The Dinghy

The Dinghy

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Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Midfall Tuesday night, and the wicked crickets are dancing their jokey jigs all around me.

Yes, my automobile has fallen into disrepair.

Yes, we stand stranded high atop this hill upon the horrible highway.

Yes, the ball bearings could no longer bear the weight of the awful axes, the stupid seats, the hideous hood and the grinding gearshifts. And no, I could not help but bawl, when the ball gave way and the whole haul ground to a halt on the steamy night-timey ground. And then: The crickets. Hopping. Cavorting and shaking their rotund red asses with that most ugly of damn cricket fan-dances. The cars whizzed past, the Microregion's most employed citizens returning home to hone their skills at the mandolin and the Xbox 360.

THUS: We stand here silently; the crickets cricketing angrily, the lorries zipping past with their ethanol fuels and their clip-clop horsey-horse hybrid engines, the midfall night-time ugly-blue dark tackling us, our thumbs (who wants a ride? this guy.) out, our one hand brandishing a whole barbecued chicken (to entice potential carriers), our feet indefensibly unshod (for comfort), and our eyes crying the tears of the insufficient.

It is night. The crickets are angry again. The chicken begins to smell.

This is what we get for driving a 1984 Toyota Corolla.

I wonder how that Transformers movie will turn out.

Life, in all its insufficiency, returns.

Thank you and goodbye forever.
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In black.

The monochromatic monotony of it all is exciting.

And exhilirating.

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Tuesday, November 15, 2005
The days drip out, one dropping on top of the other on top of the other on top of the lawn.

This morning, after punctiliously shining my cordovan loafers with urine and ketchup-stained napkins, I made my way to the microregion's wonderful wading hole for a bracing dose of aquatic exercise.

The breaststroke--that most puerile of participations--was my cardiovascular endeavour of choice, due in the main part to its most monotonous of rhythms.

Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!

But I digress.

Into nothingness.

Goodbye forever.
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Saturday, November 12, 2005
I am happy to return.

Herein, will much Monotony be embraced.

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Monday, September 12, 2005
Today, Adelard of Bath and I ate a nice meal.

We then perambulated the immediate vicinity in hopes of finding illicit characters selling big, bulky bags of their highly illegal wares.

The trip, though unsuccessful, did yield some insight:

When night begins, the hackles become infinitely more acute in their apprehension.

This, we think, has great meaning vis-a-vis tedium and the Monotonous Life.

Thank you for your time.

That is all.
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Sunday, September 11, 2005
Yes. The creeping continues. Long stretches of kvetching submitting (after so much time) to untimely bursts of voluminous retching. Headstands. Cartwheels. What punctuated and punctuates the utter monotony is not so much of interest in and of itself, but rather, it is a counterpoint to the flatness of the awful, though necessary, void. It is the blip (perhaps the cough?) that exists not at all without the trough.

To wit: Yesterday, I began a rigorous regimen of dietary diligence. Monotony, now so much a part of my daily worklife, need--in order for all of the proper benefits of Sufficiency to accrue and the latencies of tedium to manifest--be ushered into my personal life as well.

SO: Apples. Apples. Apples. Apples. Apples.

Red were the apples and great was the gusto with which I so viciously ravaged their deliciousness. Their skins mottled with the toothmarks of worms, their inner woods so white and gnawed upon, their useless cores such precious metaphors for the void's harsh and angry counterpoints.

Apples. Apples. Apples. Apples. Apples. These, the manifestations of the monotony so integral to the Sufficient Life. These, the red and/or green objects so necessary for the construction of countervailing anti-Tediums.

Sure. The days have gotten longer.

Yes. Monotony has moved with me (or have I up and moved monotony?)

Whatever made so much sense before? It is, I assure you, like this: 111111121111111211111112

I think we are all on the same page.

Thank you for your time.

That is all.

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Sunday, April 17, 2005

It is the only way.

It is the only way.

It is the only way.

It is the only way.

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Sunday, February 20, 2005
I am feeling ill today.

I think it may have been the peanuts.
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Monday, November 08, 2004

The grey haze breaks today, filtered by the smog of this turd-herding blog and all that it stands for.

Forgive me, please, for such an untoward outburst; I am feeling ill today.

Today, the sun glinting cheerfully off my cordovan shoes, I ventured into our Microregion's city center on a shopping spree of a most pragmatical sort. The hated greengrocer and I greeted each other with our customary polemicals. The corner florist cussed and swung hard with the sweep he swept his weedy walk with as I wandered by. One of a long line of lorry drivers solicited yours truly in a most unseemly manner. Yes: all in a day's work.

I proceeded to fill my oversized shopping trolley with the week's necessary assortment of goods. To wit: razors, strops, wop, gum, rum, gin, spermicidal lubricant, apples, butter, guns, objects of a round nature, origami holiday ornaments, and etc.

Once filled, my bulging bags (and I most certainly do NOT mean this metaphorically) wilted like the reviled greengrocer's criminal leaves of hideous lettuce. Sacks tearing, knees weaker than bootleg booze, unshaven face straining with the pain of the insane, I limped lousily down the Microregion's worst-cobbled throroughfare, picking at my louses as I strode. Nauseous with exhaustion (and, possibly, a disagreeable meal from the neighborhood Au Bon Pain), sweat glazed my pitted face, and my rheumy eyes retreated into their pock-like sockets.

I sat down beside the sewer and wept.

Where, my friends, is Monotony when it is most needed?



That is all.


Thank you for your time.

Love yourself.

The end.

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Saturday, October 30, 2004
Today, I shined my shoes with ketchup and urine-stained napkins.

That is all.

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Wednesday, October 27, 2004
I will coagulate slowly, I assure you, if I do coagulate at all.

My pace will be, pace conventional wisdom, turgid; my steps tentative and without logical plan or efficacious execution. My beginning will be abrupt, angry, bloody, fraught with longeurs, steeped in sophistry, hideous to behold and utterly compelling.

From there I will proceed.

I will track paths much taken, but I will do so in spurts and stumbles, with many coughs, numerous hesitations and multitudinous misdirections.

Often, I will proselytize with parodic platitudes, disingenuous alliterations and ridiculous redundancies for the cause of banality. At times I will do this purposefully, though often I will ascribe myself purpose only in a state of unsettled and humiliated hindsight.

Though I will seek consistency of internal purpose, my failure in this is inevitable. I concede much; indeed, I already have.

Always, I will tell myself (and those around me) that I am attempting to chart depths previously unsounded. I will - with the strength, smarts and affordably priced tools at my disposal - try to explore forgotten or undiscovered crevices and, ultimately, expose said crevices' multi-variegated insides. This (be convincing!): my raison d'etre.

What I have begun, others will not finish - because they care not to, even had they the ability. Instead, between start and apparent finish, they will dutifully interpolate finite meanings. These meanings, bite-sized and delicious, I will not know of, and would surely not be able to understand.

To myself I repeat: May I coagulate. May I coagulate. This forced extroversion of approximated faith is meant to: 1) soothe with its rhythms and 2) germinate greater understanding in those who come after.

With maturity will come much: additional ostensible purposes, trenchant taxonomies, adamantine paradigms and, unfortunately, a pervasive hoar born of thromboses and poor circulation.

I am asked: Do you wish foreknowledge of the specifications of your end?

About this, articulation is futile. Inside this febrile monomania, an army of exigencies marches forth. Things must go this way or this way or that.

I KNOW: This will happen. Then: that other thing.

Maybe. But more probably, I will simply go on; teeth spilling everywhere, far past the point at which others have lost interest. Piddling, sputtering, beginning things that don't end. Making sense at times. Ending things that were begun long before. This. Then this.

Stumble. Become embittered. Weep silently. Clutch impotently. Revile the failing frame over which I am streteched (and explicate its minutest of workings unceasingly). Scream violently at those potential hermeneuts within sounding (and those without).

Lines too long. Lines too short. Today, the lines throb. My lines are throbbing!

I release weakening parts. Slowly. Slowly. A bit - what's the word? word? - hurts today. Tomorrow? Maybe nothing.

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Thursday, October 14, 2004
What do we seek, friends, but Monotony?

And how to obtain that Monotony but through the cultivation of Monotonous Acts?

And so: we walk. We step. Step. Step. Step.

We speak: Word. Word. Word. Word.

We sit: Silence. Silence. Silence. Silence. Creak. Silence. Silence. Silence. Silence.

We chew: Raisin. Raisin. Raisin. Raisin.

We sweat: Bead. Bead. Bead. Bead.

All to the beat of the big, big drum – an agreed-upon byproduct of our ultimately illiterate society. We understand it.

We apprehend its limits and must acknowledge its arc of influence. Yes! We know its scope. We can separate falsity from felicity!

Yes! Friends! We are finely calibrated students of the Monotonous!

Yes! Each of us! Raisin! Silence! Word! Step! We innately understand the rhythms of Tedium and the Sufficiency latent in what we call life, time, fine dining, and home improvement projects gone awry.

How then, does Monotony lead to Sufficiency?

Sufficiency is an ineffable, unattainable (except for those few brief glorious, epiphanous moments!) expertise in the Monotonous Arts. It is the expert employment of Tedium and the mastery of the Principles of the Rhythms of Monotonous Acts. It is LIFE AND HOW WE LIVE IT.

Love yourself.

The end.

Thank you for your time.

Goodbye forever.
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Wednesday, October 13, 2004
Today, I shined my cordovan shoes with urine and ketchup-stained napkins.


Once again.


I am feeling ill today.

Wandering The Street of Ugly Curmudgeons that rings round the outer bounds of our Microregion's rankest sub-region, I stumbled upon a lorry driver with a most curious countenance. When I paused to examine the man and his ludicrous lorry, I could not help but note that he bore a striking resemblance to one Vin Diesel, my comrade-in-arms and collegial co-worker. Upon an attempt to further examine the man's facial features, said lorry driver slammed his poor lorry's door, and roared off down a twisting, misted roadway.

Needless to say, I gave chase.

Lo!, did I give chase; and Woe! to he that was hunted.

Wheeling wildly down the whirly-curving cobblestones, I pursued with an angry fury bordering on the inanest of illiterate insanities. Heat rising from my steaming pate, a glow flowing from my sweating skin, I began removing the superfluous garments that had been hindering my sprinting form and proscribing my range of motion.

And as my waistcoat and trousers skidded to the street, I heard the nearby chug of the offending lorry--not far ahead.

My efforts redoubled.

Socks dropping like hot rocks, shoes falling like potatoes, watch smashing into a million minute units, hat crumpling like the Sunday funnies, jockstrap wrapped round a lightpole, spats flat on the vomit-slick street, I chased said lorry with lightning loins and crazed face ravaged with the pain of lactic acid.

The lorry slowed before my eyes, and I peered intently into the auto's rear view mirror, seeing fear in the face of the man I planned on questioning.

And then: he was caught. Climbing a final hill, my natural speed - the speed of the monkeys, the swiftness of the Great Apes - proved too much for his diesel-fueled determination. And he was mine.

Quickly, I removed the lorry's license plate (ENG 453), smashed it angrily on the curb, and pointed at the driver with righteous rage.

I then went in search of a neighborhood greengrocer, to sate my animal thirst.

That is all.



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Wednesday, September 29, 2004
Today, Vin Diesel and I took the big blue bus to our Microregion's most orange Home Depot store to examine the fieldstones.

I refused a generous offer of an extensive line of credit upon entering the building, and proceeded to aimlessly amble the aisles while my companion tirelessly eyeballed the machines made to agitate paint.

No other occurrences of note took place.
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Friday, September 10, 2004
Often, upon meandering the wordish wanderings of the intellectualities of Ultimate Progenitors other than our own, our ears stumble upon waxings of a "theoretical" or "philosophical" nature.

And no! We do not run from the room when said lumpy, bumpy, and aesthetically pleasing thought-formations make their approach – as the human body yearns (so naturally) to do. No. Instead we funnel said musings through several matrixes of our own extremely illiterate making. Underdeveloped though our occipital lobes may be, we attempt to comprehend the complexities of others' creation with great vim and with great vigor and with great monotony and with great, unholy vengeance.

Long have we discussed paradigms, matrixes, Monotony, Sufficiency, Tedium, our Ultimate Progenitor, the true nature of paper, the mating habits of scotch tape, and the metaphorical linguistic forebears of the "noun-verb" (a grammatical construct still in progress--don't push, I'm working on it---ed. note).

And, in our discussions of these matters, so trivial, we have built a rapport, you and I.

So it is, with bleeding brain and mucus-clogged nostrils that I reveal to you the unvarnished answers to the issues we have long, together, considered. Yes. Often, we have eschewed simple solutions; instead hewing to the bitter, the angry, the spittle-spattered, and the intemperate. (We have done this out of pure pleasure, I assure you.)

But not today. Cover your eyes, seekers of Sufficiency, if you wish still to uncover the truth of that most important of questions on your own dime:

And, in fact, cover them if you wish not to discover said question itself:

To Wit:

Question: What is life and how we live it?

Answer: Life and how we live it.

The sentence supra was revealed to me in the epiphanous flicker of a gut-encrusted lightbulb long ago, as I sat locked in my underground bunker eating a caesar salad from our Microregion's most inexpensive Au Bon Pain.

And, despite its seeming simplicity, each day STILL do I muse upon its meaning.

Life and how we live it.

Go forth and make mustard.

That is all.

Thank you for your time.

Goodbye forever.

That is all. Really.

No more, this time.

No mas.

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Tuesday, September 07, 2004
1. What is all?
2. Whom should you love?
3. For what should we give thanks?
4. For how long, a goodbye?
5. How are you feeling today?

These, and so many other questions, I ask myself on a daily basis. And, on a daily basis, I find myself, over and over, so hotly smote with the rote replies and inane rejoinders such queries unavoidably elicit.

The rest is all hilarity.

P.S. Today, upon the Microregion's most crowded autobus, I caught a glimpse of one who was, most likely, my ultimate progenitor. Upon pulling madly on the pulley system, a bell rang, and the bus was stopped. A systematic search of the seats, though, revealed no one resembling said Madman.

Go, and never come back.

The end.
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Thursday, August 19, 2004
This morning, I placed a bucket on my head, and engaged in a one-man Walk for Hunger down our Microregion's most noted thoroughfare. Upon reaching an Au Bon Pain, I terminated the Walk, and devoured a delicious salad.

I then engaged in a one-man Walk for Sleep in the opposite direction down the very same thoroughfare. Upon reaching my home, I removed the bucket and contemplated that most important of questions: Life and How We Live It.

Love yourself.

That is all.

Kelvin Gordon
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Sunday, August 08, 2004
Today, I awoke to find myself covered in the worst sort of malodorousness. Yes!

I performed half a dozen pull-ups, then retired the boudoir, if you know what I mean.

And I think you do not.

Thank you for your time.

Embrace monotony.

That is all.


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Sunday, August 01, 2004
This morning I ate a fried egg sandwich, then buried myself in a pile of refuse reaching to the heights of a regular-sized automobile.

Thank you for your time.

The end.

I am feeling ill today.
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Monday, July 26, 2004
Pitch spots my pickled heart today!

After scuffing my finest pair of laceless loafers on one of the many hydrogenated hydrants scarring our Microregion's idiotic intersections, I temporarily took shelter on a nearby bench to determine the damage done to the shoes' well-worn cordovan.

Sitting delicately (my congenital warts still burning with the fury of a thousand fiery furnaces) I primly propped my ancient ashplant against the bench's back in order to more easily assess the cutaneous markings cut on the cordovan's foremost face.

A hissy-fit of the most horrible sort then ensued.

Removing my loafers (as well as my socks and trousers), I ran hither and yon, madly dashing with a hateful heart through the garbage-strewn alleys. Holding my brutalized shoes aloft and shrieking freaky obscenities at the uppermost registers of my vocality, I sprinted through the streets, spitting vengeful fire and knocking over innocent passersby in the process.

Upon passing by a particularly fish-eyed and intemperate-looking lorry driver, I then entered into a brief brawl of the most unsightly sort re: the matter of proper etiquette when merging with pedestrian traffic. And tho I was on the receiving end of much (rather brutal) fisticuffular punishment, I believe I did succeed in sharply elbowing the meager man's underprotected undercarriage (if you know what I mean).

When I came to, shoeless and trousers flying a flagpole (at half-mast) high above me, I found myself unable to ascertain the whereabouts of the age-old ashplant that has accompanied me through O! so many ancient struggles.

If anyone should come across this ashplant (it is adorned with the carved head of a shrunken monkey, and my initials--K.G.), please inform me through any means at your disposal.

Thank you and have a nice day.

That is all.

Thank you for your time.

The end.
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Thursday, July 22, 2004
This morning, upon visiting our Microregion's most cost-effective clinic, I was told (in terms highly lacking in uncertainty) that I suffer from an acute case of congenital warts.

Yes, congenital warts.

I am currently taking daily inhalants to combat the symptoms, if not the very disease.

Love yourself.

As much as possible.

That is all.

Go, and never come back.

The end.
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Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Cordovan shoes in shades of oxblood haunt my waking breaks at the Bureau of Reports and Records.

Yes. Adelard of Bath puffs thick, twisting twirls of toxicity, blowing his terrible exhalations airward. Vin Diesel, descending from his eerie aerie on the upper floors joins us, pumping his angry fists at the sun, and screaming unbearable blasphemies into the airy atmosphere.

And I, oxblood! Oxblood!

All around us, our Microregion's most talented stenographers spin like spirographs, bouncing off the inner barriers of the Bureau's coop-like courtyard. The smoke! So heavy!

Oxblood! Loafers! Long have I sought my Ultimate Progenitor, and, I think, long will I seek him. But somewhere in this fleeting shade – oxblood – perhaps, can he be found.


Thank you for your time.

I am feeling ill today.

Thank you for the martinis.

That is all.
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Saturday, July 17, 2004
Today, I polished my largest pair of cordovan loafers using urine and ketchup-stained napkins.

Thank you.
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Wednesday, July 07, 2004
Yes! The magnificent monotony and searing sufficiency of silences have been loading down my occipital lobes of late, as well!

To wit:

Often the quasi-theo/philosophical meanderings contained herein have swelled and swollen and ebbed and fallen with an inherent monotony that was (if I may say so) incredibly tedious to behold. Our blathering inanities (commonly referred to as signifiers) smited the blighted minds of the insufficient, bending their brains to meld snugly into the jell-o-mold-like matrix of Monotony. Blah! Blah! Blah! Feeling chipper, Skipper! Feeling chipper, Skipper! Cordovan! Diesel! Fool! Words of great monotony, all, no doubt.

But too, it should not be forgotten, there exist awful, awesome swells of a most monotonous nature within those very silences that we so often overlook in our search for the next monotonous phoneme. Within any number of our rhetorically retarded rants, the stringy stretches of audio-nothingness widen, and, as the monotony-seeking members of our Microregion lean their wax-encrusted ear to listen for the tedious phraseology to come, a precipitate matter becomes apparent inside the very silence itself. That theoretical matter exists, to put it in simple terms, as shapely mounds of soundless monotony!

Yes. Our ears, dripping like colorful candles on the sides of our craniums, lean further in, and we, waiting, distinguish within the greater matrix of that thing called "silence," minute particulate units (i.e. monotonous units of soundlessness).

To wit:

As shown supra (and, it should be said, supra were they exaggerated for effect), the monotonous contours existing within a silence can be likened to the breathtaking topography of such family-friendly tourist attractions as Idaho, Nevada, and possibly even Cape Verde.

Love yourself.

Goodbye forever. Thank you for your time.

That is all.

The end.
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Tuesday, June 29, 2004
Fire! Flood! Foes! Frango!

Defense! Detente! Silence! Sleep!

I am feeling ill today.

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Sunday, June 27, 2004
Today, Vin Diesel and I began a most monotonous undertaking - that of re-soling my most pulchritudinous pair of cordovan loafers.

We began, wild-eyed and wielding unwieldy warhammers, pulverizing the very soles of the little pair of laceless loafers. He, a modern-day John Henry, and I, the mindless automaton created by man to oppose him, we stood face facing face, alternating the reigning of blows on the rubberized soles of the ridiculous shoes.

Like terrible twin megaliths, we spared no muscle, ligament, sinew or subdural hematoma in our attempts to prepare the pair of lowly loafers for the extremity of their imminent makeover (extreme as it was).

As hammers flew, flung heavy in the humid air, the monotony, too, grew. There seemed no end to the repeated repetitions. There seemed no break, no divergence in time that was past (nor of time in the future foreseeable).

Monotony, as monotony so very, very often does, when experienced in its purest states, stretched forward and back in temporality, like the undulating waves of the humpback whales. Hammerfall. Hammerfall. Hammerfall. Hammerfall.

The tools tilting (their heaviness now hounding us), the monotony delicious in its oppressiveness, and my own blisters ballooning to bulbous proportions, SUFFICIENCY - once latent – manifested itself.

Tired, and with rotator cuffs much in need of urgent care, we weaned our peens from their resounding poundings.

And as I stumbled back from the anvil, the driveway's undented surface meeting my suborbital ridges with great violence, and rainbows gyrating round my dilating pupils, I could swear that they – those loafers, once cordovan - glowed, almost as if of gold. Gold!

Gold! Then blackness.

Love yourself.

Goodbye forever.

That is all.

Thank you for your time.


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Thursday, June 24, 2004
Today, Adelard of Bath and I began a fierce, brief, angry, greasy, gropey, filthy, stealthy, sweaty, illiterate, and ultimately erroneous two-man public picket-line-cum-demonstration on the walkway outside our workplace, the Bureau of Records and Reports.

Long did we stride the wide walks. Long did we pound the petrified pavements.

Long did we stomp the many cracks with their many ants, wearing no pants, doing their strangely insurgent ant-dance.

Long did we chant (in time) lines of rhyming ridiculousness, dithyrambic beats echoing over and over and under and through our ungodly Microregion's unholy streets.

Long did we duel. And duel we did, with sticks, yard-long, splintery and liken to those of popsicles most delicious. Our duel was did as if in impromptu agit-prop drama depicting our despicable Hegemon and the Assistant Director of High Finance (a most illiterate man) in the throes of chicanery insufficient and mean.

Upon his stick, written in Adelard of Bath's florid (but highly illiterate) hand was our faint plaint: INCOMPETENCE.
And upon mine own stick: FATE SEALS ALL CRACKS.

After many long minutes of prancing, dancing, undulating and flitting, we were informed by the inanest of passersby that both the hated Hegemon and the Assistant Director of High Finance were, in fact, in absentia. And that our efforts were for naught.

Bloodied by an errant blow, mind deformed by deleterious rage, and emotions too raw to weep, I then retired to the Au Bon Pain for a chicken caesar salad.

Love yourself.

That is all.

  (1) comments
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
Yes. The grey day, uglier than dog vomit, more powerful than a single mullet, falls inexorably on our monotonous existence. Yes. The dirt turns. The spit shifts. The lambs cry foul to the angry wolves, mouths overflowing. Chicken feathers floating in their gullets. Yes.

Yes. Yes. Previously, and long past, we have added our own illiterate commentary to matters political, to matters commercial, and to matters in re: fish tacos. Yes.

And now. Yes. Monotony is reaped and, like following like, monotony is sown.

Zero follows zero follows zero. The moon and the moon and the moon. And the moon. And the moonotony.

And the --you for your time.

Yes. Let us all return. We return again.
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I am feeling ill today.

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Monday, May 10, 2004
The inky kinks, having been wrinkled out, and the rust dusted off, the timing is such that we must tackle that one onerous issue that has been hovering above us: LIFE AND HOW WE LIVE IT.

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Monday, May 03, 2004
Glory, glory, glory, and all the threads come loose.

Yes, the days of milk and plenty have returned, and LO!, the days of milk and plenty run lengthwise down the great and grandiose wide, metal, aluminum and/or steel-made-stainless spoon of our making in white-blue running rivulets.

In this place, the Microregion of my birth, the Microregion of my dementia, and most probably the Microregion of my demise, I have found much to revile, much to defile, much to love, and much to sing the song of.

Vin Diesel speaks to me in the baritone tones of the tone-deaf priest, praising the razing of great institutions and encouraging the disparaging of internet weblog sites of the most egregious sort. The man, Vin Diesel, now loaded down with invaluable valuables, gawdy gold chains, terrible triceps and great shameful maiming tattoos, greets the Internet and its despicable denizens with anger, with loathing, and, most awfully, with a great, holy fistful of green, angry dollars, eager to smash and to be smashed. And he encourages much the same from me, his Ultimate Progenitor.

But I digress.

I have spent several years now (years past and years future, both) ruminating on the chambers of commerce, politik and art upon which this great Monotonous Society is based.

Only these words, after rumination grand, small, and near-at-hand, can I impart:

!) Consider yourself, your progenitors, your loves, your lives, your Microregions, and your obscure obsessions. These are the key values driving your decisions, your philosophy, and your daily garden-market purchases.

@) Know your symbols, their meaning, their quasi-meaning, and their (what I like to term) obfuscascience.

#) Love what is monotonous. Love what is interminable. Prey upon the weak. Weep when you pray. Die when you are killed. Kill when the feeling comes over you. And take two tablets every four hours until you become too nauseous to stand up.

$) Signifiers? They are worthless. It is only in silence that true perspective is revealed.

%) Go now, and never come back.

Thank you.

I am,

Mark G. Yudof.

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Monday, December 08, 2003
I love the French.
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Tuesday, November 04, 2003
What is "life," but the extrapolation, interpolation, explication and deviation of and from "what is"?

That is the question we tackle today, my friends. And we tackle it helmetless, and head on, and with great vigor, and with great vim.

And with great animosity.

The end.

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Wednesday, October 29, 2003
What has become of my velocity, I do not pretend to have forfended.

What has become of what is, I will not, anymore, any longer, now or to come, be sure.

(I must warn: the tenses are a warren today.)

(Or is it tomorrow?)
(O Camus, do that mon dieu thing that you do so well!)

(I am tense. Be warned.)
(Echo? O!)

As you can see: the ding is dead, truncated, its trunk ailing, left in the bushes to perish. Say a prayer. Wherever.

As you can see: I am bludgeoned by the illiteracies of each of the seven ages simultaneously.
As you can see: Fear is a factor herein.
As you can see: you can see.

We have all long considered the intricacies and disingenuities of the truly monotonous existence. Many of us (hopeless and ever hopeful) adherents to the tenets of the "sufficient life," have (for periods temporary in their temporality) cloaked ourselves in the mantle of sufficiency, only to discover in our mantle the gaping holes of vulgarity.

Many of us have tried, failed, tried again, fallen, arisen, been lost, asked for directions, discovered coves, buried our dead, slept in fields and shaken our selves and the selves of others, often to the point of seasickness.

But that is not, exactly, the point that we are looking for.

At the Bureau of Records and Reports, here, at my place of business, beneath the halcyon halogen trapped by mad geniuses in long tubes in huge factories in countries far away, THE HEGEMON has placed an embargo on, of all things: SUFFICIENCY.

Thus my silence, heretofore deafening, is explained.

Thank you for your time.

Go and never come back. (Yes: I'm talking to you, Kelvin.)

That is all.

The end.

Thank you for your time.

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Sunday, October 26, 2003
I am feeling ill today.
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Wednesday, September 10, 2003
1000 whenever minutes.

My watch is a jumble.


Then even.

How odd.
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Monday, August 25, 2003

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Thursday, August 14, 2003
Do not be destroyed when the day (and those responsible for its upkeep) rains blows upon your mandibles.

Be a man. Dribble.

Juke. And die.

The end.


Thank you for whatever.
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Tuesday, July 01, 2003
The paper (which I hate) crumbles as I rub my charred stick over it.

And again. And again.



Goodbye forever.

I mean it this time.

Thank you for your time.
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Thursday, June 26, 2003
Today, upon awakening, I stumbled to the kitchen, flipped on the light, and found that (to my despair!) my gandules had swollen to near-mutant proportions.

I have called the hated Hegemon and told him that I will be unable to report for my regular shift at the Bureau of Reports and Records due to a "personal situation of dire importance."

I am applying ice as we speak, and hold out hope that my gandules will return to normal size within the day.


That is all.
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Tuesday, June 24, 2003
This morning, outside my very window, a loose collective of our Microregion's most insane lorry drivers drove in droves down the drives and up the alleyways, their engines sputtering, their drive belts buckling loudly and their unctuous extremities greased with the malodorous perspiration of a most offal varietal.

YES: the neighborhood "noise factor" was amped beyond all bounds of civility, decorum and beyond even (yes) all bounds of collegiality.

Insane with rage, I began brewing microwavable coffee in an apoplectic frenzy of monotonous activity. My own cacophony of electro-dynamically charged beepings soon made their way into the sonic fray.

The lorries roaring with rage, the microwave beeping its piercingly monotonous song, and my little dog Barfy yipping with impotent acrimony from his customary seat at the head of the kitchen table, my AUDITORY SENSORS began to overload.

Thereupon, I ran to the window; threw open the sash. With furious fists, I pummeled the rotting screen, sending it wafting to the world below.

I then proceeded to hurl (with horrible force) scalding coffee at the illiterate passersby below, making an ostensible effort to direct said assailant materiel toward the offending lorry drivers and their highly offensive lorries.

When physically spent, my rage much dissipated and my rotator cuff raw with pain, I carefully set the remainder of the delicious dark roast on the ledge to cool.

I then combed my hair with an unbreakable comb, put on my finest pair of cordovan shoes and retired to the out of doors to perambulate the local park. Upon exiting the building I was immediately accosted by an angry octogenarian of the Brahmin class. This blue-haired blueblood singed the very air with her highly graphic polemical re: the degeneration of etiquette, the dangers of "micro"-waves and the rising cost of prescription pills.

Sidestepping the demonically possessed doyenne, I came (star-crossed as I am) to pass below the window of one of our high-rise's most disreputable denizens (an illiterate madman who may very well be my Ultimate Progenitor), and was doused with a dose of liquid fire. From above, burning rain came flaming down.

I screamed, pulling off my stained garments and fled. Lost in a sea of madness, most of my memory of events occurring immediately thereafter is lost, though "when I awoke much later in a red upholstered booth at the back of a bar" (nude) one brief recollection collected in my miserable brainpan: the sound of a little dog, high above me, yipping, almost as if in laughter.

I am unable to make sense of this turn of events.

Love yourself.

That is all.

Goodbye forever.

Thank you for your time.

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Thursday, June 19, 2003
Professional prognosticators, devoted diviners, erudite haruspices, introspective bartenders and yellow journalists canvass the past, the present and the future in order to give order to the time outside the now. With great lodes of potentially oracular data, they squat on their prodigious haunches by the fire, looking to see what is beyond the is (the now "is" that exists at THIS SPECIFIC time).

With their chicken bones, their pop-up, push-pinned star charts, their leaves of green tea (leave it to them to know what will be) and their gauzy, flowing scarves they speak with human mouths in the voices of the dead, the supernatural, the omnipotent, the semi-omnipotent and the potentially insane.

HERE IS WHAT THEY SAY: What will come to pass: will come to pass.

Thus, I am bolstered. Despite past transgressions, current accusations, future violations, erroneous convictions and extended court-ordered suspensions: I WILL OVERCOME. What will come to pass will come to pass. It is affirmed.

We must take heart at their portentous words: Again:

What will come to pass: will come to pass.

Will monotony be served? Maybe. Will the sufficient life be realized? Possibly. Will what will come to pass come to pass? Absolutely.

Admission: for the past month or so, I have been held in an underground think-tank against my ostensible will.

Yes: I was put on a kind of "administrative leave" by my direct superior (The Hegemon) at the Bureau of Records and Reports. Yes. His reason for placing me on this so-called "criminal leave" was apparently linked to a "tyrannical tirade" I purportedly performed in the company cafeteria approximately one month ago.

Do I regret my actions? No. Do I recall my actions? No. Do I assume responsibility for my actions? I don't know what you're talking about.

Inside that 3-by-3 tank of porcelain and tile I dreamt much about the nature of the "is" and the indescribable ecstasies of the monotonous. Sufficiency transcended the temporal, as sufficiency, when fully realized, is so very, very wont to do.

I have now (despite desperate political maneuvers by THE HEGEMON to prevent it) re-claimed my post at the Bureau of Reports and Records.

My co-worker, Adelard of Bath, welcomed me back with open arms. We are here again.

Here we are again.

That is all.

Goodbye forever.
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Monday, June 16, 2003
As the rhapsodically orientated waxing wanes, we wonder why what has heretofore inspired so much mirth now necessitates excess girth. Yes: in our maddening methods and pathetic processes, we are getting plump. Yes, the fat of our bulbous rhetoric is as much in need of trimming as the bulbosity of our overbearing personality. YES: what was once marvelously pithy has given way, in our exegetical tirades, to what is pitiably bulbous. WE CANNOT, ANYMORE, UTTER A SIMPLE UTTERANCE WITHOUT PERIPATETATING THE POINT TO THE POINT OF ABSURDITY. OUR PERIPATETICISM BEGETS VIEWPOINTS OBSCURED AS IN POINTILLISTIC (I.E. FRACTURED) FASHION. POINTILLISM BEGETS ABSURDITY. ALGEBRA = YOU ARE MUSIC.
And for this, we feel shame.
What I am saying: I'm sorry. Let's start over.
I'm sorry. Let's start over:
I have nothing to say.
Goodbye forever.

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Monday, May 26, 2003
My real name is Impetus.

And I am dead.

Goodbye forever.
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Tuesday, May 20, 2003
Today, I was accosted at the bus stop and forced (against my ostensible will) to sign a petition political in nature.

Vengeance: you will feel my vengeance.
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Wednesday, May 14, 2003
I have a confession to make: I am, in many ways, not.

I have a confession to make: I am feeling ill today.

I have a confession to make: I am illiterate.

I have a confession to make: My real name is Adam Gopnick.

Thank you for your time.
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Tuesday, May 13, 2003
I am feeling ill today.

Sure: The muzak is clocked to twelve on the stereophonic. OK: Neighborhood waifs are gaily frolicking in cordovan shoes on the garbage-strewn streets. Yes: The dogs in their holiday sweaters are dancing on their hind legs.

But those dogs (or perhaps just a lone perpetrator) have also, for the past six days consecutively, done unspeakable things to my morning newspapers. And that fact, no matter how much I may otherwise be inclined to good cheer, dampens enthusiasm.

A newspaper in such condition makes for an unenjoyable breakfast. This, I understate. Transgression A-1: The Family Circus has been desecrated. The morning coffee: ruined. Monotony: unattainable. I am an inflamed maniac of untoward thoughts.

The sickening, vulgar nature of the situation demands retribution. I will have someone thrown into jail for this! Mark me. Mark me here. The record will show.

Vin Diesel has suggested to me that any person who instructs his beloved pet to behave in such a manner is pathologically insufficient and, most probably, illiterate.

I cannot but agree.

Vengeance will be wreaked.

I am too stoked for further blather.

That is all.

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Monday, May 12, 2003
O Monotony!

Come back to us.

O Monotony!

Return again.

That is all.

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Saturday, May 10, 2003

Today Vin Diesel and I are taking a jaunt to our local Microregion's government-subsidized deep-sea aquarium.

There, we will case the place, and further develop our goal to: (a) subvert the dominant paradigm; (b) produce a revolution fit for television; and (c) liberate our aquamarine brethren.

That is all.

Thank you for your time.

Have a nice day.

Goodbye forever.

Go, and never come back.

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Wednesday, May 07, 2003
Upon punching in for work this morning, I was told by my direct superior (whom I will heretofore refer to as Hegemon) that my longtime colleague at the Bureau of Records and Reports would be replaced by a man, woman or consciousness with the rather pedestrian title of "contract worker" (most probably an Idiot Interlocutor) for the better part of next month.

The reason: mild profanity.
The result: suspension (don't disbelieve it)

Apparently, my fellow citizen and comrade-in-arms, Adelard of Bath, had gone off on an exegetical tirade on the subject of his "preference of reason to authority" in the very, very face of our very own Hegemon.

In addition to the rather tactless choice of subject matter, Adelard of Bath’s colourful phraseology roused the immediate ire of our higher up.

The vulgarity found to be most offensive: God's Wounds.

Hegemon, I asked, May I not appeal the suspension of Adelard of Bath on my co-worker's behalf?

The Hegemon (who deplores being addressed as such) responded with a swift rebuke and a stern warning: Lack of preparation on your part does not constitute an emergency on our part.

He imparted this non sequiturial wisdom by means of a colorful pin.

I vow this: I will not be destroyed.

Thank you for your time.

Goodbye forever.

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Tuesday, May 06, 2003
Today, I woke up with a headache, administered to myself an analgesic, then went to the corner store to buy a new pair of cordovan shoes.

That is all.

Goodbye forever.
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Sunday, May 04, 2003
This morning I discovered, upon my sleeping board--nay, on my very pillow--none other than (blanch not) a human head. Its skin was of a hideous pallorousness akin to the colouring of a Kinh Do spring roll. The pate of this disgustingly bulbous protuberance was mostly bare, but for a few grimy tresses clinging tenuously to the epidermal layerings. No signs of immediate violence were apparent, though, at a mere glance, the ghastliness of its visage seemed to suggest a life of extreme hardship.

Upon this discovery, in shock, awe and horror, I bravely advanced to the rear, shrieking wildly at a pitch in the upper register, so as to annoy and/or frighten potential hulking lurkers, and to draw them off the trail of my defenseless dog, Barfy. Leading them with my screams, gesticulating wildly (to create fear and confusion) and urinating all over the room (I have heard this is offensive to predators in the wild), I bivouacked in the bathroom (please, no double entendres here, the situation was dire), locking the door behind me.

Unfortunately, little Barfy was not fleet enough a-foot to slip in before the door closed and, horror of horrors, the lock seemed to be, at this ill-timed hour, jammed. (As far as I could tell.) Knob locked securely at my back, I then attempted for several hours to catch my breath.

For nearly half a day I bided my time, arming myself to the teeth with the common bathroom implements which might serve me in this time of violent need. Then, inside an impregnable shell of unbreakable combs, I burst from the bathroom and sprang into the bedroom.

Nothing. The room was quite empty. Upon the pillow, though, a lock of hair from that hideously invasive apparition had been left.

As I then sank to rest on my prodigious haunches, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror that was propped upon the nightstand. The morning's fright, I fear, had taken much of my life-force, as the colour of my own skin was enough to make even brave hearts falter. The stress, I guess, had also made fall a tress or two from my gleaming, sweat-soaked cranium.

Disgusted, disturbed and bewildered, I shrugged off the physical effects of this most trying morning, and looked for further sign of the head's whereabouts. There were none.

I have resolved to, in preparation for further events of this nature, watch a television program re: Home Invasions, on the LifeTime channel.


That is all.

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Tuesday, April 29, 2003
Cod-suckers, scrod-gobblers and tuna-melters may masticate on the meat of our aquamarine brethren with great relish. They may flaunt the conventions of common courtesy, rending--in our very faces--the fleshy flesh of our fishy friends.

These sadistic fish-lickers may even go so far as to dip the noble beasts in batter, then butter their bodies with (among other substances): butter, batter, ketchup, relish (as mentioned supra), onion scrunch, multi-variegated liquefied remnants and, on occasion, certain mysterious sauces of a yellow nature.

These brutalities, unsavory as they may be, are commonplace in the many Microregions of this perverse nation in which we live. Yes: to rail, like a skateboarder, against these offenses would be as to pounding one's head against the pavement.

And no: No matter the mania of our madness, our illiterate signage, our metrically proficient chants and our indefatigable antics will stay not their bloodied hands.

The hated fishmongers may, now, with impunity, throw open their doors. They may hose (with hideous hoses) the mottled walkways girding their under-sanitized shops. They may even, yes, shout touts at the great gullible masses.

Yes: they may.

But listen: The fishmonger is danger made manifest.

I repeat: what I just said.

Do not be fooled by his hideous countenance and his gut-spattered garb: these flesh-peddling orators elocute their mind-morphing fish pitches with a rhetorical acuity bordering on the preternatural. Their hortatory oratorios are cast with such skill as to make the unwary spine tingle! And, as if their siren call were not enough, they will even (sometimes) go so far as to display their piquant pre-fabricated piscine morsels. And they do so with a twisted, bourgeois delight.

Yes: we can do nothing. Yes: agog at this spectacle, we must simply stand by.

But when the ill-bred brutes of those ilks (the swallowers and mongers both) step past the societal line drawn in the sand, when they move beyond the bounds of those proscribed perversions, when they propagate the preparation of God-forsaken and foreign-sounding fish “meals” (the syncretization of fish and various other foodstuffs--yes, this goes far beyond mere sauces), then, THEN we must muster our most punishing blows, our most deafening roars and our most illogical insanities in defense of the weak, the meek, the pitiful and the poached.

To wit: the other day (JUST THE OTHER DAY!), as I meandered the magazine aisle of my Microregion's local dollar store, I came across a hideous rag of gawdawful gumption. This demonically spawned and certified publication (Real Simple) trumpets the birth (twisted and mutatious as it may be) of a "culinary" invention of such morally reprehensible ideation, I can barely speak its name.

OK: Fish tacos.

Fish tacos. Yes. Fish tacos. "Fish tacos?" you ask yourself. "What is the nature of the perverted mind from which this unholy, immoral, and, most probably, bacteria-rich concoction has sprung?"

What indeed.

Imagine the squalorous hellhole that issued forth this most glutinous of gastronomical grotesqueries. Imagine (if you dare) the sort of brushed steel phantasmagoratory that could hatch this mutant roe; this spawn of a mind gone mad.

In aisle 5: Battered and enfeebled, my taste buds writhing in anticipatory agony at the mere consideration of such malicious dishes, I cast about my familiar Family Dollar for a figurative handhold, a moral anchor, a port for my electrically storming occipital lobes.

Fish tacos. The words beat your brain with punitive force. The very clause calls forth nauseous pre-cogitations, stomach-churning anticipations and colon-bursting trepidations.

Sickened and bewildered, I faltered. No longer able to dam the forces welling in my physical self, I lost all.

And fled.

Fish tacos.

Fish tacos.

God, life sucks.

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Monday, April 28, 2003
Today, someone referred to me as John Stossel.

In mixed company, no less.

You: I deplore thee.
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Sunday, April 27, 2003
Do not be (if you are) disillusioned by the dissolution of templates, the displacement of paradigms and the latent illiteracies that “life” has here, in this “place” (cybernetic as it may be), sought to make manifest.

The woof warps. The wharf woofs. And dogs, in their frustration at these things, aboard leaky boats in the innermost of inlets, bay at the moon.

What I am saying: trials, tribulations, police blotters, greed, gluttony, lust, frankincense, myrrh, unconscionably powerful Internet megaliths in apogee, insufficient funds, and our own slothful ignoramity, have, these past few measured units of time, succeeded in disrupting the (however small) monotonous pursuits we have heretofore managed to cultivate.

Apologias? We’ve archived them in spades. Excuses? The factory continues polluting.

But RESULTS? There have been none.

YES: from hell’s heart, I have been stabbed.
YES: I have spread my blubber hither and yon.
YES: I have pulled the boats down with me.
YES: everyone* has perished.

BUT: Yes: I am re-surfacing.
AND: Yes: I am now airing out my blowholes.

Know this:

Goodbye forever.

*the possible exception being my arch-nemesis, the Illiterate Interloper (a.k.a. my Ignorant Orthonym, a.k.a. my Ultimate Progenitor)

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Thursday, April 24, 2003
Can the canned music and stow the yams, now, with the hamhocks. Put up your hammocks, swab the decks, don your glorious earphones and listen!

Big news: Monotony, that which is, is, in its is-ness, something.

i.e. the letting-lie-together-before
i.e. that which exists in many states
i.e. a thing that is a thing

Go ye forth and prosper. I will return with a great vengeance and a great holy place to fall asleep.

Goodbye forever.

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Wednesday, April 23, 2003
Sure: form follows function. Follows it, indeed, into the deepest toilets of depravity, along the lengthy sewerages of toxicity and into the chthonic cesspools of humanity’s greatest malfeasances.

You: you yourself have experienced it with your own experiential sensors: anger leading to rage, rage leading to increased levels of bile and neurotoxins, increased levels of bile and neurotoxins leading to various misspellings, grammatical transgressions and syntactical missteps.

The angry missive, fired off from the comfy confines of the love seat of self-satisfied sanctimony, is the simplest, most asinine and most cost-effective of commonplace rhetorical advances. SURE: sit your high seat, eat your humpty-dumpty sandwiches, color on your placemats and, once in a while, feign to deign to explain those slippery “constructs” upon which you hold so great an intellectual strangle.

The neighborhood greengrocer, in the unctuous voice of the capitalist dogmatic, tells us of his various organisms; their myriad colors, shapes, hues, tints, tastes, juicities, medicinal purposes and pyscho-sexual effects. Too, the local lorry driver, screams his murderous rages from windows rolled down and signifies with horn and wiper blade in the pidgin language of the automobile. Even I (or someone like me), falling asleep to the dulcet tones of the humpback whales, scream out the second storey window, begging for the key to the Universe and the mercy of The Great Taxonomizer.

Explicity: we are sick of. It is in the implicity, that we, the devourers of signifiers, seek to make our meal. And this is what we read:

In the greengrocer’s callow pitches of his precious mangoes: need.

In the lorry driver’s perverted catcalls: need.

In the sanctimonious sofa king’s rhetoric-ridden vituperatives: need of the worst kind.

Go, and never come back.

Thank you for your time.

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Tuesday, April 22, 2003
What interests some, is the irradiation of the world, the displaying of the Declaration of Independence and the singing of bawdy barroom limericks. What interests some, is the browbeating, the political polemical and the celebrity infotainment weekend special (Access Hollywood).

But let us not bore our own gourds and clap ourselves on the back with claptrap meant for the ill, the boring, the mentally sluggish and the theoretically inept.

NO! Let us instead, cultivate our own cultivation. Ignore the boring of gourds and the klaxon calls of clarions.

You may know me: my name is John Stossel.

And I deplore myself.

Goodbye forever.

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Monday, April 21, 2003
Today, John Stossel told me that "The Pleasure of the Text" is a total load of crap.

John Stossel, I deplore thee.
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Editor, here me.
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What works?
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Gird your loins.

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I go: “I am not what I am.”

I say, I should say.

Iago says, I should say, to be fair.

But to be fair I should really say that Shakespeare said it. Right. Actually, to be right I should say that Shakespeare said it.

Write again.

To be right, I should write that Shakespeare said it.

“I am not what I am.”

Although, I suppose he wrote it himself. To be right, I should write that Shakespeare wrote “I am not what I am.”

Or so I am told. Or, in the spirit of accuracy--so I have read (read: red).

But various personages are now telling me that he did not write it. Did someone else named Shakespeare write it? “I am not what I am,” some other Shakespeare wrote. Or, possibly, the real, illiterate Shakespeare (Shaksper) wrote it. Or Shaykh Zubayr, or the Earl of Oxford, or an amalgamation of personages or Don Quixote.

To be (as we turn the tables here) fair to myself though, if it were Edward de Vere (or someone like him) who wrote it, the sentence “’I am not what I am,’ Shakespeare wrote,” would have, somehow, some degree of accuracy. (I think. Or perhaps not.)

If we, bemused by our own confusion, look to the learned Borges for some sort of guidance, we read (read: reed) that God has, in fact, spoken to Shakespeare (or his literate double, as the case may be), and told him that, for all practical purposes, he (Shakespeare) is God (dream of and dreamer of Shakespeare). Which puts a rather confusing spin on things (and negates much of the quibbling which has taken place heretofore herein).

“I am not what I am,” God says through his reflection (Shakespeare or someone like him), who is speaking through the mouth of Iago. O O O O, I myself groan at the asinine and unnecessary intricacies of it all. But let us be fair. And accurate. It is only write. Right, rather.

It goes like this: in the words of God in the words of Shakespeare (or his illiterate double), in the words of Iago, I say: “I am not what I am.”

Or rather, I write it.

But really, this is not about God, Shakespeare, Shaksper, Christopher Marlowe, Edward de Vere, the illiterate Shakespeare, Iago, or any of a multitudinous troupe of similarly bit players.

This is about me. Or, rather, it is not.

So I write: “I am not what I am.”

To hedge my bets a bit, I could write “’I am not what I am,’ is written.”

But of course, that would wholly obfuscate the point.

All of this is, obviously, about me.

No. It is not.


i am a Weakish Speller.

--the above text, most probably written by an illiterate madman (signs point to the perpetrator being my Ultimate Progenitor, an Ignorant Orthonym or an as yet Unnamed Interloper--though the question of authorship is still in doubt) was discovered, scrawled in a feminine hand on a crumpled folio next to my wastepaper basket. I aim to find this man (or these men) who has (or have?) tresspassed my locked study, and prosecute him (all of them) to the fullest extent of the law.

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No one came to roll back the rock, and I was stuck. I could do nothing.

God, it was boring in there.

Finally, I did it myself.

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Sunday, April 20, 2003
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Thursday, April 17, 2003
Thank you for your time.
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Wednesday, April 16, 2003
That is all.
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Monday, April 14, 2003
Today I exfoliated my face with vinegar and ketchup-stained napkins.

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A great man, probably Adelard of Bath or Octavio Paz, once said "In apathy there is hope." Since we (I speak for all of us) have no urge to affirm or refute either this assertion or this citation, we can only hope they are true. Thus apathy props up optimism.

If monotony (see below) is the cudgel, and tedium (see below) the scalpel, then the metaphor most aptly applied to apathy is the speculum. Monotony, the cudgel; tedium, the scalpel; apathy, the speculum. Why? Yes, why indeed.

Apathy, if appropriately formed and deployed by the psyche, addresses a concern of utmost import to our mental health. It vouchsafes the sanctity of our monotonous undertakings. These daily monotonous undertakings (see below) are the very bedrock of our lives, our relationships, our society, and ultimately, our universe.

Greet your co-workers: Feeling chipper, skipper. Watch your coffee bask in the insidious glow of "micro"waves each morning. Shine your cordovan shoes. Do not waver, do not waffle. Without routine, without monotony, there can be no tedium. Without tedium, there can be no pleasure (because, as we said before, pleasure is a-tedium). You follow me. I know you do. This is review. We are reviewing what we have already covered.

Apathy vouchsafes monotony by insuring that we abnegate any urge to seek new stimuli. New stimuli, the enemy army opposing apathy, arm themselves and deploy in great hoardes, seeking to assail the monotony and tedium of our daily lives. If, in an individual, apathy is not appropriately arrayed to buttress monotony, that individual becomes exposed to the vile dangers of new stimuli. New stimuli, no matter how they shriek and dance, no matter how they bang upon the citadel gates, no matter how they beat their drums, cannot, under any circumstances, be allowed to encroach upon our daily lives. Apathy is our guardian and protector, our servant and champion.

Some may take issue with this advocation of apathy. Some may argue that the assiduous seeking of monotony (see below) is actually at odds with the apathetic. How can one embrace apathy if he is striving so vigorously to establish monotony? Good point.

The true nature of pure monotony is in the automatic. True monotony is second nature; when true monotony is achieved, striving ceases. Establish patterns. Create order. Excise chaos. It is only when an activity is automatic that it is truly monotonous. And when an activity is truly monotonous, apathy works to protect it.

The goal of attaining true and pure monotonous undertakings (such as unvaried morning greetings to co-workers, uniformly gleaming cordovan loafers and lukewarm daily instant coffee) is not a simple one, nor easily achieved. But it can be done.

Other nay-sayers may say "Hey! A-tedium is a break in monotony. A-tedium, as you define it, is pleasure. A-tedium is stimulus. Why establish monotony at all? Why not embrace stimuli? Why not just grab up all the pleasure?" This line of thinking is simply ridiculous.

I will not waste space with a rebuttal, but say only--this way lies chaos.

Establish monotony. Once established, to safeguard that monotony, embrace apathy. Await tedium. Take pleasure in a-tedium. This is the roadmap to what philosophers and kings call "the sufficient life." Encourage monotony. Embrace apathy. Explore tedium. Be sufficient.

Some wax fell out of my ear today. It was blackish-orange. It looked a little bit like Halloween candy. I threw it in the toilet.

Tomorrow's essay: Apathy and its place in American society.

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Monotony. Monotony. There is rhythm. Mah. Not. A. Knee. Mah. Not. A. Knee. Monotony. There is tone. There is, lurking, tedium. There is tone. A tone. Monotony. A sameness. Tone. Ringing.

Tedium, the scalpel; monotony, the cudgel. But we expect them. We await them--tedium, monotony.

I am feverish with anticipation of my every upcoming monotony. Each morning, upon hearing my co-workers’ salutation “How’s it going?” I reply, unfailingly, unerringly, with almost holy exigence “Feeling chipper, Skipper.”

Feeling chipper, Skipper.

It does not, my response, vary. It does not waver. It does not rise or fall in pitch, expand or contract in duration, or in any other measurable way change; it does not do anything at all in any way whatsoever, other than create rhythm.

Feeling chipper, Skipper.

Rhythm. Cadence.

The modulation of my voice, over days, over months, I strive to keep constant. Cadence counts. Cadence counts. In my bathroom, at home, as I gargle with Listerine (only Listerine!), I practice: Feel. Ing. Chip. Per. Skip. Her. Feel. Ing. Chip. Per. Skip. Her. There can be no swallowing of syllables. There can be no failure of pitch. Unplanned--however minute--hesitations between words or phonemes need be eradicated. Minute hesitations that are scripted and necessary to the communication of monotonous salutation must only exist (silent as they are) in equal pitch and duration to their corresponding hesitations of same salutation on different days, and (I stress this) must exist in no other way. They must exist in a fullness of monotony that permits no obnubilation, no fraying of boundaries.

To emulate the modulation and suffixization of Don King, I strive, in my morning salutation and in my other monotonous pursuits, not for lucidity or fluidity or even for stupidity, but for an unmottled monotonal formalism. Feel. Ing. Chip. Per. Skip. Her. It cannot be otherwise.

Monotony, comfort. Comfort, time. Time, tedium. Tedium, tedium. Tedium, tedium. Copious tedium, obnubilation of signifier (see below). Obnubilation of signifier, entertainment. Entertainment.

This is the matrix of personal satisfaction. This is the cri de coeur of the bricoleur. This is the flowchart for mental eradication of boredom. Follow me. Monotony. Anemone. Parsimony.

The words, the conversations, every day, have tone, a tone, one tone. In our relations with others, we seek to replicate tone. Civility. Words. Monotony. Patina. Ecco Homo. Monotony. Civility.

Until, finally, briefly, for one moment, we are blasted by the atonal. The heightened sweetness of the atonal word—the logarrhythmia—or even (however rare) of the atonal exchange of multiple words, is the goal of those who pursue monotony.

Pursue monotony. Relish the atonal. Obnubilate signifiers.

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Today, I shined my cordovan shoes with urine and ketchup-stained napkins.
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So. Yes. Today. Today will be the last day of the beginning of this blog. That's it. It's over. After this, the blog will begin. And that's that. That's it. Yes. Hmm. Yes. Hmmm. Because, yes because, yes, the reason for this is that today will merely be an experiment in the aberrant. Tomorrow, the delicious and the pedestrian. Today, the aberrant. Things will get better tomorrow. I swear it. This will all get better. This will all go away.

Today now, though, the aberrant. Now, you might imagine that I, with all of this hemming and hawing and hmming and yessing, that I, with all of that, have just been wasting your time. But you would be wrong. And you would be right. Yes. Because, today, today, today, we are exploring the aberrant. We are exploring the aberrant and we are plumbing the depths of tedium. Because tedium, yes, you're quite correct, tedium, is the key to the blog world, and the key, indeed, yes, yes even, to the entire Web.

You will agree with me, no doubt, that a certain portion of tedium is expected in any blog. There is simply no getting around it. There is no helping it. Whether describing one's pet or dissecting the page three story of the daily Times, the blog is--because of the now solipsistic nature of the blogger--tedious. It is tedious. Do not be offended. I am not offended. I am enlightened. I am trancendent. I am translucent (don't ask). We have limited appetites for the minutiae of other's lives. I am not wrong, now, am I? Am I? No, no, no, no. Whatever the medium, we have limited appetites for personal minutiae. That is so. Undoubtedly.

But no. But we put up with the tedium of the blog. We, on some level, expect the tedium. We sometimes complain about the tedium, but on occasion, we embrace the tedium. The tedium, though--there is no getting around it--is present in all blogs. And it is our goal here, not to avoid the tedium. Not to--no, no, no, no--avoid that tedium, but to transform that tedium. To add to that tedium. As the reader must embrace some measure of tedium, the writer too must embrace tedium. So we are here inflating, enhancing, conflating, stretching, straining and extrapolating on the tedium. We are hemming, we are hawing. We are, ad absurdum, exploring the tedium that a blog can bring about. We explore the aberrant, we chart the unmapped territory of tedium.

Yes. Yes. Yes. This little dinghy is taking a far different tack from those high-profile blogs that navigate their tedium with a steady hand. We are awash in it. Awash. Awash. Awash. We are awash. But listen: we attempt to, in embracing the tedium, we attempt to excoriate that tedium from the blog. Yes, that is right. That is right! We attempt to scrub it out.

Tedium, ad absurdum, becomes something not tedium, but quite the opposite--a-tedium, if you will. Yes. Yes, that's it. Yes. A-tedium.

But wait: one, not I, but one, one far more keen of mind, one with far more mental acuity would say, would, in fact, say, in response to the goal of excoriating tedium by stretching it to its limits, one would say that we are obnubilating our signifiers.

And, to some extent, I would agree.

I would agree. That's right. Yes. If, once absurd enough to be entertaining, tedium ceases to be tedium, and if we continue to call it tedium, even when it is entertaining, then we have obnubilated our signifier. And, to some extent, that is the very goal. Yes, that is our goal. Hmm.

Tomorrow though, nothing of the sort. Deliciousness tomorrow. Pedestrianism and deliciousness. Yes.

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I am feeling ill today.
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