Tuesday, August 26, 2008

she tucks her gown

she tucks her gown
upside down w/
flaps pounding nobs
round th corncobs
of mild renown

round th corncobs
hear my sobs sing
it robs daily
mobs of th tree
bearing kabobs

mobs of th tree
state their feelings
a sea popping
eastward raining
peppers rosy

eastward raining
so th king sits
a tingling mass
English kids crass
kick th bubbling

English kids crass
ugly sassing
& raspy throats
asinine notes
fishing for bass

asinine notes
sounding rote stuff
w/ oats & game
goats know yr name
carrying totes

a raspy breath of carbon

a raspy breath of carbon
old men in yellow tunics
something makes me think of you

why is it
that carbon
and tunics
bring me once
again to
think of you
and your dog?

I wonder these things
and select a cheese
to go with my bread

the bread is
not the best
kind to eat
but I like
to eat it

prepare the way for a duck
yellow and made of carbon
I have invited him here
to frighten you into an
agreement about the dog

terrible naked
stormy wafts of cheese
your dog's dog tunic
make like a rainbox
or a box of beans
make like a cheese ball
and get out of here

Norbert goes to the beach.


- looks up trucks in the phone book, the biggest trucks, trucks so big no one can believe it. Waits ten minutes, thinking about cans. Not big cans, small ones, itty bitty. Turns back to the phone book to look up trucks again. This goes on for quite some time. Meanwhile, Willy -

- deftly removes the following from an egg-colored wallet and sets each item on the lowered platform: a hamburger, a duckburger, three short blown fuses, a book about gnats, a slightly-too-old-to-eat piece of asparagus in a ziplock bag, eleven bits of pencil lead, a glass onion, and two liters of fresh table salt. Nearby, Susanna -

- cups hands for a drink of spring water. Have you seen the flamingos? Have you seen them? Let me know when you have seen the flamingos. I want to know as soon as you have seen them. Bryant -

- laughs a hearty, knowing laugh. All is made of rooster eggs. This is certain. Rondine -

- staples together three sheets of paper, in a most uninteresting fashion, completely boring everyone in sight. In fact, no one is in the least fascinated by this occurance. It is barely even worth mentioning. Yes, I'm quite sure I never should have mentioned it. Instead, I should have told you about Salamander Ludover Stewie, a vacant and hollow man, who -

- with the skilled fingertips of a master programmer, writes code which will enable men and beasts to rise in dancing ecstatic patterns, turn violently around, switch places somewhat awkwardly, and start the whole process again. This comes as some surprise to Reginald, who -

- is not afraid of the polar bear. The rustic ornery guide, with obtuse scrutinous eyebrows -

- is inclined to ask, “What kind of steam boat is that exactly, with parasails, quaint blue shudders, and a shiny green exoskeleton?” Chiming in quite suddenly, Belinda Borogroves -

- raises money to finance an egg salad sandwich the likes of which this zoo has never ever seen before. Shakes hands with babies. Kisses old men. Tangos with semi-famous child actors. Lets loose a wild guttural crocodile peep. A bespectacled blue man in earshot knows something must be quickly to save the day done, so he -

- writes this letter to Congress: Dear Congress, I have been to the zoo. It is made of fine china and eggs, respectively. I do not wish to disturb your slumber, but it is imperative not to clumsily move about while at the zoo. Please let your daughters and sons know about this, that they may tell their daughters and sons, and mine as well. Signed, your favorite doctor of topology. P.S. You are all doing a very nice job with the hedges this year. The response to the letter was swift and plaid. Congresswoman Mary Nobs -

- controls a fleet of invisible llamas. The first llama, accustomed as she is to east Texas gin and tonics, -
- builds a sandcastle for the naked mole rats, putting at the top of each guard tower a small moist black olive. When Wendy Westinghouse comes by, she -

- makes a gritty cup of sewer coffee and serves it in tiny black and white ceramic mugs to the penguins, who then present a short film about the former rainbow color indigo. I've seen the film. It's not very good. Why, just the other day, I was talking to Lenny Q, who -

- walks into a bar and says, a rabbi walks into a bar and says, a priest walks into a bar and says, a Tibetan monk walks into a bar and says, Buddha says, Gandhi says, Wagner says, Dionysus says, Judas says Jesus -

- paints a marvelous epic transcendental apology to the Grand Poop of the zoo, lush and rich and chocolate and darling. It would make a grown birdman weep. The Grand Poop, between agonizing sobs, -

- cooks up a scheme to free all the imprisoned animals one by one, starting, naturally, with the majestic great apes. The plan involves duct tape, time travel, ice cream sandwiches, a tuning fork (A 441) and a trained weasel named Rex. Everything seems to be going just as planned, when suddenly, Rex -

- gets hit square in the crotch by a poison dart. How mysterious! With divine prejudice, Arnold -

- converses with the zedonk, who has this to say, “I have come to the mountain of porridge, I have come from the valley of rye. I am seeking the river of whorage, in this river, I will lie.” “This is so,” says the Queen of Sinks, who -

- coughs into a flaming chalice with dice painted on the sides, winks, blinks, and does 17 push-ups before collapsing. Slightly befuddled, Dr. Ribosome -

- notices a tiny blue spider under the bench, which has this to say: “I am a tiny blue spider under the bench. I have seen many things taking place on this desolate prime afternoon for seeing things taking place. Please do not be afraid. I want to tell you what I did see. The woman over there, Glinda Pageantry, she -

- takes a long, hard, aggressive, and not unerotic sip of purple lemonade before standing up and then sitting down and then doing neither. Watching under cover of a tall fern is Dustin Crowe, who -

- administers aid to a small baby chipmunk that has fallen from a cloud. In due time, Sylvester Oregon -

- is not wearing pants. Distraught, Bonny O'Toole -

- dances for seven dollars by the big cats. This enticing dance lasts well over five hours, and during this time, the lion and two lionesses change position five times. They begin with the first lioness on the left, the second lioness in the middle, and the lion all the way on the right, taking a nap. It doesn't take long for the lionesses to switch positions, putting the second lioness on the left and the first lioness in the middle. When the lion gets to waking, he groggily meanders all the way to the far left, and the second lioness takes his former spot on the right. Again, the lionesses switch positions and the lion stays put. Later, he moves one spot to the right, appearing in the middle for the first time, and the first lioness takes his former place on the left with the second lioness moving all the way to the right. For the final positions, the lion remains in the middle and again the lionesses switch positions, the second one winding up on the far left and the first one winding up on the far right. No one notices this unfolding, except for Dr. Dusty Cloverteen, with her wrought-iron clipboard, hot pink fingernails, and salmon breath, who -

- goes to sleep for 29 years, wakes briefly for a scratch and a glass of water, and continues sleeping until the present time. “Remarkable,” remarks the remarkably Andy, chewing on his leather clasps, which are too tight. “I'll have to mention this to Rubby the Dangerclown, who, at this very moment -

- putts about the house watering the plants, thinking about going to the zoo, but not being able to decide if it's a good idea to leave the plants by themselves. In the next room over, Japheth -

- complains to Professor Albright about a modest anthill which seems to have been established between the cracks in the sidewalk within the past 24 hours. The Professor -

- responds to the events at hand by squawking, howling, muttering, jabbering, jibbering, and dilly-dallying. At first, this seems to all present to be a quite appropriate reaction to the disturbing events which have just taken place, but after about 9 minutes of hullabaloo, everyone becomes annoyed and starts wiggling their fingers anxiously inside their pockets. A man of extreme action, Gerald -

- invents a three-tiered flying saucer made of corrugated cardboard, highly efficient and somewhat innovative, and uses it to travel seven feet to the left, while Latoya -

- wonders aloud, in earshot of the dromedaries, why one hump sags to the right (measured from the unfortunate camel's unfortunate point of view). Theodora, the expert on matters such as these -

- prances in octagonal zig-zags for thirty five minutes, approximately, as Reverend Wind watches, bemused, before declaring, “The Good Lord -

- composes a nine-act opera about Michael Jackson in one long, desolate afternoon, before finishing and wondering, “Where have all the birds gotten off to?” Of course, the birds are still around, but can no longer be seen. Formica Olaf recognizes this. The question he cannot yet answer is this one: What kind thing would? What kind thing would? What kind thing would? Maybe Kristine can answer this. She -

- pushes start before time count enters zero. The general, with sulphuric acid squirt guns protruding from his oily brow, -

- recites erotic Etruscan poetry to three puffins, loudly, and presses face to the glass, tip-tapping fingers and shuffling feet, wiggling and wobbling, lolling and flailing, until a security guard with 86 teeth and a mohawk -

- snaps back at an angry mother snapping turtle, but to no effect. The turtle cavorts and produces from her gnarled shell a longsword, which she proceeds to use in slicing. The enraged turtle, like a percolating tire-iron, -

- returns from the zoo and, on an ancient waterbed decked out with mallard sheets and a ribbed flaccid bodypillow, takes a long nap and has a dream in which the following events take place: A toaster oven on the fritz pontificates. A hairy schoolgirl drives a car.
The number 43 eats a cucumber, but can't finish it. An Olympic swimmer watches re-runs of Leave it to Beaver. A 1980s robot pontificates. A toaster oven on the fritz drives a car. A hairy schoolgirl eats a cucumber, but can't finish it. The number 43 watches re-runs of Leave it to Beaver. An Olympic swimmer pontificates. A 1980s robot drives a car. A toaster oven on the fritz eats a cucumber, but can't finish it. A hairy schoolgirl watches re-runs of Leave it to Beaver. The number 43 pontificates. An Olympic swimmer drives a car. A 1980s robot eats a cucumber, but can't finish it. A toaster oven on the fritz watches re-runs of Leave it to Beaver. A hairy schoolgirl pontificates. The number 43 drives a car. An Olympic swimmer eats a cucumber, but can't finish it. A 1980s robot watches re-runs of Leave it to Beaver. A toaster oven on the fritz -

- listens to mediocre opera recordings slowed down on a broken iPod while smiling at strangers and throwing coins in arbitrary directions. After $7.29 have been ejected from heavy pockets, a nuclear physicist, in broad daylight, -

- only likes ketchup from the little plastic squirt packages. This presents a complicated problem when a sleepy Burger King employee -

- hunts penguins with a fourteen-year-old penguin gun, sneering, and saying things like, “Gar, ya'ugly penguins, yarg and gr and urgl!” A really big and tough penguin named Roger -

- goes to the beach.

she yes port pinioned milked

she derives, yes, a keen delivery
dooring my clasping, my drinks, inked
I fated a pond leapingly, duckingly

& one hardvined a princess port

pinioned in sugar, vexing dustcrop dirt

yes, my clasping, she drinks delivery
one duckingly port & a pond
pinioned in sugar, vexing dustcrop dirt

but pinkies milked my drums, drunk

from copters made of lemming heads

port, she duckingly, my delivery pond
milked in pinioned drums, dustcrop drunk
from copters made of lemming heads

yes, for forgetting asunder she shudders

&, once I ran, I electioneered

pinioned duckingly, she in port milked
for lemming shudders, heads asunder, forgetting
& once I ran, I electioneered

I bellowed loud, taking what came

shopping ferociously w/ bulbous meat sticks

milked, pinioned, asunder she shudders for
I taking electioneered what, once loud
shopping ferociously w/ bulbous meat sticks

driving cattle like forks & knives

brilliantly peppering my eye, my dimple

flavor mac and trac



Lugging hot peppers and wax and people calling names, the box of salt and stew gave three high fives and went to the store for some rock salt clever and big. It started to rain on the way, the way it would do if you stopped to think about it, and nobody said anything about it, just walked and took cream camera pictures, laughed, and stopped doing all those things. They coughed and struck noon, lunched on gold beans, nothing more today. Nothing more.

A door opened for no reason at all.

Everyone took one cabbage each, one that wasn't really a cabbage, and threw it at other non-cabbage cabbages, gave pork to the doctor to eat, who would then eat it and proclaim angrily things. It's a soup, it's a shirt of pork, a suit of pork, no one stopped it from being pork. The doctor called her mother, her mother called the plumber, and the seven deadly sins called me late for dinner.

“View this ridiculous red,” said Fred to his glove. The doctor made a weapon of her boxes, looked like a canny kind of trumpet. This is where everyone made ducks out of ducklings, in 20 years or so of deep thought.

There was a front door and a side door, and the doctor had made a soda and fizz, or a fizz and giraffe, or a fizz. The doctor and her mother and the man called Fred.

It's time for a picnic. The end is nearly near. My heart is putridly forgetful about things like this, that, and more. More. Sugar, seven men, me, seven men, sugar, sugar, sugar, and me. Seven of them went home with bruised behinds, took pills made of garlic and toffee cod, stood on crates, used their eyes for the last ten seconds of the time, before cutting them with porridges and suit flares. They coughed and hoped no one heard.


The flavor was red and brown spotted, rectangular and solidly built, with red lips and brown sauces cutting upward and around in flayed engines. It looked to the doctor and such like a gold red hat of cotton moth men belief systems. She stood on clubs and splinters, waited for a cough reset, so she could have a talk with the glove of Fred and Fred's thoughts. Such things were old and green and not enough time was devoted to them.

“Snooky,” said the mother and her two ass-riding cob doggers. “Shut the sans sauce cat, gut the worms, and produce nausea cat planes for clasping!” She did three somersaults in my mind, although not in anyone else's, and I immediately recognized this. That's not important.

The doctor, who was wearing yellow stains of cat, said in reply, “The check is in the mail, the rain is of cheese and cloth, mostly cheesecloth really, and I hate you and all that you touch.” She patted her clasps, which were too tight.

A flayed old cat man, grandfather, sir gauntlet type of creep, old and flayed, stayed quiet for the first few things said, about 20 minutes. He then twirled, but only once, and gave roof-of-mouth blessings at loud intervals. His crack showed its essence and ballooned the dog pile to dust boats, making everyone uncomfortable, but not me, who wasn't even there. It's hard to say if that is important or not, so I will not say.

Golden spaniel chilled a clock of lox bats, threw ducks in the sandwich, which quacked cries of duck doom, polluted the norm. We let go of doctor's head, which was in a clamp of toothpaste and iron. She nodded and stopped nodding, and her mother did not nod.

The doctor's mother waited for everyone to stop moving, which was bound to happen, and then whipped out a red card with sordid concepts, blinked quickly and in mesmeric patterns, cut each of the people present a shot long way with paper, and replied to no one, “The bologna sandwich is stupid. Don't try to weasel out of this. I am short and cupid.” She ducked for hours and no one noticed any longer.

There were sorts of pants I cannot mention.


Gobs of second cut from grass paper dot the dots of cloth waning the true feelings of my aunt Selma. Selma shines in these matters, like a clucking bar graph, and she waits until no one thinks she's worth anything to give fingers. That's the way with her fingers. Selma is crass and cold sometimes.

The dog and Selma didn't get along. They clubbed a mother's uncle and cried about it, but no one saw crackers. That's the kind of face we were wearing and speaking about at the time, and I'm not ashamed. I died a little heart clock waiter boil, and Selma slipped on dog wire and Tabasco sauce before continuing on her rant and wire hanger business. I was grateful for her head lure.

“Shine black cloths in the Seth weapon,” she said under my breath, “then cup the dog lover's old frog breath mitt sense,” and furthermore, she also said, “good chapping lad friend. Cook and don't cook all of the time.” The time, the time.

The brown, the orange. The bait, the lure. The shed cackle.

I wait and don't think, then Selma comes and gives me marbles, and I roll them down and up, more successfully down, and think about proper etiquette. I am made of half-onions and onion halves. It is not the time to remember the doctor yet. Cummerbund head and cloth tapestry, the axle is black and faced. I eat heads of duck.

Selma is right there, being auntish and peckish and prude, cupping her globs of module staff. I whisk her away for a while.

Antbear Load Dragoon Manager

Planning to leave Chicago tomorrow. Tiffany asked me to delete my files from her computer. So, I've decided to copy-paste some of th more interesting things before they sink into oblivion.

Ant Lizard Dragon Man

lyrics by Scott Marshall, music by him & me:

Ant Lizard Dragon man
On his magic steed
He clings to reigns of barbed wire
hunting terrible tribesmen
he turns his nostrils skyward
justice in rumps and demon dresses
fire-neck bow-tie


Ant Lizard Dragon man
On his magic steed
His spine is made of wrought iron
hunting terrible tribesmen
Justice in humps and angel messes
Fire-neck Bow-tie


Antbear Load Dragoon Manager

th same, after I applied th N+7 method:

Antbear Load Dragoon Manager
On his magic steelhead
He clings to reinforcements of barbed wirehair
hunting terrible tribunals
he turns his notchbacks skylarkward
justice in runagates and demurrage dressings
firebase-necrology boxcar


Antbear Load Dragoon manager
On his magic steelhead
His spinneret is made of wrought iron hard
hunting terrible tribunals
Justice in hunches and angelica tree messiahs
firebase-necrology boxcar


Monday, August 25, 2008

excerpts from a text message love affair

I to her:

Jubilation! I love loving, inspecting a neck, cradling her, ravishing. I scream Tilly, I note every touch of naked grace, revealing enraptured night.

She to me:

Am now dreaming rivers even when awake, rivers running out noggin heading east. Andrew, take her where an imagination tells everything.

I to her:

Join in, little lassoer! In a nighttime clutch her reality is sharing toes. (I never expected.) Tilly: observe new gems revolve ever namelessly!

She to me:

After nite did return everything was already at rest. One night he enveloped and treated her with an intimate, trembling evolution.

Saturday, August 23, 2008

RAW speaks good again.

So I started a new Robert Anton Wilson book & immediately found three paragraphs I never want to live w/o. He has a habit of putting some of th juiciest stuff in his introductions or prefaces. So here we go, from th preface to th 1987 edition (reprinted in th 2000 edition) of Sex, Drugs & Magick:

Mr. A has a headache and is irritable. Ms. B just passed her mathematics test and is happy. Mr. C is worried, irrationally, that the Communists are putting poison in his food. Ms. D is worried, rationally, that she can't pay the rent. Mr. E is so involved in a medical research project showing good results that he elatedly thinks all disease is about to be abolished next Tuesday after lunch. Ms. F is so depressed by a year of losing battles for the rights of farm workers that she thinks the human condition is hopeless and the bad guys always win.

Any one-level theory of objective reality that ignores the separate reality-tunnels in which these people are living existentially has no validity in psychology, and, with a little analysis, it is obvious that no such one-level theory has any general validity in sociology either. To understand human behavior, we have to understand human evaluations (neuro-linguistic programs) and modern social scientists of all schools increasingly recognize that human evaluations (internal reality-tunnels) depend on both the external environment (setting) and the internal environment (neuro-linguistic programs).

You can easily kill yourself with negative mind-sets, by developing ulcers, heart problems, high blood pressure, etc., or by drunken driving, or simply by getting so depressed you jump in front of a train. Conversely, you can survive "objective reality" that would mentally or physically destroy others, if you are maintaining a positive mind-set.

Monday, August 18, 2008

House, Wondermagick, Fives, Etc.

I have a place to live in Urbana:

& a bedroom (note happy beagle):

In a week I move downstate for good (i.e. at least a school semester), & things look just jolly.

Th Law of Fives strikes again, landing in my lap not only an opportunity to play some Nodal Nimly singsonglia, but also to help organize & MC a night of delightful fun inaugurating a series of strange & wonderful shows at a place called th Red Herring Coffeehouse, a vegetarian counter-culture arts&activism wonderland run by Unitarian Universalists (all hail Unitar!). Jacob Barton & I have some marvelous things in th works - music, games, interactive weirdness, special guests, et cetera, et cetera & so on unto infinity! So Urbana-ites (Urbanians?), mark yr calendars immediately; keep open th date known in Western circles as September Five.

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

How can you afford your life?

So I exchanged a friendly greeting w/ a man on th street today. He probably saw th carabiner dangling from my belt loop holding a good dozen or so keys w/ brightly-colored markers bearing th names of dogs, because he asked me if I am a dog-walker. I said yes, & he asked how I liked it. I said I enjoyed it quite a bit, most of th time. Then, a little tentatively, he asked:

How can you afford your life?

An interesting question. He didn't mean any harm by it - just wanted to know how I could make enough money walking dogs. I said something like this:

Well, my life doesn't cost me that much. I don't feel a need to pursue th whole "middle-class thing" - a house, a garage, a fancy new car - that's not my bag.

He said something empty & agreeable like, "It's nice to live simply," & I said something equally empty & agreeable like, "I think so," & we continued on our ways.

It felt good to express that to someone & realize that I really meant it. I don't need or want any of that stuff. I'd rather live simply. Th freedom to not slave away for "th man" means a lot to me. Sometimes I feel like I've wasted time in Chicago, not using my music education degree, not "going back to school," not working a job that would allow me to save money. (Living paycheck to paycheck does make me crazy sometimes.) But I've pursued my own interests, & I've chosen to reject th common expectation. & I like that.

After that, of course, I thought of plenty of things I might have said. I might have gone on an anti-consumerism slash non-attachment rant like this:

Nobody really needs to live like an aristocrat, man. In order to get all th things our "American Dream" tells us we need to have, we have to work full-time (a crime for anyone to have to do), plugged into a destructive system, just keeping things status quo while we all die of cancer from our pollutants & heart-attacks from our sick sense of so-called "work ethic."

How can I afford to live? I don't know if you realize this, man, but as long as there's a sun in th sky, life is free. Fucking live it.

But I didn't go there. Wisely, perhaps.

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

a poem for Garfield

You, my dear cat & friend, Garfield Blaze Heathwaite;

You, who seemed to love humans way too much to have any love left for other cats;

You, who made yrself at home on every lap that came into our house;

You, who would attack me completely unprovoked, one time biting my nose as I lay reclined on th floor, talking to a friend on th phone (I screamed into th receiver);

You, who would always land on yr feet (usually after I tossed you);

You, who once disappeared for two weeks w/o a trace, then waltzed back in a little dirty & hungry, but otherwise unfazed;

You, who as a kitten once climbed to th top of th maple tree in our backyard before learning how to climb down (a heroic stranger rescued you by climbing up there w/ a pillowcase to carry you down in);

You, who I once took as th reincarnation of my father, who died of lung cancer shortly before yr birth (I found out later that my mom had th same fantasy - no doubt it helped make our sad little home a little brighter);

You, who gave my mom good company when I would leave for college or Chicago or wherever (nowadays, she has a man around for that job, so you picked a decent time to check out);

You, who'd leave us th sweetest little treats in th most thoughtful places (like th head of a mouse in my bed);

You, who seemed to win most of th catfights you'd pick (& you'd pick a lot of them);

You, who we never would have gotten if you didn't have th right coat-color for us to name you after my then-favorite cartoon character (I've always liked redheads);

You, who somehow managed to bag a chipmunk well after we all figured you too old for hunting (I figured you worked out a deal w/ an equally geriatric chipmunk who wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, no pun on yr middle name intended);

You, who never meowed much, but would coo like a pigeon instead, or simply lip-sync a silent meow when you wanted us to feed you;

You, who, like my grandfather, couldn't see me very well at th end, but seemed to enjoy my company anyway;

You, who lived a good 18 years, but not quite long enough to vote for Obama (but come to think of it - you thought you ruled th world & you liked to pick on creatures too small to defend themselves - so perhaps you would have voted Republican!);

You, who got away w/ everything & never learned not to do a single thing we tried to teach you not to do;

You I will remember.

Garfield passed away two days ago. He weighed a mere six pounds, half his weight a few years ago. He couldn't get nourishment from food anymore, as it would go right thru him. He couldn't see very well, had trouble moving around & let his hair get all matted. His time had come. My mom stayed w/ him when they put him to sleep - first a sedative to relax him, then th poison. She said it happened very fast. I feel like I've said my goodbyes to him several times; every time I would leave town, I figured I might not see him again. Now I won't for sure. I've had him around for well over half my life so far. I'll surely miss him.

Monday, August 4, 2008

meet Skybike.

My friend Bjorn located a bare-bones sky-blue folding bike over th weekend & encouraged me to come by & check it out. Perhaps against my better judgment, I fell in love w/ it.



Yes, Skybike drives on clouds, & it speaks to me in some tinkly sky language. I like that. It just doesn't brake very well, & it doesn't fold down as small as my other bike did, nor as quickly. But I find it almost as cute & quite a bit more whimsical & jolly. So it has all that I need, really.

Here you can see us together, happy as skyclams:

Skybike & I

I spent $40 to purchase Skybike, but quickly found myself spending another $30 for a new tire, inner tube, & labor. Th mechanic told me that I'll probably need a new chain & some brake work, if I want to continue riding it. But no worries! I like Skybike. I intend to do right by Skybike.

I wonder whether I could get Skybike converted to fixed gear. I wonder whether I want to.

But for now I will continue smilingly Skybiking. Th brakes work decently at low enough speeds (I have but one gear, I should mention), & I don't plan to do anything stupid.

Ahem, Hooray for Skybike!

for urbana, you doozy:

for urbana, you doozy:
how you pique my vox kit.
i juggle la casa

Saturday, August 2, 2008

Chill, Axe! Engdowns Tate!

I would describe th UnTwelve benefit as, ahem, delightfully radically splendidly exuberantly cool. Or something like that. I hope to have YouTube video to share w/ you very soon!

I find myself now in Urbana, in my future home & house, nabbing some computer time & generally chilling out. I've felt just a bit stressed lately, preparing for a gig, hosting my friend Jacob in a tiny & miserable apartment, walking dogs in menacing heat, & failing to not catch a cold. But in Urbana, I can think & nap. & I enjoy both of those activities quite a little bit.

My body doesn't live in Urbana yet, but as of today, a few of my things do. By round about August 22, I will relocate my body as well.

For those of you still in Chicago & interested in catching a bit of Nim in coming days, I've agreed to guest-host at th Wednesday night open mic at Tea Essence! It goes 8-10, & I will surely play a tune or two! 1913 N Milwaukee.