elizabeth lane lawley
michael "OC" clarke
e v h e a d
sweet fancy moses
wood s lot
m. melting object
Saturday, October 19, 2002
If on a Winter's Night a Traveler
"Perhaps at first you
feel a bit lost, as when a person appears who, from the name, you
identified with a certain face, and you try to make the features you
are seeing tally with those you had in mind, and it won't work. But
then you go on and realize that the book is readable nevertheless,
independently of what you expected of the author. It's the book in
itself that arouses your curiosity; in fact, on sober reflection, you
prefer it this way, confronting something and not quite knowing yet
what it is."
8:37 PM | link |
Thursday, October 17, 2002
6:13 AM | link |
You know that feeling when you're sitting all alone at
night waiting for the telephone to ring, but it never does and nothing
will ever be the same again because the one person you wish more than
anyone else in the world would call you, won't? Won't answer your
calls, either. Doesn't care to. Doesn't care, really, if you live or
die, if you're there or gone, which you can easily get to thinking,
you might as well be. What difference would it make? And this goes on
for months, years, decades. Eventually you stop waiting. But there's a
silent telephone somewhere deep down in your heart, and at times you
wonder: was that for me? But it turns out someone is talking to
somebody else. That's when you know it's still there.
Then something amazing happens. Something you never
expected, never dared to dream, though perhaps you did in some long
forgotten sleep. With all hope gone, knowing it's finally over and
done, you give up. Not without a fight, but the fight has been only
with yourself. There's no one left but you, sitting in an
empty house in an empty town with an empty heart.
The phone rings. It's not who you thought you'd hoped for so long.
Not the one who drained the color from your eyes, your sky. But
someone you barely knew six weeks ago. Some impossible angel you never
expected, never dared to dream.
"Hi," she says. A world opens out on an in-caught breath.
And you say, "Hi yourself, Beautiful. But baby, what happened to your jeans?"
12:54 AM | link |
Wednesday, October 16, 2002
I've been meaning to recommend this company for some time now. Their
service is excellent, and their products have never failed to delight.
I've been a satisfied customer for years. Contrary to an astoundingly
persistent Amerikan puritanism -- even more astounding in blogland,
where it seems counterintuitively overrepresented -- nice girls do.
And so do nice boys (even RageBoys). That's what's so nice about it.
So do give each other the gift that keeps on giving. Coming soon to a
mailbox near you. Beats Amazon wish lists all to fuck.
Disclaimer: Despite Halley's recent comments re The Money, this is strictly a public service announcement. Of course, if Good Vibes were to offer me a lifetime supply of the cock rings pictured above left, I suppose I could find a use for them. Forget all that penis-enlargement spam. These puppies really work! You won't get any more of a kickback than I do for promoting them, but your lover might get a serious kickforward. Might say whoa, dude, how'd you DO that? Just trying to be socially relevant here. Really.
3:55 AM | link |
Tuesday, October 15, 2002
The Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest
Cribbed from the
2002 Results page...
- Like an expensive sports car, fine-tuned and well-built, Portia was
sleek, shapely, and gorgeous, her red jumpsuit molding her body, which
was as warm as the seatcovers in July, her hair as dark as new tires,
her eyes flashing like bright hubcaps, and her lips as dewy as the
beads of fresh rain on the hood; she was a woman driven -- fueled by a
single accelerant -- and she needed a man, a man who wouldn't shift from
his views, a man to steer her along the right road, a man like Alf
Sheila was easy as opening a jar of pickles, not one closed by a man
who has virility doubts and closes a jar so women and young boys get
hernias opening it or at least the boys get them; although I heard
about a woman who had a hiatal hernia so I guess women get them too
but doctors don't ask them to cough unless their malpractice covers
sexual deviance but a jar closed by some ninety-year-old whose grip on
the jar as well as reality has slipped.
- As Professor Wincklespoon took a sip from his coffee, craving the
caffeine that scalding hot water had seduced from the beans, his eyes
fell on an old equation he had written down years ago, metaphorically
speaking, for the falling of his eyes should not be taken literally,
and suddenly it struck him, as if his mind had been cleared by the
same stormy wind that had brought a dark cloud overhead, two million
volts of electricity from that same cloud and gone were the man and
his equation, the solution to the theory of everything.
- It was then that Caroline remembered her kitchen back in Montana, with
a stove that she might or might not have turned off, and so with a
heavy sigh, she put down the penguin.
- "Mummy's gone to Paris to buy hats, and Daddy's pranged the Bentley,"
Fiona responded with a m�lange of wry acceptance and distant promise,
her ring-less fingers playing slippily on the moist champagne flute in
a way that suggested to the normally jaded Sir Jeremy far more than
merely imbibing Bucks Fizz.
- Having opened my 40th birthday present from my husband -- a kitchen
window fan -- and now on my way to the bakery to pick up my cake, I
started thinking: What if I get hit in this intersection, and, struck
with amnesia, I hobble to the edge of the highway, hungry and
confused, and am picked up by a lonely trucker headed for McDonald's
and since I have no memory, I've forgotten I hate McDonald's, so I hop
in, and he -- just thankful for the company -- figures I'm a middle-aged
housewife looking for love in all the wrong places and he's got
several of them?
2:44 PM | link |
2:00 PM | link |
What with all my expectations long abandoned
My solitary nature notwithstanding
You're the one who pulled me
Out of that crash landing
10:22 AM | link |
As AKMA and I (briefly) discussed at
Digital ID World...
It's high time for White Collar Crime.
Take a priest to lunch this week.
You'll be glad you did.
12:18 AM | link |
Monday, October 14, 2002
on the other hand...
Thanks to Stanford University for their unwitting support
of doing what I like. A mind is a wonderful thing to waste.
4:18 PM | link |
"RageBoy: Giving being fucking nuts a good name since 1985."
28 October 2004
||More of Chris Locke's photos
Until a minute ago, I had no photos. I still have no photos to speak of.
I don't even have a camera. But all these people were linking to "my photos."
It was embarassing. It's still embarassing. But I'm used to that.
what I'm listening to...
egr on topica
on yahoo groups
terms of service
It is too late.