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Do Do Wap is Strong in Here

Tuesday, March 30, 2004

Wrestling Ass 

muppets pajama party went down tonight. yes yes. ate much cheese, even after severe jean claude van damme level gastric distension. i heard his intestines exploded once. so yeah, we got tired of the muppets, as absurd as that may seem. we're watching shao lin soccer now. it's a kung fu soccer movie. i have the distinct honor of updating the sorry ass blog from the complooter where dj relay lets all the hot shit gestate. i have been up for a very long time now. i can tell i'm not striving for my best achievement or chasing my dreams on this one. blame the dairy, i guess. can't concentrate. i'm riveted by supernatural kung-fu soccer. it's about time to call a cab.

peetq@hotmail.com
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Saturday, March 27, 2004

A Healthy Way to White 

decided to walk into dinkytown for gloom glut and glancing mopily (mopily?) out the window at rain hitting the street. wallowed in dumb morose poo for awhile. i know my life is actually going pretty decently lately, but all the same the bedraggled lethargic doldrums is setting on my neck like a... um, yoke of despondency? yeh. the cometbus collection is getting better and better, which kind of added to the wallowing because everything in it is about how he's always off exploring and never worried about how he'll get home or where he'll be next or even preoccupied all the time about what the purpose or expected end of all the travelling should be. he just does it. i have a few friends who have the advantage of just being that way, and i've always envied it. so i was thinking about that, and all the people or places i miss, and being a self-pitying bastard this afternoon, neglecting to realize all the positive things that have changed for me over the last year and a half or so because of course that would get in the way of the pity. i think i'll take my greasy ass to the shit store around the corner and get something to drink, and then actually try to read a textbook.

peetq@hotmail.com
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Friday, March 26, 2004

Clandestine Septuagenarians  

i stumbled into the geriatric gestapo at the white castle. i listened to the old babushka cackle at her own jokes and grumble about her doctor's advice in broken english. i sat and sipped my strawberry fanta, stewing in my squidgy shoes, and endured the oily black glances from the old timers packed in the corner. i was in their turf.

six sliders later, i was engorged, wary and wondering if i had incurred some exotic rash from the toxic rainwater backwash covering my pantaloons. the deluge outside subsided and envisioning being dogpiled by a bunch of snarling WW ii vets, their thick sepia denture snags dangling off the tip of my nose, drove me back out onto the sidewalk and toward home.

peetq@hotmail.com
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Monday, March 22, 2004

I Want to go to the Pretty Party 

i got the new frusciante album on vinyl, because i'm a giant twerp. i also recently got Despite Everything: a Cometbus Omnibus. it's a collection of over ten years of a zine called cometbus, compiled and mostly written by a guy that calls himself Aaron Cometbus. he lives in berkely most of the time, but he travels alot, and knows some people here. one issue a few years ago was completely devoted to interviews and stories about the regulars at Hard Times. the omnibus has short fiction, interviews, comics, guided walking tours of various cities, or whatever friends or fans wanted to send in. it is a damn fine collection. it reminds me of the olden days when a zine called imp life was getting passed around school. we walked around trying to get people to contribute to an imp life publication fund. i sent some stuff in under the name "Total Goathead" that got switched around and added to before ending up in the next issue. like most zines, it only lasted a few months. i was going to try to profoundly sum up the greatness of zines, but i feel kind of like a rat pellet right now, and nothing i could come up with didn't sound like a half ass self help infomercial. just make up your own thing using the words cathartic, community, ethos, and d.i.y.

peetq@hotmail.com
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Thursday, March 18, 2004

Lungs Damaged by Butter Flavoring Vapors 

just sett'n here letting my freedom fries get cold, n' my julep water down. lettin' the day whisper out from beneath my eyelids. the day wins today, yowp. the day-1, me-0. yeah, defeated, but it's like losing a wrasslin' match to an oversized fuzzy sports mascot, humiliating and too ludicrous to really dwell on or take too heavily.

i've had a retarded sort of fantasy idea bugging me for awhile now, to have a picnic in the grassy center of a highway on/off ramp. a blanket, a basket, sammiches, sody pops, the full blown deal. it would, however, hold a kind of "look at us, arent we being cute and eccentric" high-school level mentality. the puffed up ethos i placed on the group of "we are the innocence and beauty you have abandoned for your buttoned down, workaday world of watercoolers and traffic jams. we remember something you've forgotten." i'm probably blowing that out of proportion, but dangit, i'm trying to be dramatic. as cheeseball and pretentious as it might be, i still want to do it sometime with some like-minded folk.

is it cheating if i sort of work up a draft of a post ahead of time?

peetq@hotmail.com
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Athletic Waistpack in Neoprene 

so stinkin damn tired. i've been staring at the dang computer for about an hour. i've got two more hours to waste before work. i think i'll get some orange juice.

few times today, felt tired enough to adopt an "o screw it" state of mind with the chilluns. that was a bad idea. they start to climb me, wonder how i could possibly have so much hair sprouting all over, and try to yank it off, and i don't set up reasonable boundaries. i almost feel like i'm being subtley manipulative sometimes. setting up some kind of stern teacher/soft teacher dynamic so i come out looking like the good guy when i don't become decisive or firm. i feel like i look ridiculous when i have to set limits or reprimand, and that they can't possibly take me seriously, but that's probably what makes it less likely to work. i know they respect and listen to the teacher when she has to be stern, and i know they would probably still respect and listen to me if i had to be, i just need to get over being so self concious or afraid of losing their trust. the same internal argument i've already rammed into the ground on my own, so it seems obnoxious and tiresome to me now.

i can't quite tell if this is coherent. i feel like flopping over on the floor and crawling under the table and not coming out until coerced to do so by the scent of garlicky taters.

i keep meaning to post a tiny meaningless little walzy number about diseases or something that i once sent of to dj relay a few months ago, so while i'm thinking of it, and in keeping with the theme of being nearly incoherent, i'll post it here, and then come back when i make a little more sense to myself.

cancel the plans for the
satelite dance 'cause i
cant get my pants on when i
ain't got no hands and my
pallor is rancid i'm
squeamish and flaccid i'm
teeming with cancers and
massive bacteria...

peetq@hotmail.com
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Tuesday, March 16, 2004

Your Injuries are #1 

yyyyyaaaaaaaaggg....
all that stuff about enjoying a walk from one end of the city to the other, looking at all the buildings, the fresh air, the exercise, woof woof? yeah, that was before i had to do it at 9am with a 40 pound green midget strapped to my back. goddammit. now i cant sit up straight, and im a moist, sour glob. maybe i'll build up a resistance to it and sprout giant tour de france thighs like the kid in triplets of belleville. or maybe my hip will pop off and shoot out of my side like a frisbee. oh, sad farce, life!

peetq@hotmail.com
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Bromidrosis 

maybe tomorrow afternoon i'll have something worth posting, but for now i'll dredge up something from the sparsely used journal. my journal has street cred now, because it's crusted with puke from the night i thought it was a good idea to eat two boxes of pizza rolls.

This here’s for all the one-booted cowboys of the world. I scratch this out in a stairwell for the redemption of your hobbled prairie heart. I’m sitting in a pile of expunged matches. I don’t care if I’m found out! I dare ‘em ta wrankle me! There’re more corners in this ney-ba-whud than they can ever find me crouching in! Hee hee! I’m hiding in the empty mauve smelly dining area. I might get a little frazzled if I hear footsteps up the stairs. The room is humming and creaking like a clipper ship or a big wooden schooner. In secret reverie, I’m a nutty kook, but I’ll be better and normal when it’s over. I’ve gained a view of the lone cowboy boot. It’s waitin’ for a bus, lookin’ fer a friend to tell its story to. Poor bastard. Crippled hero of the plains. Empty pockets and given nothing but angry sneers to sustain you through the frozen twilight of your existence. Football hero! Living grizzled masterpiece! You’ve tamed frothing snorting beasts by the score and what do you get? Discarded, cast off, without so much as a sigh of regret from anywhere. Left to be trampled amid the vacuous bustle, as you once trampled adversary after faceless adversary, a golden monolith set against the soft purple sunset of the boundless western mesa

peetq@hotmail.com
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Saturday, March 13, 2004

Are My Eyes Bleeding? 

derrrrrrr... yeah, last night ate shovel loads of the most bizzare candy i've ever seen. something called "candy juice baby bottle pop candy" a 2 oz. baby bottle filled with watermelon flavored syrup and capped by an apple candy nipple with a hole in the top. the bottle bears the istructions "lick until you can suck candy juice". it does contain 5% pear juice. i also ate a bowl of hot cheese yesterday. feeling godlike. next week, hot watermelon flavored cheese in a bottle.



peetq@hotmail.com
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Wednesday, March 10, 2004

Boobah 

woke myself up at 9 in the damned mornin to watch boobah, the new show by the same people who created the teletubbies. it's just not the same cosmic dump on your conciousness that i get from the teletubbies. i expected more from glowing neon alien globs of coconut cream with luminescent eyebrows, but all they do is some callisthenics, and then get sucked back up into a swirling rainbow. and now, since jerry falwell's roly poly bigot ass accused the teletubbies of being a clandestine plot to turn the world the hottest shade of gay, i cant watch an electromagnetic windmill tell alien babies what to do without being called a big homosexual, instead of the savant manchild i was beforehand. i don't care, though. i'm perfectly ok with the dual purpose of fuck you symbolism toward religious right lumpish jackanapes and cooking my brain until ashes fall from my ears. i was just hoping i could have a new source for the true absurdity of reality being delivered to my feet, and was a little let down. i'll probably give it another shot sometime soon.



peetq@hotmail.com
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Tuesday, March 09, 2004

Nubbin Finger 

since i don't have anything of particular interest to say, and the notebook pastes seem to go over relatively well, and also make it look like i'm doing something with the blog, i'll pick another entry to tack on here...

I met Myrna at the fair in 1894. She was submerged in a cast iron tank filled with murky saltwater. Her face and suctiony fins were pressed against the porthole in the wall of the cylindrical aquarium. She was seeing the left fielder for the Tuscaloosa Sandpipers at the time, but he was away so often, and when he did happen to be around, he was laconic and lugubrious. He quite often spent his entire winter hiatus sequestered in the cellar with a giant flask of firewater he brewed in an upturned fish barrel. She burbled these sentiments in stilted fragments as she bobbed above the surface for as long as her nautical lung would allow. Her diatribe afflicted me so, I vowed to steal her away from her guilded chamber of despair. By nocturnal blue cloak I returned with a cart of implements which would properly facilitate the safest, swiftest emancipation: water and a shovel for bangin’. She flopped over the edge of the tank and into the cart, sustaining a laceration on her hip. The Carney, aroused by the sudden bustle, came charging across the plaza in his union suit. Myrna tossed me the shovel from the dry compartment of the cart, and I made reverberating contact with his nose. He stopped short, a somnambulant glaze in his eyes for a soundless moment. He then salivated thickly upon his chin and emitted a sound like a baby bird as he tilted forward slightly at the waist and fell back onto the half buttoned trapdoor flap of his coveralls, sprawling drunkenly in the dirt and chattering like an exited infant. "Huzzah!" said I, and took the helm of the cart, charging into the inky blackness of the surrounding woodland. We trundled onward, my fish love and I, along the moonlit road until we reached my cabin on the edge of a mossy isthmus.

peetq@hotmail.com
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There Are Countless Ointments 

i'm schmetty. i got the schmetz. i smell like lettuce. disturbing dream a few nights ago in which i could not for the life of me decide which toppings to put on the pizza i was ordering. i rifled thru a stack of papers in the desk i was sitting behind, but i couldnt find the list of toppings. i was actually anxious and frightened in the dream because i couldnt pick pizza toppings.



peetq@hotmail.com
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Sunday, March 07, 2004

No Knee 

i apologise profusely in advance for this post. maybe it would be to everyones benefit, myself included, to just ignore it. i have learned, however, through my experience, about the positive aspects of tossing your apprehension and embarrassment aside and sort of observing yourself objectively from a corner of your brain. in my case, this bullshit here is the result:

the one drawback to walking across the city would have to be the case of swass you might get stuck with after you cool down at the end of the trip. swass, or "swamp ass" is generated in much the same
way that a pothole is created; alternating cooling and heating periods as a result of varied levels of physical activity. the end result of exessive swass is the babboon ass, a big crimson bulb of inflamed tissue which causes you to shamble like a cowboy hither and yon until such time as some powder or an oscilating fan can be procured.

the worst case of babboon ass i ever had was the product of walking from my house in north Minneapolis to Down in the Valley in Golden Valley and back in the middle of the summer of 1991, a round trip of probably 15 miles. i was barely able to move for about two days, and all i got out of it was anthrax's first tape "fistfull of metal". i've also always been a tighty whities kinds fella, which compounds the problem via swass reservoirs.

good thing for anyone reading this that its time for me to do laundry now. i wont expound any further today on the cause and effect of swass. again, im so so sorry this had to happen.

peetq@hotmail.com
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Arbus 

looking at some diane arbus photos. i'd like to have a bookfull, would that i had any money.



peetq@hotmail.com
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Thursday, March 04, 2004

Steve Gutenberg 

fantabulous day in kindergarten. the kids really seemed to love the tape recorded interview activity i brought in today, and i thought it went great even though it somehow degenerated into trying to outdo eachother on how disgusting an object they would eat. i realize now that these things will never turn out the way i expect them to. after the kindergarten, i had the 45 minute walk from that school to this one. not too bad except that i was a little soggy by the time i got here. i guess i should be asking myself if anyone really needs to know something like that before i type it.

gallery show at art institute in about a half hour, then another 45 minute walk home. i am an unrepentant artsy fartsy pansy ass. i get a big tennis ball sized lump of hardened bile in my stomach everytime i hear some stupid nazi bastard say we need to "get back to basics" and cut or completely eliminate art programs from school. what's more basic and necessary than art? name one friggin aspect of development which is not enhanced by some form of artistic exploration. yeah, well now i'm al worked up, dammit, and i'm probably preaching to the choir as far as anyone who'll actually read this is concerned, so i'll stop before i poop my pants.

why do i love an element of cartoonish dumbness in music so durned much? today it was the misfits, a few days ago it was fu manchu. both obviously retarded, yet so sassyfyin' on an embarrassingly base level.

i'm gonna go now.

peetq@hotmail.com
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Wednesday, March 03, 2004

Dangerous Sports Moments 

cold kicked it with dom and o drawers at doms cozy place above via's last night. watched some ridiculous movie about zombie samurai fighting yakuza or something, and then another movie about some spanish or mediteranean town that worships a fish god and has sex with a giant squid demon or something like that. had a rib fracturing nap on doms hard ass floor and woke up with a dead arm. everytime i sleep at doms apt, i feel like i need a nap to recover from sleeping there.

i actually dont mind the idea of having to walk everywhere while the bus drivers are on strike. ive spent days walking from one end of the city to the other. i'll have a chance to listen to a bunch of cd's and take meandering routes thru unfamiliar neighborhoods. there are also some strange warehouses and industrial areas tucked away all over northeast and southeast minneapolis. i really did sit next to a casket factory a couple of summers ago and try to write something. i saw a building around here somewhere once that had CHEESE CHEESE CHEESE CHEESE CHEESE painted al the way around the top.

i'm going to see nellie mckay play at the fine line on tuesday. stellar.

hang out with the chilluns again tomorrow. not sure what i'll be doing yet.

okey dokey, out of ideas...

peetq@hotmail.com
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Tuesday, March 02, 2004

The Road Warriors Conquer Japan 

hurrah! the stinkin friggin fake parent teacher conference midterm is over! it went decent, i didnt recieve or give any vomit, and i dont need to change my pants. now i can get back to making puppets and fingerpainting. spring break next week. im going to sleep till two in the afternoon everyday, and read something other than "creative activities for the young child" or "the marriage and family experience". i will walk up and down and all around the town, and wave a howdy doo to the pharmacist as i pass the soda fountain. i will cover myself in peanut butter like iggy pop and turn the dumb caveman rock all the way up to eleven. i should get back to class now. my entries over the next week may protract into retarded spires of obtuse landfill overflow due to exessive tedium and malaise. i'm missing the second half of class right now. oops...

peetq@hotmail.com
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Monday, March 01, 2004

I Don't Need No Damn Hook On This Beat 

well, i'm fresh out of ideas that arent completely boring right now. why don't let's look at another entry from my journal, or "memoirs" as the farmers like to call it. it's an unfinished-and barely started-story about a vulgar gambling snail which was interrupted by a babbling transient who wandered up to the picnic table where i was writing. he frightened me so, and i wandered away frazzled and bedraggled of spirit until patrick came along and mercifully roused me from my dolorous morosity. in its original form it is accompanied by a picture of kenneth the snail. you will just have to generate a personalized image of a gambling snail before you begin the story. it has also not been separated into paragraphs, for no good reason.

This is Kenneth. He rolled up to me and prodded me with his eyeball. I nearly trod upon him. Were it not for his gleaming tentacles, Kenneth would exist only in our hearts, and perhaps as a coin purse. "Eenf!!" he exclaimed heatedly. He r…
well goddammid, ya drunken piece a shit, thanks a bunch, fuckhead, now we’ll never know what happened to Kenny the snail. Way to go jackass. Was his family in peril? Did he urgently need to impart information about the fortunes of humanity in general? Did he want to bum a quarter to phone up fucking Dick Van Dyke? Who knows? Not me! Thanks to belchy the dullard over there wandering up and slumping over on the pick-a-nic table. Yeah, many thanks, you…agaph. Mercifully, that was thumbed in the eye by trusty Patrick. Hooray for Patrick! He who, at times, has sported the finery of a Victorian pugilist, brazenly thrown ice water across the room at strangers, thusly voicing the unvoiceable, forged a hot, sweet, heavy brick of the most tender bread, laden with grain, spice and rendered by the nimble hands of this stouthearted godsend. Ah, Patrick! May the naked imps of the Hinterland swaddle you in spun silver sashes and coddle your person on your passage through this plane of being. May golden perfumed mists expectorate and issue forth from the tips of the wings of your soul, ensconcing you and sheltering you eternally hence. Well, anyway, I guess what happened was Kenny had that 50 bucks he owed me from the Cotton Bowl. He secreted it from the space between his shell and his tail. The bills were all stuck together with slimy snail gop, and when I slipped the wad in my shirt pocket, it started to eat away at the fabric, and a rash formed just above my areola, singeing the hairs ringing my supple teat. "Kenneth, you cad!" said I with a smirk, and bore him aloft as I continued down the sidewalk. "Let us stop in and see about getting a flavored ice at Thee Shoppe of thee Goode Apothecary, what use have I for money?" I slapped the sopping clump of bills on the countertop, which began immediately to blacken and reek and put forth the query "exactly how much chopped ice and syrup can this fetid lump of capital afford us?" The apothecary walked to the rear of the shop and returned with a metal tub approximately 30" in diameter and with an estimated depth of 1/3rd a fathom, filled to overflowing with glimmering pink ice crystals. I retched on myself. I retched with joy and I retched with fear. Kenneth’s stench also probably contributed to my retching, true enough, but mostly it was the tub of ice. In the midst of weeping, moaning with happiness, and of course the retching, I thrice punched the apothecary in the face, and began reciting a mysterious text in a language unfamiliar to both Kenny and myself. "Tub of iiiiiiiicccccceeeeeee!!!!!!!" they later tell me I exclaimed, disrobing and somersaulting into the street. "Tub of ice, you motherfuckers!!" I swung Kenny around by the tail, and slapped him against my naked arse, pantomiming a jockey riding a horse. I then began singing "These Boots Were Made for Walkin’" by Nancy Sinatra, and performed a running cannonball into the ice tub, Kenneth clinging to my asshairs, the unwitting accomplice to the throes of my pathetic ailment. The next instant, I’m here, in the infirmary, cotton swabs in every aperture. Tubes attached to sacks of clear liquid nestle between my ribs. A plastic tray containing half a tuna sandwich, a cup of Jell-O, and a small pasta salad lay on a cart at my left shoulder. "Dooood" I groaned, and spat the Q-tips on the linoleum floor. I groped for the nurse call button, pressed it weakly with my fore-knuckle, and slumped back against the stack of pillows, gazing numbly at the fluorescent lighting and polka-dotted particle board ceiling. The nurse arrived presently, smiling serenely, her orthopedic shoes farting against the tile floor. "Well, you certainly had quite the eventful evening, didn’t you? I tell ya, 5 more minutes and we would’ve had to take that leg." I noted then the swollen purple state of my left leg below the knee. Scaly black patches were interspersed among blue craters, and soft shiny places where the hair had fallen out. "Keeeennnyyy…" I managed to croak, and the nurse, while changing the colostomy bag, said "your little slug, or whatever the hell he is, seems to have borne no ill effects from your mindless rampage, the slimy prick. Bastard has been swearing up a storm in the lobby all morning. Making ludicrous demands and fondling the orderlies. Stinks to high heaven, too. We finally tossed him out of here about an hour ago, but not before he managed to piss all over the periodicals in the waiting room and a few of the security personnel. Where the hell are we going to get two years worth of Redbook?"

peetq@hotmail.com
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Pish Pood 

another day of coloring monkeys with a marker.

i want to make music dammit. so many betheh tracks left to cut. if i knew how to run the equipment, and had the time and everything i needed at my disposal, i would sit in my room all day and make little tiny fuzzy songs.

i guess i should get started on the assignment that's due in twenty minutes.

frothy spit chewing noises and gut wrenching vegetable snap.

peetq@hotmail.com
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