Where does the moment go (once it has passed)

August 4 2012

There was something there. You know and are certain there was but now, not.
There was something there, or, rather, Then.
There was something and now it’s gone.

Where does the moment go when it is over (once it has passed)?
[[[Let’s ask every single thing and see what happens:]]]


To shelter.

In a twist ending, our relationship with the moment was never healthy. In fact, we were abusers. You can’t live just for the moment– you need boundaries, venn diagrams.


They wake up.

Moments are only moments when sleeping and fleet upon waking. Or, a window even smaller/more arbitrary, the ‘moment’ is only so in the flutter of an eye.

Flutter Eye

All Of Your Dreams = this now

(Moments REM just like us, except for them it’s LGX, because their words are different.
Letters are the same (they stole the alphabet from us, not vice versa), but their palate shapes them real strange.
If we were to transliterate Momentous ‘REM,’ which is ‘LGX,’ into how it would sound in our alphabet it would actually be “BH.”
(The X isn’t quite silent, it’s just ultrasonic).).

and all of your nightmares…

When moments sleep our lives get immeasurably |better|. As you would think, the absolute value signals that not all moments are per se good, and that better here is meant in the sense of ‘richer,’ ful-er of event.

The potential downsides a…side, our government (the White government, not the American government (the secret crew running everything is actually a white powers operation– not the separatist hick kind but substantively not much better) tried to ensure that the Moments never fall asleep– the assumption being that any occurrence that could possibly result in the end of their bigoted reign would be considered a moment by somebody. Their efforts, however, were an unqualified failure (see below).

We’re not yet able to keep human beings awake 24/7, and we know so much less about moments! Racist dummies!

A picture says two words

Moments and the Fall of the White Government
Ultimately, it’s a moot point– I’ve been to the future and know that the fall of our capital-White overlords is, by some margin, the least momentous major event in double secret history (aka herstory).1
It is ‘precipitated’ (to the extent a non-event can be) by everyone just sort of forgetting that they’re supposed to be racist. With the first few non-whites inducted (a Chinese president, a ‘black blood’ country megastar who can superpass) they forgot Asians weren’t white and never thought to blood test respectively. But by the time they noticed, Sun Kai-tan and Jeff Pollard had already received their packets and, well, it was too much of a hassle to have them assassassinated (double-killed – so that their ghost emerges completely hauntless, regret and memory free).
After that, the secret government gets too wrapped-up in the business of running the world– which, with the rise of artificially intelligentish nanomachines2, pan-adaptable omnichromosomic metaclones and superghosts, does not allow time for the dumb rituals and tedious racetheory self-mythologizing that thrived back when controlling humanity consisted only of securing minerals and producing ever-stakesraising distractions.

Stakes Raising Distractions!

Don’t think you’re exempt just because whatever reason things that are art are considered somehow inherently virtuous, Gus!

The whole racist heritage of the former White government (now, just, the government) actually gets wiped in 2036– when, in a mad scramble for low-tech spinning hard drives in which to trap a particularly nasty rampant cybersomething3, the archive including all documentation prior to 1998 is rendered permanently unreadable.
[end section]

What was I talking about?
Oh right, moments.

When Moments sleep they dream our lives more interesting than they otherwise are.

Moments never end, we just begin again outside of them.

Time isn’t the thing, it’s our bodies.
Like a crack-fiending snake with complete but unconscious control over when it sheds its skin,4 our lives keep ending just to start over again at the same point in time and space. When they (our bodies) rebirth they do so with as close to the same memories, thoughts, physical features, clothes, bones, genes, diseases, beliefs, self-defeats, diversions, recursions, sweet nothings, bitter somethings, spicy autonomics and hot thoughts as possible.
They are remarkably good at it but not perfect and that’s where blisters come from– repeated near misses back and forth. And also that’s what is love.

These snake mistakes

Pictured: your first girlfriend

*L*O*V*E*: How Is This That?
Well, you see, each time it doesn’t happen it only happens moreso later.
Note: later may mean never.

So, we’re the ones that go (the fuck) away: summary. The moment stays back in that lost life. The memories tend to remain, and your new body will ‘try’ its anthropomorphic best to pr-o-lo-ng the moment– resulting in a kind of emotional pareidolia– but at best it’s a replica and your bodies eventually catch on and self-immunize. C’est la vie, or, this is where love comes from also.


In a scrapbook.

I’d say in God’s scrapbook but I’m an atheist so I can’t let myself do that even though I know better. That’s just how we atheists are– defiant for defiancesake, claiming always to disbelieve that which we know is true. Anyways, it’s God’s scrapbook.5
God wants moments but doesn’t entirely know why. I can’t go into it much without breaking my (extremely punitive) contract, but suffice it to say there’s a lot of moments in this scrapbook and most of them, to my human eye, don’t seem so remarkable.

Anti-Mail Fraud Hex -- the double secret lost Fall album

But God’s face instead / At work today we received a check that had been delivered in an envelope with “In God We Trust” handwritten on its front and back. I blurt-laughed when I saw it, but then got down to the serious business of deciding whether it was evangelism for the First Church of E Pluribus Unum or some kind of anti-mail-fraud hex.

The scrapbook is large. Vast, actually. I certainly would never be able to open it even in 27 lifetimes of trying– but He had no problem (again– male subjectivity due to patriarchal lineage).
You might think a precious, divine object like The Scrapbook would be hidden away, or be made of some impossible stuff that we could never hope to comprehend with our mortal face– each moment somehow encoded in a divine cryptograph or sacred penmanship or magic God’seye. But, in fact, as our God may or may not be a loving God, He let’s us gaze upon it as often as we do the stars by which I mean it’s the night sky.

OH!/, I can’t believe we were ever that young!

Most moments aren’t even obscured. Or are only hidden by time and space.
Ours are in still in the process of being matted down.
God has a lot of pages to baste so I think we can give God a break.


They are made into momentade.

OH! that bittersweet, sometimes sour, generally not salty, umami is a marginally successful national marketing scheme to try and pry Japan from a decade of stagflation, moment juice! Once rung four-fisted from the moment it is diluted, sweetened and sold back to us in the form of momentade (aka memories).

I’m on to you, Ikeda! And then imagine I’m giving the stinkeye, face. (Intermittent sips of my own dumb life (and the resultant puckers))



Imagine how memorable a road trip roadtripped by only moments would be? It would be like six Sideways (~16.7 Crossroads) stacked on top of each other!

By which I mean if you watched Sideways for 12 hours and 42 minutes, or Crossroads for about 26 hours and 10 minutes, you’d have had the same depth of experience and richness of interaction (bonding) as 36 hours6 spent with and by a carload of moments.

This is officially the most depressing |fact|.

Though I suppose it makes sense, them not being sentient and all– and I bet if they were they’d be like handlebars in a mid-90s video arcade– Super ON.

No, shit, wait, that was Super Hang-On. Still, good effort though– right? slash I must change my life.

On tram rides mostly.

Bussed (well, trammed) from one life to another, moments spend most of their lives in transit.
a) moments have lifetimes just like you or I. They generally last between seventy and six hundred years (there’s great variance per popularity– moments are nourished by |want|– the more sought they are the more robust; the more avoided the same). It’s generally accepted that avoidance is more nourishing than desire, and so the good times need to work twice7 as hard to live just as long.
b) as you may have by now guessed, there are a finite amount of moments and (for a living) they cycle between us.
b1) it’s a straight living– the act directly fuels, and is all that is required for, survival– so it’s more ethical than human work.
b2) we feel each is unique but there are only about 107 moments at any given time.8
b2a) This is because passion is a virus that mixes with our experiences to reshape/redefine each moment.
b2b) Our major experiences are actually exactly the same and we would bond over that fact thus ending all interpersonal conflict if only we could perceive our lives without passion.
b2c) We are one antifungal away from complete and eternal world peace.
b2c1) passion is actually more like spore.
b3) the tram is tube-shaped and made of a material not dissimilar to hard plastic (though it’s really just light). The overall ambience of the tube space would be the milk-green of a passing commuter train at night, or of an early Wong Kar-Wai film, but when the tube is crowded it is impossible to tell. Each seat lights up a different brightness and shade when sat upon.
b3 also) the moments have a particular hue so they know where they’re supposed to sit; whether they chatter, get bored, switch, save seats, take naps, fall in love, prefer to stand, long at and after scenery, or at the lives living in other trams (moments aren’t the only aspect that takes public transportation (aspects do, for one, and the unborn (if the righteous only know what a raucous enorgied partyferry the unborn rode to Term…))) we do not yet know.
c) there are only two trams, out and in, and the object of their preposition is uncertain. one |day| the trams will crash together and then: absolutely, the moment. But until that happens they have to punch every single clock just like the rest of us.


Into the sea.


On a killing spree.

Cholesterol and heart plaque has only 36% to do with what a gross piece of shit you are. If, in the wake of the passing moment, you enter its corona cast, a film clings to your heart and arteries. It’s about a small boy trying to fly a kite, but the weather is incorrect for it. Hijinks don’t ensue; the boy’s dad never meets the boy’s future stepmom or step-sister; they step-never step-share their first step-kiss, first step-pet, first-step penetration (a step-finger). For moralls sake, perhaps its best this film is entirely uneventful: an image of a kite rippling angry against the ground, going nowhere. The buttons on her blouse are small and round and meant to fit beneath your fingers and you’ll never forget those sleeves (puff).

Your memory is a line-up you spend forever fingering

If, in the wake of the passing moment, you enter the corona cast– film. All over your heart and arteries. Once enough builds up9 the resin sticks together, slowly forging new syncretic moments of varying coherence.

Moments, particularly th[o/e]se of questionable stability, can’t stand being forced to socialize. When so densely packed they explode your chest in the form of a heart attack.
Though in recovery you forget, when it happens you simultaneously experience dozens to hundreds of moments (and that is what kills you). It is a sin to be everything.


The record (for humans) is 1,241.6 moments, achieved May 6, 1978. The sufferer survived and, unbeknownst, sewed each of her thousand-plus would be assassins into a quilt, where they are now trapped for all eternity, barring explicit exvocation.12

Moment #767 – the toucan escaped face-ridicule by inventing flight; without a shared target to bond them, the lion turned its full focus against the panda and the subsequent shaming annihilated all pandas’ sex drives forever

Her name is Betty Parveneau and she would be 86 today (July 4th, 2012) if she didn’t die of pneumonia back in 1997 due to no one loving her enough to notice.13


On vacation.

Like Go-Go’s on waterskis chastising George W. Bush for being a deadbeat president and saliva-eyebrow-stylist-hirer both, it’s all they ever wanted.

Dear Go-Go’s: Apostrophe– how’s come?

Popular vacation destinations for moments are: New Hampshire’s White Mountains; New Hampshire’s many lovely lakes (Winnipesaukee, Umbagog, Sunapee, Canobie space Park); Historic Manchester (New England, not Olde(e) England); tax-free liquor stores between states with restrictive blue laws, like Massachusetts, and Maine; Rye Beach (in New Hampshire); Clark’s Trading Post; seemingly endless/optically tedious stretches of white birches along route 112; or a house visit with the ghost of Franconia Notch’s famed/late Man In The Mountain.

R.I.P./Semper fi, New Hampshire’s Economy



There are no moments.

Each perceived ‘especially experienced’ patch of time is 100% an invention of your human/dolphin/some spiders’ mind. Narrative is a sickness that quickly spreads to every cell of your body. Once in it reroutes the wiring, misdirects neurons, and something else science-sounding, repurposing the whole mess to track a specific path towards maximizing tragicomic effect. If narrative sickness were a Star Wars character its name would be Max Bathos.14

In practice this means (virus aside, as infection is lifelong insofar as no one wants/tries to cure it) In practice this means that we each ‘define’ (ascribing us agency in this is pretty tenuous– we have some control (more depending on how unshackled we are by shame/self-awareness/societal pressures/human decency, but it generally tops out at 13%– a statistical light shove/strong nudge) In practice this means that we each ‘define’ when a moment is a moment.

Though narrative does most of the work for us, as in all things, we seamlessly believe the will is our own. And if it’s equally applicable– if everything we say or do is framed by/perceived through/shaped by/slash slashed with our storytelling symbiote– then it sort of already is what we actually are.


There are no moments. When we think we’re in one we’re not. Narrative has just dictated god I’m even boring myself– it’s nice out! Go enjoy your life! And then Big Narrative delivers a truck full of money to me in dollar sign bags.

But money instead of trash


Goes and keeps going.

In a line, or a wave. Travels through you and through anybody previously or subsequently in its path. You don’t notice that it happens as often as it does because there are some required ingredients for it to catalyze a True Moment.15

The Moment passes through you and delivers its patented blend of Eliadean ‘Sacred’ and basic profane profundity and moves on towards no end in particular.16


to Stud.

The once-over moment impregnates the time around it with possibility.17

Possibility is the key ingredient in a moment– well one of. When possibility meets and penetrates-or-receives actuality, a moment is born. (Strange cycle).

Six years later, this is your wedding day/first haircut/deathbed/bris


A museum.

In the museum you can view the greatest moments of all times. The musuem is in a galaxy 2,000,000,000 light years away and ‘viewing’ the moments requires seven senses we haven’t developed yet and two we never will. So, buttons.

If only I could get the senses

The whole collection (99.5% of all moments) is available with purchase of an archives pass, but –again, buttons– the archives are kept at -1,000 degrees Earth centigrade. Sad. / It also has LOVELY robotanical gardens.

(Robo in this language means something we won’t understand until ten seconds before the annihilation of our species).


The rest of the syllables, however, mean exactly the same as we’d Earth expect.


We’re still in it.

Still in all of them.
Dragging them behind us like a kid in a thicket of burrs with a velcro cape.
Weighing on us emotionally and curtailing our ability to perceive those oncoming, anything outside of them.
Our brain (for the almost part) is descended from those who developed a limit/kill switch/filter, so we don’t always notice them. In dreams they peek out.
In toxicated or compromised-by-stress situations, they can fugue.
And don’t forget the mentally ill and elderly!


DID YOU KNOW: being old is a form of mental illness? It’s called eldelism and it catches all of us eventually. Well, all of us except me, I desperately jest.


It goes straight to your thighs.

Your thighs in particular. Can you blame it?
Slash oh no wait– that’s where a kiss goes once it’s left your lips
(Can you though?)

I miss you


The moment passes and… comes back again? Cycles like a comet but with an irregular period (that sentence can’t not mean that).

It cycles like a comet.
It may take 76 years but you’ll see/feel/be in it again.
A different cast of characters or occasionally the same.

We pass each other on the street and, then, throughout town seven times.
Let’s run into each other over and over and never say anything.

How our stares, looks progress:
at one point charm
at one point forced/failed charm
at one point sheepish unease
at one point genuine terror
at one point a chuckle
at one point a shrug
at one point no notice or acknowledgment and we go our separate ways forever.

The moment passes like a stone– fast, steady and in a pond.20

Every passed moment is at the bottom of a pond somewhere– Chapman Pond, specifically– and they collect there to no specific consequence.

Why doesn’t it overflow/brim with experience? Well, in the flood of 2010 it did. It’s just that, inert, the passed moment may as well be the stone it sinks like– which, to the lay observer, it is.
But this simple stone used to be when your parents met. Or when your parents died. Or when your parents first tried out how they’d some day make you. Except you can’t get someone pregnant there… what are you doing, mom v. dad? That’ll never work out! Nothing good will come of it, only remorse, hatred, scandal, and possible faecel impaction!
And then you wake up in the bleak winter morning of your 21st butt birthday (twist ending: in dreams begin butt-babies).21

If you hold them (the stones) they’ll just feel smooth and wetcold; if you skip them they’ll just skip or not skip, depending on whether you are worth a damn at stoneskipping.
If you eat them you will be better able to digest your food, but this is only applicable if you are also a bird. Or a Triceratops.

Dino… droppings? Droppings?

Don’t put them in your fishtank or else your fish will figure out time and become immediately shocked into immobility by the knowledge of their unavoidable demise. Poor time-wise red tetras– first an all-flakes diet (against your preferred larvae-base menu) and now you know just how futile each one of your (two) instincts actually is.

Helas, pour poi(ssons)!


It transfers to the next person you touch– true fact!

If something bad happens to you don’t touch anyone else ever (until you find someone you can really despic).
If something good happens, tell your biggest crush then kiss them flat on the mouth. Or, if you’re incapable of feeling good things, just keep touching yourself and HOPE.


If you get too into it with lips you may trap them (your lips) in that moment forever– which, no matter how good the moment is– is a nightmare scenario not to be willed upon anyone.

(Basically you’re in a living coma– a pleasure coma, but inside it’s like a well-meaning Groundhog’s Day, over which the enrapt has NO CONTROL, no ability to alter, shift, or change).

ALSO A PROBLEM: if you slip sick tongue you will steal all their dreams.
>>>watch out<<< this is how most spies work SLASH literal dreams, not figurative– a .csv file containing raw, unfriendly-formatted data of each sleep they’ve ever slept and, bonus, now they can never dream again unless you kiss it all back in (after a bad moment).

The idempotent moment

And now I love You.


1. they hid their past in that term so no would ever accidentally find it and take it seriously– too ‘feminist’ for misogynists, too condescending/pathetic for feminists

2. “… just smart enough to cause trouble” – an unhelpful tech officer explaining the situation to a superior while playing to an adbreak that doesn’t exist

3. I’m boring even myself at this point

4. Nailed it. Slash in this scenario being addicted to drugs means you have an increased desire to get real nude.

5. Don’t worry, though! You can all keep praying and fasting and cutting off fuckparts– I am not allowed to reveal which God it is and am only using the capitalized, singular/corporeal in keeping with my impudently rejected Christian heritage (which, of course, I know to be true (but deride anyways (atheist))).

6. 3 days is the legal minimum duration for a trip to be considered a Road Trip (and not just a weekend getaway).

7. actually, 1.631 times as hard

8. range: 104-112

9. moderate exercise and eating a diet high in celery should slow the growth some(therefore the 36%) but nothing can stop it except avoiding everything-and-one. Celery: flavorless, calorie-free, unpleasantly textured– it had to be there for a reason10

10. Celery: flavorless, calorie-free, unpleasantly textured– it had to be there for a raisin and then a picture of ants on a log and then the ants on a log jingle [it’s like “Beef”– the industry realizes that backlash diabetes is totally not eating their lunch]11

11. a) in this scenario you want your lunch to be eaten gross winky face yeah you do; b) backlash diabetes is the anti-Michelle version of Birthing. If you can’t forego or gut the Affordable Care Act, you can always purposely get diabetes to show you’re not a fagit [sic]

12. spoiler alert: no one ever exvocates the moments; no one even tries

13. Widow + Somewhat crummy children – $ to spare = Low quality nursing home

14. note: no matter how many times I look it up, or use it overconfidently, I still don’t (and likely never will) understand what bathos is SLASH http://www.dimfuture.net/starwars/random/generate.php/generate.php

15. just language– veracity has nothing to do with it

16. at least none as far as we can tell. Imaginary Scientists are split as to whether it’s an additional force or some kind of Cosmic Intelligence/Thin Divinity [i.e. not God, but a god or space-spirit equivalent]– a creature. Either way, anyone who studies it is eventually driven mad after falling prey to the temptation to exploit its ability to control and re-create The Moment. They see the transcendence in everything and can’t stop weeping

17. Moments exist in time not space. No mass but plenty of duration. There are various classes of moment as determined by their duration, their disbursement, their displacement, their frequency, and their intensity.18

18. It was previously thought that intensity was ‘twice-counting,’ as it was calculated as disbursement over duration. But it has since been discovered that deepfeltednesss fluctuates even when you control for D&D. It is as yet undetermined to what extent intensity is a property inherent in the Moment, or a symptom of the situation/user, but recent studies lean towards the former.19


20. don’t be gross…

21. …because I will out-gross you, EASY



January 13 2012

A. Everything you say is boring to me now.
A. I hadn’t anticipated this.
A. I liked those boring things before
A. Not just specific but in general.
A. No. Wait. … reverse it.
A. And I don’t mean that as a pejorative.
A. Boring– it’s not. I don’t see it. As a judgment term or… a, reproach?
A. It’s a flavor.
A. Like bitter or like sweet or sour.
A. Except not sweet, because, I mean.
A. I’d be lying if I said that as a taste it wasn’t acquired.
A. Boring isn’t, wasn’t something compulsively eatable.
A. I could help myself. Actually though,
A. well, no. Yes– it was.
A. Eventually.
A. In context.
A. In context
A. In context I used to love your boring.
A. Or at least like it. A lot. Genuinely.
A. Just to be present for it.
A. Just to be in it. All of it. All of the time.
A. And there was, I mean.
A. What do I mean?
A. It’s. Boring– boring is the best part. You know?
A. Was the best part.
A. I’m going on — I suppose I have more than I thought (but not really) for you.
A. Not really.
A. Because this boring is different.
A. I don’t want to say it’s flavorless because that’s insulting.
A. But that’s the only reason why.
A. It’s not nothing, it’s no anything.
A. No thing — can you dig?
A. Ugh. I had to say it, had to say it that way because, I mean.
A. Jesus.
A. This is for me.
A. You might be present but this : is all mine.
A. All me.
A. I really hadn’t anticipated the extent to which I’d have nothing for you.


January 10 2012

A. I’ll give you a dollar if you tell me the most boring thing you know.
B. Prove it.
A. You have to say it first.
B. No. Show me the dollar first. I need to SEE it.
A. I. Don’t actually have it on
B. Liar
A. But when we get back to
A. I will absolutely give you a
B. Lyre
A. sweet strumming then
B. Lye-er
A. Hey! You can impugn my integrity, you can threaten to pluck my strings, but no one– not nobody– accuses me of dissolving bodies for laughs.
B. And soap.
A. Is that what soap is made actually let’s
B. Sometimes.
A. not talk about it.
B. Some bad times.
A. Seriously. Pop pop.
B. ?
A. Imagine that sound is coming from the tugged corners of your crisp new GW,
B. Gushy Warts?
A. and not my stupid mouth
B. and dumb lips
A. Right. And my dumb lips.
B. And fat tongue.
A. My tongue’s not fat.
B. Eh.
A. If anything, I think it’s too slim.
B. Long though.
A. Oh, most definitely.
B. But also a little bulky.
A. Height-weight appropriate.
B. For Shaq maybe.
A. What, you want to Not Date the Big Daddy Diesel of tongues?
B. Not complaining, just saying.
A. Saying “Oh GOD thank you, Big Poppa Pump
B. That’s Rick Steiner
A. –of tongues. Thank you all the way–
B. Or, Scott Steiner
A. to the FACE BANK”
B. I forget.
A. Oh, yeah. You’re right
B. Which one?
A. Umm… Scott. I’m pretty sure. It’s the shitty one, right?
B. Yeah. The asshole.
A. That’s Scott.
B. Face Bank?
A. What?
B. Whose face?
A. No, it’s a bank of them.
B. Oh.
A. My tongue takes you there.
B. I don’t get it.
A. My tongue is so good you make so many faces, every amazing face, and you gotta store ’em away forever
B. Wow. Really?
A. Yeah.
B. I think it should mean your face
A. What? How?
B. Like, your tongue is taking me all the way, all the way to your face bank and
A. And then
B. then I make a deposit, there
A. In my face bank.
B. Yeah.
A. No. No, I definitely meant to a saveworthy face place.
B. Huh.
A. Either way though
B. Oh yeah, definitely.
A. *eat*
B. *sip*
A. *bite* So how ’bouty ’bout it?
B. Speaking with your mouth full?
A. *chew* No *chew* that dollar bill I wrote your name on
B. Seriously?
A. Yeah.
B. So this was a plan of yours, asking me this?
A. I didn’t think it was going to be such a struggle, but yes. It was.
B. And you, ahead of time, thought to deface legal tender but not to actually bring that legal tender with you?
A. Well I don’t want to get caught.
B. … really?
A. *chew* Yeah.
B. No.
A. What?
B. No. I’m not going to tell you.
A. What? How come?
B. I don’t like it.
A. Being boring? It’s never
B. No. I don’t like you setting up our conversations like this. It feels weird. And gross.
A. Oh come on, it’s just this one dumb
B. Also fuck you. Also: is it?
A. Yeah.
B. Really?
A. Yeah?
B. Yeaah??
A. Yeah.
A. No. It’s not.
B. How not.
A. Very?
B. How v
A. Every single one.
B. Every– All of it? All of them!?
A. No…
A. to the first one. Yes to the second.
B. Make that make sense to me.
A. I come up with something, something for every time we talk. But not everything I say is planned.
B. And the stuff that is planned?
A. Well, there’s a lot of it.
B. But how planned.
A. … pretty planned
B. How planned.
A. I, I come up with an idea. And, um
B. And.
A. And I, well, I practice.
B. To learn your lines?
A. No. I don’t write lines, not usually.
B. Not u
A. I just come up with an idea– something I want to say– something specific maybe– or a question to ask you, but one that will unfold into something rich and interesting. Or sometimes it’s more of a bit like this
B. Offering me a dollar to say something boring
A. Yeah
B. And then that was it– you come up with the idea and that’s it– the dollar thing is it.
A. Yeah…
B. …?
A. I mean, I don’t write out a whole spiel or anything. But. I practice it. Beforehand– usually kind of a lot.
B. How much is a lot.
A. I mean, it’s hard to say, because I’ll run through it in my head at work in the days leading up to our dates,
B. An estimate
A. and that’s not at full concentration, though, and
B. An hour? two hours?
A. six or seven hours?
A. Sometimes more like eight or twelve.
B. Twelve!?
A. I mean, it’s not fully concentrated though.
B. A half of an entire day?!
A. Not in a row.
B. What are you doing for half a day– standing in front of a mirror in a powder blue tux, or army surplus jacket, just… Saying it?
A. No, no. I don’t look in mirrors, I don’t say it out loud, not usually, I don’t even own a mohawk let alone a gun
B. Cute. Did you practice that line too?
A. No. I don’t. That’s not what I do.
B. No?
A. Not really. I j
B. What do
A. C’mon. I’m telling you.
B. *hand gesture*
A. Ugh. So, once I have the idea I just, kind of, imagine myself saying it to you. That’s how it starts. Then, from there, I mean– the first few times it’s just that. I’ll think of something good to say to you and then imagine saying it and you like it.
B. I always like it?
A. Not always. And if, if each time, after like six times saying it, imagining saying it and my idea of you doesn’t like it at least most of those times. Or, say, hasn’t come around to it in a big way, I just ditch it outright.
B. Quality control.
A. Exactly
B. But let’s say dark twisted fantasy me really enjoys it, is totally on board
A. It’s not like that.
B. Not like what?
A. It’s not, perverted. It’s just. It’s just,
B. Unpleasant to think about?
A. No. The opposite of that actually.
B. You sure? It seems
A. It’s that– I like thinking about you. I like being with you so I like thinking about being with you so when I’m bored, when I have to suffer through another stupid day at work, instead of thinking about my job I just think about when, I can next, be. With you. And what I can say to. To
B. To…
A. make you want to want to be, with me, as
B. Ok. No. That
A. much as I want to be with you.
B. Ok, ok. I think I got it. Let’s… just, eat.
A. But each time I ask  dreamyou the question, each time– there might be a different response because
B. *sip, eat; avert*
A. people aren’t always the same person.
B. *last bite, swallow* Can we get the check?
A. Ok, I get it. I know it’s over. That’s fine
B. *to the waitfolk* Everything was great. Excellent, really.
A. but, well, I think
B. Don’t worry. It’s my treat.
A. If everyone could find someone that they wanted to talk to even when they weren’t around, and if everyone did do that– did come up with nice things to say, and someone to say them to– and did think about how what they said would better the lives of those involved and did that– that everything would be better,
B. [already gone]
A. at least a little.
B. [but back again]
A. Now how do you feel about dollar bills?


January 2 2012

A. Tell me the most boring thing you know.
B. Bed time?
A. No. I’m still talking. We’re still talking.
B. Sure.
A. Just want to know the most boring thing you can think of, to know.
B. Sure.
A. Tell me the most boring thing you know.
B. Sky’s blue.
A. No.
B. What?
A. Boring boring.
B. Boring how?
A. Also true
B. Did the sky change.
A. It’s a reflection of the water
B. No?
A. Yeah. It’s only blue because it’s reflecting the color of the water
B. I think it’s the opposite of that
A. Water’s not red.
A. That sounds familiar actually
B. From school, I bet. Science school.
A. What makes the sky blue then?
B. Cloudy days, ozone depletion, the songs of Harry Chapin, excess black bile
A. dumbass
B. I don’t know. Water particles probably?
A. Yeah. That sounds right.
B. Or the air is made of prisms. Or nanomachines.
A. Nanomachines?
B. Tiny robots.
A. I know what nan- ok, I don’t
B. They’re, they’re little magic robots that can do anything you can’t come up with a better explanation for how it happens
A. Sounds plausible.
B. I mean, they’re real. I think. Or they will be, it’s just
A. They’re not magic yet
B. Yeah. They don’t do things.
A. What does this have to do with the sky?
B. It’s blue because of them. Now or in the future.
A. Oh. Ok.
B. We’ll control the sky that way and then everything ‘ll be ok.
A. I wasn’t aware sky color was one of our more pressing issues.
B. The weather in general.
A. Oh.
B. We’ll be able to control all of it.
A. Huh.
B. No more floods, no more drought.
A. You don’t say.
B. At least not for the rich countries
A. Do rich countries have droughts? I thought that’s why they were rich.
B. Arizona, I bet. Or parts of California. The Dust Bowl, I bet.
A. I could have sworn that was brought on by our poverty…
B. So it was one of those opportunistic natural catastrophes
A. Wealth is how we determine God’s love and when you don’t have it that’s when your guard is down
B. Harsh.
A. It’s an incentive to do good at being successful
B. Because poverty itself isn’t stick enough
A. Well apparently not
B. There’s also no more snow.
A. What? Why!?
B. Snow’s a hazard, both safety-base and bad for the economy.
A. What about for ski resorts?
B. Sure, selectively we would let it snow
A. And then skiing would be better than ever!
B. Yeah. Almost defini
A. And all those snowboard jerks would pay
B. itely I don’t follow.
A. Ski on top of their frozen corpses
B. What?
A. like moguls. Then they’ll know.
B. Why?
A. Like dumb, stupid, jerk moguls… That’s not what I meant though.
B. Yes. Repent your snowvengous ways.
A. No, not not that.
B. Not what then.
A. Not what I meant by a boring thing.
B. Not boring enough? Sky blue’s pretty basic. I mean, once nanomachines get involved I guess
A. But not a fact. Not a sentence. Tell me something really boring.
B. Why?
A. The most boring thing you know.
B. Wait, why though?
A. I’m tired. And I love you.
B. Yes?
A. Just want to hear your voice say dumb things and lay here and let it sink me to sleep.
B. Odd song.
A. No. Sink. Not sing.
B. Weird… cement , piece of.
A. Shoes.
B. Let my words be your  murder shoes.
A. Let your words be my death galoshes.
B. That’s true. If I put you in cement shoes I wouldn’t take your regular shoes off first.
A. Unless they were real fly kicks.
B. That’s true. I wouldn’t want you to soar out of it.
A. Hm? Oh, yeah. I was just trying to be hips.
B. Mm. *grab* You’re always hips.
A. Noo. Not tired enough. Not boring.
B. What? *kiss, reach some* What could be more boring than, at this point, by now, me grabbing on you, kissing your neck, and digging for fire? *dig, fire*
A. Ahn. I think. You’re. You’re *hand v. hand* You’re underestimating my ability to stay real thrilled about the 6 or 7 good things humans can do to each other
B. *one hand slides higher, more nape kisses, quarterback sneak* Are you, fake yawn, sure? Annngh. I for one couldn’t be less so.
A. Yes, yes — yes . Yes.  Yes, I’m . I’m sure, I *dogie ropes, corrals around the waist, buck-less* I’m sure.
B. Fair enough *winter naps the arms, kerchiefs the sternum, and squeezes to settle* So, boring?
A. Be it. For me. Please. Now.
B. And this is to sleep you; it’s not a secret enraptorer.
A. No, I will not become enraptored.
B. Stupit Gehl
A. Excuse me?
B. It’s , the opposite of Clevah Gehl. You know.
A. Right, right.
B. I’m not entirely pleased with it either
A. We can workshop it.
B. Ok, I feel like
A. Later.
B. Oh.
A. Boring thing. Chop chop.
B. Hm.
A. Chip chup, now.
B. I’m thinking.
A. Chirp chirp. I’m not to feather my nest here, fascinatin’ myself.
B. Aw. Baby bird. *head kiss*
A. No, chapped chump. To boring me!
B. *move a strand of hair from mis to place*
A. Chipped chirps.
B. *kiss a cheek, a real good one– cherubic*
A. Churled Serbs!
B. *another face kiss, another, and then lips*
A. Cvrld Cvbrds
B. *continuous*
A. *chilled lips*


A. Now you gotta bore me.
B. Again?
A. No. With your words. And I’m pretty sure I just bore you.
B. Words are fun.
A. Not all words. Not the ones you’re about to tell me.
B. Can’t I just boar y-
A. no.
B. Like a-
A. no.
B. Tusks.
A. *trombone lips*
B. Tusks?
A. *trumpet lips*
B. Da da Da da da Tusks!
A. No, just say dumb things for my unmusement.
B. Don’t you want to know what boaring you would entail tho?
A. Not unless it is also actually twist pun ending really boring.
B. No. *sulk/sigh* It’s super interesting.
A. Well…
B. Yes?
A. One more – but then you have to promise, Double Dog Promise, to bore the shit out of me.
B. That can certainly
A. And not in that way.
B. be, fine.
A. So?
B. Well, I.. well. It.
A. Oh c’mon.
B. I gore y
A. Gore me? With what.
B. My h
A. And if this is an Al Gore joke I swear to God I’m getting a pre-divorce
B. An nonnulment
B. I don’t know. I thought I would come up with something.
B. Probably, like, sex stuff though.
A. I’m getting in position *rubs a sleep groove into the sheets, full bodied*
B. Ok, ok. I’ll start ‘boring’ you.
A. Start?
B. Ah. Clever. Fun.
A. *nustles head into sheet, two words I can’t read, deep rips, then rests on A. Full Body Press*
B. Ok. You ready.
A. So ready. So.
B. Ok. When I was six.
A. Too interesting.
B. No, it’s really not.
A. I know so little of your life. Each bit is at least a little something, and the older the bit the moreso.
B. Fine.
A. But it can’t just be facts though
B. I know somebody
A. *nustle*
B. I don’t actually know them, not– I don’t know their name or anything but I see them everyday. Well, not everyday, but sometimes.
A. So far so good.
B. It’s not too broken up?
A. No. That helps. But, only in small doses or else it becomes frustrating, so, yes. Smooth it out now.
B. We see each other at the crosswalk, outside of work. Usually on the way there, but sometimes on the way back, and, rarely, both.
A. So they work in the same building as you?
B. No. We’re headed in opposite directions.
A. Hm. That threatens to be intrigueful…
B. Are you supposed to be talking? I thought you wanted to sink
A. I can do both.
B. If you want to drown quicker…
A. Except in this case the opposite, no, you’re right. I’ll shut it.
B. Thank you.
A. *smile*… *nod*
B. Right. So every… three mornings or so, and every… seven or nine afternoons, I see this person.
A. *nod on chest*
B. And it has gotten to the point where I recognize them. Well, obviously. I couldn’t be telling you this otherwise.
A. *look up*
B. And I’ve been debating if I should start acknowledging them or not.
B. I mean, they– we don’t usually make eye contact, but I think it’s because they’re avoiding my eye contact. *look down*
A. *opens eyes wide to ‘and…’ or ‘so…’*
B. I know they know I notice them. I’m sure of it. And, it’s not like, it’s not like they look away or anything– I’ve never actually seen her avert me, it, my eye contact, I haven’t. But… but I can just tell. They let their focus go soft. They don’t want to have to know me for some reason.
A. *eyes open, head to chest; awake*
B. If I could. Get their attention, have them acknowledge me. That’s just want I want. Or, what, I mean. But.
A. So, you have a crush on a stranger.
B. What? No.
A. What. Yes.
B. Maybe?
A. Ok.
B. I guess it’s not that boring.
A. It is a little, just not for me.
B. Sorry.
A. Really?
B. Sorry.
A. Huh.

Just Like Christmas

December 22 2011

The perfect theme for travel day. Or any day. Well, Christmas day in particular. But, still.

I like those drums so much that I ripped them off for two songs I didn’t write (because I can’t write music). But if I could, “I’m Not A Very Good Person To Be In A Relationship With” and “Isabelle Huppert” would plagiarize this. Or, “I’m Not A Very Good Person (To Be In A Relationship With),” just for parentheses sake. This is a toughie.

“(I’m Not A Very Good Person) To Be In  A Relationship With” would be too arch.

Anyways, listen to this and fall in love again. Again, preferably with Christmas, but it’s so good I would say it’s not limited to just that. With snow, with Oslo, with Low (certainly), with Duluth, Minnesota, with me gesture gesture, with … beds.



I love you!


December 21 2011

One, well two, of my most prized possessions are a pair of VHS tapes that have been in my family for generations (assuming we use the more practically applicable definition in which a generation is, like, 7 or 12 years or so– enough time so that your references fly over heads, slang seems genuinely baffling, and the bands of your youth make their accustomed lifestyle money milking the reunion circuit with full album performances of the when people actually liked, or theme cruises, or both (Weezer) or enjoy a disturbing second life you don’t understand amongst folks not even born yet when they originally hit big (Green Day)).

He still looks like a child. An old child.

What Even Is This?


One of my most prized possessions is a pair of VHS tapes basically as old as myself. We got a VCR pretty early and, lucky for me, my parents were pretty into taping things off TV. The Mary Martin version of Peter Pan, Winnie the Pooh, Disney’s demi-live-action trilogy (Mary Poppins,1 Bedknobs and Broomsticks, and Pete’s Dragon), Lady and the Tramp, Ghostbusters, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Star Wars, I think those last two may have been me, Superman II But With A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving Taped Over Part Of It, and Et Cetera. Anyways, I watched these things into the ground, none moreso than the two tapes upon which we taped All The Christmas Specials (Every Single One Of Them).

The tapes have the All-Timers, the Mega Classics, the Four Lions of Jihad Crossout Font Christmas Cheer, the Oh Wait I Should Have Said ‘The Christmas Mount Rushmore’– Chestnuts!: A Charlie Brown Christmas, Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer, The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, and Frosty the Snowman. Of COURSE they have those —>> O.B.V.I.2

And the next tier down, too: Christmas Eve on Sesame Street , Sesame Street vs. Muppets Christmastime Clusterfuck, A Garfield Christmas Special Might Be Included On This Tier, Also Maybe A Chipmunk Christmas (The One With The Harmonica and ‘Money Money Money’)?, the Pee Wee’s Playhouse Christmas Special, and the feel-bad trilogy of the season Mickey’s Christmas Carol.


Why are they such dicks to their uncle and how did they not all die! Why do Chip and Dale gotta torture Pluto and why doesn’t Mickey believe him! Man’s best friend indeed slash I forgot about the one where Goofy is terrible at skiing! I guess it’s a quadrilogy! And what if my tape cut off when Uncle Scrooge gets sent to hell?! It didn’t, but for someone I bet it did!

The Nightmare Before The Nightmare Before Christmas

Straight To Hell

And then you have your The Night Before Christmas‘s, which I thought was ubiquitous until I was met with blank unknowing stares when I would try to rouse a round of “Even A Miracle Needs A Hand,” as well as your real shitpits like Apparently There Was A Saturday Morning Cartoon Of Snow White And It Had A Christmas Special Of Some Kind, and The Smurfs. But that’s not the point.

What Even Is-er This?

The point is, my parents in taping things off TV were inconsistent about their dedication to skipping the ads. Sometimes this would result in missing entire scenes from a movie so that I didn’t see the credits to Star Wars until those mid-90s re-releases. Other times they would remember thirty seconds into the ad, which would make skipping the ads for future me a real trick (especially pre-VCR-remote). But on occasion they would forego even trying and let every single ad through. I still can’t watch Ghostbusters without expecting that next week ABC will be showing Who’s Harry Crumb?, and I still can’t watch a Christmas special without thinking “Scared Ya! Didn’t I?!”. And That Is Why These Tapes Are The Best

This isn’t what they showed, but the internet doesn’t have what they showed/EVERY STOCK JOKE IN THE WORLD

The following is an anthology of some of the ads I remember from my VHS tapes. Each one is like a time capsule into which I’ve shoved a tiny piece of my heart. It was a poor choice, as for each one you watch you get that heartpiece and I’m down 0.00031% blood refresh capacity. It doesn’t sound like a lot, but it adds up.


Playskool Dinosaurs – “Scared Ya Didn’t I?”

Me and my sister can still sing this. Probably not every word– def not that second verse– but both “we can play with them real rough” and “Scared Ya – Didn’t I?” are basically trigger phrases. I hope to never learn/remember for what. Also: that kid sells it real good. Why isn’t he still doing anything? Or is he John C. Reilley now? Stepped in some kind of time pool, maybe, or travelled a light decade and then returned to Earth?

Note: so the guy who posted this video 4 years ago apparently had the exact same experience I had feat. some of the same ads. Sad/no wait, pretend it’s good somehow?

Honey Nut Cheerios – Bob Cratchit Bee

I would have felt much less sympathy for Tiny Tim if he was lived in a wax cell/was a grub. Scrooge was probably in the right– quit mystery dying and get back to work, Bees!

Child World/Children’s Palace – I Couldn’t Find One For Child World/Children’s Palace

I couldn’t find the campaign I remembered for Child World / Children’s Palace where they super heavily featured the castle, but this instead! I actually collected these before he died, so– that’s two-ish!3

Wendys, Apparently – Indoor Tent Safari of World Wildlife Fund Stuffed Animals

The night of their hunt always felt so nightlike, even when watching this during the day, or in college 17 years later. I do miss the amateurishness of child actors circa before Home Alone / I could have sworn this was McDonald’s.

Fruity Pebbles – The Sharing Season

Every so often you should probably just yell at people, “YOUR Pebbles!?” Or say something more applicable but in that voice. “Did you get my enrollment forms I faxed? I really need eligibility so I can get my kids glasses” “YOUR kids!?” Eh. Let’s workshop it / wait for a natural bridge.

McDonald’s – This Star Thing
“We Own The Stars”- McDonald’s
I know I was there, and that I saw it, and that it did actually happen, but I’m still skeptical that Ronald McDonald was ever a thing. How? How come? Why? Why.

Toys R’ Us – I Remember There Being A Seemingly Rather Long Low-Key Version of Toys R’ Us Kid Where Geoffrey Was Wandering Through The Cavernous Halls Of A Toys R’ Us Or Maybe It Was A Dream Because I Can’t Find It

Halls – Of Medicine

This felt real convincing as an ‘other place’ in a time before Packard Bell desktops and when you were dumber than a box of cough drops.

Finally – This One I Didn’t Notice Until Much Later

When editing software gets sophisticated + easy to use enough = this + Tree of Life. Such a smug dance he does, eating them. Even Barry Obama was a sad jerk with an ill-advised halfro once.


YOUR ill-advised halfro?!?




1. my favorite movie until Independence Day came along. Well, that and A Coal Miner’s Daughter (also taped off TV)
2. Only Buffoons Voice Inane… shit
3. Number one being (actually pretty nuts) guessing that Christopher Hitchens would die within the next 24 hours in the post I posted on the day Christopher Hitchens died.