OPEN LETTER TO MY SO-CALLED BOYFRIEND

Okay. I realize that I haven't always been open with you about my relationship history – but you've blown this way out of proportion. That whole thing with the priest was really just the one night. He probably doesn't even remember. And you know that I only faked that pregnancy and the subsequent abortion to get out of that drug test ... completely innocent. And okay, I know it was probably inconsiderate of me to get gay married in a Canadian strip club, but, I mean, I showed you the pictures and everything.

And yes, I realize that my parents have been a little creepy towards you lately. I realize that it is not normal for the father of the girl you've been dating for three weeks to send you a care package containing car brushes and wax. It's just, he's really passionate about brake dust.

And sure, I'm aware that it is a little creepy that one of your earliest memories is of me with my tongue in your mouth. I mean, I know we were five, but everyone starts using tongue right about then, don't they? I'm sure if our parents had walked in while I was riding you in my Pepto-Bismol pink bed they would have found it adorable.

And okay, okay ... I probably should have told you about the warts. Especially before you went down on me. I know they're not exactly curable ... but they're treatable, and that's what's important, right? Also, I know I overreacted last night when your landlady / surrogate mother called me a slut to my face. But the hospital will be discharging her by tomorrow and then I promise everything will be totally cool.

So. I know things haven't always gone smoothly. But Peter, in light of the wonderful bond we share, why is it that you still list yourself as “Single” on the Facebook?

Because of your cavalier attutide, I have lost all my Facebook street cred. I hope your happy.

THE SIN OF SLOTH

Yesterday, the alarm went off, and I could see I'd overslept. I was asleep,

dreaming, stretched out in a mess. Almost missed

my exam. Yelled, “Fucking Jesus Christ” like I expected

the Man Himself to answer from the foot of the bed.

Was asleep when fog stretched out along the street

and the lamps made a halo in the greyness, the opposite of a shadow --

the Man hanging moons on the street right above our heads --

I was asleep, except at 5 am, when a sudden surge lifted me ...

Was better than dawn – mystical, intimate, just us in the grey.

Only stared for a minute, then hobbled off to piss and back to bed.

Missed half an exam. And dreaming of what, exactly?

Don't remember; maybe I just dreamed of staring for that minute

or maybe of the bathroom light, ugly and hard and mean,

or maybe of the show I was missing, imagining the exam not taken.

Or maybe I dreamed an incarcerated man, maybe I dreamed a man

like the smoking skeleton of a volcano, ugly and hard and mean,

sleeping away his nights and days, full of alarms that alert nothing

reading books that have seen better, avoiding mirrors, dreaming

of covering Pompeii with his lava and ash, his years of potential lost.

Alarms that alert nothing. Kurt's waited tables, nights and days,

for ten years straight; been saying he would quit for five. Grumbling,

flicking his cigarette ash like a skittish horse, about his potential lost

and parole officers and nickel bags and this week is really the last.

He does lines in the bathroom at work, sometimes, gets high

tells us stories: passing out on docks, Mardi Gras, this week is really the last.

Kurt pulls in two hours late, red eyes, dry mouth – I can see he's overslept.

Maybe I dreamt of evening in a moastery, I dreamt

a man in a well-starched collar, swinging incense up the tower steps

while someone tugs the ropes of huge brass bells, and someone

is first into the chapel to pray. The stragglers, those last to their knees,

miss the beginning of the daily incantations, missing

the beginning of the prayer – maybe they slept through the bells.

Yesterday I overslept, while the Man himself

leaned over the edge of my bed, and yelled,

“Come'n'get it!” He had a dinner bell in one hand, and

a sickle in the other.

No clever titles today.

"Kids-

I am sorry to have to tell you that cousin Lucy was diagnosed with a form of lymphatic cancer known as Hodgkins disease this past week. After suffering from a fever and cough for over a week, a chest x ray was done and it revealed a golf ball sized tumor near the lung which was biopsied and discovered to be cancer.

At age 13, this is a very great surprise to everyone, and except for the symptoms described above, Lucy feels fine. Unfortunately, she will have to endure a difficult period of chemo-therapy which will consist of 8 days of chemo and two weeks off for four cycles for a period of three months. This is likely to make her quite miserable, cause her to loose her hair and suffer more than anyone should have to at 13. However, the good news is that her chances of full recovery are very very good and, while it will be very difficult for her, she will be likely to have a full recovery.

Aunt Lynne says Lucy has a very positive attitude and is feeling that this is an outrage (pure Lucy!!). I am glad she has the support of a great family and I just wanted you to be aware of the situation. Eventually, you might want to come up with some goofy gift to send her (or a great book) as a "hang in there" get well gift. Keep your eyes out--but, I think just sit tight for now until the treatments commence. I'll keep you posted on the situation.

Meanwhile, please consider your own health. We can't appreciate how precious good health is until the prospect of losing it looms.

Love, love, love--

MA"

I remember when Lucy didn't exist. She is loud and reambunctious and exhaustingly excited about life.

I don't know what I want to say. I wish I had something poignant. I wish I had an idea of what I can give her. Maybe the best gift is simply to go on being audacious and stupid so that Lucy has something to laugh at. Maybe I'll transmute it from something ugly and frightening to something ugly and ridiculous.

Or maybe I'll just sit here in shock for a while, turning to better men than I for perspective. And yes, Liebling, I think we both know that I meant to refer to myself indirectly as a man. After all, the Monty wants so much to be one of the boys; boys don't cry and don't beat their breasts.

if we take what we can see --

the engines driving us mad,

lovers finally hating;

this fish in the market

staring upward into our minds;

flowers rotting, flies web-caught;

riots, roars of caged lions,

clowns in love with dollar bills,

nation moving people like pawns;

daylight thieves with beautiful

nighttime wives and wines;

the crowded jails,

the commonplace unemployed,

dying grass, 2-bit fires;

men old enough to love the grave.

These things, and others, in context

show life swinging on a rotten axis.

But they've left us a bit of music

and a spiked show in the corner,

a jigger of scotch, a blue necktie,

a small volume of poems by Rimbaud,

a horse running as if the devil were

twisting his tail

over bluegrass and screaming, and then,

love again,

like a streetcar turning the corner

on time,

the city waiting,

the wine and the flowers,

the water walking across the lake

the summer and winter and summer and summer

and winter again.

Charles Bukowski
from mockingbird wish me luck

Trip n rip
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

NOTICE: It's a race against time until Wikipedia deletes this. It has been saved for posterity, but if you can, experience its original glory while you can.

EDIT: Yeah, they killed it pretty quick. Can't imagine why. But that's okay, because it looks beautiful right here.

Origins/Etymology

The Trip n Rip maneuver was invented by Katherine Montgomery and Danielle Ibrahim in 2004 at their home in Ann Arbor, Michigan after a night of heavy drinking. It has since mushroomed into a underground sexual cult the likes of which Michigan has never seen before.

[edit]

Definition

The Trip n Rip maneuver is a form of sexual advance which may be carried out on either a sober or inebriated (CONSENTING!) party. The title is demonstrative of the nature of the maneuver – indeed, one quite simply trips the consenting party and in the process grabs hold of a piece of clothing from either hemisphere. Theoretically, the force of gravity should be enough to rip the clothing, leaving the party exposed and horizontal. In the experience of its practitioners, the Trip N Rip has a 100% success rate of ensuring further sexual activity with the (consenting, mind you) party.

The Trip n Rip can be performed in a variety of situations, including but not limited to: pools and jacuzzis, bedrooms, bar rooms, abandoned factories, uninhabited mountainsides, living rooms, and hospital broom closets. Its creators Katherine and Danielle advise against its use in enclosed spaces as a concussion could result.

---

[edit]

Outgrowths

The Trip N Rip has several outgrowths tailored for particular situations. The most well known of these is the Trip N Slice, so coined by Jeff Kennedy in 2006. The Trip N Slice is designed to deal with resistant materials like leather jackets and heavy sweaters that do not rip easily. Unlike the Trip N Rip, the Trip N Slice requires good motor skills and is better left to those practiced in its use. If possible, slice the clothing article carefully and stealthily before the tripping motion is attempted. In the case of expensive fabrics, we find that the Trip N Slice has a lowered percentage of success due to the pissedoffedness of the receiving parties.

A NEW HATE BLOG FROM YOUR FAVORITE DIVAS

I can tell that this is going to be fun, theraputic, and habitually so funny that Rohin and I eventually eviscerate ourselves with laughter.

Check it out.

ISN'T THIS FREAKING GORGEOUS, PEOPLE?! or, I WOULD TOTALLY DO SABA

I was reading some Saba this evening and I am so enamoured of this one I can't even type about it without peeing myself a little. Please forgive my halting translation, I am not very good at translating poetry -- but I think Saba gets across okay in spite of my bungling. The translations are painfully and willfully literal, because I think Saba's voice and images are so freakin' universal, special, and unmutable. So screw you, Robert Chandler.

Saba -- L'Ora Nostra – Our Hour

Sai un'ora del giorno che piu' bella

sia della sera? Tanto

piu' bella e meno amata? E' quella

che di poco i suoi sacri ozi precede;

l'ora che intensa e' l'opera, e si vede

la gente mareggiare nelle strade;

sulle moli quadrate delle case

una luna sfumata, una che appena

discerni nell'aria serena.

Do you know an hour of the day that is more beautiful

than that of the evening? More

beautiful and less loved? It is that hour

that its holy idlenesses preceeds by little;

the hour that intense is the work, and one sees

the people flow in the streets;

on the seaside walls of the houses

a faded moon, one that scarely

one discerns in the serene air.

E' l'ora che lasciavi la campagna

per goderti la tua cara citta',

dal golfo luminoso alla montagna

varia d'aspetti in sua bella unita';

l'ora che la mia vita in piena va

come un fiume al suo mare;

e il mio pensiero, il leso camminare

della folla, l'artiere in cima all'alta

scala, il fanciullo che correndo salta

sul carro fragoroso, tutto appare

fermo nell'atto, tutto questo andare

ha una parvenza d'immobilita'.

It is the hour that you were leaving the countryside

to enjoy your dear/expensive city,

from the luminous gulf of the mountain

varied of aspect in her beautiful unity;

the hour that my life in flood goes

like a stream to its sea;

and my thought, the injured walk

of the masses, the poet on top of the high

stair, the little boy that running jumps

on the thunderous cart, it all appears

halted in the act, all that goes

has an appearance of immobility.

E' l'ora grande l'ora che accompangna

meglio la nostra vendemmiante eta'.

It is the grand hour, the hour that accompanies

best our harvested era.

Okay, here are some of my other favorites which I rummaged around for ... I could have posted the Italian too, but I was too lazy to translate AND type in the original text for these ;) Again, sorry about my clumsy translations, but they're hot anyway.

February Evening

The moon appears.

In the avenue it is still

day, a night that rapidly descends.

Indifferent youth is laced;

it disbands to poor goals.

And it is the thought

of the death which, in end, helps one to live.

Ulysses

In my youth I navigated

wide the Dalmation coasts. Small islands

at the crest of the wave emerged, where rare

a bird paused intent on its prey,

covered in algae, slippery, in the sun

as beautiful as emeralds. When the high

tide and the night cancelling each other, the sails

leeward sank deeper into the oblivion,

avoiding the danger. Today my kingdom

is that land of no one. The harbour

turns on the lights for others: for me far from the seashore

pushes still the indominitable spirit,

and for life the sad love.

AW MAN THOSE ARE HOT.