The Adventures of Esplandian

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Mon, 04 Jun 2012 20:56:10 -0400

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Mon, 04 Jun 2012 20:54:05 -0400

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Mon, 04 Jun 2012 20:53:16 -0400

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Mon, 04 Jun 2012 20:52:06 -0400

MARY PABST: We’re here, Max. MAX PABST: No, not a literal...

Mon, 04 Jun 2012 20:47:00 -0400

MARY PABST: We’re here, Max.

MAX PABST: No, not a literal place Mary.

He points to the painting beside the empty desk in the corner of the room.

Roxy Music, “Lover”

Mon, 10 Oct 2011 01:38:15 -0400

Roxy Music, “Lover”

“You could guess the nature of the relationship by...

Thu, 06 Oct 2011 18:45:39 -0400

“You could guess the nature of the relationship by anticipating the exact opposite of Flanagan’s depositions. “It was strictly sexual,” he would begrudgingly and superficially confide to the two macaroons at internal affairs who were interrogating him after the incident. “I did give her money, but I never saw her inside of the house.” It was inevitable that we were to know his lies, but what he was hoping was that we simply wouldn’t realize the extent of them. What he hadn’t surmised is how much we were inevitably going to read into the watery confessions of his opaque blue eyes with the mention of the lovely and voluptuous Veronica Pabst—for god’s sakes you could figure out the color and type of paint used on the wall of that room she was kept in by that scum-mouthed butcher’s son Pepe Valdez. Flanagan was hoping for some remorse, but there was little to be hoped for in the way of forgiveness. We had the deaths of a 16 year old prostitute and her 45 year old pimp to account for, and no known search warrants or necessary cause to back any of it up. Flanagan certainly had been in love, but there was no way of understanding the myths that perambulated and eventually enveloped the halls of the precinct. Flanagan was everything and so he was nothing. Didn’t even know she was pregnant—what a fucking putz.

“I had always taken a personal interest in these cases, the ones concerning young prostitutes, not out of any perversion, but rather out of genuine concern for the discovery of reason behind these lapses in reason. Flanagan may not have been to blame, but he certainly wasn’t talking, and he certainly hadn’t known of the baby. He wouldn’t really talk until we beat the sugary shit out of him. And that would take the time it took for Ol’ Shakes to peel an orange.”

—Robert Smithsonian from From Heaven, In Deadly Arms

“Take time to kill yourself with kindness. Every day. Kill...

Mon, 26 Sep 2011 13:23:01 -0400

“Take time to kill yourself with kindness. Every day. Kill yourself with kindness. Kill everything thing around you with it. Kill those around you with it. Take no prisoners. Take no enemies. Kill only your friends. The world is your friend. The world is not made of kindness. The universe is not kind. Friends are not kind. Kill them with it. Set yourself free. That is the only way to put up with this book. That is the only way you will one day pick it up and on another put it down. Like putting down your favorite dog. With kindness.”

—Rory Simanelli-Crum, “How I Wrote This Book and Found A Way To Your Heart”

Thomas Edison’s Crazy Boxing Cats

Mon, 19 Sep 2011 09:20:21 -0400

Thomas Edison’s Crazy Boxing Cats

Shame was her currency. It gave her equity in a world that she...

Fri, 16 Sep 2011 12:12:06 -0400

Shame was her currency. It gave her equity in a world that she felt forced her hand of youthful indifference. She was the old mangy cat knowingly left alone for the weekend and returned to as if snuggles and cutesy ‘mews’ were given course for the day. She shamelessly shamed everyone she saw. She would shame Arnold at the deli across the street into a free root beer every time that she stuck her red-bellied nose and deep set twinkling eyes inside. Ricky down fourth street at the bicycle store would inevitably be shamed into half-off chain lube with each day of mannered twitches from her matted yet light and hanging brown hair. She even shamed herself at least once a day, looking at the mirror into her apathetic eyes she would eventually curse the inscrutable energy of the world outside. In the face of indifference to herself and to the world that she so vehemently was the sole occupant of, she would give in to the recalcitrant and contrarian tone that kept her eyelashes subtly bobbing above the surface of life’s mercurial waters. I’m cute but not cute enough, she would say, as if she had any right to say it. She could shame the best of them, but nothing was as shameful as that last harrowing look of magnanimity she gave herself in the mirror before descending into the vagaries of her ornery persona for the day. She was a shameful emotional silo filled with petty allotments of affected personality. She was no one but her shame. It gave her the strength to be someone. Anyone.

—Diana Fink from The Smell Jar.

Dennis Hopper reciting Rudyard Kipling’s “If”...

Fri, 16 Sep 2011 11:42:25 -0400

Dennis Hopper reciting Rudyard Kipling’s “If” on The Johnny Cash Show

Woh, Robert Loggia!

Fri, 16 Sep 2011 11:41:00 -0400

Woh, Robert Loggia!

brad introduced me to jeff whose son john was in korea and had a...

Wed, 14 Sep 2011 12:55:31 -0400

brad introduced me to jeff whose son john was in korea
and had a “brilliant” blog that I needed to look at.
brad told me jeff was a newscaster, “you’ll see him on the fox news”

the one australian woman went to the stage
mic scratchy and bloody sounding and

on the tv and then in the hallway she sang
and the firemen danced butwere forced
to drink from flask.

—from “Don’t Worry About Me Now” by Donny Lelildo

“Swiss Army Knife with Rats and Pigeons” — Robert...

Tue, 16 Aug 2011 17:02:24 -0400

“Swiss Army Knife with Rats and Pigeons” — Robert Breer (1980)

R.I.P.

“Starla didn’t know how to summon the words to thank...

Tue, 16 Aug 2011 16:57:24 -0400

“Starla didn’t know how to summon the words to thank her mother for saying the things she said after that night at the tavern when everything seemed to have been going wrong. She thought about it for a second, and she decided that she could no longer even summon the emotions. Or confront them at least. She didn’t know. So guilt and anguish piled up in her and they breathed like some undulating liver inandoutinandout like the way it had been in the basement. In the basement surrounded by her old furniture. The furniture her mother had bought and sat on with Starla’s father. Her father. That person.

“Starla wanted to think. She thought she wanted to dance for a second. But. Standing up. She decided that dancing wasn’t very cool after all. She no longer wanted to dance so she sat down. But SHE THOUGHT— “OH MY GOD I NEED TO DANCE!!!” but all of a sudden, she thought that was the worst thing to do. So she plugged in her amp and pa system. She rolled the cassette tape. She wrote something about a blue sunday. But then she remembered something vaguely about another song with a title with blue in it that referred to another day of the week.”

Eddie Cantor

Tue, 26 Jul 2011 14:25:37 -0400

Eddie Cantor

Miriam Makeba “Pata Pata”

Mon, 25 Jul 2011 17:29:53 -0400

Miriam Makeba “Pata Pata”

Julia Holter

Wed, 22 Jun 2011 20:43:01 -0400

Julia Holter

in peace

Sun, 19 Jun 2011 18:23:01 -0400

in peace

Dave Brubeck Quartet “Blue Rondo a la Turk”

Thu, 16 Jun 2011 02:13:29 -0400

Dave Brubeck Quartet “Blue Rondo a la Turk”