Wednesday, December 23, 2009

Snow White Red

So dense with falling clumps of truth you can hardly taste a foot in front of you. Dense, blinding, and clear. Creeps up on the conversation you've been planning for, and then there it is and, of course, is different from what you were expecting. Announces itself as just what you were hoping for, a dark plummy syrup smeared out across the lens of that night and made translucent, still runny, still opaque, but thin now, and everywhere.

Sweet. Torrential. Release.

Dark sweeps of disorientation, sunshine, and a land so buried in its own positive outlook it names its public restrooms after different forms of kindness. The password is happy and so is everything else.

Announces itself with so much brass and glory, such pulsing speed, such god damned presence, it can be no more ignored than a heart beat, no more controlled than one, no more predicted than one. There's one chance to catch your breath and one chance only: Take it or not, you will be seized by the moment.

A false finish of satisfaction, though incomplete, then hits you hard hours later at 40,000 feet and 8 hours from anywhere with stroke after stroke of how much more there could have been to it, and that's just the first sip. Unusual in that it gets stronger as it evaporates. When the bottle's gone empty and dusty, still something bangs around the deep of the heart, demanding attention, asking for care, seeking tender understanding, and wanting, and wanting, and wanting.

Saturday, December 19, 2009

UnAvailable VineYards - InsIncere Sancerre

A long, long time ago there was a reason to get out of bed in the morning and that reason had blonde hair and that reason had skin like strawberries if strawberries could be what they dream they are and that reason had class and experience and understood you and understood your pain and understood that you couldn't change even though you wanted to more than anything and understood that when you said you wanted to change you meant it in your bones and understood that you would definitely fail and understood that you didn't understand this and had lips like the deep and bloody pools of honest combat, and could stand up to you and could dominate you and could make you feel 100 feet tall and had blonde hair that sang in electric light and was incandescent and rose up off the palate in gentle waves like the distortion of heat off a metal car hood and its one of the things you did miss about the past and she was clear about what she wants, clearer than you, clearer than anyone you've known before her but it didn't make her less complicated and it didn't do anything to shallow out her mystery and despite all that was still characteristic of the region in terms of both forward thinking political views and minerality and had blonde hair which could also be called flaxen or goldenrod or peach or sunshine or egg yolk or pineapple or which gave rise to a frantic search for a place to land as the flavor profile expanded and grew to include room for experiment and deliberate or almost deliberate vagueness which is after all what attracted you to each other in the first place and was it not your fault, insisting as you did that the trial period be called a trial period, that it ended when it did and the way it did, and was it furthermore not your own doing that the notes of cherry fell to the granite wheel of unintentionally oaky pillow, and who could forget the blonde hair that didn't really look anything like a sunrise but which nonetheless, like sunrise, was the first thing on your mind when you woke up and, in that regard, nothing changed from before the split until after the split, in terms of the first thing you thought about upon waking being the same both before and after even though the implications of that early morning wistfulness changed dramatically especially in terms of what follow-up action was available to you, specifically a move away from a climate of productive possibility to one defined by the inappropriateness of any action at all, and isn't that why you started drinking at all and isn't that why you were moved to browse the shelves of the wine shops in the first place knowing full well that whatever purchase you made would end up as your exclusive company that evening and the next and perhaps would make its presence known even the next morning rather than taking whiskey in a bar where it belongs and where the price point was too high, much too high to make it a reasonable proposition considering how many you planned to put away and isn't her blonde hair the reason you choose white instead of red so that you can live out your silent homage to her even though there were things you could have done to prevent this point from arriving and there is still the possibility of a proto-effervescence or an illusory one that is part of what give the pairings such coarse elegance and there is something in the background that recalls your reason to get out of bed in the morning a long, long time ago.

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Joe Lieberman Vouvray

Lousy. Childish without being childlike. A vapid whining bully of ignoble rot. An absolute waste of space on the shelf. If one is unfortunate enough to receive a bottle from a 'friend,' under no circumstances should it be opened. Pouring it down the toilet will only stink up the sewers. The only safe way to dispose of it is to encase the unopened bottle in thick concrete and bury it far away from any crops, hospitals, or boneyards (cracked bottles have been known to make the very dead rise up and flee its pestilential stench.)

Say its name three times to summon it and finally fulfill the freudian death wish. Notes of fermented mouse corpse trapped in a cigar box under the bed of a murdered panther. Jets of racism, extremism, and stupidity. A strong jammy finish of gang rape and olive brine. Do not drink it. It is a sin against mankind. It is a sin against yourself. It makes your mother cry. It makes your children run away. It makes your S.O. break up with you. It makes you sick. It makes your sports hero screw a hooker behind a dumpster in an IHOP parking lot and not even think to maintain a second, secret, cell phone. It breaks the windows in your neighborhood. It spreads crack to the ghetto. It spreads opium to China. It spreads AIDS to Stonewall. It is a bad bad wine.

Origin: Benedict Arnold's unwiped asshole
Varietals: Whatever was left after the vineyard was burned down by the Klan
Food Pairing: Impossible to keep any food down while drinking

Monday, December 14, 2009

Dusty Fuck

It's back, bitches. What's back, bitches? Why, the red glowing phosphorescent plumped-out pregger-bun cascading over the basic and understated veldt is back, bitches. That's what's back, bitches. Tortured black hard enamel is back, bitches. Grass and pine is back, bitches. On the back, bitches. In the back, bitches. Out the back, bitches. As the way back, bitches.

Yes, you may notice what we call a proto-contraction. True contraction has not been applied and never will be. Nonetheless, the tongue picks up on subtlety of flavor that release a contractual sort of impetus. An impetus so juicy, so ripe, so melting, so full, so harmonic, so messy, so greasy, so limpid, so languid, so rotting, so cool, so dark, so wet, so pungent, so thick, that it demands an oxford comma.

List me in the book of life for a sweet new year and try not to get any mud on the carpet while you're dicking about in the library, donated by and dedicated to a truly healthy set of tanins. It sags in the middle under its own weight. It spreads itself out like a fucking evil king. A real food wine.

Origin: Christian Malta
Varietal: Ha!
Food Pairing: Red red meat. Red meaty red meat. Red bloody fatty meaty red blood-meat.

Saturday, June 13, 2009

Future Suture

The bloat and fall of Chinese Food. The Chinese Food Restaurant grew into Twelve Chinese Food Restaurants, One for each Borough and there are rumors of a Thirteenth Chinese Food Restaurant, a Secret Chinese Food Restaurant that will free Us All from the crippling Chinese Food Drought brought on by the the Unfortunate Paucity of Things Which Are Breaded And Fried, of Goopy Sauce, of Misunderstood Orders, of the Tang and Zip of the Downtown Train as it comes to a screeching stop over the Precipice of The Future.

The sidewalk cracks and vines come spilling up, spinning round and round looking for something to grasp onto, alien life that is also our own parents or grandparents or something. When the vines find the iron rails of the prison they begin to rip it apart, but they are slow, too slow to help the current crop of slaves but promising a future without prisons, hospitals, or houses; without man, woman, or child, except those who are able to adapt to changing vine-related circumstances and can abandon civilization in favor of hunting, gathering, fishing (which is like hunting,) stealing (which is like gathering,) and without fire and without complicated language. What will the vines leave for their once and future and cultivators? Something between grunts and unsplit infinitives, something between dying of exposure and living forever in an international space station, something between fists and missiles. The first couple generations of prisoners suffer from the taking hold of the vines, lose the little sunlight they had been rationed by the overseers, greening it to dim. The vines work, tearing it all down, dusting it to soil, isolating the poison isotopes, the power plants, the cancer particles, the dams, the bridges, the art, the parade grounds, the bottled spices, the candle light vigils, the velvet roped ruins. All crumbs. Slow and steady ends the race.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

16 Hours Before The Surprise Death

After dropping rhymes like nickel bags all over the neighborhood, 16 distinct trees grow in a big circle around the house. It's hard to remember a time before they stood full size and the question of were they ever saplings is, every time, superseded by the question of were you ever young? Thick sap wastes itself on bugs and birds and the pancakes inside the house go naked. Piney green herb aroma floats up in an illegal cloud but the law of man can't reach here, except for one, except for the ones that insist upon themselves even without handcuffs, without cells, without solitary confinement and cruel and unusual torture, without the benefit to the town that the prison brings, without the largely underground hypermodern facility above which new parks and playgrounds can be built, without the sodium pentathol, the electric chair, the thumbscrews, the death of man, the my house now, the sound and the fury, the dancing lights, the will o' th' wisps, the will of the people, the wills of the masons, the secrets of NYMH, the NYC transit hub, the garden, the guard who always lies, the guard who never lies, the column of hands that talk and see and lift and drop, the crystal balls that are part glam, part magic, part illusion, that explode into horrible drills that kidnap babies that take too much for granted that are in danger; horrible danger; that do not know what the high line is but curate the high line festival that are impressed by new zealand folk comedy singing that is way more serious than it seems but isn't saving anyone's life today; by this, by that, by this and that; by and by; by and by; by and by the trees turn brown and yellow and shed all over the ground and the weeds grow up and are hard to tell apart except that the weeds don't come out of the ground as easily as the flowers, and the weed turns brown and dries out and a lot of it ends up getting wasted, and the willows still don't understand why everyone thinks they're depressed all the time when they're just trying to provide shelter, and the woodpeckers fly south and are annoying, and the penguins fly north and are extinct, and the dodos run in circles and perform great feats of calculus, and the dinosaurs evolve into birds and are much less beautiful and sing much less sweetly and are much smaller and are much stupider and are still warm blooded and at least they can fly now, that's something.

Little puffs of herbal smoke come up from the chimney, each one the exorcism of an unintended consequence, a repression, and tomorrow.

Monday, June 8, 2009

For You See, It Was The Sequel

Opening this week at the Casa Del Tupedo in Temperate Climate: For You See, It Was The Sequel, an evening of comic one-acts written and directed by Maryanne Washington.
For You See, It Was The Sequel is a hilarious night of sketch comedy, performed by a stellar cast of Temperate Climate residents including Q. Pillard Rushmore, William Tell, Al Sharpton, Phillip Glass and Jazz Man Bluestockings. The humor is outrageous and irreverent - If you’re not offended, you haven’t been listening.
For You See, It Was The Sequel will be performed at the Casa Del Tupedo, Temperate Climate Avenue in Temperate Climate on June 12 and 13 at 8 p.m. and June 14 at 3 p.m., and the following week on June 18 and 19th at 8 p.m. Tickets are $15, seniors $10.

Seating is limited, so reserve now! 516-676-615, or e-mail exclamation point@!.com

@For You See, It Was The Sequel contains adult material, and is not recommended for children@

Sunday, June 7, 2009

||Z||z||Z|\/||.||\/|Z||z||Z||

Sort of a dopey expression on the face signifying possible deep vacancy or stupidity, although it could just be the heat. Things assembled wrong, or not assembled at all, or not fully assembled. Clean clothes dropped in the hamper or sent to the dry cleaner's rather than just being put away because of laziness, or obsessive compulsiveness, or fear, or confusion. A bedroom full of beer bottles, over 300 liters of Jack Daniels consumed in one year of sleeping on the floor of receiving facebook updates from the not yet divorced wife living in the house that two people paid for petting the dog that two people trained and raising the kids that she brought into the marriage in the first place. The bitter root taste of not having fought for custody, for togetherness, for the tv remote when those things had meaning, the deepening metal on the back of the tongue of the complete utter total full pregnant weighty dripping laden loaded extra fried extra noodled extra bread extra tea-line extraneous things that swim up from the bottom of the ocean or float there or not the ocean but the deep dark lake, the green water, the slippery mossy rocks, slimy even and unclimable, the understanding that the shore isn't getting any closer but the muscles are definitely tiring and the numbers might not be with the swimmer in this particular case. Over 100,000 swimmers drown every day in Burgundy. Over 99,312 construction workers get coked up and drive their pick ups into the very building they're supposed to be working on, ending their lives and destroying the work of their peers. Over 100,688 flamingos get sucked into jet engines every hour between Orlando and Miami and Mickey Mouse has started reciting one big eulogy for all of them instead of giving each one the respect of individual attention. It's a cold world sometimes, but other times there's a draining heat that can be confused with unforgivable laziness, stupidity, or heartlessness. When the coffee grows tumors of ice and the stoop sales spring up like fungus and the outdoor seating becomes more precious than water and water becomes more precious than gold and gold is the only thing anyone trusts anymore since the bottom fell out and the little naked boys go running around the park delighting in their own scandal, the fluster on their mothers' faces, the confusion of the strangers' looks/not-looks, the fountains become preciouser and preciouser and the tropics aren't what they used to be.

I pant. You pant. He, she, or dog pants.

Saturday, June 6, 2009

Over Seize Buoy

Starts out with a triangle cut out of the back revealing the back. Leaves little to the imagination, but for some reason the eye and pelvis are focused on that bit of missing geometry, rather than say, the bare legs, the bare shoulders, or the liquid curves. It doesn't matter which side of the road traffic ought to be driving on, it gets stopped just the same. No real rival can be as charming as the ones made up of bits and pieces of movies and paranoia. That there are flights every day brings comfort which turns to ash quickly at the thought of how little there is to liquidate, or how little sense it would make to be spontaneous and how long the situation is going to go on for, how many opportunities there are for cheating, for rethinking, for getting distracted, for outgrowing, for forgetting, for abandoning, for being swept up in the things that exist over there that don't exist over here. The old buildings, the very old churches, the bright lights, the green fields, the late hours, the strong whiskey, the international vibe, the old world charm, the new world charm, the opportunities, the opportunities.

In between is the chance to drop out of the sky without any warning and, presumably drown, but perhaps become stranded on an island, whether magical or secular. That, on the way to experience love, the lover may end up in a straw-drawing situation the wages of which are death and being eaten, or may revert to a frightening animal state and know that the trip was only being taken on behalf of the still faithed in relationship and that feeling of responsibility, deserved or forced may be enough to cauterize the last open heart parts.

Or else the plain lands safely and the lights of the city which seems to exist only as life support for the airport, for the runway, are brilliant and varied, much more so than the lights of the night sky that had seemed so special, seemed to spell out love's own name for the past many hours. The being nowhere and nothing and unreachable from above or below, the knowing that there may be a seismic shift, a fall of man, a change of perspective but riding it as the degree of change rides change.

The missing triangle of purple fabric haunts the mind's eye, is pointy like anger, is flimsy like the foundation it's time to admit. Everybody's got the right to be happy, but everybody's got the right to be happy.

Friday, June 5, 2009

Office Party Fractide

Bright light from under the crack in the door and a girl who ended up with a typewriter and paper for some lazy reason. The negligence of replacing manifest cruelty for any sort of honestly arrived at horror of the soul. Darkness of the cellar for actual night time. Blood and guts that can be listed off in neat pointless columns. Torture porn and Mommy, why is that lady crying? The true bankruptcy is evident in the requirement that the rape victim be beautiful, hot, or beautiful. Scourge out the Oxford Commas and leave me the fillings. How fast can you eat a box of Glazed Popems. Dutch Mill makes the best and they're good for you if you don't read the outside of the box.

Any asshole can make something gross, but only a stand up comedian can make something scary. Girls wear expensive jeans cut to boy specifications, ignoring hips and lowering the crotch, and worn down to look like they belong to the boyfriend waiting at home in the apartment cooking dinner, out drinking with the boys and soon ready to rut, working late in a black windowed office to support the cobb salads and mimosas of tuesday lunch with the girls, to pay for the boyfriend jeans, who traded in his motorcycle for a brand name stroller and swaddling cloth, who accidentally brought down the world economy and spilled coffee on his jeans, simulated on hers, by toxic artificial coffee ring made in New Jersey and pumping sewage out into the swimming pools of the suburban lives. There's sprawl and then there's sprawl and both are rich soil for more malls. Neighborhoods are defined by the size, number, and names of the dogs found therein. Also how likely are the dogs to be wearing dog clothes? Anyone who puts a dog in clothes will be first against the wall when the revolution comes, when America inevitable goes Socialist, for, you see, black people are all on the same team, and they're gonna play these white people for their freedom, so don't have a sore tendon on Saturday.

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

Shen Wei Dance Arts responds to Ernesto Neto's anthropodino, with FLUX Quartet and special guests

Interesting capitalization all over. Impossible not to read too much into the ups and downs, but look at the old iron ceiling, the old iron bars. The unique sameness of it all. Smatterings of getting pantsed in dogeball class once upon a time even though the old iron clock and long stopped ticking by the time that, or any, idea became relevant.

Fortunately, all this precedes time. Natural? No, one could not call it natural with it's synthetic hole punched walls and its plastic and its children. But the dripping is familiar, despite being stopped at an arbitrary moment, or a moment not so arbitrary but perhaps selected out of one thousand and one possibilities by a mind that percolates randomness itself. The crying sweetness comes from that the liquid froze without changing form. The laws of liquid still apply but not the laws of gravity maybe, or just, we're dealing with another set of laws here that we don't have names for because we're only discovering them right now. Together and no one's allowed to take pictures so how are we going to present this to the academy? Fluidity without a medium. Supercooled this and quantum that, whatever, but the ineffable feeling of the best of nature without so much as an approving nod from that sexy old lady brings up something like relaxation, but less settling. Least settling of all is at the finish the contortions that are at once what everything before settles into and at the same time the least restive moment.

There's never been life like the life embodied in those dusty dead bodies. One with black eyes selects me and is close enough to touch and then is gone and I can not follow her. I can follow her but I am afraid to see her return to her grave. I can move but I am not sure that my muscles belong to me. My limbs have grown so light that they have turned to gas and taken the shape of their container. My organs have leached out and been fossilized; stockingified. This whole thing would have been shipped off to make parachutes for the allies, but, luckily, this war doesn't count and so there's room for the wailing of mountain instruments and just the cutest little hipster chick on bassoon. My brain is full of turmeric and clove and the sweet smelling crowd can overwhelm me anytime,

although i don't like it when i get told i'm not allowed to interact in certain ways. The holes in the walls are one size fits all, exactly with space for your arm or my arm and the idea of not putting an arm through them is simply unrealistic.


The greater chills come from a simple lift resembling something humans would do, but without the connection humans would have to have. Would have to. The grave illusions lead each other to ground. The one with black eyes breathes the cold air of the future on all her inevitable quarry and then washes her face and forgets herself and herself and herself and me and herself and herself.

Saturday, May 30, 2009

.b&w.

The blue regret knocks you off your feet, maybe into the thorns and brambles next to the road. The blue regret gives you poison ivy.
The white regret is bright and blinding and makes it hard to look at anything else. The white regret attaches chains to ankles and weights to chains. The white regret is solitary confinement, which all the studies say is cruel and unusual, in that it causes insanity.
The blue regret is around things that can be hidden with effort. The white regret is around that which can't not be hidden. Public versus personal. Man versus self. Firemen versus justice.
The blue regret is as expansive as the sky. The wind propels its little sails into maelstroms of up and up and up. The white regret is a mist that takes the shape of its container and is heavy and hard and makes movement impossible.

In this example, there is hardly any blue. There is some blue, but the white blocks it out, as the white distracts from anything not so white as it. The lines are twisted together, can not be separated, are brothers in bitterness, in paralysis, in deep drowned bones that turn into coral, eyes that turn into pearls, hopes that turn white, plans that turn white, attempts that turn blue, people that turn white, children that are never born, ideas that are never conceived, blue and white wine that turns to vinegar in the cellar.

Thursday, May 28, 2009

I can't _____ when I can't _____ w/ you.

There's a cerealical roundness to the body, if that's not redundant. It's true even if it is redundant. Things which pertain to cereal tend to be round, for example: spoons, udders, oats, froot loops, cheerios, oreos, bowls, morning hugs, balanced diets, wide eyed bewonderment, morning routines, healthfulness, diabetes, sweet dreams, and you don't have to wake me when it's over.

Also to the body an exposed midriff is, and you gotta admire her confidence, don't you? It helps that she's the hottest little number Kensington, but still, that body, you wouldn't expect it. She's got a kind of a cerealic roundness to her belly, a belly type that's not represented in Maxim, FHM, Taut Belly Monthly, or Midriff Laffs. You gotta admire her confidence, but there's still the question of is that appropriate to teach school in?

Contrary to popular belief, it is not only radical lesbian feminists who find fat old limestone venuses erotic. Other kinds of radical lesbians do too.

The body cavity is red and irritated because the giant's heart is constructed partially of thorns. The striated muscle is checkered with them and they point in every direction and put him in a bad bad mood. You would be too if you had a heart full of thorns. Good luck though, the townspeople are gathering all their turquoise and they're going to melt it down or do what you do with a bunch of turquoise and build a new heart and then their plan is to knock the giant out, surgify him, and put the new turquoise heart inside his body. The hope then is that he will stop raping and pillaging their butts and they can then get back to the things they like, like mining turquoise. There's a certain celearical logic to all this. Doesn't make it not true though. Nothing is truer than lies (except truth, obviously.)

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Sk*op

Stop trying.

completely, letting stable, planful, superego, letting the very it takes door of foyer, the umbrellas drip.

there entire house, house, a the house Korean sauna pile of.

room made is a and there steam and. There is tart and made of another made made of room made is a and there cubism and. There is questions and made of another made made a room there is quanta made of another made a room there is dry and of denim daring and and another another made made of room there around each question and in the is in the house keeps the earth runs cool earth and the and flowing happens. That's.

the kitchen the foyer, possible and hidden beneath the room still trying you're not in the.

even close, come in.

gold sauna
red sauna

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Skinpop

Stop trying to understand.

Letting go completely, letting go of everything precious, stable, planful, letting go of the superego, letting go completely is only the very beginning. It's only what it takes to open the first door of the first antechamber, the foyer, the little room where the umbrellas drip in the corner.

Between there and answers lies the entire house, and it's a big house, a many roomed house, like the house in Clue, like a Korean sauna castle, like a big pile of house.

There is a room made of gold and there is a room made of ice and there is another made of steam and another made of grass. There is a room made of tart and there is a room made of spinning and there is another made of feathers and another made of leather. There is a room made of email and there is a room made of wine and there is another made of cubism and another made of serialism. There is a room made of questions and there is a room made of collars and there is another made of brick and another made of clay. There is a room made of ringtone and there is a room made of quanta and there is another made of call and response and another made of racism. There is a room made of delft and there is a room made of dry and there is another made of denim and another made of daring and another made of drunk and another made of dreary and another made of dicta and another made of dust. And in each room there is a thing and around each thing there is a question and the answers are all in the kitchen and the kitchen is in the deepest part of the house where the cool earth keeps the produce and the hot earth runs the stove and the cool earth is dark and soft and the hot earth is red and flowing and that's where it happens. That's where we bake.

But the kitchen is far away from the foyer, as far away as possible and the trap door is hidden beneath an ornate rug and the room is locked and you're still trying to understand which means you're not even close to getting in the house at all.

Not even close, but you're welcome to come in when you're ready.

the gold sauna
the ice sauna
the red sauna
the blue sauna

Monday, May 18, 2009

The Importance of Aging

There are new frightening pains, spots on the windshield, and yes, visibility is reduced. At the same time though, simple moments matter more. It turns out they aren't simple at all.

Light breaks through the clouds. It takes clouds for that to happen and sunlight, which means insane chemical reactions millions of miles away. It reminds me of the first time we went to the islands, and light broke through the clouds in a similar way. The same light. Different clouds. I haven't seen your body in twenty years. Is it different? Mine is.

It also reminds me of God's white hair, which he dyes black for his high school reunion, but otherwise leaves natural. Every time he lets a little light through the clouds it's just to remind me of that time in the islands. I thought, there will always be another opportunity. I thought, there will always be more of this. I thought, maybe I don't want this because I have it already. I thought, happiness is my birthright. I thought, happiness is only in stories. I thought, I have all the time in the world. I thought, it's too soon. I thought, grab it while I can, and I did, I grabbed you, but you were so hot that I let go and dropped you and you shattered into a million pieces on the tile floor. I thought, I should sweep you up myself but instead I left your pieces there and your dust to be hosed away next spring.

The gang's all broken up you know. Did you know? Do you know? Have you been back to the restaurant at all? It's all strangers there now except for the new people. Our new people. Their old people.

One of the new people, the boy with the curly hair, asked me about you. I said I didn't know what you were doing, but of course I do know. I have tv. I have newspapers. I get your messages. I see the lines behind the lines. They write about gaza, I see your green eyes. They write about baseball, I see your boobs. They write about Canada, I remember the time in the islands. Remember we had no food to eat. Remember we got creative.

One of the new people asked me about you and I punched him right in the face. Who is he to ask me about you? What does he know about what drew us together and what pulled you away. What did pull you away? Was it me pushing you? Is that what pulled you away?

Do you have white hair now? I don't have white hair, I have no hair. I didn't believe you had really left for over a year. Your second birthday in a row. The second time there was no email , no contact. The second time I wasn't involved in your life. The second birthday after you left I decided to tell people you'd left, but by then I didn't know any people.

I still don't know any people. There's all these new people at the restaurant now. They don't remember how we used to do things.

Saturday, May 16, 2009

BClhoesrsroym Girl

It can pray every day but it won't help with the green skin. The green skin represents some kind of molting. It feels sick. The room spins. The great outdoors isn't so great and is too far away anyway. Pressure behind the eyes mean pressure on the mind.

Then, all at once, things clear up. The air thins. The auto-tune becomes actual singing. The million dollar prize gets cancelled. Hunting season ends. The truth is written on a fortune cookie. The pills start working again. The calls get made. The call backs get made. The instruments play themselves.

All is light, ease, shadowy warmth, breeziness. It's raining eggs. It's raining life. It's raining green grass.

She opens her eyes, so big they encompass the whole grove, the whole world. So big they even make room for the past.

Come my love, step into the garden of roses. This is the evening of roses. This is the evening that comes every seven years when there is no war. This is the morning of roses. This is the morning of dewdrops. Neither of us have to put on our uniforms this morning. Neither of us have to clean our rifles. Neither of us have to get our tickets punched.

Defending the garden of roses is exhausting. I am exhausted. You are exhausted. He, she, or it is exhausted. Don't step on the egg. Don't let anyone else step on the egg. Don't touch the egg to move it to some place safe. Don't scare off the mother by getting too near the egg. Don't sit on the egg to keep it warm. Don't imprint yourself on it. Let the egg hatch into a baby rosebush. Be careful not to cut yourself in the garden of roses or roses will grow from the cut and you will end up roses.

Someone is throwing cinnamon around. Someone is singing quietly. Someone is extinguishing a candle in a dented tin cup of wine. Someone else is in the garden with us, or someone will be, or someone was.

Friday, May 15, 2009

Feliz Yo Mamma

Come all ye christians and learn from a sinner, Santa Fe. There were birds all around, but I was sixteen going on seventeen. Remember when the bloods circled us and did the mexican hat dance? There was lemon then. There was cinnamon.

Look at this stuff, isn't it neat? Wouldn't you say I'm the counterpoint? The counterpoint that's got everything? I am the very model of a modern major counterpoint. The minor key is for adolescents and people with shallow minds.

There's a heartbreaking story at the center of all this. A tale of love and loss and things that never got a chance to be. Eggs which never hatched. Blankets never woven. I held you til you fell asleep and then I woke up and found out I was just a car. Did you have fun fun fun til your daddy took me away? I know I did.

Nobody wants to have to crawl through the sewer pipe in the pitch dark, hunched over, things moving around the ankles, hunting for something poisonous but necessary. These are the positions we find ourselves in when first we begin to wonder why. Pass around the bottle and everybody put a note inside. On the other shore they may find them and not be able to read our language but they may send help anyway. Or else they may try to conquer us, a fool's errand, we who meet on the streetcorners, we who are already conquered, we who believe in fate.

Do you believe in fate? Believe in fate. It's burning up the quarter mile.

Thursday, May 14, 2009

Broo # 365

The ode to bitter things didn't go over as well as planned. It may have been because nobody likes bitter things.

Buddhists like bitter things if they are meant to be bitter, but not if they are meant to be sweet. Have you seen the tapestry of the three vinegar tasters? It is about three men tasting vinegar and they have different reactions. The first man is upset because the vinegar is sour, the second man is happy because the vinegar is sweet, the third man is happy because the vinegar tastes like vinegar is supposed to taste. Why this has to be explained through tapestry is anybody's guess.

The larger point is that two out of three tapestried men become happy when they taste vinegar so buy some for your dinner table tonight, pack some in your kids' lunch bags, your husband's briefcase, the guy your having an affair with's duffel bag. Just don't end up in the duffel bag yourself, unless that's what's supposed to happen, then everything will be as it should.

The thing about buddhists is that they love to wear sandals. That is why there are no buddhists in cold places.

Did you hear the one about the buddhist monastery on top of a mountain? It turned out to be a Disney attraction. They call me the count because I love to count.

What do tea and women have in common?

Either one may be bitter.

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

Sanscullotes

A cross between a thump and a crack. A pigeon egg falling through the overhead netting at the underside of the overpass. The parents' brains are too small to notice. Just be glad it's not crap. Where are the redemptorists? Who are the redemptorists and what do they redempt? Invisible lines in the water, hooked food, a happy meal with dynamite inside. A place to relax. Death comes easily to the redemptorists. Who are the redemptorists?

Dangerous thoughts that don't lead anywhere. Dark places in the imagination that can get you arrested in certain states and definitely get you cut out of the inheritance in any country, even this one. Peking duck pizza, you might say, or actual peking duck. For the genuine article take a trip to Peking which is now Nanking which is now East Belgrade which is now New York which is now Flint, Michigan, which is now Seattle, which is no Pasadena, which is now Anaheim, which is now Stratford Upon Avon, which is now Annandale on Hudson, which is now Ham on Rye, which is now The Star Bellied Sneetch, which is now the Butter Battle Book, which is now Where The Sidewalk Ends, which is now holding half an acre folded in that scrap of paper which is now holding constancy in the dark which is now holding four of five cards to make a flush which is now holding steady in the face of age, terrible terrible age, which is natural and terrible.

You are natural and terrible. Your face is natural and terrible. Your mom is natural and terrible. You are natural and terrible.

When are the redemptorists, if not today? What do they think they will catch with their baited traps and five out of six packs of beer. Look, the battery. Look, a hot slut. Look, the statue of liberty with newly reopened crown. Look, water. Look, water. Look, something to drink.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Foot Dragger

For falling asleep without meaning to, thereby discovering the naked need to do so, there is no remedy but the symptom itself, which takes time, maybe time already committed to something else, some worthier activity, or at least something inflexible, something that can't be sacrificed, won't be considered being sacrificed, until it turns out there is no choice because unconsciousness rolls along the bed sheets like clouds over the bowl of a southwestern canyon, roofing in sleepy campers who ought to be making a fire before it gets dark but whose reptile brains recognize sun worship as the only true religion, who fall asleep holding hands, who smile beatifically at the sky gods, who are carried back to childhoods and especially to imaginary childhoods by the pine bouquets, the evocations of the roadrunner landscapes, the impossible softness or roughness or smoothness or hairiness or paleness or richness of the skin of the other hand, the skin/flesh/bone of the fingers and palms pressing into one two-tone limination of warmth, a second sun, smaller, yes, but also much closer than the one that toasts the bodies drifting on the shifting rocks and forests of desert canyons, coyote graveyards, campgrounds littered with beer cans, charred wood, trampled grass, ridiculous hopes pinned to one vacation, lost schedules rendered moot by the sudden implacable need for napping outside the half assembled tents, by the impulse to love, by other things that can't be understood by the human parts of the brain.

We are human and we are animal and there is no contradiction, and it is that contradiction that makes us.

Sunday, May 10, 2009

Impotence

The glass makes no sense upside down. Hot glued to the ceiling, the wrong side has gathered all that dust. The bowl is still clean, incapable of holding wine, or anything. Below, the small awkward gathering drinks water from matching wine glasses; matching each other and matching the extra one on the ceiling. The bed, the couch, the kitchen, the bookcase, the bathroom. The five distinct messes have spread and swirled into each other. There are bed sheets in a pile with some encyclopedia volumes. There is a 10” skillet, crusted over from when the yolk split during a routine breakfast.

Crust has begun to creep up the walls, a few feet only, for now, the scouts, the advance guards, the first casualties, unofficial, that don’t even make it into the statistics, that won’t even be a footnote in the history books, or any books. A plunger, upside down, is leaning against the wall, dropping brown and yellow streaks to the floor, its handle being used as a bookmark between pages five and six of a novel, boring, outdated, and rancid, but on the crusty list of things that ought to be read by the educated class. Reading Proust is eating your vegetables, but nobody ever got big on Proust, except, obviously, for Proust.

Something falls from somewhere into something, releasing a cloud of some particles or something.

That’s not the only movement though, far from it. In the area that once would have been considered the couch, but now might be the bathroom, they are drinking water from two water glasses. He has no idea what she means when she calls it classy. When her clothes come off they will never be seen again, not never, but never when they are being looked for. A section of the apartment-organism is pulsing with hunger already.

There are disparate appetites in the room and they will find a way to work together. Gently, lovingly, he removes a steel knitting needle from where it has stuck four inches into her thigh, rips off a crusty strip of cheese cloth from under the coffee table to tourniquet the flow. It had been a curtain until it was needed to strain the greek yogurt until it had been needed for something else. You knit? The stabbing has relaxed her. I think those are from a previous tenant. A thick black lump buzzes against the Dukakis poster blocking the window, then flies off to bump into something else.

At once, the ceiling glass falls and crashes onto the old pile of broken ceiling glasses, adding to the delicate stalagmite.

There will be no cuddling in the morning. We can’t stay still too long or the mold will take us. Look, the small of your back is already crusting over.

Friday, May 8, 2009

0508

Let it be known: Spellcheck does not recognize 'humongous'

Things are not surprising with the right perspective. That a shadow look like another shadow is nothing jealous. Shadows, for, are imprecise and capture, something surely, but are not detailed, like life. Life is detailed and leaves marks on itself, unique among itself, and within itself. Do you read my twisted knots? I think they will make a lovely tattoo at some point. Not for me, obviously, but for someone else, someone willing to make a lasting decision.

Do you think you shouldn't ever risk regret?
Is there anything it's impossible to regret?
What is the place of regret, anyway?
Where does regret live?
What really is regret?
Why so regret?
Regret?
Do you think you should never do anything you might regret?

It is easy enough to disguise yourself as another person if that person's shadow looks like yours and if whoever you're hiding from can only see shadows. We can all only see shadows, but that' not really relevant here. Please stop introducing irrelevancies. All the doctors say you shouldn't do it. Any doctor that says you should do it is a quack, because all the doctors say you shouldn't do it.

Night time speed. Streetlight altercations. Shadow moves independently of you, impossibly, in lieu of a compass point, we find many compass points, a sphere, a cloud, no true north, no clear direction except into the past. Out, out, brief insight. Youa re too delicate for this world, this only world, the world.

There is one world and its name is the world. It is called the world because it cointains the world and is the world. Live in it or risk floating into the land if wind and ghosts.

Please toast my memory. Please acknowledge or invent my impact. Please feel something of my uniqueness, my very uniqueness, my uniqueness. Please feel something humongous. Remember to repeatedly utter my name. Please drink deep. Please drink with the right people. Drink with everybody who will have you. Anybody. Hobos are the only people worth knowing anyway. Are you a hobo? You are. To the extent that you try not to be, you kill yourself.

There are things that are the same. There are things that are different. Nothing is different. Everything is the same. You are not so unique. There are many more unique than you. To be only as unique as you are is fairly common, to be expected you might say. You are literally the least unique person in the room. You are a shadow on the filthy road, your area cut by the gutter, by the sleeping animalperson, by miscellany itself. When the power blinks off, you blink off. It is, though, ok not to care, because right now the power is on. The power is on and you exist. You are on. You have opportunity. You can do things you may later regret. Like anything. The power is on and you are a shadow. You do not exist because you are a shadow. Two shadows do not, can not, look alike. There is always something different, some difference, and that difference is the entire world, the one that contains the whole world, called the world, the world.

Let it be known: Spellcheck does not recognize things which are humongous.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Oil in the Pan

Look out! Here comes a brave new paradigm. Ready for trouble? Doesn't matter. Ready or not, trouble will find you. Did you notice that money flows out of your life like water through the holes in the dam made by the terrorist cell that those arab neighbors of yours turned out to be all along. So who's the racist? The racist, or the racist who won't sleep with the racist? And by racist, I mean black person, and by racist, I mean racist.

Stop. Listen to the footsteps of your companion, your life partner, your childparent. Is she dragging her heels? Is he trying to walk the other way? Is anyone there at all? How do you know you're not crazy? You don't know. You could be crazy.

Ever taken drugs? Maybe that's the real sanity and the rest of the time you're all crazy, crazy. Maybe you're still on the playground and hte kids are all laughing at you and pointing with stubby little pointers and calling you Crazy! Crazy! Crazy! Man, that would suck to wake up to when you come out of your twenty year delusion.

Ever been drunk? That's pretty crazy right htere. Ever throw an empty beer bottle at a cop? Ever call your ex in the middle of the night and tell her you still love her? Ever drive?

Maybe you're not crazy. Nobody ever said you were. You can be sane if it's so damn important to you. But if you're sane, why are you so crazy all the time?

You can wear black and be all mysterious if you want to be. You can smoke opium and let your organs utrn to couch cushions. You can smoke grass and lie on the grass and jam out to some bluegrass.

So who's the racist? The fool or the fool who loves the fool? Drop some oil in the skillet and watch the dancing bubbles. Sometimes the hot oil lands on your bare skin. When a drop hits you it kisses you hello and then disappears. Maybe it leaves you a little dirty. maybe it lets you off the hook with a warning this time. Maybe it leaves a little scar, a bouquet of roses, something to remember me by.

I am oil in the skillet and I've been narrating your life this whole time. Weren't aware of me, were you? Thought you could just fry up some vegetables in me without revealing everything about yourself to whom so ever I should tell.

Buzzer. Buzzer. Buzzer. Buzzer. Buzzer.

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Wine + 0

Before this, I did not know what a north star was. Now, I always know the right direction, even if sometimes I run the wrong way anyway. I didn't ask to be born. Not that anyone did. Not that anyone asked if I asked.

Not that you care.


Did you hear the one about the oak tree and the willow? The oak tree says "We've been growing here next to each other for seventy five years. Hello." And the willow goes "Ahhh! A talking oak tree!"

The end.



We've talked a lot about trees here today, and that's been a lot of fun. But let's remember that, technically, wines come from vines. Vines are different than trees. Go ahead and remember that please.

Done?

Excellent.


One thing about vines is that they wrap. They have tendrils. Hell, they are tendrils. They are merely creepy, as opposed to terrifying, only because of their speed. Specifically, their lack of speed. If something moved like a vine but fast enough that it could chase you, you'd lose your shit.

Literally.


Don't gimme that old line that anything that normally doesn't chase you chasing you would be nightmare-world, because that's not true in the same way. Cash money chasing you, for example, would not be nearly as creepy.

Unless it was.


The bottle of ink is not labeled right. It really oughtn't to be called India Ink unless it comes from Indianapolis. Should you be angry about this? It's tough to know how upset to get about these little things because it's tough to know if these things are really all that little. Who, exactly, is the messed up label hurting? Not just who.

Who, exactly?



I want to run in the right direction. It's not a direction at all. I don't know what it is. If I know what it was would that help me run in it? Towards it? At it? I know what the north star is.

In theory.

Monday, May 4, 2009

Wine Harold Bin 00005

Look, let's make a few things clear. There's much too much confusion up in this mother.

I'm not drinking this week. Gotta dry out after the weekend.

Fresh fish! We catch them you buy them!

Number one. It is not possible to get to know every bottle of wine that's ever been produced. Even if you could get your hands on them all, they change from year to year. Number two. It's ok to lose sight of the shore. Number three. The food pairings are not mandatory.

Wow, was I plastered over the weekend. I don't remember doing anything I regret. I hope I don't not remember doing something I would regret if I remembered it. I don't think I did though.

Lady, look at this beautiful haddock. Have you ever seen a haddock like this? Never, I bet. That slimy guy is monkfish. I know. He looks terrible, but cook him up just right, your husband will swear he's eating lobster. Don't blow another dinner on pizza and skittles. Buy some fish!

Number four. Although the sense of light headed euphoria is an integral part of the experience, it is not the primary focus of differentiation among options. The world is full of things to make you light headed, and most of them have far less variety.

When the right balance of chemicals is the only thing holding you up, it's time to take stock. It's time to take stock right now. It's always time to take stock. I want to dry out in the sun but it won't stop raining. The rain is indistinguishable from drunkenness. Everything is obliterative.

But some fish! Cook it up in a pan. Grill it on the grill. Braise it in the braisier. Smoke it in the smoker. Roast it whole and eat around the bones and the worms. Covering it in a huge pile of salt will make it sweet, not salty. The omega-3 fatty acids will be there for you when you need them. We're not just selling fish here, people. We're selling a lifestyle. We're selling inner clean. We're selling change.

Sunday, May 3, 2009

Wine Harold Bin 000004

There's a shortage of honesty in the room. Really hot backless dresses though. Also booze.

There can be no protest without the proper permit.

There! Look! Something moved. Beyond the tree line. You don't see it? Look!

Truth Serum, they call it but it's not doing it's job. Other than getting pairs to slip out quietly, ditch their lying friends, couple up on the sidewalk and behind minivans. Not lying, really, that's not fair, but silent in the moments where truth is what's called for. Some version of it. It, as seen by the speaker at least, the friend getting into trouble over by the bar, one of the bars.

To march today, you would have needed to get the right papers signed six months ago and requested Burgundy level clearance one year before that. You would have been denied of course, because of what you want to say, where you want to march, how you want to rhyme it, the megaphones made in china, the sneakers made in sweat shops, the bag lunch made in the Park Slope vegan restaurant. You would have needed White clearance to appeal, which doesn't exist.

Let's keep moving. At least there are raccoons in these woods. Bears. Escaped mental patients. Smoke monsters. Philosophers with guns. It's dark here. I'm not a hippy. Let's not camp. I've changed my mind. I'm allowed to change my mind right? I want to change my mind.

A few deep brown glasses and a few more are supposed to get us to the point of openness but it's easy to swing too far, past the bawdy singing, and end up passing out. There is no serum. There is no truth.

You call it speaking truth to power but your truth is lousy with holes and your power doesn't live in a big brass building. You want to shout. You want to count. You want to fix things. You want to count. Yes, you could march. Yes, you could chant. Fifth Avenue is just an echo chamber. There is no building. There is no power.

The truth is camping never sounded good to me. I don't even like to leave Manhattan. I'm not interested in your interests, I'm interested in you. And if I'm gonna be in the woods, alone with you could make it doable. Maybe I lied, but you saw what you wanted to see. Anyway, there's something wrong behind those trees there. There is. There is.

Saturday, May 2, 2009

Wine Harold Bin 0000003

You know when you purr it turns me on.

You made your eyes extra wide tonight and I'm not sure what that means.

You left your wallet on the street and I found it.

I always like it when you take advantage of my weaknesses. I pretend to guard them carefully, but really I just want to serve them all up in a silver bowl and let you pick through them until you find the ripest ones.

I know we're talking about a cheap theatrical trick but there was some kind of depth to the gesture. Nothing is by accident and I feel like your eyes are already a source of friction between me and the things I had going before I met you.

I rifled through it to find your license. I assume you don't mind because now you'll be able to get your wallet back and you won't have to cancel your library card. I hope you answer your phone though, despite the unknown number I will be.

It's not fair, you tell me, I know all your spots now, and I laugh like the bad guy in a movie, but secretly I'm glad you felt like you could show me where to touch you because now I know.

It's not fair to be more attentive to your needs than everyone else here, but your tricky eyes trick me.

It's not fair to get mad at me for tracking you down. Look at this great excuse I had, returning your lost property. If I ask you to get a drink with me, what's the big deal? What's the big deal if you tell your husband you're going out to get your wallet returned. It'll be the truth won't it? Just not the whole truth.

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Wine Harold Bin 000002

Cassandra sits on a rock looking at her face in the stream and thinks, again, about blood.

Some parts of the planet are more fertile than others, but sometimes poor people live in them.

The kudzu isn't as thick and strong as I remember it growing up. It's everywhere, sure, but it's not quite everywhere enough.

She knows she ought to talk to someone about what she's been seeing, but she doesn't move. The poor thing. She's afraid she'll cause a panic. Her family are big into panic. They taught her how to freak out from a very early age and now she doesn't trust them or anyone.

We've managed to clean this area, Sudden Valley up, though. There's nothing to worry about when it comes to harassment from the others, the outsiders, the grasping thieves, the others.

When I was a kid, entire cars would disappear into it. Farms, towns, cows. It appears some animal has become entangled in the vines. No it's not an animal, it's a person, and it hasn't happen it's only going to happen, or maybe really it just might happen and there's no reason to have a panic attack. Do the breathing. Count backwards.

In her dreams everything is going straight to hell. There's calm and there's no more calm. There's life and then there's no more life. There's optimism, and then the world catches fire. The calm in her dreams is the same calm she wakes up to and she knows things are about to go down hill, as in off a cliff. She closes her eyes so as not to see the explosion. 10, 9, 8,

Some say the dam is going to flood us out, but that's hard to believe. It seems impossible. Who would do that? There's a bet about it at the local pub. How many days until they finish building and we find out if we still have homes. 7, 6, 5

In, out. In, out. In, out. Or am I supposed to count from the exhale? Out, in. Out, in. Out, in. yes, something about the supremacy of yin, the zen meditation tapes told me. Out, in. Out, in. Out, in. Calm down, you southern hick. Breathe. Count. Breathe. Count. 4, 3, 2

Sunday, April 26, 2009

Wine Harold bin 00001

Once upon a time there was a tree who dreamed of growing into an orchard. And eventually, he did.

Once upon a time there was a bear who ate all the honey. And one day, there was no more honey.

Once upon a time I dreamed about a lot of weird stuff and wrote it all down. And then I sent it to you.

You can still find the old tree amid the rows and columns of cherries. They only give fruit in the seventh year, but they blossom every spring.

You brought that poor bear more. I saw you go out into the woods at night. I was watching from the upstairs window. You carried that wide sticky bowl in front of you like a beacon or oblation.

You caught it and kept it safe and taught me about trust and about mail.

I like to watch the cherry trees grow, even though they never seem to move. Our trees are never growing. They only grew in the past and will grow in the future. Yesterday and tomorrow.

I was worried about you, but not because you were a girl. I was worried because you were going into the forest, and because you were doing it at night, and because you were going to look for a hungry bear. I was worried about the flimsiness of your nightgown and because you were by yourself. I was still scared of the dark. I am still scared of being by myself.

I might need to look back over my journal and find out what I'm thinking about these days. My roots are as big as my branches but they have their own invisible shape. I grow in dusty purple clusters of unconsciousness. You are agriculture to my wilderness.

Monday, April 20, 2009

What is your favorite thing?

Sunday, April 19, 2009

What is your favorite thing?

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Saturday, April 18, 2009

Sunday Ham Hermitale

A beautiful example of a sweet creation myth. What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? Orange rind, black pepper, and compost give the wine its smiling bite. What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing?

What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? A dark cinnamon sleeper hold releases into old bay. What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? Pulp gathers in the low points like dew, like soup. What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? Gets a little hairy at this point, a little thorny, a little dangerous, but there's the promise of reward. What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing?

What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? Reward. What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? The gathering pregnancy of cloud cover. What is your favorite thing? Is that thing front and center? What is your favorite thing? Carrot soup on the first really cold fall day. What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? Irreverence. What is your favorite thing? Bloody, bruised, and unbroken. What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? That incredibly earthy one with the porcini mushrooms in the rub. Didn't even know such a thing could be done. What is your favorite thing? Calm. What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing?

What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? The strong gentle finish drags its rosemary fingertips across the bare midriff of your palate, slowly, so slowly, so long and slow.

Quote: Because a shadow is light crossed out, cross out the gray bird. Cross out the couple on the beach walking like a W holding hands. Walk like L, lovers. Walk like an X, crossing out the hurting, the lost, the beggars of the world. Insert the lifesavers, the ambulance drivers. Where it says collapse of schools, hospitals, and factories, put the birthplace of hot springs. Where it says bleeding, write in sailing, as in, She noticed she was sailing. Where it says, corpse, write, dense herbage and foliage. Lovers, steal boats, and bleed towards China, India, Jupiter, towards the shared darks of gun barrels and mouths.

Varietals: Cab Franc, Frankschlong, Long Wharf Rep

Food Pairing: Drink it today, while you do/have/get/see your favorite thing, obviously.

Friday, April 17, 2009

Yellow Tail Riesling

A luscious and lively wine, bursting with fresh fruit. You may even catch the hints of orange blossom that linger on the finish.

What is your favorite thing? A luscious and lively wine, bursting with fresh fruit. What is your favorite thing? You may even catch the hints of orange blossom that linger on the finish. They're everywhere!

What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? A luscious and lively wine, bursting with fresh fruit. Holy Christ on a crutch! What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? You may even catch the hints of orange blossom that linger on the finish. What is your favorite thing? They're everywhere! What do they want?

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What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? A perfect summer wine if there's a summer left to drink it during. What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? A breezy little number from the sun drenched shores of the upside down hemisphere. Danger, Will Robinson! What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? A luscious and lively wine, bursting with fresh fruit. Try the back door, the side door, the upstairs window! What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? Holy Christ on a crutch! It's happening all over! It's an invasion! What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? They've cut the power, or simply overwhelmed the grid! What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? You may even catch the hints of orange blossom that linger on the finish. Leave them, there's no time. Vanilla bean escape pods land on the dusty surface or orbiting nylon. What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? Something's exploding nearby. They're everywhere! What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What do they want? RUN!!!! What do they want? What is your favorite thing? Where did they come from? What is your favorite thing?

Quote: What are you deaf? I hope our kids don't have bad hearing.
Varietal: What is your favorite thing?
Food Pairings: Appetizers, sandwiches, bbq meats beef, fish, vegetarian, fruits, desserts, asian food

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Yellow Tail Shiraz

Ripe cherries and strawberries, spice, and vanilla aromas. This bold Shiraz wine is well balanced, with earthy tones and lingering fruit on the tongue.

What is your favorite thing? Ripe cherries and strawberries, spice, and vanilla aromas. Scent as timid as ghosts. This bold Shiraz wine is well balanced, with earthy tones and lingering fruit on the tongue. What is your favorite thing?

Delicious! What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? Ripe cherries and strawberries, spice, and vanilla aromas. A smoking clay pot of incense hanging in the fire. Scent as timid as ghosts. What is your favorite thing? This bold Shiraz wine is well balanced, with earthy tones and lingering fruit on the tongue. There's an unmistakable red eye churning in the upper hemisphere. What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing?

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Inhale. Now here's a surprise. What is your favorite thing? Delicious! Is this Australia? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? Note the impossible angles which light refract through it. Ripe cherries and strawberries, spice, and vanilla aromas. What is your favorite thing? Things bake. Compression is natural. A smoking clay pot of incense hanging in the fire. What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? Scent as timid as ghosts. Summer chill. Fragrant translucence. What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? Rising tides of the day cover the news of the year again. What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? Fortune cookie conversating. This bold Shiraz wine is well balanced, with earthy tones and lingering fruit on the tongue. What is your favorite thing? Stay with it if you can. This is a test of stamina. There's an unmistakable red eye churning in the upper hemisphere. What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? Breathe in, breathe out, and change. Clouds and steam and oil in the air. What is your favorite thing? What is your favorite thing? It grows in the dark places. What is your favorite thing? Try it again.

Quote: These ten techniques are: (1) attention grasp, (2) walling, (3) facial hold, (4) facial slap (insult slap), (5) cramped confinement, (6) wall standing, (7) stress positions, (8) sleep deprivation, (9) insects placed in a confinement box, and (10) the waterboard. You have informed us that the use of these techniques would be on an as-needed basis and that not all of these techniques will necessarily be used. The interrogation team would use these techniques in some combination to convince Zubaydah that the only way he can influence his surrounding environment is through cooperation.
Varietal: Shiraz
Food Pairings: Strong cheese, bbq meats beef, sausages, pork

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Starboard Port

Ever had something as sweet and rich? How's your digestion after that feast? May I interest you in a cheese course after the desert? From whence do those mulberries get their tartness? Do you know what the theme is? What is your favorite thing? How does your garden grow?

How was growing up in this kind of environment? Are you bitter? What is your favorite thing? Why do you think I'm asking? Is it important to you that I be the best? Why do you want my opinion? Is it important to you to pay in cash? Can you detect the marching bands in the opening? What is your favorite thing? Do you know what the theme is?

How'd it get to this point anyway? What is it doing? Where is it going? What is your favorite thing? Where's it going to drop you off? Do you think you can tell heaven from hell? How many hours in do the hallucinations usually start? What's the point of a second home when the first one doesn't have you in it? Did you get the recent child support check? Why do you think I'm asking? Is it important I justify my credentials? Which is more cinnamony, cinnamon or cloves? Do you know what the theme is? Which is sweeter, honey or cloves? What do you think this is, an increasing complexity? What is your favorite thing?

Can't you just see it paired with overeating? How late is too late? What is your favorite thing? Hey do you know what's even cooler than triceratops? How many birthdays do you have to ruin before you start taking your pills again? Where does the smoke come from? Are the grapes actually smoked before they're turned into wine? How do you get a job stepping on grapes anyway? Did you or did you not promise you'd never lead those cops here again? What is your favorite thing? Did you enjoy the duck? Do you think you'll be ready for more courses tomorrow night? How many nights in a row can you go like this before your body explodes from the strain? What is your favorite thing?Do you think you'll get tired of it before you die of it? Where do the earthy grains fit into all of this? Is there a point would you say? What is it that separates this from syrupy desert? Is there such a thing as death by chocolate?

Quote: The seasoned tomato puree aspect of ketchup does not interest Lonis Edison
Varietals: Touriga Nacional, Tinta Cao, Tinta Barroca
Food Pairing: Sour sheep's milk cheese

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Yellow Tail Pinot Noir

Vibrant cherry and raspberry flavors. Earthy notes add complexity to the well balanced tannins in this lively Pinot Noir wine. Long flavorful finish.

You notice it mentions flavor twice in the first lines?

What is your favorite thing? Vibrant cherry and raspberry flavors. Also, ecology, can't beat that ecology. Earthy notes add complexity to the well balanced tannins in this lively Pinot Noir wine. I wouldn't mind renting a movie though. Long flavorful finish. A happy ending.

Who are you? What is your favorite thing? Dull cherry or raspberry flavs. Vibrant cherry and raspberry flavors. This is where the vines hang. Also ecology, can't beat that ecology. Not peripatetic, per se, but peripa-something. Earthy notes add complexity to the well balanced tannins in this lively Pinot Noir wine. They add weight too. I wouldn't mind renting a movie though. There's a drag on the momentum for you. Long flavorful finish. What is your favorite thing? A happy ending.

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Get ready. The wine is a mirror. It's going to ask you some questions now. Who are you? What's this all about? Why do you breathe? How would you consider it to have all worked out? What is your favorite thing? A pleasure. An interesting contrast between thinness of body and serious bite. A set of vocalises for viola and boldness. Dull cherry or raspberry flavs. A jammy jammie-jams jam. Suddenly the figs don't seem so great anymore. Such things as dreams are made of. Vibrant cherry and raspberry flavors. Shards of other, different vibrancies. The spice smell of indie markets and ironic t-shirts. What is your favorite thing? This is where the vines hang. This is one foot in both sides. This is where the matzah leavens. Studying the wine brings all the explanations you've ever understood. Also ecology, can't beat that ecology. That's the only thing with answers. Also physics, which is another word for magic, which is another word for Eastern. Have you seen what those people drink? Not peripatetic, per se, but peripa-something. That's a thing, but also this is a thing. What is your favorite thing? Carpaccio for blues string quartet. Earthy notes add complexity to the well balanced tannins in this lively Pinot Noir wine. Drinks like a fish. Pairs well with ginger wrapped wasabi. The lectures aren't exactly scams, but those people certainly misrepresent. They add weight too. Again, not the end of the world. Anything to make a salable impression. What is your favorite thing? I wouldn't mind renting a movie though. Uh-oh. Moments of the world outside the glass. Now it's hard to focus on the plum brandy holiday party of the climax. There's a drag on the momentum for you. Barren and cratered, like the northern desert. Surprisingly drinkable. Doesn't exactly let you down, but misrepresents. What is your favorite thing? Long flavorful finish. Slow restatement of the theme. Lots of time to reflect. Unless there's not. What is your favorite thing? Has any other wine asked you to articulate that? Can you even say? Feel it travel up your trunk. A happy ending. Just like on tv. Is that too much too hope for? What else is there?

Quote: Who was blowing on the nape of my neck?
Varietal: Pinot Noir
Food Pairings: BBQ meats beef, poultry, mild curries, cold cuts, sandwiches

Monday, April 13, 2009

Tarte Static

It's a little bit dry. It's a little bit sweet.
It's a little bit red. It's a little bit white.
It's a little bit of country. It's a little bit of rock and roll.
It's a little bit for supporting our troops. It's a little bit for bringing them home.
It's a little bit dreamy. It's a little bit waking life.
It's a little bit your mom. It's a little bit your face.
It's a little bit sunshine. It's a little bit night time.
It's a little bit lawyer. It's a little bit doctor.
It's a little but uptown. It's a little bit grimy.
It's a little bit effervescent. It's a little bit earth-bound.
It's a little bit punchy. It's a little bit smooth.
It's a little bit polished. It's a little bit hick.
It's a little bit modern. It's a little bit classic.
It's a little bit for a sound ethnic policy. It's a little bit liberal.
It's a little bit for saving the earth. It's a little bit for the free market.
It's a little bit fruity. It's a little bit floral.
It's a little bit ethical. It's a little bit contrite.
It's a little bit big apple. It's a little bit simple.
It's a little bit forgetful. It's a little bit elephantine.
It's a little bit carcinogenic. It's a little bit caloric.
It's a little bit funny. It's a little bit gay.
It's a little bit married. It's a little bit french.
It's a little bit of algebra. It's a little bit of calculus.
It's a little bit of leather. It's a little bit of latex.
It's a little bit of a thinker. It's a little bit of a feeler.
It's a little bit of NSFW. It's a little bit of LOL.
It's a little bit :-). It's a little bit :-(
It's a little bit turkey dinner. It's a little bit drive through.
It's a little bit profligate. It's a little bit like you.
It's a little bit Facebook. It's a little bit Twitter.
It's a little bit red fruit. It's a little bit black fruit.
It's a little bit sparkling. It's a little bit still.
It's a little bit laughing cow. It's a little bit crying sow.
It's a little bit Roman. It's a little bit Greek.
It's a little bit sorry. It's a little bit braggy.
It's a little bit Dunder Mifflin. It's a little bit Michael Scott Paper Company.
It's a little bit Blogspot. It's a little bit Wordpress.
It's a little bit dominatrix. It's a little bit therapist.
It's a little bit sordid. It's a little bit wholesome.
It's a little bit typewriter. It's a little bit penmanship.
It's a little bit Arab. It's a little bit Jew.
It's a little bit sorrow. It's a little bit joy.
It's a little bit temple. It's a little bit jaw.
It's a little bit Silent Bob. It's a little bit Jay.
It's a little bit chocolate. It's a little bit tobacco.
It's a little bit slave ship. It's a little bit yacht.
It's a little bit Li'l Bit. It's a little bit Lady Macbeth.
It's a little bit white screen. It's a little bit blue screen.
It's a little bit leather bag. It's a little bit bike messenger.
It's a little bit bikini. It's a little bit adolescence.
It's a little bit Ireland. It's a little bit Canada.
It's a little bit Atlantic. It's a little bit Pacific.
It's a little bit Legos. It's a little bit Construx.
It's a little bit attic. It's a little bit basement.
It's a little bit friendly. It's a little bit pulsing.
It's a little bit starry. It's a little bit artificial.
It's a little bit nonsense. It's a little bit seven hills.
It's all about up wine. And it's all about down wine.


Quote: I can't make them happy.
Varietal: Static
Food Pairing: Tiny little white eels that look like rice with eyes.

Sunday, April 12, 2009

Cremaster Chenin Blanc

Ball sacks!

Sweaty wafting ball sacks just like grandma used to make. Tart kiwi stapled to green bean almondine. A good marrying wine. Not too judgmental on the open, but it gets you later, when you're asleep and dreaming of fire and water and frustration.

Does well on a first date but no fireworks. The arid tannins try to convince you to settle but the bubble pear dripping down your chin strengthens your floppy resolve. There's not that much left to look for in yourself, not enough to justify flitting off to another continent for a semester or two but maybe the crisp, green fruit will do it anyway. Look, it's not really judgmental if (a) they asked & (b) you like them anyway. What's a small boy to do?

Firey spice mingles with furry lice in the hair of the inky depths, the apples, the weight, the darkness. It's not really a light drinking thing but it does hold some important parts together.

Try it in a box with a fox. Try it on a boat with a goat. Try it in a thing with an animal.

For one thing, I don't even know the guy. For another, if I did know him, I wouldn't buy wine from a stranger in an alley no matter what his trenchcoat looks likes. The king has outlawed wine. I have wine. I'm not trying to entrap you or nothing, I just think you look pretty good tonight and want to make sure you have a good time, you know? Like, a good time? You remember good times right, from back in the day? They're good. Shut up.

Marry the wine or marry the person but don't marry yourself. That's how they do it in russia. Come on, what's the hold up. There's a certain something there, even the blackberries on the finish can sense it.

It's a white dress. It's a tuxedo. It's not a ticket to disneyworld. It's not a backstage pass to the bodies exhibit. It's not a cobblestone street and old gold anchors. Brine, brine, brine, a lot of brine.


Quote: What do you mean by that, Willis?
Varietal: Ball sack
Food Pairing: Ball sack

Saturday, April 11, 2009

Yellow Tail Sparkling Rose Wine

Strawberry, cherry and tropical fruit flavors combine with a touch of spice and a light, crisp finish. This Sparkling Rose wine is fun and fragrant. Enjoy on any occasion.

Titian is a word that means blonde like a strawberry. Strawberry, cherry and tropical fruit flavors combine with a touch of spice and a light, crisp finish. Finish all the conversations from last year before attempting atonement this year. This Sparkling Rose wine is fun and fragrant. Enjoy your symptom! Enjoy on any occasion. Enjoy with your favorite platonic friend.

Titian himself never attempted engraving, but he was very conscious of the importance of printmaking as a means of further expanding his reputation. Titian is a word that means blonde like a strawberry. X does Y to Z. Strawberry, cherry and tropical fruit flavors combine with a touch of spice and a light, crisp finish. After the flood, the recovery doesn't begin. Finish all the conversations from last year before attempting atonement this year. This is a way to begin. This Sparkling Rose wine is fun and fragrant. This is the kind of wine the Chelsea people enjoy. Enjoy your symptom! Enjoy with a light brunch. Enjoy on any occasion. Enjoy in the morning. Enjoy with your favorite platonic friend. Enjoy with your secret.

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What's wrong now? Born in the wrong century? Deal with it. Titian himself never attempted engraving, but he was very conscious of the importance of printmaking as a means of further expanding his reputation. You're getting one yourself actually. Don't worry about finding the perfect aroma with which to start. The early waves of quince will probably end up covering it up anyway. Titian is a word that means blonde like a strawberry. What does that mean to you people? Full bubbles bring a pornographic headiness to the eyes. Other things do other things. X does Y to Z. Not too tough to enjoy. She does more to me with this. Fruit chooses to wait on the bottom. Strawberry, cherry and tropical fruit flavors combine with a touch of spice and a light, crisp finish. Can't grind the cloves today. There's a hole in the front that won't be mended. Put it off til evening. After the flood, the recovery doesn't begin. Don't be ashamed though. Things which are lost stay lost. The open stays light. Finish all the conversations from last year before attempting atonement this year. An almost empty bag. Dark brown shake sprinkled over the more sordid parts, smoothing them out. Enjoy the raindrops on the flavor window. This is a way to begin. You had to do what you did. Right? You had to? This Sparkling Rose wine is fun and fragrant. Careful or it will push out is own "cork." Almost like it wants to be consumed. This is the way back to bed. This is the kind of wine the Chelsea people enjoy. This is fashion, flavor, and perversion in one pink package. This is a way up, a way out, and a way too short cut. This is what's left of your life to enjoy. Enjoy your symptom! Don't listen to the dark parts. Enjoy the fuzzy feeling of loose forgetfulness. Enjoy the funny voices in your head. Enjoy with a light brunch. I hope we can sit outside. Enjoy your awkward social situation. Just pretend she's not here. Enjoy on any occasion. Not today obviously. Enjoy this. Do you even remember last night? Enjoy in the morning. Everything's going to be fine, just fine. Just don't look in the mirror. This would not be fine. Enjoy with your favorite platonic friend. Notes of cube, sphere, cone, and phallus. Enjoy with lies. Enjoy with closets. Enjoy with your secret. Enjoy the sensory overload. Enjoy with your secret lies. Try not to taste it going down.

Varietal: Gluten-free, not for vegans
Food Pairings: Appetizers, dips, mild cheese, fish, seafood, vegetarian, poultry, asian food

Friday, April 10, 2009

Yellow Tail Pinot Grigio

Lively green apple and pear aromas with a crisp, clean and refreshing palate in this Pinot Grigio wine.

Controlling lively blue green triumph apple either and or pear dirty aromas rather with such a pleasing crisp, mister clean won and didn't refreshing mornings palate around with in our this pelvic Pinot mighty Grigio ice wine. Right?

Decent controlling something lively sky blue grass green crayons triumph childhood apple picking either mom and dad or cider pear picking dirty immigrant aromas waft rather than with purpose such things a dream pleasing night crisp, twisted mister washes clean in won squares and or didn't your refreshing lonely mornings dampen palate sand around time with your in allowance our reasoning this front pelvic twist Pinot guide mighty rivers Grigio lead ice flows wine. Skill right?

Neither decent nor controlling but something almost as lively as sky or blue as grass or green as crayons still triumph since childhood died apple grew picking favorites either your mom and west or dad cloudy or east cider town pear dumped picking at dirty scabs of immigrant guilt aromas pleasant waft wittily up rather drafty than framed with insane purpose for such scented things can't a man dream of pleasing female night and crips, loving twisted babes mister pimp washes you clean like in the won wonder squares off and finishes or what didn't start your own refreshing dark lonely room mornings alone dampen sunday palate for sand crabs around that time you'll with what your out in my purple allowance runs our town reasoning that this kind front free pelvis can twist anoter Pinot yet guide your mighty meandering rivers of Grigio to lead poisoned ice chunky flows to wine. Skill crane right?


Varietal: Pinot Grigio
Food Pairings: Mild cheese, sandwiches, light pasta, poultry, seafood

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Un Lazzo De La Bella Donna

Un Lazzo De La Bella Donna will make you wanna chicka chick bowm. It will rock your socks off and you will be left with no choice but to put them in a box. That's why you watch, scared to look away, because at that moment it might show you what to take off the lox with. Or you could just learn to eat fish and stop making such a fuss every time we go to safta and saba's house. You don't even know what the shtetl is anymore. Drink the wine and attend a WCAR fundraising even in which everyone pretends to be living in the old country and then you can take a boat (classroom with a television playing static) to the shalom room and have egg creams made with real fox's u-bet syrup.

Ladies and gentlemen, what we have here is an introduction to the good life, and by life mean lifestyle, and by good, mean easy, and by introduction mean gateway, and by we mean you, and by what mean wine, and by gentlemen mean guys who do not hit their girlfriends, and by ladies mean virgins. OMG so beautiful! So beautiful and virtuous and not difficult. Deep notes of trust overlaid with reality show whores, craigslist whores, and nineteenth century opera whores. They sell themselves like right around the toes and hope their tours don't end here. Beautiful, like the wine, like as delicious as the eggs, or even more delicious. Beautiful enough that a duel might be fought or that a washed up rock star might send you a note or a third thing, but there's no third thing about the powerful anti-oxidants a glass of this baby will pack into those pumping rooty blood vessels of yours.

If you could live in the sauce, don't you think I would live in the sauce?

Drink a glass a day for optimum health, (if you are a guy. If you are a girl it actually slightly increases your risk of breast cancer, already the most common kind of cancer in chicks. Holy shit it's so common! But guys are having heart attacks left and right (and up and down) and so should drink a glass a day. You know what? Why not make it a bottle?)

There's a great old saying about Un Lazzo De La Bella Donna, but it's NSFW so we won't include it in this review. It's really apt though. It has to do with a black guy and a frog and what one said to the other on a rainy day. Probably one of your friends knows it.

Moves from blackberry to poison like A to Bm. Tangled up in pain in the finish, is more like it! Notes of car and lawn. A remarkably clean eye contact polished down almost to nothing. Listen. Level with you. Drink the wine or the wine store will start laying people off and the kind of people who work in the wine store are exactly the kind of people who tip the bartenders and the bartenders buy the chinese food and the chinese food guys go through a lot of bike parts and there aren't that many bike shops around anyway but those guys buy everything, they're just straight up middle class guys. They even buy stuff in the suburbs, or their lawyer kids do. Shit.

Quote: "I did just hold down the shift key & the 3 key at the same time thinking that that would make a more emphatic three..."
Varietal: La Bella Donna
Food Pairing: Pine cone soup

Monday, April 6, 2009

Yellow Tail Shiraz-Grenache

Lush raspberry aromas and a touch of spice. The two varieties come together in a balanced blend with earthy tones and vibrant acidity.

Thorn bushes, stew, and the marketplace. Lush raspberry aromas and a touch of spice. It's a love story. The two varieties come together in a balanced blend with earthy tones and vibrant acidity. Flecks of red and gold flatten themselves underfoot.

A dark forest. Thorn bushes, stew, and the marketplace. A pair of yellow eyes. Lush raspberry aromas and a touch of spice. A smoky distraction in the gloom. It's a love story. There have to be challenges. The two varieties come together in a balanced blend with earthy tones and vibrant acidity. Their pace is slow and even. Flecks of red and gold flatten themselves underfoot. The requisite hooting.

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A noisy and rapacious potion. The requisite hooting. Lots of distractions. A dark forest. Deep undergrowth. A storybook kind of thing. Like there's a house with a chimney. Thorn bushes, stew, and the marketplace. There's a peculiar scent leftover at night. The clang and clamor is as distant as a train. I noticed a peculiar smell in the air, as if something were burning. A pair of yellow eyes. A deep memory. The accompanying grin is invisible. A purple pumpkin without a jack o' lantern. Lush raspberry aromas and a touch of spice. A little leg. Fresh-faced sleight of hand. Bang and boom. A smoky distraction in the gloom. Focus. Keep your eyes on the path. There's reward in the sandy yeast. It's a love story. In fact, it's a love adventure. Gold often comes slowly. Of course the complexity isn't fully realized alone. There have to be challenges. Stonefruit and south. Polar opposites. Cheap and cheaper. The two varieties come together in a balanced blend with earthy tones and vibrant acidity. The little streams of alcohol come trickling down the rocks. The path pushes up against worn leather boots. The voices of the taffy saltsprays die down. Their pace is slow and even. There's not much to fish or oily fish. Their aim is true. Light bounces. Flecks of red and gold flatten themselves underfoot. The finish is bold but done in mosaic. The requisite hooting. A few final notes of wet cardboard and quince. Enter the parlor of the night. Exit pursued by a bear.

Varieties: Shiraz, Grenache
Food Pairing: Strong cheese, bbq meats beef, pork, veal