soccer? spaghettios? fuck my life.
August 22, 2008
it’s three in the morning, london time. all of Arsenal asleep, or absolutely shitfaced with a nose full of blow. Someone Tomas Rosiscky is injured, always. Theo Walcott is clutching a stuffed elephant. My jersey is the only thing I have on a hanger in my closet. When I wake up, the game will be already uploaded to the fox soccer channel website, whose yearlong package I purchased for one hundred bucks, like a fucking idiot. They plan to carry four arsenal games. Four. FOUR. so, twenty five bucks a game to watch a shitty webfeed. One of my safer investments. (really though)
I keep turning up Andrew Bird on my shiny semi-new stereo to drown out the T. Pain shaking the foundation of this little duplex from across the street. Does Theodore Pain take a “.” in front of his abbreviated first name? I should call him and ask.
I think I might write a single column for Mike (aka Dad, aka new roommate) who works his ass off for an online magazine. He covers music, he interviewed the lead singer of Everclear on the phone yesterday. Fucking Everclear? Yeah. Anyways, my title, “Who the hell are the Fiery Furnaces?”
I don’t have an answer yet. I know this:
- Polish, in last name atleast. I should recheck this, but fuck it, I’m off and running
- Brother and sister, and not in the White Stripes “we used to fuck, or were married, spooooky” way.
- The White Stripes made it cool to be pale for seven minutes. The seven minutes after my friends first heard “seven-nation army”. That was about it.
- Grandma sings on most of their new album. She sounds like death. (capital D?)
- I don’t fucking understand what they are talking about. It is like fucking my ear with a corkscrew.
- Last year Mike tried (and eventually succeeded) in opening a can of Spaghettios with a corkscrew. He also destroyed his hand.
- Alcohol was not involved.
last monday in town
August 18, 2008
reading the last pages of paperback dharma bums with jack
getting all upset about wine, and keeping it in his belt,
i was a little hung over from vodka orange soda night before
watching dick wolf shows with my little sister, smoking on the back porch
sitting at the tire store waiting for defective valve stems to be replaced, free
of charge. drove down to the secretary of state, not sure if
i could register to vote there, you called asking where a decent
bicycle could be purchased. i wasn’t sure, try ann arbor.
at the thai restaraunt we used to frequent when we
were family. old lady came from the back, “no mommy?
no daddy? just you?”
then proceeded to rub my neck and shoulders, pronounced me
“grown boy now”, i shoveled spicy rice and cashews into my mouth
ignoring my stomach, left a tip bigger than the bill
believing in karma.
salvia cat
August 12, 2008
now, the use and/or abuse of drugs is not funny.
in any way.
but this is
dog days
August 1, 2008
if somehow eggplant parmesan was made with the orange chicken sauce and breading from panda express, then i could probably stop eating meat.
and die of a heart attack at 23.
my dog can’t hardly see, because his hair is so curly that is covers his eyes. but he only eats and shits, and when you have a very sensitive nose at the end of your mouth and a fully exposed asshole, sight is not really required for either of those activities.
if i was a blind terrier i would do nothing but eat orange fried eggplant and shit it out all day.
letter to the juj, from the sky
August 1, 2008
Friday, June 13, 2008
Approximately over Lake Michigan
