Again! Finally! Whoa, this whole bit. Rarebit, Welsh. You feelin’ lonely? Is everything proceeding as planned? Bet not. No plan. You lowflife deadbeat. Oh my gorsh, I have nothing to say — and that is entirely my fault and a reflection of where I’m at rather than where you’re at. Hold on, that’s not true! I have a lot to say! But! It’s weird. This column was about big words once. Now big words seem way off. I now understand all our struggles. I really do. They’re simple.
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Once upon a time, I had big dreams. I honestly don’t know what my dreams are like these days. That’s the sad thing. It’s not that the dreams have died or diminished or changed. I just don’t know what they are now — whereas, once upon a time, I knew what they were so well. Like I would look outside an airplane window and see the grid of Kansas and feel how that connected to me and Dream #6, which had to do with exploring the Plains and “feeling” “America” and trimming the fat from my thoughts. Or I would see a station wagon coming at me from the other side of the highway in Maine (where my uncle lives) with a dead deer strapped to the roof and would manufacture all sorts of thoughts and dreams and I won’t even try to say what they were and how they connected. And all of my days were spent picking apart those dreams and living them and not living them. Now, though. Now. Can’t even say much about them. They were big as planes. They’re now, I don’t know, what are they?
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I think the task of these days is remembering. Earth is spinning at 1,000 miles per hour on its axis and orbiting at ~20 miles per second around the Sun. Your parents loved their first cars and the gravelly highways and they have prurient organs and will/did die and they felt, long ago, what you’re now feeling and are trying so hard to articulate, and they failed, and you’ll fail too, but they’re your parents and it won’t ever end, and if it did end, well. And you ate the worst food when you were 7 years old in Texarkana and you thought the neighbor’s dog would kill you (it was named Ripper in my case) and the girls were the meanest you’d ever come across, aw man, like thickets or hedges or whatever, remember? You made that fort in the trees and it was the realest thing that’s ever been and all reality derives from that illusion you MADE / you / what if you were at my window — Keep a globe on your desk and such, and look at how vast the Pacific Ocean is. Like that. It does get better. Late twenties. We’re past it. Run your fingers down the page. Your parents put their toes in the Pacific. Whoever named it the Pacific named it that because it seemed so calm. I guess. Perfect blue. I guess. But it had been seen by 100 million people before it was named. “Named!” Shoot. Remember! Dan and I drove down Highway 1 in March, 2008, en route to Santa Cruz, and we couldn’t take the ocean’s beauty. But were we already so old, Dan? Remember? It blinded us! A flightless bird had landed in the surf and it was getting tossed about, and people with dogs and frisbees didn’t know what to do, nor did the dogs, nor did the frisbees, nor did we. Or was that May, 2009? Hi, Dan! Best of luck. You get to the Midwest, and you’re not even Mid of the way to the Middle West. Remember. Your parents got lost and never made it back. I’ve never been to Iowa or Nebraska, Kansas, Oklahoma. But Idaho is so pretty; and there are apparently other countries in the world besides the States. And other people, and other situations that would move you just as much, must as juch. Coeur d’Alene, yes; Sandpoint, yes; Toronto, definitely. I regret pretty little. I’ve seen so little of Earth and its inhabitants — you’ve probably had some bad turns, worse than I’ve had, sorry!, so I should stop preaching, but. But. Help me out I’m in the dark! Help me, Cooper! Help me, Shelly! Continue reading this column... « Less

You dreamed me. I’m whispering into your ear, and I forgive you for getting all those mint ice creams, and I want you to know that the word in your head is the most important word you’ve ever heard—and you were once in that state, that time, and you saw fields of that crop, and it was that season, and you couldn’t believe the colors you saw, and you couldn’t believe that your mother or father did that thing that you do!, and the leaves were that shade, and why didn’t s/he like you?, you’re so great, you went on that ride at that fair that one time, and there were apples and strawberries, right, fireworks, think, think getting so bored of what you’re almost attached to, think a part of Illinois so far south that it connects to no other state, what’s Metropolis?, what’s a sludge-filled middle-middle river-river, what’s everything? good for you you’re moving to Chicago, the city of sin is a pity on a whim, what’s nothing? you were there anyway, Continue reading this column... « Less

Sometimes the Take the Handle writers get tired of swimming around in their money pools and decide to go out and do something for the people. Preferably something that involves making money.

The following is a series of text messages sent between the hard-working street team to document their deeply patriotic experience. No politicians were harmed in the sending of these text messages.

SGtBB: Up (5:28am)

WIWD: Don’t vote (7:20am)

AitZ: Only five hours until only eight hours! (7:58am)

WIWD: Ethnic group most likely to accept flyer: Hispanic. (8:39am)

SGTBB: Paper sluts (8:42am)
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I got engaged! Wait, that’s not right. I saw Coldplay! Easy to confuse the two. If I told you how drunk I was, it would bring disgrace to this column. I just downed a liter of Pellegrino. I can’t see straight. You’re probably thinking: why did you pay $55.70 to see Coldplay? But it wasn’t $55.70. It was $39.95, which we’ll round down to $39. Then there was the $10 convenience charge; it was convenient, I’ll admit. The $1.75 charge to email me the ticket is understandable. And the $4 processing charge Ticketmaster added at the last minute hardly counts, because it appeared only on the confirmation page. But why did I even pay $39 for Coldplay? I imagine I’d have a good answer if they had been better. Part of it was an attempt to recreate the U2 concert I saw in Philadelphia with Spendy. If you had seen lil’ Bono windmilling his arms, you would understand. Coldplay understands, even though Bono called Chris Martin a wanker or something to that effect. They played U2 over the loudspeakers before going on. They even did the U2 trick where you turn off the house lights and ask everybody to take out their phones. Sounds bad, I know, but it’s almost mystical. Like a deep field image of the universe. But I haven’t answered the question. Why U2? Why Coldplay? Continue reading this column... « Less

[In an as-of-now one-time only/once in a lifetime moment, we here at TTH are lucky enough to have Drinky from While I Was Drunk and Sammy from Sammy's Got the Bar Back together in one friendly drunken showdown. A real meeting of the minds. Here it is uncensored, unedited, live from Canada. Enjoy... - Ed.]
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George said the three most exciting sounds in the world are anchor chains, plane motors, and train whistles. Uncle Billy said they’re: “Breakfast is served,” “Lunch is served,” and “Dinner is served.” I’ll sign on for train whistles (and give honorable mentions to breakfast and dinner—especially if breakfast is that vanilla + coconut + rice + mango + cinnamon dish we shared in Portland, OR *or* the red flannel hash I had in Boise). My other two most exciting sounds are the sound of wind moving through the trees and the sound of waves crashing. As if they’re not the same! Jeez Louise. It’s also wonderful to watch the wind move through the grass. See: The Mirror. Wind does it all. On a good afternoon, I’m propped up on the left elbow in the grass by the seaside watching a train pass by, and it is plenty windy.
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Theodore Roosevelt was born at 28 East 20th Street, New York, NY. His mother was a Southern belle, from the Savannah area, and she grew up with a “little black shadow, as was the expression.” His father was essentially dull: “One searches the Roosevelt family history nearly in vain for a sign of daring or spontaneity or a sense of humor.” Teedie was a sickly little thing. But he learned, eventually, how to raise his hand. You know the deal: a quote from Teddy: “When someone asks, ‘Who can do this thing?’, raise your hand and immediately set about finding out how to do it.”
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Bouchard Pere & Fils. Grands Vins de Bourgogne depuis 1731.

Put yourself on Spring & 6th Ave. circa 1984, at that green awninged deli, buying honeydew. You think, let’s listen to more jazz. You get older. You think, let’s hang out with each other a little bit less and say a little bit more when we do. Let’s get out of New York in July. You’re so old. I was going to preach on “let’s be less clever” and how when you get further from the substance, you know, what do you expect. Good for the Greek gods for being insane. They could have sat around being clever, but they went out there and really screwed up the world. We are who we are! Being good posthumously is for amazing people, about whom we shape our culture. But those amazing people are violently sad. You know this. I was going to preach on the scary future in which the robots cook French toast for us and we do nothing but make puns all the livelong day, but self-reference is how we got intelligence in the first place. So what. If being wrong’s a crime, I’m serving forever. Life!
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Lots of Trappist Ale tonight. I don’t feel very penitent.

After all that we’ve been through, I wonder: are you a person who comes to things through words, or are you a person who comes to words through things? If someone put you in an asylum, would your first instinct be to be fascinated or be petrified? How often do you run to catch a bus? Do you like the feel of a quarter in the palm of your hand? Ever worn a headband? What’s that rhythm in your head?
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Well they sure showed that Mrs. Tingle.

In the gumbo this week:

(1) “When forty winters shall besiege thy brow / And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field, / Thy youth’s proud livery, so gazed on now / Will be a tattered weed of small worth held.”

(2) http://www.cra-arc.gc.ca/E/pub/tp/it86r/

(3) Spotted on a sandwich board: “Revenge is like taking poison and expecting someone else to die.”

(4) Spotted in the directory of a small building.
1st FLOOR: Dental Anesthetics
2nd FLOOR: Dentistry … Asleep!

(5) I think we’re going to make it. The “we” is variable. So’s the “it”.

(6) The Pipettes! Why not?

(7) Without looking it up, I claim that “teufel” means “devil” in German.

(8) Remember that teacher I had who used lots of colored chalk and by lecture’s end had a face full of colored chalk — he looked like a circus clown who had just been hosed down — and he was such a sweet, old man, and he said, “The following theorem is central to group theory … And group theory is central to mathematics … And mathematics is central to life. So this is a very important theorem. Life hangs in the balance.”

(9a) When life gets you down, I’m sorry.

(9b) When life gets you down:
Remember the world remember the world remember the world

Found the Aleph! Found it. No big deal. The Aleph was on McCaul Street — and I was on my way to see Rusalka, my first opera. Aren’t we all so educated but so I started smelling every smell possible, on McCaul, lots of peppers and onions, in other words, and I saw a man whose face was Face and the sky (I swear! contrails) was every color out there and the buildings were — guess you had to be there — but don’t doubt yourself! And I passed a McDonald’s, and somehow that made it all the more fitting. McCaul Street. Who’d have thought?

The Aleph is also in saxophones. Specifically: in El Perro del Mar’s “God Knows” & Superchunk’s “Pink Clouds” & Springsteen’s “Spirit in the Night”.
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At the age of twenty-two, in a nondescript neighborhood of Philadelphia, Mercer Marie came as close to perfect symmetry as he ever would. He was on his way to the gymnasium when he turned a corner and found himself behind two swiftly moving women. They were carrying a heavy tote bag between them, each holding a strap with one hand. Their builds and gaits were identical, and though the colors of their hats, jackets, and pants were different, the styles were the same. Their outfits made Mercer think of Nutcracker soldiers. They were walking along the western boundary of a city park. On each side of them was a column of tall trees in full flower extending into the distance.

Mercer fell into a meditative trance. He followed the women for an indefinite amount of time, for an indefinite distance. He might have followed them all the way to their destination, assuming they had one — but a man pulled up alongside him at some point and, with a cigarette dangling from his lips, called out, “Hey, will this get me downtown?” Without thinking, Mercer took a step to his left and answered. When he looked back at the women, the angle was wrong, one appeared shorter than the other, the tote bag was partially obscured, and the moment was over.
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This past weekend Drinky was on the prowl. Not content to simply sit and write out the nuances of his inebriated mind, he instead wandered from party to party, unleashing his boozy genius on any who would listen.

Knowing the need to capture his late-night epiphanies, the TTH editors followed Drinky around town, ending up in a Brooklyn apartment for some impromptu gaming. Here Drinky participated in a rousing game that asked participants to write a sentence and pass it off to be drawn. From there, the following participant is obliged to write a sentence while viewing only the previous drawing. The game, passed down through Laura Devendorf, is apparently called “Eat Poop You Cat” or poopiecat, for short.

Here’s an example with Drinky in red (click on images to enlarge):

Get it? Perfect. Let’s see what Drinky came up with for the rest of the game. Early on, he was asked to illustrate the sentence:

“Panda Bears have had a recent outbreak of herpes.”

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Not to tread on the territory of “While I Was High” — still waiting on that, by the way — but isn’t it amazing that you decide to move your hand and your hand moves? It moves! You don’t even have to be smart or concentrate too hard; you just decide to move it, and it moves.

But wait. Rumor has it that your motor neurons fire before you’re aware of having decided to move your hand. It’s true. As in, “I read it somewhere.” (As also in, “Have I mentioned this before?”) It’s been shown that when subjects report the Moment of Decision, the process of Hand Moving is already underway, elsewhere in the brain, chemically speaking. Brain before mind. What does that tell us?

In any case, 2009 is taking shape. Here’s the idea, with a little context:

2007 = hone your talents.
2008 = squander your promise.
2009 = market your mania!

Alternatively:

2009 = both ends of the stick are short. E.g. yes, that guy cut you off, but I bet he’s got it hard, too.

There’s so much to think of, and it’s already been thought of before anybody decides to think of it. So forgive yourself, and forgive everyone else around you. According to my housemate’s family friends, in any relationship, one person must love olives and the other must hate olives, or it’s doomed. Things are out of your hands.

Awash in Siamese Dream,
Drinky

I can’t compete with “Corner by Corner.” Who is this Chris guy? He writes like he’s drunk but coherent. Chris, will you take the Q to Beverly Road? I think I already asked you to, but now I’m asking in a public forum.

The temptation is to keep quoting poems, which doesn’t sit well with my not being a big poetry hound. Semi a propos: Georgia Hubley (from the Spanish band I Got It!) explaining why she never prints her lyrics: “Because it’s a song, not a poem.” Good point. I sometimes worry that this whole column amounts to printing the lyrics.
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You guys! It being a new year, let’s reassess. We live in a developed continent, a continent plagued by dilettantes, where “shit or get off the pot” no longer packs a punch. So how about we replace that wisdom with “nap or get out of bed”? Gets closer to the real issue. Reminds me, btb, of the vegan response to “kill two birds with one stone”: “pet two kittens with one hand” (correct, Mike?). It all connects: my house has recently taken in two kittens, Gracie and Georgie. However, petting them both simultaneously has yet to strike me as economical. Not that (counterpoint) I’ve ever killed two birds with one stone. Maybe that would be unsatisfying, too. Let’s drop it.
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The word “inspired” comes from Latin. The “in” is the in you know and love; the “spired” comes from the same root that our modern “respiration” comes from, and thus has to do with breathing. So when you’re inspired, someone is breathing into you, I tell ya.

Same for “enthused”. This word comes from Ancient Greek. And it means the gods are inside you. (“thuse” and “theology” are related.)

Dovetail it: the gods are the ones breathing into you (in Latin).

So everytime you’re inspired or enthused, the gods are inside you.

It’s true / someone fact-check this.

Merry Christmas! I’m drunk for the second night in a row, and all I want to do is gossip about celebrities.

First up: Casey Affleck! Is he dating Teri Polo, or am I crazy? I enjoyed Gone Baby Gone almost as much as I did Mystic River. I don’t know why I enjoyed them both so rabidly, but I did. Maybe my enjoyment stems from some latent pathophilia (word?) for New England. Should I read a Dennis Lehane novel? I’m tempted. Mystic River’s first paragraph talks about how Jimmy’s and Sean’s fathers worked at a chocolate plant: “By the time they were eleven, Sean and Jimmy had developed a hatred of sweets so total that they took their coffee black for the rest of their lives and never ate dessert.”

Will Smith! Christmas Day plans call for a viewing of Seven Pounds, one of the most indescribably awful movies ever made (if you believe A.O. Canola Darger). I like Will Smith; I don’t care that he’s likeable. Also, I remember taking baths in grades 4 through 6, watching the Fresh Prince on TV in the next room, laughing at Carlton. Made me happy.
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