Kiss Your Friends

There's a helicopter floating above the ground
attached to a rope that has a person hanging on
for his dear life and to the contraption that is causing our ill fate
which if enacted will cause the ill fate of many of us who,
mere onlookers, consider ourselves as entrenched in this man's
dear life as if it were our own because of course we're watching a movie.

It's called Die Hard II or III or whatever.

I love those movies and all of their brothers.

YippeeKaiAYE Happy New Year.

~contributer

Friend Victoria Ruan was making cranberry short bread for her christmas party and I figured that was a lot of effort.  I like a good buttery cookie just as much as the next guy, but I wanted to know if it were worth  the effort.  So I googled it.



Whoever made that cookie, and made it come alive is a genius.  I heard about this stuff on CNN or whatever, but this is real.  The recipe was under the video, and it said, as you would guess : ginger, bread, baby, deli meat, dale's pale ale, christmas curveball.  If we could all figure out how to hold our fingers for the curveball, maybe more of our cookies would come alive.


Ginger Baby was even useful in the last moments as he trotted gleefully to a car stuck in the snow.  We can only imagine that at his touch the car itself became a ginger car pulled by ginger horses, because a christmas curveball, when enacted is passed by ginger touch.  Like Midas the King, except this gold brings laughter.   The many people touched passed along the curveball in their own ginger way, like having a party and everyone there wasn't actually invited.

On how to spread ginger cheer widely consult this video:

 

 

Now I am interested in how to hold my fingers for the christmas curveball.  I know if I could make a cookie come alive somehow or any kind of bakery product, I would tell everyone I knew so we could all be throwing christmas curveballs all over our respective towns.  If anyone has an idea please let me know.  I spent a lot of time googling it and this is what I found:


fingersntoes does fingers from fingersntoes on Vimeo.



I think I'm missing some instructions.


~contributer

FORIT

I'm not a speaker.
I'm not so bright.

I'm not what you chose for me.
I'm not your plight.

I'll have for me my own of course.
And mine I will have.

But I won't fight for you
the things you couldn't fight.

When you said to me
It's not of you I was made

When you said to me
it'll never be us be made.

When you said to me
find your own.

I said.

I'm looking
I'm looking.

~contributer

Jonathan

It's always nice to get a recommendation from a friend.
"You have to hear this!" --- "Read this immediately." --- "Get in your car and drive to the theatre TONIGHT." --- "This is the best thing since the reverse Oreo." --- et cetera --- et cetera
A good recommendation is simply a friend saying to you the best thing that a friend can say: This is good. You are good. You will see that this is good.
And so the devastatingly sad thing is that the only "recommendations" I get these days are really just lists of stuff, which lists are culled from the occasional scan of twitter-feeds, facebook updates, g-chat statuses, and the rare and treasured personal text-message.
And yes, this means that I am an embarrassment. And yes, you do the same thing, and I know it. It is shameful, and we need to start talking to one another again, and we should all probably have a barbecue or a bonfire and sing the actual songs and tell the actual stories, but for now I'm just going to finish writing this blog entry, if you don't mind, thank you very much.
At some point during the day, I slink away to the bathroom and, while seated, begin scanning the pantheon of digital avatars of various friends, family members, and other characters whose personal tastes and interests satisfy my need for recommendations of a certain standard.
Friend Jonathan is almost always included in that initial sweep: both because of his exceedingly flinty taste and his unparalleled commitment to updating his g-chat status. So, that particular day, when Jonathan's status read "[Jonathan] . . . thinks IGEL is the enemy," I knew that I would think IGEL was the enemy too, goddamn them, and I needed to know what we were fighting against.

So I googled it.

This is a composite graphic of the first five images that appeared that afternoon, and yes, they are shocking. My spirit broke when I saw that center photograph (obviously taken by an undercover journalist or squirrel). Yes, the hedgehogs are the enemy, and if they developed advanced gas masks, then they must be testing biological weapons of some kind, and if the hedgehogs are testing biological weapons, then you know they're going to use them, and so I find myself pummeled with one question over and over again:

Do I really want to live in a world where hedgehogs are the enemy?

I mean, my God, they're so cute. Can the concept of evil be so pliant as to include among its legions the single most adorable animal ever? Can a hedgehog be the enemy?

At the end of the whole thing, I needed someone to tell me what to do. I couldn't come up with the next step on my own, I needed . . . a recommendation. So I called my brother and told him the whole thing.

"What should I do?"

"Did you say reverse Oreos?"

"Yeah, I think I did."

"Are you sure that's what they were called, because I can picture the packaging and I'm pretty sure that they had a different name. Golden Oreos? I think that might be a different product altogether. Are you sure it was Reverse Oreos? Do you really know what you're talking about here?"

"Maybe they had a different name, I don't know, it's just this hedgehog is wearing this . . ."

"Uh-Oh Oreos."

"What?"

"That's it. Uh-Oh, Oreos. There was a plot line, something about a mix-up at the Oreo factory. Probably the Keebler elves screwed stuff up or something. Uh-Oh Oreos. God those were good, I haven't seen them in years, do they still have them? Were they limited time only? Did they fix the mistake at the factory? Oh, I want one. I really wish I could have one right now; I mean my lips are just aching as we're talking I want one so badly. I would literally break a man's arm right now for an Uh-Oh Oreo. I'd break it. Just for one. I can't even imagine, and I mean I literally probably couldn't imagine, the things that I would do for an entire package."

"Yeah, they were pretty good."

"So are they still around?"

"You know what, I have no idea."

And I didn't know.

So I googled it.

Pork Chops Tonight

There's a pork chop in my mind
that looks just like you.
Lightly salted, genuinely dry,
Shaped like a moon.

I'm sorry to cut you up
I'm sorry to fork you down
But you're a pork chop
no longer you
and it's dinner time.

Pass the apple sauce.

~contributer

Not So Much a Lover of Light

It became eventually impossible to distinguish his Splendor from his Menace, and I couldn't take it for another second.  Pure and simple, I had to know the score.  He was beautiful to behold, and terrifying to think of at night.  I wanted to follow him everywhere he went, and yet I was afraid he would eat me alive and serve me to his future followers with Brunellos.

What if - no, I hate to even ask.  I can't.  But yes, I have to.  What if he is right now, as we speak, feeding me the remains of the former me?  The color of red wine is from the skins, I tell myself, as I sip but try not to swallow.  I cannot wait to get home.

And so but at last, finally, just to be sure, to get to the very, absolute, no doubt "Bottom of Things" . . . I googled it.

First, with “Splendor” in quotation marks:

Amazing, Miraculous, Astonishing.  Wunderbar.  Beautiful.  Yes, no doubt.  But look now, for a second, at the state of that trailer: the flimsy door, the covered window, her legs – My God, the legs on this Wonder Woman.  Horrific, hot dog water,  elephant-dick legs.

Something terrible lurking there, to be sure, but then I can't stop looking at the picture.  I have to look.  Somehow it is beautiful.  Somehow, I want to be the one making that laugh hop out from behind her open mouth.  She pitches her body forward delicately, angling her head to dial up affection and understanding.  I imagine it is me holding the door of the trailer, it is me looking at my watch - somewhere to be, and a super hero to entertain.

And so what if I google again with “Menace” in the field?  A consolation, perhaps?  The beauty alone?  I googled it.

 

 

Sweet Jesus, I’m going to be fed to Cerberus with Kibbles & Bits while this man drinks Metamucil with the devil and weaves a belt out of my skin.  Fuzzy menace, relaxed-fit jeans, terrorizing tread of new trainers on the trail.  Get out, get out, get out.  Run like hell.

You know what to do.  Look it up.  Look it way up.

~contributer

From the Mud

Would you leave it to the
sun scrapes on my painted face
to gauge the depths of my twisted fall?
Or would you ask for the lies
Of a sick-born, bottom-bred malice-maker,
a true follower of his own might.

I’d tell of a tree
with helium-filled balloons
floating with no roots.

And beneath it
the girl prayerful
with a giant tear
drooping from her ear lobe
like a pearl in a clam shell
or a diamond in a bed of rock.

Don’t ask of me the bright stories
Told nicely by firewood a’flicker
When the chat turns to the oft told
And we all smile with our teeth a’glitter.

With Ali Baba I put twelve dwarves
whistling while they work,
And in Michael the archangel’s stead
A Muppet of fur and plaster
Chinese make/American model,
taking on the Devil in a graphic novel
about the triumph over sin
by the white horse that is our Uncle Sam.

Because don’t you see? We’ve
All lived longer than literature
And in literature’s light we still breed.
But we bear what we beat,
it's history we beat,
And we consume and consume
til we tweet.

(Anon.)

The girl in the mud
Beneath the floating tree
Cries out.
She cries out
The tinny note
Of a tone deaf
Blind man
Munching on his last
Meal:

Apple sauce and pork chow mein.

(He’s never been to China
Nor will he
But he knows of the gentle swoop
the wall takes on the northeast curve
of China, right before Russia becomes Russia,
And the rice fields turn to steppes. Beautiful.
He saw it in a movie starring Tom the Cruise
and swears now, forgetful, he saw it in person.)


~contributer

Byron Gwinn

Friend Byron Gwinn, balletic and brawny, an emboite-r, posted the simple combination of letters, "V.v.V" on his away message for gchat. As you are feeling right now, so did I, so I googled it.




Victoria vs. Victor. From opposite sides of the world, they had been formulating a truly unique image in seclusion and only had became aware of each other at an art show they were attending 'to get a feel for normalcy.' At the sight of her doppelganger, Victoria grabbed for her invisibility pouch, saying, "Never a day of rest, chasing individuality," but Victor had already tossed on his cap. "So much for invisibility, Victoria," said Victor, invisible.

Before they were to commence an earthquake inducing battle, someone quickly snapped a shot of them. There was an argument, because Victor wanted to be facing the camera directly, rather than in a profile, but Victoria couldn't help herself. She had excellent shoulders. Victor looked her up and down and noticed he had golden seams and she did not. He laughed. And she laughed.

The golden seams had saved everyone at the art show. Including Bob Barker. He was displaying his self portrait with sunglassed son.

I wondered about these golden seams. So I googled it.




Ah! The Comfortably Seated Bear aka CSB aka Victor's life long nemesis. Like Hercules and his lion skin, Victor bears the stripes of his spoils. Experience has taught him humility and he suggested they join forces. There was a lot to learn. V.v.V is now V.w.V .

Next episode, Victor faces the camera.

~contributer

To Esther, Dan's Girlfriend, Who is Driving

"it's the morning, it's the morning,"
is what I'm thinking
the birds are saying
when they're chirping
in the morning

unless you're in virginia
and then
it means
to walk.

~contributer

Jim Hyde

My beautiful friend Jim Hyde, who loves bacon more than I, posted a single word on his gchat away message, "Kayfabe." I used to know a Filipina that went by something LIKE that name and I wondered if he knew the same girl.

So I googled it.

The findings were extraordinary:

"Kayfabe!" yelled the brick wall at the sight of a wrecking ball. The wrecking ball got a heart and swung itself into the motor that was propelling its forward motion. Onto the ground the ball fell and careened through the street like a helium powered aircraft through the air. "Kayfabe!" he yelled in return, and solidarity, as he disappeared into the nearby lake.

Sadness took over the poor wall's heart.

It was all for naught though. The men who hired the wrecking ball in the first place decided they could keep the wall and keep their plans. So I googled it.

Kayfabe was the wall's last and only word. Now it only knows the sounds "cha" and "ching."

~ contributer

For Capes

I would wear
A cape
if I didn't
already look like
a Dracula
so instead
I wear hoodies
in the rain.

~contributer

Notes that Float

I never sleep well
on nytes like lese.
Too much trouble
humming like a tuner
in a cloud above my bed.

all cows eat grass.

everyone deserves fudge.

please excuse my dear aunt sally.

~contributer

To Domestics

I made a german pancake for
breakfast today
And wondered what the germans
were thinking.

Unrelated/related note: when you
take the skin off an apple
it's far easier to crush the fruit.
I think that's a metaphor
for something.

Where was I? Two days
sick at home and my
boredom bred industry
has pushed me to domesticity.

It might take long
to crush a fruit,
but it's just a fruit
been crushed,
until you put it
in your mouth
and then it's just
a mush.

 But again.  The business
Of the skin. Anon.

~contributer

For Adults

Military men
chatting like
a marching band
and two lady lovers
screaming laughter
while twinkle twinkle little star
sang by children,
How I wonder what you are,
singing in public

rode on a train.


Only the innocent sing
in public
when no one asks.
I tried once
But got awful stares.


~contributer

For Tomorrow

The city looked gaunt today
Like a prison attendent
Seated on his stool.
Even the corners of his eyes
were open and
his jowls were locked with jam.

I think it might rain.

~contributer

To Eve

I want to wrap your body in
Bubble gum wrappers
Because you're so
Nice.

Smell the fruity
Flavoring dust
All up'n'down your
Thighs.

I see you when my eyes are open
I see you in the sun.
You're the softest thing to touch.
You make me want to
Rhyme.

~contributer

To Jeff

did you Know
a chinatown bus could be Beautiful?
It helps that a pretty girl my age
talked to me and smiled, but
before eight the sun's last
poured through the front windows
like Golden Delicious juices
and stuck to the armrests,
soft rims for the chairs.

For a second there it smelled
of rainshowers in late August
or sweat on blue collars.
The light stuck to her neck too and
I thought to take a bite.

What's your name, girl I want to bite?
Eve. She said.


~contributer

John Hibey

I was walking home, and I realized I needed to buy a car, because the one I had was broken.  But I don't have the capital, exactly, for a car, so I bought a pair of shoes instead.  I am wondering, after seeing the shoes on my feet back at the house, would anyone trade me a car for this pair of shoes?

So I googled it.

Retail, it's going for a pile of other shoes, so that the creator can make a boat of shoes next.  I believe the car runs on hydrogen from water, which is a lot like the bubbles in Pellegrino, except it's poisonous to drink.  The gear shift is a pair of tube socks, but I am requesting an automatic to replace it.  I've already dropped too many transmissions.

I wonder why I bought a pair of shoes instead of buying a car.  I also wonder if a lot of people buy something that they don't need, because they are incapable of buying something they do need.  So I googled it.

   

 It's important to have and to hold.  But not that important.

~contributer

Ayana Reece

Ayana Reece's away message for gchat read "Yeeno?" to which I too responded with puzzlement, in my own fashion. 



I am not sure if she has heard of the google, so I googled it.  For her.  The findings are definitive:

 

"Yeeno" is death.  He controls the storms, in the palm of his hand.  He decapitates babies and turns them into mere thoughts.  He sweats yellow isosceles triangles and is tremendous at history questions in Trivial Pursuit.  He turned King Midas into a boxing farmer.

I always knew Death was a total paranoid.  Capes and masks?  Dude.  You're death. You're not kidding anyone.  I don't care how many pink backdrops you stand behind, or how goofy you make a face right before you take the camera man's soul.  

Total punk move, by the way.  Grow up, Death.  We're in the Anno Domini era.

I had to know what the Death's tagline "el Malito de la TV" meant.  So I googled it.

 

I could have sworn he was one of the good ones.   Everyone's gotta sell out at some point.

~contributer

Ryan Rogers

Friend Ryan Rogers posted "Operation : Anchorage," on his 'what's on your mind' section of Facebook. Since Alaska is renown for being beautiful and boring, I was confused by the sort of operation that might happen there.

So I googled it.

(Unfortunately you can't get the full flavor of the image on the blog, so click here if you're so inclined.)

I believe behind He Man are the northern lights, which in Anchorage come out rainbow colored and bubble gum happy. In this photo he is basking, in the photo you click to he is being basked. You know what I mean. He being basked might be the original cause of the northern lights.

The operation itself is still a mystery to me, but if it can put "the most powerful man in the universe" in that kind of ecstatic frenzy, I wouldn't mind a booze cruise to our neighbors north. Though no sound accompanies the image, I hear something orgiastic. And I am not afraid.

I needed to know the nature of He Man's haircut. Pre or post Pandora's box? So I googled it.

Dark and monotoned. Brutish and not totally short.

Go Coen yourself.

~contributer

"Israel the virgin... fallen, no more to rise"

rise, oh Israel! Rise good blog! As the phoenix, torn to shreds... once more aflight, upon wings of flame, and calling out, "This ressurrection is an Insurrection!!!!"

and by your talons, shall the mixed multitude of mice or men scurry, lest ensnared by
rapier lyric violenceadeu (fr. "to god") go to god, my good man, to god be gone. anon... anon

~contributer

Celeste Emiko Kamaha'o Rodero

In the 'what's on your mind' section of facebook, friend Celeste posted "lone wolf."  I was confused.  So I googled it.

I can only assume the lone wolf is the sock lost in the laundry.  Poor sock.  Left behind by the amorous two, glutting their desire in the poetry of laundromat love.   Were we all so lucky as these two, the lone wolf would be the coupling wolf, the fraternal wolf, the wolf who grabs elbows, well socked.

The Suds Club stood out.  Was there really a club of people who find love via laundromat?  Did they have an internet presence?

So I googled it.

 

No more running, lone wolves.  See you at the museum.

~contributer

Deacon Bruno

I was looking through old emails and stumbled across an email from pal Deacon Bruno. He had passed me a song with neither artist name nor album. And it was a nice song, "02 The River." So I googled it.

I found this picture:

I obviously have to disagree with the supplied caption. It seems to me that the photographer expressly asked for angels to appear in his picture. To me, angels wear facial hair or long hair on their heads, and are always flexing. To me, costume-esque garb is always a sign of deity because angels are completely unaware of the time in which they exist (timeless), and exist totally as themselves.

I was confused by this manowar stuff, since that's obviously a picture of angels. So I googled it.

I found this:

Another angel came up. I can only assume something's wrong with google. Or "manowar" is deacontakk for angel. Or maybe I cheated just this once. Love.

~contributer

Police Officer With Badge

This police officer rolls up to Sean O'Grady's car and noticing the smashed back window, says "That's about right." Since I'm not that skeptical about the state of DC's 8th and T NW, his meaning was lost on me. So I googled it.

I found this picture, courtesy of thatsaboutright.com:

From the looks of things, these two are rather practiced at squatting on their heels, groping provocatively, and deep tongue kissing for the camera. I am happy to see that chairs are too much of an impediment to their love.

I did not see these two at the scene of the crime, but I can only imagine they ring lead a set of vandals who attack the the 8th and T NW area. The police officer named them immediately, as if to point a finger at a line up or order a sandwich at a shop.

Since the picture downloaded with the name mexico_31.jpeg, I can only imagine this is an old photo from their earlier days as criminals, or this is a current photo and they are celebrating their latest hit in dc on the lam in mexico. Right now.

I also recognize mexico as the only place where two people might find themselves posed in this manner. I am a little bit curious about pictures 1-30, but I am really concerned about 32-beyond.

So googled it.

And found this picture:

Must be the police sketch. Go get 'em district police stars.

Sorry Sean.

~contributer

Edward Scheinman

My friend Edward Scheinman spent the entire day with the gchat message "Lunch Back Soon." I was immediately confused. So I googled it.

I found this picture:

(lemme see that second hand, partner)

From the look of him, he seems to be a flautist (It. flautista).

Also beautiful (It. bellisimo).

Someone had put Scheinman's words as the title of this picture. I can only imagine the number of courses.

Push Push also mystified me. So I googled it.

Testy Mistress Google came up with this:


A video game called Push Push Penguin. I can only assume the flautist made the music for the video game. I also believe the object of the game was to use the flaut for fallen purposes. Involving pushing. And pushing.

Many of the other google searches referred to people headed out to lunch, people who would be back soon. Scheinman, however, is a music writer for some washington dc paper (fact checker is saying not the washington times) so I am imagining his reference was in fact Herbie Mann. In checking with Scheinman, he said, "No one calls me Teddy."

Thanks, Teddy. And thank you, fact checker.

~contributer

Nnamdi Nwaneri

My friend Nnamdi Nwaneri posted the comment, "I'm going to name my daughter Jenna Talia," as a gchat away message. I was curious to know why. So I googled it.

Here's the youtube link I found:



That Jenna Talia's name appears in the title leads me to believe that the Full Breasted Italian Woman is not quite as famous.

That it is "II" in the title leads me to believe this is the second time Talia and the Italian have fought in oil, though it is the first time it has been caught on digital and the first time for the world to see on you tube.

That most of the video is shots of crotches or bottoms leads me to believe the cell phone videographer is sexually frustrated.

I do not know if Nnamdi is referencing this exact Jenna Talia. I am afraid I am still missing the reference he is making, or he is saying that he likes this very curious and semi-apparently Italian name, but what I do know is that I have seen oil wrestling on you tube for the first time as a result of a google search. As a result of Nnamdi's away message. God love a culture of oil wrestling on youtube.

We are all sent on pathways one way or another. The root of the pathway is often random, but nonetheless important to the exegesis of the pathway. Important to understanding the pathway as a "pathway," the root as the "root," or place of beginning. Pathway, doorway, arch, threshold, commencement, life.

Nnamdi reached a conclusion regarding this name. I took his conclusion and started my own pathway. Nnamdi's open door.

I have decided to chronicle the root of my pathways on the internet. The posts, the away messages, the tweets, the email references, the things I do not know, the references that must be googled.

Communication is referential. I am just trying to uncover reference points. So I google it.

"The storyteller is the threshold. He must therefore stop and collect himself."

~contributer