_click the nostrils to learn about our ridiculous new submission requirements_
I keep expecting technology to catch up to my expectations, or I keep expecting tech people and companies to realize my thoughts as soon as I have them. And they're not even my thoughts: like in "Star Wars" with that Princess Leia hologram, it'd be great if you could actually scan and transmit yourself and the recipient would get a little version of you that could walk around on a desk and talk, it would be totally sentient and wirelessly attached to the actual person. For example two people could scan and trasmit themselves to a hologram-receiving location in Barcelona and their foot-tall blue-hologram people could chat, get wacked on cafe solo, cruise the Gaudi catedral, punks near the Ramblas would try to kick them, but they'd be totally permeable, unbreakable holograms, just beams of light arranged in forms (that could nevertheless drink coffee etc) . . .
I imitated Hendrix, sure. But not his guitar playing. I wanted to cop Hendrix's speech patterns. Now I'm older and people say "you speak real weird for a Jersey boy. You South African?" "No," I tell them. "That's the residue of my Hendrix affectation." "Your what?" they ask. "Sin, sin, you die, like a little white rabbit getting run over by a big Mack truck. See this top, flop," I say, then bite the cap off a bottle. They leave me alone after that.

Oh, you should have heard the weird deep guttural noise of agreement I made when you said you hated "Breaking the Waves." That was the first movie I ever skimmed, preferring to watch it in fast-forward than frame by frame. At first, I thought you said "Breaking Away" which is one of the sweetest movies ever made, as sweet as "Gregory's Girl" or "My Bodyguard" . . . these aren't art movies, they were targeted to me when I was ten, I still love them like the "Cannonball Run" I suppose, but not as major as "Candyshack," "Stripes," "The Jerk," etc. Artfilmwise, I'm not so smart: Jim Jarmusch stuff, esp. "Dead Man," "Ghost Dog," "Down by Law;" Wim Wenders (duh), esp "Wings of Desire" (duh) written in part by Peter Handke; "Pi" and "Buffalo 66" (two great ones that came out same time as "Happiness"; Goddard stuff; otherwise, I can't think of anything although I know they're there and I know I've seen some other good ones. "Irma Vep" is good: totally artsy. I'm more into watching such nostalgic films of youth as "Red Dawn" and "Dreamscape" (the  first two PG-13 movies).

We create my persona, perhaps we call him "Throop Roebling" . . . from Trenton, New Jersey. Descendent of the Brooklyn Bridge building Roeblings, sort of like Neal Pollack, but more humanly pathetic: had been terribly worried about his easy life as the beneficiary of tremendous fortune and did everything possible to make his life harder. Who somehow survived it all to settle in Greenpoint, NYC, to snort wafting kielbasa smoke and write a long novel tentatively entitled "The Big Book of Joke & Riddles," which tentatively depicts the evolutionary lives of several jokes and riddles as they've appeared since Columbus, featuring a genealogy of the insidious "killing joke" which the Spanish Conquistadors used against the Aztecs and which reared its head lastly lampooned in the skits of a certain British humor outfit. Unfortunately Throop cannot speak; he communicates through a Casio "magic light" keyboard, varying the tempo of the slow-rock, bossa-nova, and waltz rhythms according to along the rich spectrum of his moods, depending on whether its morning, noon, or night. 

The speed of nudity and sunsets and all praise the geeks and the lord who brought about this technological nightmare. I know all about the window chycks: like in NYC, instead of streets for gold, streets for cameras, streets for Indian food, streets for guitars, it's streets for yellow chycks, brown chycks, fat chycks, medium chycks with large nipples, short gymnasts with shapely thighs/mangled toes, streets for women with lightbulbs in their eyesockets, streets for women with little women within them, streets for women with little women within them who have littler women within them etc etc etc until you get this tiny little one inside who's almost microscopic who anybody can have for less than half a gob of golden saliva . . .what else? Streets of women with glassbottom bottoms, streets of women with telescopic red-laser night-vision implants in their breasts that let them see just a little through your skulls so they know how to posture so you want them more and afterwards you'll buy their Chicklets . . . I've read all about this in Sports Illustrated. When the Sixers went there, my man Allen Iverson (A.I.) and 24 of his peeps and his moms too -- she went -- they all went down there, down one of them streets with the women with the telescopic breasts, and he dropped like a few thousand duckets to get his braids tightened by one of them and all the time he had them telescopic breasts peering past him, one at either ear, reading all the way down into the souls or his 24-deep posse, and the braid braider with the telescopic breasts braided AI's hair so it looked exactly like a map of . . . what the hell am i writing this for again?

at 2AM msnbc.com had a triumphant picture of George W. and "BUSH WINS" . . . now they have concerned photos of both of them, and the title "waiting for florida".

time: 4:37AM 

# of parties I been to: 3 

# of parties that included a shitload of santa clauses: 1 

# of santa clauses on rooftop at massive party i just got home from: 9 (seriously)

# of tubas accompanying santas: 1 

estimated # of sweaty santa clauses juking to Velvet Underground cover band led by my friend Jim: 20 

# of beware of dog signs I saw on solo walk home: 6 

# of dogs: 0 

# of potential muggers: 4 

# of potential muggers that turned out to be shrubs: 3 

# of smouldering vehicles that had probably been on fire quite recently: 1 

# of women seen ripe for jack-the-ripper incidents: 3 

# of times i giggled to myself at thoughts: 3 

thing that made me giggle the most: 

"I think I'm like Columbus saying the world is round, but then every once in a while someone tells me the world is flat -- all I can say is c'mon, c'mon, let's keep going." 

Forever after here


A book of blurbs for books that don't exist.

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stills from Somewhere and Clash of the Titans --
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