dirty Thnirts!People thought this was the dumbest thing I'd ever written, but I love it.
AudioThis is me, testing the recording capability on a Linux system, doing an old man's voice.
Ftrain Special Report: LondonHere I am in London....
Pundits on Fire in HellStop telling me how to think!
5 Marketing CatastrophesAll absolutely 100% guaranteed true.
Canon of ClassifiedsAuthor ISO meaning; will travel.
Images from in and around Manhattan, NYCLa van, a man, a plan, a bird, Dr. Ibañal Panama, Naval!
Forthcoming Science Trade BooksWhat's coming from the physics and paleontology set?
Alumni RegisterHow'm I doin?
Urban, BooleanNew York City as a Boolean Algebra problem; also the first piece ever written for Ftrain, at the tender age of 22.
Bucket of DoggerelSometimes, but not often, I rhyme.
SlideShowImages of Past Projects Gone Wrong
Career Development: an ArtistCareer Development is important to a young fellow's growth.
Career Development RevisitedComing back once more
The Subway Diary: 02-Apr-98Combinations
TouchIt's hard to reach out.
Iron-clad Legal CopyrightYou don't own me, although I am another on of your little toys.
The Subway Diary: 26-Dec-97Craig Roberts Watches Television
The Subway Diary: 14-Dec-97Diary of a young actor
The Subway Diary: 07-Jan-98Narrative surrealism at its worst.
The Subway Diary: 20-Jan-98First Person Photo/Third Person Lithograph
Phone CallA silver fox, an achromatic bear.
4 Poems from the First Lines of the Poems Archived at the Poetry Daily Web SitePoetry all sliced up, and then put back together.
My Turing MachineI made my own Turing Machine. Or perhaps I am a Turing Machine and I'm just looking in the mirror.
Giant Robot Construction KitTechnological interlude.
CardsBecause you should always share how you feel.
The Subway Diary Guide to Self-LoathingA guide for getting through those bad days.
Baffling CutenessExploring, and respectfully interpreting, the artifacts of another culture
Beyond Black Dogs and MiceA survey of creatures which foreshadow depression, and their literary origins.
Why are robots so fascinating?A collection of random notes on works in progress.
How to put a whole harmonica in your mouthNot recommended for larger, chromatic harmonicas.
Sign seen on the subwayA don't-miss opportunity.
Answering Machine MessageFrom my friend Melanie Darning.
The Top 10.25 Things Women (genders 1-2.5) Don't Know About Men (genders 3-5)Love Advice for Extraterrestrials, from the redoubtable but unquestionably masculine (in an extraterrestrial sort of way) Xortar Cheemchim, as published in Ranflax Planet 9's most prominent women's magazine (in Ranflaxian, the title of the magazine would be “grandmother(1.5)'s tri-shrimp puddin'” or “creem uk lanba lanba hroot,” but it's a tonal language, so don't even try or you'll end up accusing someone of having a labia filled with cottonwood trees).
The Scott and Paul Radio ShowFor some reason, no matter how many times we show the script, no one will put us on the air.
Wal-Mart is EverythingSelected responses from an online petition to Wal-Mart stores, urging them to continue selling handgun ammunition.
Wikipedia Explains R&BNe-Yo, “So Sick”
Ne-Yo has said he got the idea for the song from an old girlfriend he used to have. He really did like her but he listened to the advice of his friends and wound up cheating on her. They broke up when she found out but shortly after he started repeatedly hearing this song on the radio that she used to love, which was unusual because the song wasn't new and it hadn't had much airplay until that point. Every time he heard the song he was reminded of how he lost his girlfriend and wanted to turn the radio off but he would always keep listening to it because it also reminded him of how much he loved her and all the good times they shared.
Kelis, “Milkshake”
She orders a milkshake and begins to blow bubbles into it (a possible allusion to oral sex). She continues to prance throughout the restaurant and walks into the kitchen, "helping" the chef remove biscuits from the oven as she purposely moves her buttocks (which the biscuits are shaped like) near his face to possibly make him wish to have sex with her, yet he shows no interest in her and she leaves in dismay.
Omarion, “Ice Box”
The video ends with Omarion down on his knees after saying " . . . I'm tired of fighting", and Timbaland rides up in a Phantom and opens the limo door to let Omarion in. Omarion then puts on a pair of glasses, looks at Timbaland and Timbaland taps the girl on the shoulder then they drive away.and everyone is so every sad.
Beyoncé, “Irreplaceable”
For the concept of "replaceability" in logic and mathematics, see Axiom schema of replacement.
Beyoncé was inspired to write "Irreplaceable" by the role she played in the movie adaptation of the broadway musical Dreamgirls. Her character Deena Jones was in a controlling relationship with husband/manager Curtis Taylor Jr. and after filming, Beyoncé went immediately to the studio to release some of the energy and emotions she had kept inside.
The above statement is factually incorrect. According to Ne-Yo, the actual lyrical writer, Beyonce did not write any of the song as he was responsible for all the lyrics.
Keeping Your Nose CleanIt is your right to sneeze!
Nanobot ComixA comic strip for the very, very small.
What Were They Thinking?Gkronuk, River God: Wasn't really thinking, actually.
Esseltaub, Forest Spirit: That I should never have given that woodchopper three wishes.
Ghosts of Drowned Pirates: We were thinking aaaaaaaar—
Gkronuk: Oh, no.
Ghosts of Drowned Pirates: —buckle, Fatty Arbuckle was a well known actor in the 1920s. That's what we were thinking.
Esseltaub: Are they at it?
Gkronuk: Yes.
Ghosts of Drowned Pirates: And we were thinking, aaaaaarrr—
Pluck, Fairy: Us? We were just here saying, thinking rather, and saying and thinking together, really—
Dander, Fairy: At once, both at once.
Pluck: What I was saying and thinking with Dander was that when those big nasty loggers show up again they'll get a right bit of business from old Pluck!
Dander: And from Dander, too!
Pluck: We're ready this time. We've got a changeling CEO to install on the board of the logging company and everything.
Dander: Just let me hear sawing!
Pluck: We'll toss those loggers right off the banks and into the river!
Dander: I'll toss off every logger in the forest!
Pluck: Uh—
Ghosts of Drowned Pirates: —lington Road was a movie about terrorism starring Jeff Bridges and Tim Robbins.
Gkronuk: Pirates, stop!
Ghosts of Drowned Pirates: We were also thinking, aaaaarrrr—
Esseltaub:
Thanks for not chopping down my tree, I say, and hey, okay, so what's your wish? Gold, big house, sandwich, whatever.
Gkronuk: Taub, just get over it.
Esseltaub: Who ever heard of a woodchopper named Keanu? I had no idea. Sure, I'll make you a famous actor, what harm can it do? If I'd known.
Ghosts of Drowned Pirates: —rrrrrrrr—
Gkronuk: Oh, God, PIRATES! STOP!
Ghosts of Drowned Pirates: —peggiated chords are played in sequence rather than simultaneously.
Gkronuk: To be promoted from creek nymph to this.
Dander: There's no one in the world I won't toss off!
Pluck: Dander—
Esseltaub: At least your fish respect you. My trees treat me like a sap.
Gkronuk: I've got a lot of surly fish—oh, Taub. That was not called for.
Esseltaub: Look at that. I got the river god, hook, line—
Gkronuk: You're worse than the pirates.
Ghosts of Drowned Pirates:
Aaaaarrrr—
Gkronuk: Just go ahead and say it! Argyle! Arbitration! Ark of the Covenant! Ardmore, Pennsylvania!
Ghosts of Drowned Pirates: —gon is atomic number 18.
Gkronuk: Sometimes I wish I was an estuary.
My Ethnic IdentityA short story.
Frequently Asked QuestionsWhat is she?
A lady
An easy lover
The one
So unusual
A black magic woman
So heavy
Always a woman to me
What has she got?
Electric boots and a mohair suit
It
What is she like?
The wind
The white winged dove; sings a song, sounds like she's singing, “ooo,” baby, “ooo,” said “ooo”
What is her name?
Rio
Where does she walk?
Up on St. Andrews
Extra credit: what is a scrub?
A guy that thinks he's fly, also known as a “buster”
Shameful Pedantic PettinessSometimes I can't help myself.
Beautiful LadiesSelect images from our recent modeling shoot in Corfu.
Lost HabitsThe seed of our futures.
The Banality of GoogleThoughts on the nature of search and the importance of corporate philosophy.
Why Evangelical Christians Should Not Vote for BushDear Evangelical Christians,
As an atheist, and an avid fan of the Left Behind books, I am willing to consider every possibility. And one of the thing I've been considering lately is—maybe you're right. Maybe the rapture is coming, and all of those who have taken Jesus into their heart will be pulled to heaven soon.
Which is why I'm asking you to vote for the godless devil-candidate, the abortion-loving, bible-hating John Kerry. Because if you vote for George W. Bush, and the rapture comes, his entire administration could vanish at any moment, plunging our government into chaos. Bush, Cheney, Ashcroft—all of them would be called to heaven in preparation for the return of Jesus.
We need steady leadership in times of change. And steady leadership does not include being yanked to heaven during the time of tribulations. It'll be bad enough with the imminent arrival of antichrist from the East (who may be Barak Obama), and the expected problems in Jerusalem that the end times might bring. So please vote responsibly, the way Jesus would want you to vote.
Watch out for talking snakes,
Paul
The ElectionWe're going on 18 years now, give or take a few, 18 years of constant recriminations and condemnations, assassination attempts, and meaningless rallies. Both of the candidates look exhausted, gaunt. There was an article in the Times about how each of their “handshake hands” is prematurely arthritic and always swollen; their supplies of neckties are dwindling, as is the supply of talking points. Both of them, in my opinion, are lost men, wandering through this country; their staffs have dwindled into the dozens, and their jets are falling apart. Neither will give in, and I admire them, when I think of them, for pressing on.
There's no historical precedent for this, for the eternal election. If we were in a war, we could look back to past wars and know how to temper our patriotism. If this were a depression, we could rally together and work together for economic change. But instead we live in democratic gloom, eternally poised between statistical possibilities, waiting for the chance to vote. That chance never comes. The reasons we cannot vote yet have become less and less sane, I think; at first, there were terrorists, and then extreme hurricanes, and the computer glitches. Then some turtles got into the ballot boxes in Kansas. Now they don't even bother with excuses; they just give the delay report on television, telling us their best estimates as to when we might vote again, and move onto the entertainment news.
I think what it shows us is that a nation can get used to anything, and take it in stride: over 60% of the national economy is tied up in the creation of negative campaign ads; another 30% is litigation. The children born at the beginning of this campaign are starting college; eventually they too will be campaigning themselves. They've spent their lives learning about the process, watching democracy at work. That must have a beneficial effect, at some level (I heard a minister say that this era is a blessing, because it teaches us that life is in the struggle, not the victory).
All said, these years of waiting for the boards to sign off, for the litigation to complete, for the Supreme Court to be removed from their vats of gray rejuvenating pudding and once again preside--it has been tiring.
What bothers me most is something trivial, something that shouldn't worry me, but there you have it—it's the pollsters under the sink. There was another infestation last week, and I had to call the landlord. He was testy. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Are you undecided now? Is that why they're there?” I told him that, no, I was exactly the same as I ever was. He came over, shaking his head and swearing, and sprayed in the cabinets, ignoring their scuffling and shrieks, their requests for just a moment of our time. He also put poison in the walls, and I believe that will kill them, with a margin of error of plus or minus 3%.
Voting StoryI was talking with a good friend of mine about the weather. “Vote,” she said.
“Vote?” I said. “Vote vote vote vote, vote vote.”
“Vote vote?”
“Vote!”
We talked about how tired we both had become. “Vote vote vote vote, vote vote,” I said. “Vote,” she replied, commiserating.
I thought about it for a moment. “Vote,” I said. “Vote, vote vote.” She nodded in agreement.
MeatsToday Helena (this is not my girlfriend's name, and I am going to change it every time I use it, in order to keep the cops at bay) and I saw a van that read: Flushing Meats, from Queens. In 6,000,000-pt type with a picture of a pig. It took a moment, then it went like this: “Well that concludes the tour of our slaughterhouse, and are there any questions, yes, you, the ugly one to the right of the one-legged one. Well, that's a good question. There are three kinds of meat. There are eating meats. You all know that. And then there's scrapple meat. Tasty. But some meats can't even be used for scrapple. And we used to have to drive around for hours looking for dumpsters. But then a representative from the toilet industry got in touch with us. It turns out that the best way to test the new toilets is by using meat. Consistency, thickness, right? That's when we pioneered the development of a new kind of meat, and those are known as flushing meats. It's been a major new revenue stream for us. Hence the van.”
My Three Favorite Computer Games of 2004It was a great year for sitting and playing at INTERACTIVE GAMING MONTHLY ONLINE!
Nicknames We Gave Our Intelligence SourcesWhen “Curveball” just won't do.
My New Year's Resolutions1680 x 1050
640 x 480
320 x 240
80 x 25
To what Google Base uses may we return, Horatio!In which I contribute to Business 2.0.
Dear LazyWebLazyWeb: The idea that if you wait long enough, someone will implement that wacky idea you had . . . (or already has!) —IAWiki
TropeI occasionally read a web essay or a newspaper article where a man—so far, always a man—owns up to the “guilty pleasures” on his iPod. You've seen this too? Kelly Clarkson, let's say. Or a song by Maroon 5.
The structure of the argument:
I, the author, am an extraordinarily intelligent and cool person;
But I do listen to music that is considered to be shit;
However, this music (pick one):
is actually good, and you, dear reader, are too much of a snob too enjoy it; or
is not actually good, but despite my impeccable taste I deign to listen to it for amusement.
In either case I am awesome.
Deerhoof.
Over and over editors commission this story. Over and over I read myself into a froth, sketching a mental picture of the essayist as a scruffy fucksimper who suffers from chronic index-finger-swelling brought on by speed-dialing through all the music he shat onto his 500G jizz-hued iPod. After he gmails his guilty-pleasure opus to his editbot, who will rewrite it into a charticle, he heads to the bar to meet a friend and pulls the pod from his pocket. “Bro,” he says to the friend, “you'll never believe how much Devendra Banhart I have on this thing. All of the Devendra in the world.” He touches the cool white control disc, swirling his finger teasingly, and his friend nods wide-eyed at the flashing list of songs—until finally they reach the end of the Devendra listing and wander into Devo, and then, consumed, they run to the bathroom and passionately tug each other's beards—“rejoicing in the hands,” it's called—until they both reach mutual, musical ecstasy and cry out from the sweetness.
But Justin Timberlake is not a guilty pleasure. Putting oven cleaner in your daughter's Similac is a guilty pleasure, or smearing birdseed on your balls and visiting an aviary. Having a thing for Sting's lutework—
Goddammit. As I was drafting this my web server, which resides in Texas, was hacked into by Spaniards. Spamming Spaniards, or at least someone coming in through a machine in Spain. Off I go to set up a new, clean, new device that will present more of a challenge to intruders. If this site disappears into the ether—it was nice while it lasted, and send all complaints to the mysterious Iberian IP address 213.37.214.109.
Elsewhere: LawyeringRead
Lawyering
, by Paul Ford, over at The Morning News.
DöhThe Simpsons in . . .
German
French
Spanish (See My Vest)
Italian (“Processo d'instupidamento”)
Portuguese (Háã Háã)
Czech
Arabic
Japanese
Any others?
I Am Making a DifferenceRather than purchasing goods made by overseas laborers—who are often forced to work in unsafe conditions for low wages—I have kidnapped and enslaved a group of neighborhood children and chained them to a bench in my garage, where they make my clothes and build my gadgets.
¶ I carpool or ride my bike to Klan rallies.
¶ And I give public transit passes to my suicide bombers.
¶ I flush the toilet once a month.
¶ I avoid wasteful, ecologically unsound packaging by stealing.
¶ That barbecue sizzle? Locally raised (ten miles from home), humanely slaughtered heirloom pandas.
¶ The films I direct all feature 18-year-old girls and organically farmed eels.
¶ My ass play gear? Vegan.
¶ I save on heating by burning the books of dissidents and minorities.
¶ I use low-wattage fluorescent bulbs to interrogate my detainees.
¶ And natural hemp to tie my nooses.
¶ According to The American Way of Death by Jessica Mitford, our funerals are toxic to the environment and exploit the grieving—so I drive a hybrid bulldozer to bury prisoners alive.
¶ Plus, I have converted the crematorium to biodiesel.
Another Veil-lifter PitchedDear EDITOR,
I am proud to send you, in galley, THE VEILS FLEW AWAY LIKE KITES, the first novel by major new talent Isolde Mabuq.
Open it. Sniff it—redolent of mountain snow. The crack of the spine brings to mind the sound of Soviet rifles firing—the first sounds the protagonist Fatima is able to recall.
Has there ever before been a fictional character like Fatima? At the age of 12 she flies a kite, reads Pnin, menstruates, and bears witness to the murder of her parents by the Taliban. Soon after she is sent to live with American Christians, and spends a fragile adolescence acclimatizing to the poisonous indifference and callousness of the West before attending an Ivy-league college where she majors in economics and sleeps with a professor (an adjunct but still). We thrill as she casts off her grim past to join a Wall Street investment firm, finds love, and indulges in fine sweaters.
It is a tale of triumph told with first-hand knowledge hard-earned by novelist Mabuq, who like the fictional Fatima was born in Afghanistan, molested in Mississippi, educated at Princeton, and is now 27. Believe me that words do this remarkable new author little justice, but here are some that try: green-eyed, horsewoman, Dior, NYTBR, endcap. A glossy photo is attached. The Arcade Fire wrote the foreword.
Sincerely,
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2080
STATE OF THE UNION ADDRESS:
KEY TERMS AND PHRASES
FAITHFULLY PREPARED FOR THE REVIEW OF THE BENEFACTORS
algae die-off
Asteroid mitigation
Atlantic Coast Reclamation
Bose-Einstein mines
Cell renewal tax
Congressional FTL junkets
Engorged benefactor larvae
Freedom camps
Freedom management module
Freedom ray
Furry faction
Global endocrine bloom
Greener orphan centrifuge
Health enforcement
Iraq 2.0
Lunar earmarking
Mandatory service economy
Metaeducation implants
Molecular security
Motherbots against cortical shunt abuse
once known as jerusalem
Pet euthanization
Rejuvenation centers
Sex-free Clone farms
Quantum portal closure
September 11
Solar implosions
Space elevator reconstruction
SuperULTRA-MEGAFreedom
Suboptimal colonial integration
Snacks relief
Unicratic Party
Viral cancer bomb
See also: “The words that were used”; U.S. Presidential Speeches Tag Cloud.
Reading:
This Is Just To SayCockatiels
Ran across some verse and realized: The tidal-wave of domesticity that's crashed on these shores has rendered modernist and late-modernist love poetry inoperate.
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
Etc. I'm standing in front of the fridge and I can hear the voice already, lilting up, with a frustrated shrug and frown for the question mark: you ate the plums? That she bought special at Fairway to have for breakfast, not only that but didn't you remember that you're mildly allergic to plums? And I'll be handed a Benadryl after my face turns red, forced to bear her sad headshake. She can hear me open the fridge door from 100 yards and if I opened it right now she'd yell out “don't eat them” and I'd get pissed off and run back into the bedroom and say with a mock sneer, “baby, I'm not going to eat them for God's sake.” So actually as a test I do open the door and she yells “don't eat the plums,” and I laugh and go in and tell her about how I'm not about to eat her stonefruit and brag about how I tricked her.
With my 20s behind me e.e. cummings just looks like a ridiculous trimhound horndog—Pan, punctuated, rampaging through the garden to compensate for his lowercased organ. Consider also Roethke: She moved in circles and those circles moved. The problem is that smooth diameters are now replaced by visions of a row of women exercising themselves upon the ellipticals on the second floor of the Park Slope Y. The sentiment becomes jiggly and insulting, and I'm not going to judge given that I am myself ovoid. I'm going to go home and put my gym clothes in the laundry basket.
(If you drop your dreams on the floor like that cats are going to tread softly on them and they'll end up dirty with pawprints. Dreams should be in the dresser; that's why we have a dresser. For dreams. In the little right drawer.)
Thus life turns out not to be all picnics in graveyards. (You do get the complacencies of the peignoir and the coffee.) All those dead poets stressed about god and goblins and getting laid should have been born later, into cell phones and science. Send a few flirting text-messages—not even a stanza's-worth—and if you have any game you can meet up at a bar and get your circles moved. Not to mention the universes-worth of imperishable bliss inside every plum.
NoteI wonder what the poor folks are doing tonight.
But melts just like a little girlBob Dylan plans to release a collection of familiar yuletide tunes... with proceeds of the album to benefit hunger-relief charities... —"Sleigh, Lady, Sleigh: Bob Dylan to Release Christmas Album," Dave Itzkoff, the New York Times
Snowin' in the Wind
Reiny Deer Women #12 & 35
If Not for Yule
Can You Please Crawl Down Our Chimney?
Just Like a Snowman
Positively 34th Street
Ain't No More Cane
Gotta Serve Somebody Eggnog