Tuesday, April 29, 2008

"the MAKE TRAX scoring record - a whopping 1,508,310"

finally got everyone's chapbooks all formatted on the computer. tonight/tomorrow morning they get CX4800'd.

spent the afternoon thrift store hopping. all i found was howard the duck #18 and something called "blip: the video game magazine." it is from 1982 and features a super-bushy-'stached super mario dude making out with a blonde lady. the best way to describe this, is that mario is cleaning her mouth. with this tongue. and super bushy mustachio. total hair lip hi jinx. there's also a shocking expose on donkey kong and an exclusive tip on how to beat Centipede. this must be from when Marvel Comics was making money hand over fist and decided to put out anything some meth-riddled intern thought sounded gnarly.

oh, and there's a video hall of fame article penned by walt day {fr. king of kong fame}. walter was the guy who authenticated video game scores and created an official high score acknowledgment system. a record book for video game play if you will. sadly, no mention of billy mitchell's god-fearing mullet.

its like someone took that mullet to the mountain top and let the good lord shine his light on thee.

off to the office supply store for paper.

Monday, April 28, 2008

exercise, shirt exorcism

happily, aimee found a pile of old shirts of mine in the walk-in closet. i had forgotten about these shirts. my shirt arsenal has been tripled. my shirt gun is cocked and ready to explode.

i will also take this time to make public my new workout regiment. for instance, today aimee and I played light-toss frisbee for about fifteen minutes. we were pretty bad at frisbee. we were winded pretty quick having to hoof after our wild throws. after fifteen minutes we threw up our hands and decided to walk to the liquor store to buy some beer. I then went inside and tried on the aforementioned shirts. all but one fit. exercise is awesome. we drove to dedham for burritos.

added some old sci-fi covers to flickr

Sunday, April 27, 2008

youtube finds of the week

blog changes

so i'm turning this back into a regular blog. mostly, because i'm keeping some newer writings private. i'll still post a few things as i see fit. i'll be one of those guys who keeps all his notebooks and poems locked up in a suitcase. buried under the rusted out honda in the backyard! i'll guard it with a gun and a dog. a huge dog. a huge air-bud dog. it will dribble your head like a basketball. it won't be a golden retriever. moving on...

in a few weeks i'll be locking myself up in a budget motel somewhere where i'll spend an entire weekend writing and drinking beer alone with HBO on mute. no distractions. no internet. nothing. a lot will be produced. i'm thinking about a motel on route one somewhere. so i get cabin fever i can walk over to the batting cages, take a few hacks, and then eat some ice cream. thereby defeating the purpose of the entire weekend.

three new greying ghost chaps are coming along. allen bramhall, brian foley, and christopher rizzo will be represented in one way or another. i've been reading their poems over and over. all three are very different from one another. more info in a few. and some pictures also.

also got a slew of tapes coming out on "taped division" by some pretty incredible bands. they will melt your ears or whatever the saying is. they will kill. or slay. or issue a campaign of wrath. details soon.

went to the IHOP in norwood last night for some dinner-breakfast. food was epic. should've ordered the bacon. i hear their bacon tastes like sweet sweet music. not that garbage we buy at shaw's. no, that that bacon tastes like it was made from lips and assholes. instead i ordered the buttermilks and a plate of hash browns. wasn't hungry for fifteen hour.

i'm beardless. for now.

Saturday, April 05, 2008


[ rough prose draft ]

The closest thing I found was a job at Wireless and Wireless. Half of the store was dedicated to lingerie. The other half: cellular phones. Nancy, my boss, had teeth like a hacksaw and eyes were black as vintage telephones. She seems like bait for gamey fowl and pheasants, weather permitting. The sun was a bit more inebriating as it sparkled off the B cups. A woman walked past my register hugging her grocery bag close to her bosom. She took off her sunglasses and poked them into her purse hung awkwardly over a shriveled knot of a shoulder. She was buying crotch-less underwear. Her husband was across the store going over pager systems with Nancy. He was a lanky bearded man carrying a wicker suitcase. We almost made eye contact. While waiting for the approval of her credit card the wife intimated how she was trying to distract her husband from all of the terrible things that been going on as of late. “Our daughter ran away,” she whispered. “And I think he’d like a new one.”

Somehow the sidewalks gave way to Wireless and Wireless. It was seventy-five degrees and the wind came out of the northwest at such and such miles per hour. I wasn’t one of these guys who went to college and majored in meteorology. Surprisingly, senior citizens made up fifty percent of our clientele. I frequently heard seniors clapping their hands, as this is what seniors do when slightly aroused. Sometimes Nancy watched them shop via a monitor in the stock room, smoking. Once, while I was sorting inventory data sheets, two old men came into the store grossly engaged in a conversation. The fact that they had wandered into a women’s lingerie slash cellular phone store had no bearing on the two. Their mannerisms ruffled a few hanging items of clothing. The more talkative of the two had a thick, black moustache. “Look at this kid, he sells panties,” the moustache said. The other one replied, “Perverts sell panties. He sells lingerie.” He made a motion with his hand during lingerie. “In my day women wore slips and tasteful dresses,” said the moustache. Nancy cleared her throat from behind the wall. For a few minutes they browsed. Eventually the guy without the moustache wandered over to where I was. He placed both his hands on he glass counter and played piano with his fingers. “Does anyone ever come in here to buy phones?” “Rarely,” I said. “This is what typically pays the rent,” I said while pointing to rack of imported silk and velvet brassieres. The man without the moustache nodded approvingly. “You’re a good kid,” he said. “You have a real future in women’s underwear.”

Tuesday, April 01, 2008


“What I Imagine Mornings in Knoxville, Tennessee To Be Like.”

The diner situates itself between the oldest eyesore in town and the customs building where our grandfathers got shot. The agreed upon rent is paid for in valley glue that’s been excreted out of hungry stomachs. The glue is then refined in a factory ten miles northeast of here in Strawberry Plains every twenty-five minutes. Waitresses in civvies serve breakfast all day. At the end of their shift, the waitresses count up their tips and watch cable news with the sound off. The walls are adorned with University of Tennessee sports memorabilia. There’re replica jerseys from the golden (though slightly orange) age of Volunteer athletics. There’re orange pompoms and orange sponsor ads. A row of orange aluminum seating lines the back wall. First-borns have been baptized in holy water dyed with orange food coloring.. Every Monday the staff eats their breakfast together. Afterwards the two waitresses will pick on the busboy by giving him detailed descriptions of childbirth.

[1st draft. fr notebook.]