Thursday, March 6, 2008

#1 -oh honey, shower me in your rose-red ambivilance

#2 -nope

#1 -oh honey, shower me in your rose-red knee socks

#2 -nope, closer though

#1 -oh honey, shower me in your rose-red intramural lineup

#2 -nope

#1 -oh honey, shower me in your rose-red commercial airline specsheet

#2 -I think you're not quite grasping the point of the exercise

#1 -oh honey, shower me in your rose-red 401K tips

#2 -umm, I suggest you take a moment to regroup your thoughts

( )

#l-oh honey, shower me in your rose-red mounting cultural malaise

#2-l'm going home.

games, rituals, stupid ass shit

watch us do the money dance

watch us do the relationship dance

watch us do the communication dance

don't let it all be an invitation to two left feet

my big fear is waking up one morning to find myself only capable of

speaking esperanto, sort of rendering me the linguistic equivalent of

gregor samsa. truly thus would I become a soul in limbo upon this

earth, yes, I guess esperanto is pretty much the betamaxlnew coke of

the language community

The X009-llSeries

'Don't blame me, I voted for X009-11"

"You look like a stranger to these part, whatta they call you?' 'X009-11'

'Impeach X009-11'

'What's an X009-11 gotta do to get some respect around here?'

'Sounds of Enchantment: X009-11 and the X009-11 Orchestra'

'Fanfare for the Common X009-11'

'Methinks X009-11 doth protest too much'

'My X009-11 is an honor X009-11 at X009-11 Academy 9ZC-03'

'My X009-11 can beat up your honor X009-11'

'How's X009-ll's driving? Call 1-800-X009-11'

'The Old X009-11 and the Sea'

'I'm Waiting for My X009-11'

'Tomb of the Unknown X009-11'

'Virginia is for X009-lls'

'X009-ll's do it better'

'X009-11 Revisits the Old West'

'It's an X009-11, not a choice!'

'100 X009-11 Limericks"

'Two X009-ll's walk into a bar;the one X009-11 says to the other X009'lt*.-'


'raw passion'- one of our most hackneyed phrases upon this, our good earth

'ham fisted' has got to be one of the clumsiest critical terms ever deployed; I'm curious to its origins. Perhaps a theatre critic whose day job found him at the abatoir...

yes, I like that image of the Victorian theatre critic who works in the abatoir by day, yet cultivates well-bred distaste by night, hands cleansed of gore and now dabbed in cologne, contentedly reposing his sore limbs in a red, plush velvet box, quick wilted moments of Wildean wit much appreciated by his effete companions. Our protaginist tries hard to distance himself from his swarthy Welsh upbringing, and instead to embrace the pale, anemic air of London theatre going intelligensia. But lo, how terror and fear must grip our poor hero as he silently chokes on the thought of his play-going companions, their delicate, refined souls and well-bred sensibilities, yes, he fumbles in alarm that they might uncover his horrid daytime profession wherin he utilizes the glory of Welsh brawn to grapple rosey prime cuts of sheep, cows, lamb, and the odd, illegal horse for the back alley boys; hoisting these headless torsos up onto rusted meathooks. His white apron and frock glisten with gore and stink of salty, smokey, sinewy intestinal smells, a mist of crushed bone settling upon his mottled forearm. Oh, but if 'The Times' theatre critic or Sir Harry Burney were to amble by during his lunch break or if he were to be called upon to help carry an order somewhere near Charing Cross or round the Old Vie...equally disasterous would be the endless catcalls and elbowing endured at the hands of the boys in shop were they to hear of his milquetoastian nocturnal engagements. In which case, he'd be called upon to use his fistts more than once to be sure. How damnably small could be this London town!

But to that moment wherein our protagonist attains nameless immortality of a paltry sort, yes, his coining of the term 'ham fisted'. Perhaps it was used in snide disdain toward an inaccurate stage portrayal of a Victorian butcher, the fellows' hands obviously loo puffy for the intricacies of detaching sinew and bone, or perhaps leveled upon the unintelligible shouts from a certain Charles Dudley, far too gruff and slurred in his role as the French ambassador, his words undermined and trodden upon by shoddy vocal habits, much akin to the sound a chubby fist makes when colliding with a side of ham.

This account of our moonlighting critic could be called "Bruiser By Day, Dandy By Night"

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