Tag Archives: words


[dispatch] laughing algorithms

August 02, 2018 at 06:16PM
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[dispatch] 20180721.2115

July 21, 2018 at 09:15AM
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[img] barrels + bootlegs 20180718.1945

July 18, 2018 at 07:45PM
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[dispatch] 20180715.2245

July 15, 2018 at 10:45PM
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[img] shark’s circle of life

July 15, 2018 at 09:58PM
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[dispatch] 20180624.0445: Rainbows End

June 24, 2018 at 04:45AM
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[dispatch] 20180623.0543: Lili ‘Lele

June 23, 2018 at 05:43AM
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[dispatch.20180603.0057] seasonal dissonance

A summer hike through a ski resort is an adventure in seasonal dissonance. Ascending and descending trails stripped of snow’s porcelain veneer, you kick dust to the sky, fighting gravity up and down. Frictionless winter fun is just a quiet echo.

June 03, 2018 at 12:57AM
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[dispatch] 20180531.0057 Mt Waterman Summit

May 30, 2018 at 12:57AM
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[dispatch] thoughts 20180510.2118

May 10, 2018 at 09:18PM
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[dispatch] tracked vs found

May 02, 2018 at 04:33PM
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[sounds] canyon morning

March 15, 2018 at 12:44PM
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[dispatch] 20171205.1600

December 05, 2017 at 04:00PM
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[dispatch] I DEMAND 09152017.1430

September 15, 2017 at 04:30PM
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[dispatch] 20170905.1749

September 05, 2017 at 05:49PM
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[a few words on] Steely Dan

With the passing of Walter Becker, let’s resurrect a piece of mine on Steely Dan, for whom I had conflicting feelings but also heavy sentimental attachment, their inescapable songs stamped on many pivotal moments through my halcyon teenage daydream years. I didn’t choose to write about them – the piece was an assignment.

Back in 2013, I jumped into in a meme game, on a whim, against character and habit. That it was a Facebook meme made it even rarer for me, since I spend maybe 5 minutes a month in eff-space (another post for the future, perhaps). Courtesy of Scott Faulkner (http://www.vinylsaurus.com), the game was if you “liked” Scott’s Facebook post, he assigned you a band/act and you would write on them in the same format. The assignments would then cascade through every generation of likes. Marc Weidenbaum (https://disquiet.com) liked Scott’s post and was assigned The Residents. I, in turn, liked Marc’s post about The Residents, so he assigned me… drum roll… Steely Dan.

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[dream journal] Drones For Leanne: A Recurring Nightmare

It’s 2061. Shunted off in the corner of the rec room at Elysian City: A Home For The Aged, I spend my days staring out a 2nd-story window at a leafy City neighborhood in a vain attempt to cancel out my immediate surroundings. I am 90 years old. My money is gone, my companionship is long over, I have no savings. The government will not approve me for a phone or any sort of connection to the Internet (by that time, access to the virtual world is age restricted for over-85s the same as drivers licenses). I don’t have a guitar. All my instruments and vinyl collection were sold to pay for a hybrid pig heart I needed when I was 83. Elysian also forbids personal music playback devices and headphones, so I can’t seek comfort in the albums I released decades ago in my highwire days.

The other patients create an absurd, inescapable, Cuckoo’s Nest din. I am there because I lost my money, but most are there because they lost their minds. Phillip, a former tenured NYU Comparative Literature professor, screams all day, every day in the same seat, about Donald Trump’s “Kalashnikov eyes” the “god damned Pension Police in the walls!” Every time he tries to eat, he hallucinates himself into the same Thanksgiving dinner simulation where he’s arguing with his brother Mitch about the 2016 election. By the end of every exchange (of which we only get his side), Phillip will slam his plate up and down, sending most of his meal in all directions.

Phillip eats only mac ‘n cheese, and his mad gyrations fly an inevitable noodle or two across a couple tables to smack me in the face or splat on my window. Shriveled, stray elbow noodles are strewn around the room, caught in gaps between the home’s original Kentile floor tiles and wall mouldings, and also underneath an IKEA credenza that holds a Monopoly game without a full set of money and a few well-worn mid-2010s issues of InStyle Magazine. Too-on-the-clock-to-care orderlies don’t cajole their vacuums and mops to reach any of the crevices, so the noodles just accumulate unnoticed like ear canal hair.

The psych wardlords play Gen-X music to try to salve everybody with what they call “youthmmersion therapy,” and most of the time it works. But whenever the Thompson Twins’s “Doctor Doctor” comes on the loudspeaker, 80-going-on-15 Leanne teases her wiry blurry hair up high, and apes Alanna Currie playing timpani drums. Leanne bangs on the table with her Jello spoons every time the chorus revs up, and then screams along (“Doctor Doctor! I’m burning burning!”). Her just-off-key caterwauls always bring two of the floating control drones that patrol the corridors and administer most of the medication. They will grab Leanne by our shoulder-mounted mandatory drone-connector epaulettes. The drones will then hoist Leanne towards the ceiling, where she will float and sing in a seemingly gravity-less performance around the room until she is floated out into the corridor back to her room. If I’m lucky, the drones for Leanne will arrive as Phillip crescendos his one-way dinner fight, and they will catch his noodles mid-flight in elegant ICBM intercept maneuvers.

I turn back to my window, hoping to find solace in the people walking below, living some semblance of real life. Every once in a while I see someone not wearing their virtual shield, maybe walking a dog or taking their kid to school, and paying attention to the environment. No one ever looks up, and for that I’m grateful.


[dispatch] 20170828.1347

August 28, 2017 at 01:47PM
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[dispatch] 20170824.0920

August 24, 2017 at 09:20AM
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[dispatch] 20170821.0823

August 21, 2017 at 08:23AM
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