I'm listening to Matt Dillon reading something by Kerouac, and a fragment of one of the lines went "...if he's my friend, I'll be buggered". So I Googled that to see if I could find the whole piece online, and Goggle said: Did you mean: "if he's my friend, i'll be logged"?
a couple of days ago, weren't nobody but me and LM eating dinner, so I just made us some burritos with refried beans and cheese, and heated them up in the microwave. LM's were fine, but I was doing a bunch of stuff at once and not really paying much attention, I guess, so I put mine in for WAY too long. And then, I sat down and took a bite and this HOT MOLTEN REFRITO got stuck to the top of my mouth. And then my baby brother called and we talked for like 20 minutes, and when I got off the phone, I had this gigantic blister over half the roof of my mouth. And I was all talking funny for a while. Then the blister went down (it prolly POPPED!) and today, all this skin sloughed off. Like a real lot. So half the roof of my mouth is just, like, exposed nerves and meat or whatever.
But I really really wanted a salad today. So I ate this pretty big salad with lots of balsamic vinegar. I guess it just went sort of numb for long enough to eat that salad, but it's throbbing again. Seriously: Ow. I am stupid.
My Mom was here today while I was at work. I got home and there was a meatloaf in the oven.
What's odd is, I took the meat out to thaw before I left for work, with the intention of making meatloaf when I got home. Mom and I have always had this unspoken sort of telepathy.
I went to a lecture by a former Middle East correspondent tonight. I met this guy when I was over there myself, I spent 3 months in Israel and the occupied Palestinian territories in 2002. I found myself thinking about one of the most impressive things I saw there which was when we visited the site of an Israeli bombing on an appartment block in Gaza. We went to the funerals of the people killed that same afternoon and on the way there I managed to shut the door of the taxi on my finger. I noticed I was rubbing that finger while I thought about the bombing and mentioned that to my friend and how weird that you do things like that without consciously making that connection (or at least not at that moment) But now I am not even sure if it was the same finger or the corresponding finger on the other hand. It's like I was watching myself and noticed myself doing that and coming up with a pseudo-psycho-analysis and now I am watching myself watching me and saying that is not the facts mister.
My dentist sad hot cheese is a leading cause of inner mouth wounds. Turned out they were wrong regarding the spot in my mouth they were asking me about: I hadn't burned it on hot cheese like they thought, but had stabbed myself with a pork chop.
This quote (from the random picker*) is weird. What's it mean?
Quote:
The moment a man talks to his fellows he begins to lie.
~ Hilaire Belloc ~
*What? It doesn't generate them, we do.
I believe it means we're all lying sacks of shit, and we can't open our mouths without uttering falsehoods. Belloc, of course, was lying when he said this.
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"Her eyes in certain light were violet, and all her teeth were even. That's a rare, fair feature: even teeth. She smiled to excess, but she chewed with real distinction." - Eleanor of Aquitaine
* Shake hops in to see what this thread is all about
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Through with oligarchy? Ready to get the money out of politics? Want real progressives in office who will work for the people and not the donors? Want to help grow The Squad?
Speaking of neighbors, I thought ours was supposed to be back in Iraq by now, but he apparently is not. I haven't seen him in person, but he's still logging on on our wireless, plus I keep finding these little brown cigarillo butt thingies like he smokes on the front porch. We do sometimes sit around on the front porch talking to him, but not for a couple of weeks we haven't, and there have been new ones show up since then.
So, like, youse guys? Is my next door neighbor sitting around on our front porch, smoking cigarillos and plotting an ambush or summat?
OOH. I just remembered something creepy! Our front door has one of those little small windows in it, and a couple of times in this past week, I've walked past and thought I saw something out of the corner of my eye. But I've just kind of shrugged it off, figuring it was nothing. IS OUR NEXT DOOR NEIGHBOR STANDING ON OUR FRONT PORCH, LOOKING IN THE DOOR WINDOW, SMOKING CIGARILLOS, AND PLOTTING AN AMBUSH? OR SUMMAT?
My theory: Your creepy neighbor is Juan Peron, embalmed at death by the same masters who preserved Evita and later cloned by loyalistas in a Boys From Brazil-Andromeda Strain kind of scenario. Unfortunately there were some gaps in the DNA harvested from Juan's meticulously preserved body so they had to use a donor to patch up the missing bits, a donor whose consent was less informed than extracted at mescal worm-and-ventriloquist-hookerpoint, a donor who is as close to a father Juanito will ever know.
It's not you he's after, lisa, I'm sorry. Now go tell Maturin his Pequeño Mollete is waiting.
My theory: Your creepy neighbor is Juan Peron, embalmed at death by the same masters who preserved Evita and later cloned by loyalistas in a Boys From Brazil-Andromeda Strain kind of scenario. Unfortunately there were some gaps in the DNA harvested from Juan's meticulously preserved body so they had to use a donor to patch up the missing bits, a donor whose consent was less informed than extracted at mescal worm-and-ventriloquist-hookerpoint, a donor who is as close to a father Juanito will ever know.
It's not you he's after, lisa, I'm sorry. Now go tell Maturin his Pequeño Mollete is waiting.
Well, that goes without saying. But the question remains: What about the rest of the Good Friday Marsh Chapel control group? What do I say when they come beating down my door in their niacin induced frenzy, wanting to know what's become of the Kingfish?
There are only so many times I can give them the stealth cloak excuse before they start realizing that's just a little too convenient, and those stupid passive RFIDs are not effective at this distance. I've made progress with the insbot, but it is not ready to operate on this kind of scale.
See, all I'm saying is just maybe things aren't going to work out that way this time. Not this time.
From that first day. I didn't even know the bastard. It was random. Everything was random. We sat next to each other because that's the order we came in. That's all. Nothing important. Nothing that doesn't happen every fucking day in every fucking configuration you could imagine. But, you know, the universe has a memory. It doesn't give a shit one way or another, but it remembers all the same. Every random seating assignment, every double-blind study, every randomly generated number writes itself into the fucking cosmos in indelible ink. You can't take this shit back.
So, yeah. Some random-generated double blind study decides that day which one of us gets to meet God and which one of us gets a fucking vitamin B shot. At first, you know, my cheeks go prickly and flushed, and he's fucking mesmerized. I could see him swelling with that heady combination of fear and envy, and I knew I had to reel him in then. Just at that moment. The moment his neural pathways are realigning themselves, I'm etching myself into his new life. It's me, baby. Yeah, it's me. Ego death is the moment you have to interject yourself. You're me, baby. Me. Yeah, baby, I know.
Later, he's telling me we can't buy extra-large eggs anymore because he was a chicken that day. We can't make them do that. Yeah, I know, baby. I know. I freeze into that placid knowingness I carved out as my domain all these years ago, stealing off for that niacin flush indelibly associated in his mind with enlightenment. My face is hot, but I need to remind him. I need to trigger him, convince him I'm something more than some sloppy second, also-ran, control group subject. Juanito is an afterthought. A speculation. A statistical probability. A genetic anomaly. Juanito can be erased. It's me, baby. Me.
So yeah. Yeah. Maybe it's not going to turn out this way this time. Maybe next time they come around for the followups, it won't be Maturin with his genes intermingled with history, but me. Maybe this time, I won't be the baseline or the red herring. Maybe I'm not just some MacGuffin after all.
Re: Miscellany
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Linear Mode
