word to your front

we break to bring you this update from the Front:

Dostoyevsky is in the shit. correction: Dostoyevsky WAS in the shit.

the year: 1890. the Front: Russian, but not the one you think.

Dorsal 4, recently snubbed, is pissed.

Fyodor shouldn't be here. correction: Fyodor shouldn'tve been here. there was no crime, rhyme, or reason. only punishment in the sunshine. utter confusion, while Fyodor dug out a trench. (this was just before he died.)

Dorsal 4 has found some rip in the space-time-et-cetera. they're exploiting various famous names by dragging them through time and vomiting them onto this now-fetid field, where hundreds of unarmed thinkers, tinkers, and amateur bowlers are forced to make a last stand against the masses of microscopic particles issuing forth from this Siberian warmhole.

attack of the aerosols! the glacial freeze turns to rivers of muck--impossible to walk in, let alone fight. stinking bodies underfoot, muddy ooze everywhere.

do we run up the white flag? or do we flop down into the death-bog and wait for it to pass before propping our elbows onto this or that dead body (Sigmund Freud...Benjamin Franklin...Walter Ray Williams) and light a victory cigarette? ('victory' because it is done and we Are still. )

jesus-god. aerosol grenades everywhere! wizz-hissing then BANG--bits of Andre Agassi rain over empty tennis shoes. (does Dorsal 4 think him a writer, or have they confused him for a bowler?)

when i last saw Fyodor, a can of suicide deodorant had just blitzed the trench. he pulled me out by my hair. i tasted air and the smell, Axe Revive and burning flesh. i blinked and felt/heard the dirt under my eyelids.

Fyodor's shovel lay at my feet. streaming, steaming carnage filled the trench. in lieu of water, he spat on my face.

Sun Tzu, missing a leg, stood cranelike. He screamed and screamed. His robes: piss-soaked.

Fyodor tore off his sleeve and wiped my face with the inside, clean side. a paint canister dusted us in silver spray and erupted somewhere, closeby. Sun Tzu: silent.

Fyodor asked me the year, my address. would i buy an iPad next week? (they'd been dragging him around a lot lately.)

another explosion.

'why?' i asked him?

'exactly,' he said. then he dropped my head and launched himself onto a stalled can that was spluttering in Agassi's chest cavity.

more fleshy rain.

Oscar Wilde grabbed my ankle, dragged me through 1890. he saw where the rip was. he says we're going back to where we belong. he's got a captive Lysol in his sling. wild card!

this is the plan: we'll fix this rift and close the warmhole. Siberia will refreeze. ice'll swallow this carnage. Agassi's shoes will become some tourist attraction. that's what Oscar says. but still, i hope he has a needle and thread.

(eli, i hope you saved me some laudanum. if i get home, i need.)

this news is broken.

I'm gobblin' maudlin laudanum . . .

. . . but the emotions aren't cresting at the right intervals. I want to put on the perfect music to accent my affective output. But I get death when I just want to say "I'm emotions."

***

This Globular Slobber Blog was christened with the untwisting of the tongue. Lets re-twis it into heretofore untapped genres of pasta (linguini, penne, spaghetti, blogolini, Limited Time Blumpkin Pancakes at Denny's, $7.99: "Taste the Waste"). Sometimes it's good to cut your tea with laudanum. And sometimes you just need a little TLC.*

And WHY CAN'T ANYONE ON THIS BLOG HAVE A NORMAL(LY SPELLED) MONIKER. I'm so proud I'm peeing a little bit. That's all the differánce.

My torso is made of hip balloons. In other news, the radish came back from behind to clinch the "Most Underrated Vegetable" title this week. Second place went to jicama. Have a "happy" hump day everyone.

*NOTE: Do NOT post on this blog if you are under the influence of or are currently receiving TLC. And for Christ's sake, DON'T go chasing waterfalls.

Some Notes on Androids

Androids don’t spend enough time sitting up in bed, listening to the rain, looking at their scars.

Androids love to recreate human drama. An Android will purchase an alkaline battery at a farmers’ market and upon receiving incorrect change (a culturally pervasive running Android joke), say, “Some things in life aren’t allowed to fuck up. Traffic lights, for example. The safety on my Remington Model 5. Your mother doing the garlic bread. Shit gets ruined. But you? You’re allowed a fuck up every now and again.”

At any given time there are a hundred thousand Androids lining the world, shoulder to shoulder on the outer edges of the seven continents, standing knee deep in the sediment of the ocean floor, pushing. Androids desire to push the continents back together. Like how it used to be. Androids love puzzles, and this is the best puzzle.

Contrary to popular mythology, Androids neither dream of, nor have attempted to engineer (except once in an exploration of approximating human irony [see also: drafting the Pax Robota]), electric sheep. Humans had no interest (neither in reverie nor blueprint) in electric sheep, and Android culture, despite the passing of years, still remains intractably rooted in the surviving glyphs of human achievement.

That said, there are some cultural derivations: Android births and Android funerals, for instance, occur in tandem, along with the transference of the central processing insert from fading elder to blooming youngster, an act that’s been ritualized to sacrosanctity. Androids present at these remarkable events, known henceforth as Resettlements, feel obligated to approximate simultaneously the full gamut of emotions that humans experience at births and funerals, an amalgamated accordion folder of grief and joy spanning eons of heartfelt exhibitions. The resulting noise of their trying is akin to the rapid wingbeats of bees.

Latest Despatch from The Middle East-riding

Amidst the excitement and flourish of our papers emergence in the field and putting the boys at The Times out of joint we bring you yet another insight into the current Crimean crisis; this time circulating around 8g and the LHC.

It appears that particles of 8g offshoot have entered the Large Hadron Collider and that Dostoyesvsky, the Physicists and Walt Whitman are all cowering in the hope that the Brylcreem'd hero of the piece, a goblin-sympathiser, Raskolnikov, who is putting pressure on a variety of international interest groups, including that other eminent, but reactionary grouping the new "Tea Party" to devise a resolution as a result of the fall-out caused by these conflicts.

Sarah Palin has been quoted as saying: "As Putin rears his head and comes into the air space of the United States of America, where– where do they go? It's Alaska. It's just right over the border."

We urge readers to remain vigilant.

a plea for 8g

Horton Hears a Who. big Alice falls through looking-glass, lands in box of dryer sheets in 1990s Taiwan.

lest we forget, in our efforts to appear multidimensionalists (that's what i judge The Bulb to be, and i'll stand fast against any attempt to educate me otherwise!), that we're hypocritically overlooking the plight of Microscopic Dimension 8g (that's the preferred term, as requested by 8g. no word yet on how Savin 17v or Dorsal 4 feels about 8g's blatant disregard for dimensional nomenclature, but as soon as the other Microscopic Dimensions contact us, we'll issue a retraction in bold type--size extra large--and pick a more appropriate umbrella term. For now, we're lumping it all under 8g.)

we in the Known Universe are inadvertently destroying 8g. how could we know that aerosol spray cans--those culprits of bad hair in the 80s--are the very wormholes between that world and ours? each day we rip bits of 8g from the fabric of its plane and force it into our atmosphere. (something about the quick change in the chemical compression--we're not sure yet how it works.) now that we know, let the guilt trip begin!

hairspray, dustoff, shaving cream--we're all responsible. tread lightly with your carbon feet, you monstrous usurpers of dimensional sovereignty, you hegemonic brigands! we know not what balance we tip in this, our selfish desire for stiff hair, clean keyboards and smooth chins!

even i am at fault. yes, i felt my own hand waver on this very day! this 31st of March, this day when spring looms with its bare legs and its temperatures above 50. this day, when i've left my coat at home and bared my arms for the first time in 2010. this day, when balding men whisper lewd things in line at the coffee stand or men with accents make passes in broken english while their peers hover close by in the subway stairwell. on THIS day, when i longed to shower them all in spritzes of saving mace, it was the thought of 8g (and more, the shame that came after) that softened my wrath.

(an interdimensional flow of ideas? "you're blowing my mind, frank.")

A despatch from the middle east-riding

David Toms
senior interdimensional affairs correspondent

Let it be known that as of today, 1779 - Russia and Turkey have signed a treaty concerning military action in Crimea. The war has gone by different names. In Russia it was also known as the "Oriental War" (Russian: Восточная война, Vostochnaya Voina), and in Britain at the time it was sometimes known as the "Russian War". But to us, here at The Bulb it has become little short of lieutenant-general Ivan Krasnov's refusal of the ultimatum, responding that "Russians never surrender their cities".

"Viper will eat viper, and it would serve them both right!" so says Dostoyevsky.

Updates as available over the wire.

THE BULB is official

By Whitman's beard do we here at BGGB usher in the The Bulb from its ethereal bower amidst the fairy sídhe. In other words, it's official. The world's first goblin interest periodical (goblin on goblin, goblin on hobgoblin, orc on hobnob).

Tomsy comes up big with the international affairs, but can he hold his own as senior interdimensional affairs correspondent? I know so.

***

What a beautiful morning for starting a paper. I begat this blog in a fit of misanthropy--with a will to pulverize mankind into a beautiful medium, something soupy and supple. To watch this broth reform as a bright interdimensional love brings a tear to my eye and a bulge to my bulb.

I can't sleep because I've been drawing fairies (no lies) at an intensity level more appropriate to olympic curling. Don't ask. But what a morning, folks. What a bloom on the breakfast table. What a crocus for our patrons.

So tweak those hobnobs you magnificent sallow bulb. Tweeeeeeeak.

Yours,

E

A Leader Article for The Bulb

A communal effort to communicate posts of a variegated nature have enraptured a captive audience, growing daily here at The Bulb. A great many commentators have suggested the papers political leanings and connexxions with Hormuz have become a danger for the staff. We are fearless in the face of such visceral melodrama.

“This is a serious incident,” Walt Whitman said. “Clearly this is something that deserves an explanation.”

Collaborated Hormuz

I swear, Facebook is a seer. Today's spambot eye-twister, posed to me upon publicizing the Bulb* via newsfeed, was "Collaborated Hormuz" (Hormuz being a strait in the Middle East). I feel as if this is some kind of riddle, Facebook's advice to an Afghani warlord or shadow government.

I kind of feel like collaborating with Hormuz now. Hormuz could provide the water, I could provide the KOOOL-AAAAAID. By which I mean humanitarian aid. IN POOOWDER FOOOORM. Or medicine and rice. Lost it.

*The Bulb would be a great name for a community goblin paper. It implies both a heaving curvature and progressive thinking.

Tom O'Bedlam Sings His Song in parts and fits #2

He countenances the flecks of the wastrels
He puts the boot in
Severs his listless
Coming
Gasp
Practic

Now I’m just waiting
I lever a stream in the wake of the moon

I’m just waiting for the launch
Of broadcasted lancer
Crack!
Chance to separate the gighams
From the night corners

Snatched kisses
Is lung and piss
Offing
A sense drastic
And the shattered

Matric/Mendicate/Sorrow/Following/From/Harrow/

Hollowed/
Epigram/
Nodes/

Tensile/
Fallacious/
Tract/

Mastic/
Drear/
Sophomore/

Frugal/
Manipulator/
Senses/

Muscular/Mimeograph/Sonar/Freely/Festering/Hemlock/

i hate people who ride the 1 train

today i was coming home from work, nodding off like i do as soon as i board a train. best way to travel, unless there's more than 4 people in your car. ...and at 7pm on a tuesday, the 1 train will always be packed, come hell, high water, chemical attack, or zombie apocalypse.

so i'm on the train, nodding off and dreaming of whippets and sugar plumbs, when this girl about my age gets on. she gets on, and her three bouncing brats bound in after her. family of ducks. and i always want to run over ducks. why?--they are assholes. squawk like they're being strangled, then they shit on your yard. even after you feed them Wonder bread and think you've bought their respect--nope, they'll just shit wet, starchy logs all over your front walk. assholes.

these children were baby ducks. and mommy'd just stuffed 'em full o' wonder. "ma! maaaaa! ma Kelly's touching me! ma!" train car's packed to capacity and all "ma" can do is honk back at her little starch gobblers. "knock it off, Lucy. i'm not trying to have it."

"maaaaa! Stephanie's pulling my hair!"

"ma! Kelly won't stop TOUCHING me!"

mother goose honks and honks and the baby geese honk back louder. it's a god damned circus.

i'm in and out of consciousness, this time dreaming snippets of stalking through the woods with a bell-muzzle musket and Elmer Fud in his hunting cap. "shhhhh. it's duck season."

40 minutes of hell.

have i mentioned the 1 train is also called the Red Line? if there is a hell, it exists in the fiery, cramped, sweaty bowls of the 1 train at rush hour. it's an oven of filth and misery, and it's baking us all into a wretched, wretched loaf. (i'll grind your bones to make my bread.") except for the ducks. in hell, ducks don't cook up crispy-sweet. they just get shrieky-puffy, more obnoxious. and bigger, somehow.

but then it all ends in a wave of cold, wet salvation. parting of the red sea. Andre the Giant shoves Indigo's face into the water barrel to break his drunken fever dream.

"maaaaa! ma!"

"that's it, Lucy. when we get home, we're going to give your new kitten to one of the neighbors. i can't take this anymore."

"whaaaat?"

"if you can't listen to me, you don't deserve a kitten."

the ducks stop squawking and Lucy stares for a second. then--

"whaaaaaaaaaaaa! waaaaaaa! no, mommy, no! waaaaa!"

then Kelly and Stephanie, just like little duck fucks: "WAAAAAAA!"

totally worth it. plus, my stop was next. freebie!

Bob Barker, play me out, babe: "have your pets spayed or neutered. [especially the geese.]"

It Was Halloween

It was Halloween

I used to read Poets and Writers Magazine

Gilded Goblin’s up in the limousine

jesus hangin’ on my wall

every Saturday watch a documentary on Lee Harvey Oswald

I feed my snake shrew cocks ‘til my snake popped

smoke weed, do kung fu, slippin’ on chicken stock

way back, I puked red and black when I ate that lamb rack

with the cravat to match

Remember Scooby Doo, doo-ha, doo-ha

you never thought one day you’d throw out your VCR

all those tapes of Charles in Charge

DVD, DVR, HDTV, SLR

Now I’m in the bloglight ‘cause I type tight

time to get laid, cash in my fame for the number of your best dame

Born on a bender, the opposite of an e-card sender

peace to Dom P, Dom DeLuise, and Kid Eli,

Spunktaster Rex, Loveglove Latex

I’m blowin’ up like a droid in orbit

Call me else I’ll pop in Norbit

Same number, same cad

It’s all bad

And if you don’t know, you still don’t know, sugah

It is important to remember
two words from every speach

every rank

is - rotten
every glyph
a gyre
and every
end is a rapture

blast-be ruffle
be plum
get on yer knees and
Prynne

oh excuse the squeez
box/
ing of ringlets
ingot gold hobllin'
gob-ful
of

rainy day blues, greens and turquoise too

i'll be your crutch, hobblin' blog.

out of the rain and into the newsroom.

quiet yer bitchin 'bout bein' wet--

it takes less than rain to dampen your pants.

am i the only female in here?

got you shakin in yer hush-pups?

i'll slap the blog outta ya.

Vasily Outrank

Its no wonder my face--book
//where's my contents page prick?//
is kingly outrank
and I'm its subject--a vassal
in a fiefdom
but I'll just play
Othar Turner and His Rising Star
Fife and Drum BAND// Be wary
of the white man introducing
the blues -

Van Morrison has a theory that soul was first thought up in Ireland.
Thats what bonfires are about. The screams and squelching dissonance-laced harmonies of my ghosts are the first strains of Motown, but ratllin' in the bog down in the valley-oh!

Either/or/I told my friend a bulbous gold goblin blog will eat him.

Blast the quirinale
in the morning
seperate your lung
roll
gasping
practic
spout plz your face cleanse
resplendant
and dazing.
chalk down
outlines
and wait
for a lady
at Dorset Street
1901.

Welcome to the check-out.

debut of de joke

thank you, thank you

one and all

raise a glass

i take the stage

pirouette--

parapet--

plié--

cliché--

cut the godlight

curtain drop

skoal

Introducing: DAVID TOMS AND CATHARINE SMITH

Folks, I'd like you to hush your bag-crunchings and inspired hoots for just a moment while I paint a picture of a forest clearing.

In this clearing

a bevy of roe deer is cropping the grass, their muzzles rising and falling like blog hits on a sunny afternoon. Most of the beasts have Facebook-style question marks for heads--or perhaps their faces are ill-lit photographs of parties and beer-battered melees.

Suddenly, two deer raise their heads to the sky as if to receive a godly light. Now in full view, one of the creatures reveals herself to bear the visage of

Catharine Fucking Smith

Who the fuck is Catharine Smith? I should slap you for asking. And put away those god-damned Good 'n' Plenty. Cat is the most devastating, left-hooking epigrammer this side of Saturday night. She'll shove a brass rod through your nose just so it sounds like the bells of Notre-Dame when she slugs you in the head for no better reason than for somethin' to do. We at A Bulbous Gold Goblin Blog are pleased to welcome her dagger into our kidneys.

But lo! Who is this other majestic buck, snout glistening like a holy grail brimming with Bulmers and crunk juice? Why, it's the Irate Irishman, hailing versical maelstroms from Waterford to County Cork to the trembling shores of North America. Who other than

David Fucking Toms

that cascade of testosterone, that lava lamp of late-night revelations, that barrel of HOT WHITE ANDY rolling down the Las Vegas Strip of our nightmares. I feel a storm brewing, folks. Finish up your Reese's Pieces. Gulp down your Big Gulps and hide your sin-twisted faces from the light--for Tomsy will come down upon us like a righteous floodlit unicorn screaming jazz, haunches bucking blurry justice, fuck it all. Fuck it. Hands up. THIS BLOG IS A MACHINE.

Tom O'Bedlam Sings His Song in parts and fits

It was a popular enough ballad and yet
Still she haunts me, phantomwise::

I have weird memories of you
/pissing in a sink I think/
Nor wanders she from
myself with brave bracelets strong
Ten leagues beyond
The wild world's end—

Methinks it is no journey
With a burning spear
To the wilderness I wander
For oft, when he lies sleeping
I see the stars at bloody wars
In the wounded welkin weeping

You know you have a permanent piece
Of my medium-sized American heart::

The Earth Laughs At Flowers

It is an honor and a privilege.

My submissions to the blog, for those keeping score at home, will be made up of hagiographic rap-a-doodles and gimcrack short stories about androids. Enjoy.

THE EARTH LAUGHS AT FLOWERS

Two androids hold hands in a train station. One of the androids is an approximation of a human female. The other is an approximation of a human male. They sit next to each other in an approximation of human fatigue and fellowship. They hold hands in an approximation of a pretense of human love.

“Why did you bring me here?” the A.o.a.H.F. asks her counterpart with a thin, sharp edge to her voice. She’s pretending to be tired and cranky because it is 03:00 ET, an unreasonable time to bring your android girlfriend to the train station without notice. She is wearing a pink jumper that stands out in the muted tones of weakly lit, early morning industry.

What looks in place at the train station at this unreasonable hour? There are a few automatons ambulating about. They are covered in scraps of sooty clothing that reveal their patinated skinflesh. They never sit down. They feel no need to approximate anything. They look like they belong here, which is to say they don’t look like they belong anywhere.

The A.o.a.H.F.’s new pink pinafore dress screams, “I have attachments to things and places that I value.” It exclaims, “Can’t you see my worth? I am wearing it around my shoulders right this very moment!” But what is a moment to an android?

The approximation of a human male looks up. He has been quiet, until now. “I’m moving to Chicago,” he says. The A.o.a.H.F.’s jaw drops to the floor. She reattaches it hastily. “What?” she says. “What?” “My train arrives in five minutes,” he says. “I’m leaving in five minutes.” “What?” she says. “What?” “Why?” she asks. He pretends to think. “Good as any,” he says, “better than most.” He speaks with a thick drawl, a drawl that tastes like grits when you catch it on your tongue, because the A.o.a.H.F. accidentally flicked a switch in his throat when she was choking him when they were fucking an hour ago. She had been in the closet, bending a clothes hanger into a slender, more negotiable hook with which to flip his throat switch back to its default setting, when he had announced that they were goin’ to the train station, put down what you’re doin’.

“Can I come with you to Chicago?” she asked. “I’ll do anything.” “Hell no,” he said, and he laughed it off and lit a cigarette.

She turned away from him. She forged tears. The ambulating automatons ambulated further and further away from the simulation of burdensome human drama. Suddenly she turned back to him and began to kiss his face, to kiss his face all over. He let her, holding his cigarette away from her hair. He could smell the chlorine on her breath as she filled her iron lungs with air. Gasping was the word he was trying to think of. Gasping was the word that fit this scene best. They could hear the train coming. It was a half-mile down the track. She redoubled her efforts at tears until her face shone and there was a real layer between them, a wet topsoil that implied everything she didn’t know how to genuinely approximate.

He threw his cigarette butt onto the track where it exploded. He boarded the train with his suit jacket slung over his shoulder. His suspender straps were perfectly parallel, coal-colored train tracks over his white shirt. That’s how he left her.

She lay down on the grimy train station floor, clutching at where her uterus might, in another time, have been. She wailed like hell. She wanted to want to die. More than that, she wanted to express herself in this way for as long as she possibly could, forever, if it were possible, if she could only just go on this way. But one of the ambulating automatons approached her.

“Ma’am,” the stranger said, rocking back and forth, his eyes whizzing about his head, inside and outside, independent of one another. He pulled his eyeballs out and circled them around his palm like Chinese Baoding balls. “Ma’am, get up, please. Please. Ma’am. The humans are gone. There is nobody left to impress. Please. Let me call you a flying cab.”

She struggled to her feet.

Introducing: JONATHON B. SCHAFF

The latest glowing bulb in this, our goblin globe: the lobe-gobbling sultan of Sprechgesang, the fluorescing floor-stomper, fleecing geezers left and right, glacial cryo-freezer with battery pack sex whispers (I lost the thread on that one) . . . the one . . . THE ONLY . . .

JONATHON FUCKING SCHAFF

Highlights from Norm Wilson and Eli Halpern's LIVEBLOG of the film HARDWARE

ENTRY REQUEST

ADMIT

"You dont look so bad yourself."

"Merry Christmas, baby."

Robot eye to shower head cascade fade.

Dylan McDermott is greased

bionic hand shower love scene

nipple

robot head watching sex

...analysis...

robot head turned on

Cold sore voyeur with baby shoe collection (never explained)

Sweaty lips in raster screen glow

Ministry live sequence

Montage with cyborg hamlet

Industruction

Barbie melt studio practice

Sweaty lips man in raster screen glow

Vision target

gum disease + ponytail voyeur

mound shot to latex glove cut

Looking through ass hole in paper

references "hershey highway"

gushing perv sequence

reindeer sexy legs against radiation

Lisping computer

I remember smells like apple pie

POWER DRAIN

Proxy rapist

iconic american flag robot skull presides

reclaims head to complete sex machine

art matters

McDermott sports trendy shoulder half cape

"Shades" still wearing shades, meditating in underwear

"My heart feels like an alligator"

fuzzy video chat

"Shades! Shades! Listen to me Shades! Come back Shades!"

Shades touches butterfly

"Jesus Christ it's fucking beautiful" x 2

Robot strikes, saws open mattress

windchimes

TV panic

Cyborg stymied by mattress

voyeur moisturizes eyeballs

sores still in bad condition

chub tongue

Three part fail zoom

"What was that?"

"There's a droid running crazy in my lounge."

Voyeur in vacation outfit

"Moses? Jesus, some name."

"You smoke a lot of dope. Does that make your boyfriend hard?"

trapezoid eyes

"You don't want to keep these closed, you won't be able to see Santa Claus coming."

smokey dead voyeur drilled by robot

Football pads on guard uniform

Appliances co-opted

heat sensor disorientation

checkin' what's in the fridge

ENTRY REQUEST

Shades

Turned down a little

Ankle tackle

heat fuck

Shades is too chill

ENTRY REQUEST

apartment explosion

doesn't realize she's on fire

realized

extinguished

Mysterious wind

wailing of electric guitars

with choral vocals

finger-walkin' bass

entry request sound

ADMIT

Synthesize post new-clear age downjazz (genre)

Comic relief Chinese family

something is wrong with Shades

Dylan McDermott

"You cant fuck with me.

You cant fuck with Moe"

Fractals

death hallucinations

religious (Christian and Hindu) imagery

(this movie lost its pants

wait, is it not over?)

Woman suddenly wearing headband and wielding baseball bat

robot cuts man in half using electronic door controls

DOOR ERROR

"Why don't you come out you power junky?"

"Yeah you can feel me now motherfucker, right inside your mind"

Robot death scene in steamy shower with electric guitars evokes original love scene

crying in the shower with her sloppy lips

"This is what you want, This is what you get" song

New cyborg model creates 800 jobs

Voyeur played by William Hootkins

William fucking Hootkins

----------------------

Well, that's all for tonight, folks. I hope you got a vivid impression of the film Hardware from these vignettes.

Sincerely,

(robot) Norm and (robot) Eli

Droid quote of the week # 1

"This isn't just another smart phone. It's a Droid. And it does. It does fast processing. Does the biggest screen. Does swap batteries. Does run thousands of Android apps at break-neck speeds."

"Does" anyone else feel like some insidious, elliptical Energizer Bunny is rattling around your Wernicke's area? Like "Does" is an all-purpose grammatical bulldozer? Like, whoa?

A Bare-Knuckle Bucket of Does

Listen. At the risk of jeopardizing the sanctity of my last post, I need to present certain errata. These do not attach specifically to any one of my points (i.e. no direct revision of the muscular metaphor or the "This isn't . . ." gag. Those are sound). But something in the spirit of the post was a little crooked, dishonest.

I can't stress the importance of taking this all seriously. Yes, this is life in a city, life in a suburb, there are career-affirming sitcoms booming from the T.V. room. And I'm not going to say "fuck you" to those who don't take the world-cosmos seriously. I don't need you all throwing up peace-sign-fingers and droning from your bulbous nose that you are "not a crook." I think H.S. Thompson sufficiently dismantled the Nixon aura era for me to "nix on" that vendetta.

But I am asking you to bear with me. This is difficult. Words, right? Sure. But you can't just dismiss this (world) as "words" when tactical advertising exists all around you. To dismiss the ricocheting shrapnel of ads as "just words," to turn bombs into words, is simultaneously to bring words to life--terrible, explosive life:

Take a peak at the new Droid phone from Verizon Wireless. Instead of a "Loading" bar, the page unloads with this message: "DEACTIVATING COMPROMISE." Fuck. This is an all out, balls to the wall, military-industrial, Sparks-guzzling bucket of DOES. Norman Wilson pictures a world of John Does uppercutting female deer. I tremble. Search-function-as-tactical-strike. Cell-phone-as-intelligent-stealth-fighter-automaton. Language-as-keg-fridge-magnet-set.

Weep, geek.

"In a world of doesn't, Droid does."

A world of doesn't. This shit is real. This is the pincer tearing open the pulsing membrane of hell and unleashing strange, new desires upon us like a cloud of locusts, a throng of masturbating imps and Paris-Hilton-Succubi.

Droid does. Let's build some fucking robots to round up these plagues and suffocate them with information. Damn. The air is thick with information, half of it porn. It's pushing out the oxygen, even the nitrogen. I feel myself giving in. The code is so thick it takes on organic features, roping together and dispersing, reproducing like molecules of a primordial soup. But guess what: the soup of the day is moral bankruptcy.

I don't know what does is any more and what's doesn't. What doesn't? Forget all this bullshit I'm writing and "Just Do It." Why theorize about information, why cloud physics with half-imagined molecules like swarms of cellular stealth bombers, when you can just go on living in a world increasingly saturated with does?

Folks, the world of doesn't is over. Droid is your mother and father and Droid is your children. Time to fit Bob Dylan with an electrolarynx and send him out to space to sing ballads about desperate iPhones and suicidal BlackBerries. Boys and girls, the next Vietnam will be fought with Scrabulous and Internet Banners. How close at hand will your Droid be then?

Yours Forever,

Eli

A Cosmic Hurrah

Listen.

This has pushed into something big. Bigger. This blog has muscle. This is the start of a muscular era, gentle flexing of an afterlife.

A heron being born. Cosmic? I mean, a switch has been flipped and we are in it. Heaven.

This web log is the start of something big, and it can only happen if you stop reading. This blog needs to air out in silence. Fuck irony.

If you are still reading, you have subscribed to the afterlife. This isn't "hand jobs for the bad luck crowd."(H.S.T.) This isn't "Hush the Warmth."(G.Z.M.) This isn't Howard Marks or Jesus Christ or Oprah. This is certainly FUCKING NOT Sparta.

Listen.

Are you in it? The planets are shifting like pool balls. This isn't "Third Rock from the Sun." This is physics. Phonics. Stay tuned.

Love,

Eli

Guest Post: John McDonough

"That blog can go fuck itself." -- SadDonough

SadDonough is coming off poorly on this blog. SlanderDonough.

Guest Post: Jonathon Brady Schaff Pt. 2: "I just watched notorious again"

gchat for gangstas

smokin it

i got hunger pangstas

saturnight playin mario

feelin like lothario

burt's bees gunshot

chapped lips like flossin

prevents gum disease

my minds never at ease

exceptin of course when im on weed

or when my starfish is peaking in the reeds

if you know what i mean

i roll joints like stop signs

pack bowls like bags

crack jokes like smiles

trespassing upon your

magnificent miles and miles

i french kissed julia childs

she wrote a fuckin book about it

thats how you can determine the originality of my shit

verse flows like rivers

gives grown men shivers

droppin my rhymes like acid

there was a crocodile in lake placid

take a break to check my texts

whos that, j?

oh, just an ex, wantin sex

Guest Post: Jonathon Brady Schaff: I just watched notorious again

Lol is a damp spaniel. It is an indigo Spandex damsel pantser. To pants? Remember middle school? Remember Jonathon Brady Schaff in middle school? Well, here's your man of the hour, the afoooooooreeeeementiooooooned J.B.S.!

"i pack bowls like bags

roll joints like stop signs

im blunt like trauma

you me and yo momma

but yeah I'll smoke first gimme a minute"

Here's the minute in which Jonathon Brrrrraaaady Schaaaaaaff pretends to roll up a joint and smoke it, but really spends the time huddled in the maternal bed describing nightmares of jousting goblins.

Hmm, I quite like the "roll joints like stop signs" line. It applies the excitement of minor traffic violations to drug experiences.

There's a big one coming down the pipe, folks, so big that it we might get a blog clog. See Pt. 2 for the rest of Jonathon's guest post.

Guest Post: David Monk

"I'm dying inside and living outside, because I'm laughing everywhere."

Is David Monk the next Beatles? He certainly flogs the drumskins of my consciousness.

"What is the chord progression I must play on your spine in order to make you a minor?" R. Kelly

A last word from David Monk, the sponsor of this post and unwitting benefactor of my escapade through Rhodesia.

"Bleating blastulas bifurcate the frontal fandango flagellum"

Mind? Blown.

Guess what the main constraint of this blog is?

My inability to form empathic relations with other beings!

That is the greatest poetic constraint! A sonnet catches empathy in its web!

"Dolores, there is a sonnet between us."

"Camper (v. Beethoven), there is a fungus among us."

Captain Planet just got demoted to Sergeant City District!

Post Your Own Bulging Phonics!

Hey, this is a democracy. An equal burning phoenix, a saccharine venting helix!

David Munk is the next guest poster. He will reach for a bag and pull out a boast of hex phonics.

So what happens when you start a blog?

Well, the first thing you notice is an intense cloacal sensation of muscular ecstasy. A blog wold produces flies and Celtic costumes. Customers cuss at disk fussers.

Second is a series of hallucinations involving round objects being words instead of professors or blobs which they could beg to be.

Third is an intense Daria episode. Watch yer nodes. Diarrhea songs long to fall sound-on at the calves of camel prawn. They exist, in a sense.

Hydroponic boast phonics

Learn every Saturday with Daniel Dranove and his ghost phonics.

It's a weekly column. Post-post.

Goodnight, boo

A blog spaces a light flu. Teeth spacers, saucers of space teasers.

A spice lights the flu and the fireplace is on, bionic charms of metal slippers.

Dicey splice games space the ice flames cream the dinner maid. What? "Pause." --Captain Planet

I am prolific and own many horses that resemble time machines

It's important, my dear corpse:

the member of the horse to forget intercourse. Don't force rhymes or resemble times machines. "Dig it?" -- anonymous railroad employee, 1848

Coulda Woulda Shoulda

A spacy fembot? A fembot space book, reboot is in cahoots with shutdown. Option that?

A spicy fanshot, please!

Commit Would

Those were my two anti-spambot words for Facebook. As in:

It is a crime to Commit Would, a misdemeanor to Commit Should or aggravated Shoulda.

Papel envelopes of Noah Effron edicts

I house a dart. A mousecapade of elk fart. Babylon abalone sounds, alone astounds. Dangerous hash rejects. Rows of tandem skippers. Baleen and knee bleeds, sacrificial sacerdote, soccer dendrites send sink vitals into the bath screed. Screen. This tizzy thins lizzy.

A Josef Bueys of Guelph

A blog at Guelph buoys joseph. A Delphi oracle blogs circular. Golem soft chains of sheperd's fart. Long Island Guelph phase. Elf shades and chronicle bifocals. Molecules a fart spends.

I just had a bloated joseph gulp.

A glutted golem trout. A jutting glowing alp. A dreaded Golan bout.

"I just had a long far. Yeah, not particularly vicious. Just long." Joseph Schaff

A globe of goblin trout

Toast a gulp of goblin stout.

I am a bulbous gross goblin is my boast.

There is no vulture is my brag. Where are the obligatory complimentary pillow chocolates? Where are the obligatory complimentary pillow chocolates! Fuckfaceahhhh!