2 Quid Squid
- British accented (Sheffield preferred) servers hawk deep fried squid served in mid-90s News Of The World replica newspaper cones
The Fry Friar
- Belgian Trappist monk uniformed workers serve frites in take out clamshell bowls shaped like giant mussels
- NO ketchup – only mayo + mustard
The Tweet Suite
- Buy a 100% guaranteed tweet from an expert writer
- Kiosk shaped like a church confessional
- Customer and writer interact through a latticed privacy panel
Yes, New York City. This time of years.
I can’t stay in my room that passes for rent.
Somehow I’m nothing without the trouble of garbage and the falling of heroes and the yelling of subways.
High lines and low times and fractured dreams and hated schemes.
Ravens in flight point the way to survive
filters for a global consciousness.
End of days is always starting.
Youth is neverending tiger manifestos –
quotations further than the green line of manic depressions and headless
obsessions and the one thing that left
impressions on the digressions of assiduous treaties.
Like an Alamo or a dollar bill.
Vulgarity and virginity
humility and hucksterism.
Gladiators and endless war.
by The Dead.
“Friction and crunch!” go the cytoplastic rainmaker rewards
for “Follow me I’ll follow you.”
Float in space. You’re riding with us.
We’ll hit the end of town and turn around and hit the end of town and turn around and hit the end of town and turn around
until you take heed of our dragon wings
and that we are never bored,
or all that detatched / no matter how much
we complain New York City needs
street signs to ‘Caution: Nature.’
for gregory corso
05 jan 2011 12:38a; 02 march 2011 11:21p
January 07, 2017 at 04:36PM
January 05, 2017 at 05:46PM
December 30, 2016 at 05:17PM
Posted in real life, TheMexicanTaxi, words
Tagged adam green, alia shawkat, brett kilroe, cat thomas, chris miller, drew barrymore, ellen page, har mar superstar, kent cummins, mexico, real life, sayulita, the light walkers, the mexican taxi, travel, twitter, words
A dog’s will to live is its raison d’être. Dogs do not suffer Albert Camus’s “one truly serious philosophical problem” of suicidal ideation. The canine affirmation is automatic and compulsory — a dog will never choose to end his or her life. It simply can’t. Dogs live, and only live.
A dog, by extension, affirms all lives it touches. Life’s entirety, of course, comprises a spectrum of emotions and ricocheting perspectives on reality — from nihilism to optimism, frustration to contentment, abandonment to love. A dog brought home becomes a nexus and repository for all that home’s experiences, memories and outlook.
Projecting a dog’s POV through ours, there’s beauty in their affirming life while (perhaps) never knowing that life is an opt in/out choice. The phrase “dogged determination” is doggone true. We don’t know what a dog knows, but we sense — and communicate through — some kind of mutual sentience. The true paradox of our cross-species communication surfaces as our dogs act with intention: we know they think — but only because we can’t tell what they’re thinking.
(The know-can’t-tell paradox will also be true in determining whether an artificial intelligence achieves true sentience, but this story here’s about organic lifeforms. Ignore the robots around us, for now.)
Posted in real life, sterling, words
Tagged anne heskel, cancer, death, dogs, life, park east animal hospital, real life, reflections, sterling, TCC, the gates, words
“fake” is the opposite of “real,” not of “truth”
We don’t live different lives in one reality. We all live the same life, but in different, discrete realities.
“Conspiracy theories” are battles among competing realities, not between truth and lies. Truth also requires conspiracy to be accepted en masse.
Gravity is a conspiracy theory.
No perception is fake. There’s only what’s “not real to me.” All realities are true.
What’s true, however, is separate from the truth.
“The sky is blue” is true.
“The sky is blue” is not the truth.
Blue is how our eyes perceive a scattered refraction of light passing through particles.
Therefore, belief in blue skies (and their corollary “clear skies”) is a conspiracy theory.
Every blue sky is “fake news.”
December 06, 2016 at 03:51PM
December 05, 2016 at 05:44PM
December 02, 2016 at 10:08AM
December 01, 2016 at 10:52AM
November 30, 2016 at 03:22PM
Posted in words
Tagged dispatch, words
November 23, 2016 at 05:46PM
Posted in words
Tagged dispatch, wine, words
November 22, 2016 at 12:35PM
“an existential threat” ≠ “a threat to all existence”
Simple semantics often slip up speakers. The phrase “existential threat” is used too often to imply that something described as such portents the apocalypse, in the way “communist threat” was used throughout the Cold War to as a casual substitute for nuclear annihilation. But “existential” is not a synonym for “apocalyptic” any more than “communist” was. Rhetoric and doubletriplepolitispeak are funny that way, though.
Semantic checkpoint: “Existential threat” implies the threatening thing threatens because it’s existential. To be afraid of something practicing Existentialism, then, for real, connotes a fear of what Sartre termed the “doctrine of self-making” where human reality is an individual, lived experience. Not very scary at all, really, unless making choices for yourself terrifies you.
“Doc, it’s so weird – been a month and this mosquito bite hasn’t gone away.”
“It’s not a mosquito bite.”
“What do you mean? I saw the f|_|c|<er bite me.”
“It wasn’t a mosquito, Quinn. It was a GBI CogGuard Microdrone.”
“A coggie? But I’m not a redvector. I haven’t done a feelbad or said a makesad in months!”
“The CPD’s latest redword list only went grid around the time of your ‘bite.’ We’ll uplink the chip the drone left in you to the NYCPD and see what it picked up.”
“Look, the coggie probably heard you say a homonym. I’ve seen a few cases of bites when coggies think ‘I’m snowed in’ means ‘I’m Snowden.’ A CPD interview clears that up pretty fast. Relax for now…”
LOCATION: GBI HQ, Room 404
“We know you participated in the DDoS attack on Senator Quicknum.”
“No I didn’t.”
“But we traced it to your head.”
“I never thought that thought.”
“Yes you did. It passed through your head via Telepath into the global system. You just weren’t aware of the transmission at the time.”
“So I’m being detained for 3rd-party use of my subconscious that I couldn’t control?”
“No, you’re being detained for having an insecure and vulnerable subconscious. Weak-minded people are not allowed to think freely in Telepath.”
Sitting in an old theater – Ziegfield-esque, worn red velvet seats, dilapidated condition. I’m fifteen rows up, center. Woman behind me leans in and says, “Isn’t this the worst film ever?”
“I haven’t really watched it yet,” I say to her without turning around. I hear her lean back into her seat and turn my attention to the screen.
The film is called “Toaster Test” and stars Kevin Spacey as an everyday shlub named Herb and Hugh Grant as The Devil. While making breakfast one morning, Herb sees The Devil materialize the reflection of his toaster. In the course of their interaction, The Devil shows Herb how he’ll die in a motorcycle accident.
Cut to black.
Fade in on lobby of a fancy hotel with huge circular banquettes arranged around tall, endlessly high columns at regular intervals around the room. The Devil lowers himself slowly from the ceiling haze and settles on a banquette next to Herb.
“Hey, Herb,” he says, low and slow in Herb’s ear.