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Do Do Wap is Strong in Here

Monday, November 29, 2004

Why'd I 'ave to go and Do a Schewpid Fing Loik Dat? 

uuuuuhh gawd, i have no functioning concept of the facets involved in operating the way i'm used to operating right now. i was startled awake at about ten by a dying smoke alarm, and i swore for about a half hour that it was ten a.m. and couldn't understand why it was so dark outside. then i watched a documentary about "song poems". little ads on the back of tabloids or comics that say "send us the lyrics, and we'll make a song and send the recording to you". people have been sending in stuff for decades. they played a song called "chicken insurrection", and talked to a guy who tried to send in the most fucked up and offensive thing he could think of, and it still got recorded, a honkey tonk with the refrain "a blind man's penis is erect because he's blind". so now, startled, with belly churning, and "blind man's penis" melodiously floating through my head, i believe i shall shamble into the kitchen and stare at the moldy cracks in the ceiling until i figure out what the closer-to-normal me would be doing tonight, and then get going on that.

peetq@hotmail.com
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Tuesday, November 23, 2004

Zuckerman's Famous Pig 

i have to say it actually felt palpably good to be alive walking that last half block back from the store. i've been waiting for the cold air to be just right, just enough to make the back of my hands a little numb and tingly. i was just a little more aware of my skin and concious of the idea that i was taking in air, and it felt justifiable and reassuring this time around, rather than that old sense of having to scramble for reasons to defend it. plus, i knew i had a giant, soft blanket and new music waiting at home.

peetq@hotmail.com
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Mbuuuuuaaaahhhh... 

thats the sound of me not having to do a friggin history test anymore. took me five damn hours to write the essay part of the exam. now im going to crawl under my fluffy new comforter and sleep forever, or until the spiked boot of schule wedges back in the ol' arse sometime this weekend. yaaaaahhhhh... too tired to grunt out any more bull pocky right now.

small fisted
pork gristle
prickly thistle
train whistle
dull epistle
patriot missile




motion sickness
aiding and abetting
badgering the witness
chronic bed wetting

peetq@hotmail.com
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Wednesday, November 17, 2004

The Hippie and the Lunatic 

since that last one was about as appetising as a cabbage sundae, i thought i'd harken back a little bit about an old roommate of mine, stinky ass ken. ken, you trey anastasio lookin' muthafucka, i wonder where you are right now. probably passed out with a mammoth cup of tapwater dumped drunkenly on your head, or putting your grimy fingers in some unsuspecting business major's hoagie. ken had black, fucked up hippie toes. he tried, but never quite managed, to mask the pot stench behind the rancid incense clouds eeking out of his room. on the weekends, if he made it home, he would wobble up to the house on his bike, dump it in the entryway, and then crawl up the stairs, usually stopping halfway up to chuckle and swear. when he made it all the way into the living room, he always had some story about toppling off his bike or falling asleep in someone's yard along the way. sometimes i'd see him struggling home at about 7 in the morning while i waited for the bus, a grim kind of resignation on his face. i think he was gone for about four days once, and no one seemed to know where he was, and then one night, out in the yard, we heard WHUMP! "ahe-he-he-heeeeee... shit!" and knew everything was a-o.k. ken was good people. at least he wasn't like our creepy housemate jeremy, who would sometimes leave a tv, radio, and alarm clock blaring while he "played" his bass in his corner of the moldy cellar. it sounded more like he was throwing things at it from across the room, and then suddenly "sanford and son" would pop out for ten seconds. he only left his room to come up to the kitchen and cook the same foul pasta-like thing every single day, the creepy bastard.

DOM! anything of note as far as you can remember that i'm leaving out?


peetq@hotmail.com
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Jesuit Track & Field 

i've about had it with this swole up ass uvula i got dangling down the back of my throat like a damn fishing lure. what the hell is that thing for anyway? i think i should make a necklace or something out of it, give it a purpose.

well, after tripping over all the tenderness and flopping around on the ground for a while, i kind of neglected to stand up straight when righting myself, and dragged my face along the ground for a few days. i might be swerving back into lock step now, so no need to mail me any xanax yet. still got this sonsabitchin half-ass cold, though. myerp, myerp, myerp, myerp... ooh, ah, a hummus belch. things are lookin' up.

peetq@hotmail.com
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Friday, November 12, 2004

Get Up a-Get Get, Get Down 

ppppffffffffhhhhhhhttttttthhhhhhh... first the swing pushin goes horribly awry when the final big push sends a kid careening hip first into the damn post of the swingset, then i come home and the kitchen door is kicked in. someone broke through the bottom pannel of the door, crawled in, and apparently just grabbed jordan dale's bike and ran out. nothing else was touched. it doesn't even look like they set foot in any other part of the house. i called the cops, who showed up an hour and a half later and basically just said "yep. bike's gone" (i know there isn't a whole extra bunch they can do, though, and it's really not the frustrating part) and i called someone at the rental company who sounded like she was too preoccupied with picking the butter out from between her toes to hear anything i said. someone's supposedly coming out here sometime in the near future to hammer a piece of plywood over the hole or something. right now there's a pillowcase tacked to the door to keep the cold out. yeah, so the tenderness does a big faceplant today, i guess.

peetq@hotmail.com–
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Thursday, November 11, 2004

Strawberry Fanta 

well dammit if this week ain't been about as tender as a runt over porterhouse, you fine people. flowers and kiddies and brunches and sentiment that would make a cadaver blush and say "shucks". i'm filled to the gills with cornball giddiness. sakes alive. i don't see the foppishness shriveling up anytime soon, either. more kiddies tomorrow, where word has gotten around about the big pushes handed out at the swingsets, then an entire weekend of revelry with friendships both storied and nascent.

the beard and i have parted ways for the time being. we just grew apart. it was a different beard from the one i met and fell in love with, and i'm a changing boy. the hardest part was having to watch it stare up at me from the sink like a dying chinchilla, and then gathering its broken body in my arms and leaving its fate to the whimsy of the wind. i wish it all the good fortune it deserves.

peetq@hotmail.com
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Wednesday, November 10, 2004

No One, Not Even the Rain... 

oh, so very cold... anywho, i was walking home tonight and i perchanced to... haaaaaaayyyy, waitaminute... what's with the poncy crap about swingsets and giggles and shit? oh snap, did i have another one of my "episodes"? alright, i spent the morning with the kinders and then went to 14th grade and read some poems about sunflowers and tiny hands and junk and i just got a little tender, that's all, nothing to be too ashamed about. i'm still burly and manly and whatnot, got the beard and everything, open your pickle jar, stuff like that. can't a boy have his flights of fancy now and again? i think so. howbout to balance everything out i end the post with the word syphilis?

peetq@hotmail.com@
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Goddamn the Pusherman 

today, for 15 minutes, the only thing that mattered was that if they got going high enough and fast enough, the swings would jolt and flop, and send the kids twisting and flailing and laughing.

peetq@hotmail.com
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Tuesday, November 09, 2004

The Book of Lord Shang 

ennui, ennui, ennui, ennui, ennui, ennui, ennui, ennui, ennui, ennui, ennui, ennui, ennui, ennui, ennui... aaaaaannnd... ennui. there. now i should be number one. except now that i see that word so many times, in my head it sounds like a type of fabric or a shrimp-like animal. yyyeeeaahhh, so this is me trying to squeeze out more frequent posts. i have to go read about china's least popular philosophy soon. jealous? oh, to be pigtailed in a sun dress, somersaulting through the wheat fields all day, naming the clouds and inhaling the wet sod! look! there's a whiporwill eating sesame out of my pocket! a newt sleeping in the crook of my arm! to be barefoot and witless. oh, simply to be!

peetq@hotmail.com
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Sunday, November 07, 2004

Wrecka Stow 

every coupla months, when i haven't eaten a giant burrito at two in the morning, i have a rotating clump of beautiful, decrepit record stores i visit in my dreams. i always find some faded obscure album by the greatest band ever, who is only truly appreciated by myself and the gorgeous employees. last night it was "compass records" on the corner of fifth or sixth street and first avenue. but it's a modern first avenue that stopped evolving in about 1905. all the people are on foot, and the record store is next to candy stores, places that sell elixers and phosphates, and businesses that spell "shop" with two p's and an e. they always have the best selection of old local 45's, and cozy, dusty corners with hardwood floors. last night i was going to stop in at a bookstore or something around the corner, but i decided against it, because i was wandering around in nothing but a bath towel.

another store is called "peanut butter records" and it's on fiftysomething and nicollet-ish. 50th is a freshly tarred two lane highway about as wide as a bike trail that cuts through the middle of a vast, bright green field. the records are in long bins in the dark peanut butter basement, and they specialize in out of print records from the 60's. i think i got the wild man fischer double album there some night a few months ago.

then there's the one that is alternately record store, antique shop, or the ruined, filthy home of my friends jason and laura. this one is tucked away somewhere on a residential side street in northeast minneapolis, and i think it's either run by a bunch of indie kids or a spry old married couple that fight over things like who got to look at the variety section first that morning, or how the wife still tries to get the old coot to eat green beans even though he goddamn told her he don't like green beans every night now for 55 years. sometimes i don't even find this one, and just end up wandering around empty streets all night.

the one that tends to knock around in my head for the rest of the waking day is located at the bottom of a long, steep set of crumbling stone stairs, on the shore of a cold ocean in dinkytown. i think i'm only allowed to go into this one if i'm in love with or pursuing someone. the store is in a tiny, wedge shaped room, and it only sells ancient punk 45's. i usually grab a stack of records and then run out and go eat bread on the beach with the love interest.

other than the record store dreams, every other night i basically run down the street nude trying to jump through the ground, or drive around in broken cars with dead people.

peetq@hotmail.com
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Saturday, November 06, 2004

Jesus H., Crab Killa 

i'm gorged with root beer barrels and sweet tarts. apparently, this blogging crap is a demanding endeavor. i've got people scattered halfway across the country breathing down my neck for new inanities. the problem is that while my life is rediculously busy - which for a lazy bastard like myself could ammount to having to get up when the alarm tells me to rather than rolling around in bed for my usual 15 hour nap - it's not necessarily all that much worth commenting on. it's pretty repetitive and predictable right now, school, work, begging for cash, the nightly vat of cheese, nude body painting at the nursing home on wednesdays... nausiatingly mundane, really. until something wacky happens, i guess you'll just have to chew on this painting of jesus flashing a blood sign.



peetq@hotmail.com
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