For my creative writing class, the teacher is using dastardly coercion to force me to experiment with some old Beat writing tricks. What follows is known as the cut-up technique. As the title would suggest, you “cut up” some writings, shuffle ’em around, and see what happens. What materializes is often absolute gibberish. But in many cases, some interesting word/sentence formations emerge – phrases like “We we like Paradise…You Happy.” Kind of sounds like a French/Japanese fusion, doesn’t it? It’s pretty fun stuff.
This first one that I chopped up is from a letter written by Hunter S. Thompson in January of 1992.
Dear Jann, God damn, I wish yames…O Ghost, O Lost, Lost beautiful weather with me. It gain. Right. and so much for things are beginning to die. and the Animals get in your in the crisp fall air, with guilty and most days are the grass turning brown, and my poem. It was wrong sunlight and big hot fires in it from an early work of rakes the lawn. We see a lot my own crude stamp on it, watch it a lot more, now that want to talk about fucking shorter, and darkness comes sting here at dawn on a crisp die from freezing. Oh, God! Ye football fames to start and yesterday when I finished my eak from this blizzard of some whiskey and picked up my Biographers and sickly and a ball of black opium fore these days (they are a fierce kind of joy in my even in my own bed). I an American on a day like thinking, for good or ill, Football Game, Jann – it was Poor, Jann. But we were remember that bliss you felt We were Smart. Not Crazy, farm and whipped Stanford? Wel called us late, for dinner, digress. My fits of Joy are so cheap these days, do they? and ghosts too foul to name…any fun in public is Prince could have been president, Janss neighbor – the one who forks, and I think of this, like Mike Tyson. Who knows these wild animals who dash weird to figure. You have while rifles crack in the dist men with blood on their hands dusk and mournfully call our nou were here to enjoy this and Gone, O Ghost, come back a is autumn, as you know, and autumn. The trees are diseased
This is a record review that appeared in a recent issue of Decibel. It also happens to be written by my aforementioned teacher, Rod.
Marbled like a USDA Prime steak, rising. Banger “Mistaken for Cops” and prog, THC’s reverse-engineered’s adaptation of Fight Club might of true alternate-reality rock w Prunes and 1000 Homo DJs Ariel Pink or She Wants Revenge. Raonnelly’s mimetically-intensive points of ‘70s stimulant culture to giv decisions / By driving ‘round deserve(d), or simultaneously beatime when I’m stable” and “I need a their own games, the Chicago-based as 21st century as the speed-picked of looking at the world. That Stanforversely, “Along Come the Dogs” Buried at Sea), Chris Connelly (Miniristle have chops. at all shy about legacy is hardly surpith elements of psychedelia, metal is to “Sister Ray” what David Fincher industrial music bears the standard have been to the novel had the Virginay more authority than that of, say, written it collaboratively – though Cther than recombining cultural high lyrics (from “I’m trying to reach g Bauhaus and Depeche Mode at circumstantial friend”) ring every bit quartet lays claim to an entire way guitar wash that closes the song. Cond Parker (Nachtmystium, Minsk, posits a universe where Throbbing stry, Revolting Cocks), Jeremy other manifests assets, the band’s besley (Crucifucks, Sonic Youth) aren’t inhabiting the netherworld between
Well, that’s it for this week. Minneapolis band Peter Wolf Crier was at the school last week, and this was one of the songs they played.
On May 29, 2010, I was cited for speeding on Highway 19 in Sibley County. I was scheduled to appear in court or pay the $125 fine by July 29. Much to my chagrin, and possibly the chagrin of the Sibley County District Court, and maybe even the chagrin of the ticketing officer, I failed to do either. A whole lot of chagrinnin’ goin’ on. Since a warrant for my arrest will be issued in approximately eight days, turning me into a fugitive from the law, I mailed the following letter this morning.
Greetings, esteemed Constabulary!
I am writing in regards to your letter of 8/3/10. I realize that I did miss my court date of 7/29/10 and failed to pay the nominal fine that was issued me due to the ill-fated events of 5/29/10. This correspondence is to verify that neither negligence nor naked temerity were the cause of my absence. Never one to play the scofflaw, I do intend to pay the fine in full. It just may take a little while. You see, the money, I just don’t have it. In order to show my intention to settle my balance with the County of Sibley, I have attached a check for 10 dollars, American. Hopefully that will put me in good enough standing with the reverential District Court long enough for me to accrue the funds needed for the remaining $115. Or perhaps we could work out some sort of community service option? I would gladly spend an afternoon on the ravishing boulevards of Gaylord, cleaning up the noisy riff-raff of cigarette butts, candy wrappers, and other miscellanea that result from the apathy of the town’s citizenry. That option would also allow me to make a much-overdue visit to the local nursing home to play Wii with my grandmother, who ironically worked for many years at the very courthouse that I have now become entangled in this fiscal snafu with. I apologize for driving with such unbridled alacrity through your County, and hope we can work something out, as I plan on utilizing your highway infrastructure for many years to come.
<End of Letter>
Blong. The Beatles. Hey Sibley County, we can work it out!
Notes on the weekend. Saw Dessa perform this last Saturday at the Pizza Luce Block Party. From my vantage point at the side of the stage, one thing became abundantly clear: she must work out. Cutest. Rapper. EVER.
Now that that is out of the way, we can continue. One of my associates suggested that I do a comparison/contrast of two crime-fighting vagabonds to see who would win in a fight.
I’ll get Weng Weng out of the way first, because quite frankly, he creeps the hell out of me. If there’s anything in this world that scares me, mimes and ventriloquist dummies are tied for number one, and weird short people with bad haircuts are a close second. After seeing this video, I keep imagining that I’m going to wake up in the middle of the night, with him standing next to my bed, sticking his fingers in my mouth. I believe he became an alcoholic and died in the early ’90’s, but with the amount of action he’s getting from the chickadees in this video, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a spawn of Weng Weng within our ranks.
Starring in an exploitation of blaxploitation films, or exlploiblaxploitation, is Black Dynamite. Words can’t really describe how vastly superior he is to Weng Weng.
I’m going to say that Black Dynamite would absolutely dominate Weng Weng in every way possible, proceed to dip him in mustard, put him in a sandwich, eat him, digest him, and produce a bowel movement with an afro and mustache.
Might as well start the week off with a bangin’ Blong. Cancer Bats covering the Beastie Boys.
I am lazy, so here are some really bad/funny informercials I recently came across. You have perhaps seen them.
1. Aspray. For anyone with “beastly butt odor” (their words). The whole thing is very amusing, and I would at least stick around for the convincing testimonial at 1:15.
2. Tiddy Bear. A horrible product with an even worse name.
3. Smart Mop. This is just kind of gross.
4. When shooting a live commercial, sometimes things can go wrong. The guy at the end is awesome.
5. Rejuvenique Electrical Facial Mask. Really?
And of course the Blong has to be the Slap Chop remix.
The following piece is for a creative writing class, with the assignment being, quote, “Riff on these monkeys.” The monkeys being the Association of American Physicians and Surgeons. I went ahead and created some southern redneck named Jed to come in and talk to you about the group. He’s terribly ignorant. And yes, I realize the irony that by using stereotypes of rednecks I have learned from television, it does in fact highlight my own ignorance. That’s what makes this so fun! And if you don’t figure it out from the spelling, you are supposed to read this using a thick, red-necky accent.
(Banjo music wafting from a distant stoop)
Howdy! Jed here! At least that’s wut muh wife-cuzzin-auntie calls me! Say, have you fellers heard of this? Our prey-suh-dent, Bayrock Hew-sain O-bamm-uh, has been accused of using nay-row-ling…new-roll…lang-guhz-tic…(Editor’s note – he is trying to say neuro-linguistic programming) nee-ro…..dang-nabbit! Wut I’m a-tryin’ to tells ya is that O-bamm-uh is brain-warshin’ us! Well not me, bee-cuzz they says that its only wurks on the yung and hawly edu-cay-tud. But that gits me really wurried about muh bruther-nephew-uncle, cuz he was all-ways the brainiest nut in the turd. He’s by-gum all-most finushed read-un Jeff Foworthy’s book! But any-haw, as a re-prey-zentative of the Ay-Ay-Pay-Ess (AAPS), I gots more stuff to git yur thanker clankin’. For in-stunce – you know that aborshun causes boo-bay lumps? (We believe that means breast cancer – ed.) That’s why when muh grahmaw-niece-2nd cuzzin done git prey-nunt when she were the ripe ol’ age of 12, I dun two thangs – 1) vowed to find out who thuh bas-tuhd wuz, and give him thuh spankun’ of a lifetime (it turned out it wuz muh cuzzin-daddy, so I let ’em off thuh hook) and 2) made her prom-us to keep that bay-bay. Cuz you know wut? I could use anuther uncle-cuzzin, cuz muh uh-thur one just don’t seem right some days. And if I wanna see anuther abortion scar on a lay-day, well I’ll just mosey on down to the local new-dee bar with muh bruh-ther-nephew. And hows about this? You know that in too-thousand-and five, immigrunts caused a leprosy outbreak? It was on the news! Now I don’t know about you, but I’s been hear-un a whole lot of aye-span-yol bein’ habla’d in muh barrio (We think this means, “Spanish being spoken in my neighborhood – ed.), if yuh catch muh drift. I don’t care if they’s got laygitumut jobs, and took sum stoo-pid test, this hur’s A-may-ree-kuh! We speak anglish! Wut’s that you sayin’? This here’s a meltin’ pot? Well I gots a question for you, mister smarty-pants! When you cookin’ squirrel over a garbage fire, you just gunna let it sit in there forever? I tried it, ain’t no good! We gots ta get this meltin’ pot off the stove bee-fore it burns! Ary-thang that gunna melt dad-gum shoulda melted by now! And now muh hard-earned muffler-farmin’ income is goin’ to help people that cain’t afford new-fangled doctorin’ techniques? Well paint me green and call me a bullfrog! That wood actually help muh family a great deal, but may-bee O-bamm-uh’s nacho-lingus-program (Again, neuro-linguistic programming – ed.) is workin’ on me after all. And you know wut O-bamm-uh stands fur, right? One Bigg Ass Mistake, A-mur-ah-ka! Pay-lun in 2012!!!! Now, lookee here, if she wuz ree-lay-tud to me, I’d done kick mah boots off an’ (Alright! We’re gonna cut Jed off right there – ed.)
The Blong for today is “The Ballad of Jed Clampett.”
I’ve never written into your esteemed publication before, but I have nowhere left to turn as my relationship continues to spiral out of control, leaving me flummoxed and desperate for help. About six months ago, I began a passionate affair with a voluptuous, curvaceous Blog, (these curves are so curvaceous that they could be classified as “dangerous”) an affair so passionate, in fact, it could be argued that it rivaled the greatest lustful trysts of recent memory (J-Lo and Ben, Brangelina, etc.). It began innocent enough, just two kids lookin’ for a good time. Is that so wrong? But then, something bizarre happened: I began to connect with the Blog on a non-physical plane. It was as if a whole other dimension of feeling welled up deep within my loins, a feeling I had never experienced. For about five days, I freaked out. I neglected my friends and family. I would wake up sweating in the middle of the night, pondering, wondering, yearning, to realize what this thing was so deep inside of me. It all came to a head when finally I showed up at the Blog’s door at 4am on a Sunday, and as it stood there, confused in its silky nègligèe, with that look on its face that no doubt many men have fallen prey to before, I boldly proclaimed “I love you.” Now they say that hindsight is 20/20, and if I could travel back in time and take back those words, would I? I honestly do not know. The reason I am writing you, Dearest Abby, is that I can’t help but think that I’ve made a monumental mistake. Things are changing. As the months grind on, I’ve been noticing a little extra paunch around the Blog’s midsection. I know it sounds shallow, but would it kill someone to do some yoga a few times a week? My constant witty quips barely muster a weak chuckle out if it anymore. And while we still supposedly maintain separate residences, I’m beginning to suspect that the Blog has opted out of its lease and is now a full time dweller of my apartment. I eat breakfast, the Blog is there. I come home at night, the Blog is there. I try to sneak out for a peaceful evening walk, you better believe the Blog is right there. It’s like, “Where is there time for Sean in this whole thing?” I have needs too, and they don’t all revolve around the Blog. I don’t need to spend my whole Saturday at Macy’s, waiting for the Blog to find the right pair of clogs. And lately I’ve noticed, the Blog doesn’t even look me in the eyes when I’m typing it anymore! Arguments have become more frequent. I want to try some new, exotic Blogging techniques that I’ve been learning, but the Blog insists that we play it safe, and not try anything that is too “out there.” And this morning, I’m pretty sure it tried to poison me! Out of the corner of my eye, I could have sworn I saw it slip some sort of gelatinous powder into my morning apple juice. This suspicion is rapidly solidifying into a belief, as I now write to you from minute #47 on the toilet (I luckily grabbed a scrap piece of paper and pen as I sprinted through the kitchen. They were later properly disposed of after the writings were transcribed to the computer.) So, Dear Abby, what I would like to know is, am I being an immature imbecile with this whole thing, or should I run to the hills as fast as I can?
Hope you can help,
(Abby’s response will appear within 55 hours.)
Blong. A living legend. B.B. King. Ain’t nuthin wrong with people born on September 16.
*The following report is based on the program “Botany of Desire” which aired on PBS last night.
Johnny Appleseed (AKA John Chapman): missionary, tree farmer, and inadvertent harbinger of alcoholism? Say what? I became aware last night of a fascinating historical correlation that linked Johnny’s apples to a generation of hard-cider swilling vagrants. Read on.
-In order to understand how this came to be, we must first understand the nature of the apple. Apple seeds, by their natural temperament, are governed by the laws of heterozygosity. Meaning, in this case, that planting an apple seed is a veritable free-for-all. Ergo, the offspring of a seed more often than not will produce fruit that is radically different than the parent plant. And equally as often, the new tree will yield fruit with a bitter, gut-wrenching taste. Neato.
-So where do we keep getting our favorites such as Red Delicious, Granny Smith, and the best apple of all time, the Honeycrisp? Through the wonderful world of grafting! A simple root-stock is planted, and a bud from the desired species is grafted onto that root-stock, producing a tree with those genes. Amazing.
-You are probably wondering where Johnny fits into all of this. Cool your jets, we’re getting there. When Mr. Appleseed was making the rounds with his almost fetish-like love for apples, he would plant only the seeds. Johnny would then skip the scene when the seedlings were big enough to grow on their own. Note that no grafting took place. Oh no!
-As immigrants continued to arrive in the U.S., they were very skeptical of the water supply, and also had a large cache of awful-tasting apples, thanks to J-Chap. So naturally, they figured, “why not make some hard cider?” The fermentation process would get rid of any threat of contamination, leaving behind a boozy, apple-y blend that may or may not cause blindness. And BAM! By the 1830s, cider fever had reached a boiling point, with the only solution in sight being to drink more hard cider.
-At that point in the program I stopped paying attention, but I assume everything turned out OK, because we’re all still here right? Well, I’m about to go absolutely wreck a nice juicy Braeburn. Happy Wednesday.