Scheduled Description

I'm an alcoholic, but I really rarely drink. But really, what defines that alcoholism? I have a bitter fuse, born May 20, 1992. Born in a manger, with hopes that can so easily get carried away. I love Michele Bachman for her altruism. I love people saying what they mean. I love the love that comes with mean. I live somewhere between the averages and the Vornado fan. I've made records. I've put down lines through a TL Audio, and although it was kicking and crying, I had no pitch transposition courtesy of MXR. These are the hidden promises. Superficial secrets which are kept for their secrecy. For the art of oceanic sublimation.

Those who live the life of irony are forgiven only the transgressions they commit against themselves. Tossing and turning for the sake of the casino. Blasphemy in the name of San Pedro. Drifting in the name of the quaint overdrive of a long forgotten preamplifier. Arpeggios for the sake of dusty VHS tapes. Who doesn't want to fuck Sarah Palin? Isn't the Ombudsman of the New York Times included in the excess?

The poor on the 63 bus have the savior faire that Mitterand came into his bathroom sink. Scooped up by the aggregated PTSD of sunshine dancers, weaving themselves through the appropriate headlines.

At the forty yard line, irrespective of my distaste for football, I'm solving for x.

The Regal Pro, by Sloan

I never expected to be printed on quality paper. And I never anticipated actually reading about the Regal Pro. All I've had access to are tidbits of information, and the attempt made by even the most slovenly acolyte are surely worth even the smallest hand pulling back the sheet. Behold! The date of manufacture. Unleashed! The droplets of condensation. Just passing by! The dilapidated houses of East 3rd Street, a brilliant diorama of diseased lungs.

It's often raining when the poor advance masked. The Regal Pro stands in as an analog deck and the mind plays tricks, the ones heard through the damp din of the BBC. There's a warm hamlet out there somewhere, two men expressing the confusion of war and the intricacy of the daffodil, and taking breaks right overtop the Regal Pro. All herald Sloan's profit margins. Burn coal to light a vacuum tube, to ponder the daffodil and to piss with the Pros.

Formula for Geographies

I create novellas every day, writing a stream of fiction in my head that somehow turns out to be art offering up an explanation, a description and a celebration. Sometimes I put some music to it. Fragments of Motley Crue most of the time. I have a need to rock, to ingratiate myself with solid output from the inputs of introspection. It's a core team of multicolored editors, flamboyant teamsters picketing the inbox of a migrant achiever, presumably all for the sake of posterity.

The translation of geographies from one person's list into something I can use and leverage for my own benefit brings up thorny questions; the philosophy of living is at once compacted into the study of the translation, and expanded into the universality of formulaic expression. In and through the process of devising and constructing the formula(s), the significance and the absurdity of the translation explodes on the scene: a collection of posers - browsing and shopping and snooping at the behest of consumption and lying about the true result of the transaction. The implication is a new geography, one that can be used to satisfy the silo-ed interest group occupying the other half of the floor and no longer relegated to the guest bedroom.

Multiply this by one hundred and we have a new meeting place.