Archive for March, 2009

Deserted Island

So I asked the robot what five things he (I’m tired of saying “it”) would take with him on a deserted island. He said, My robot wife,  SpongeBob action figure, the Beatles album Revolver, Diet Slice, and my robot kids/robot friends. First of all, that’s more than five things. Whenever you make something plural that thing becomes more than one.  Second of all, what’s it going to do with a Beatles album if he doesn’t bring anything to play it on. And an action figure? Come on! So stupid. SpongeBob isn’t going to help him survive or even get rescued for that matter. Robots are so flippin’ dumb. Is that racist? I don’t care. I swear. But I do like Slice.


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so what now then?

so what now then?

on the corner of sw 5th and madison there is a human statue. he is NEVER not in motion. and yet he is always there. what gives? what is the meaning of this? is he playing at being human statuesque? or is he just really REALLY slowly making his way toward stillness (not there yet, guy)?

it’s a puzzle. yesterday, he was arranging his belongings in a briefcase (likewise painted silver, naturally). it’s a perplexing sight, to see the before, the after, but never the thing. years ago, in amsterdam (where else?), i noticed a woman-of-the-night during the day. i had seen her the night before while shamefully walking through the red light district (aka, way-too-much there there). she was mindlessly smoking in a storefront window (the women really didn’t seem to be trying at all… i guess there’s no need). i think she might have coughed. something was off about all of this. and then early the next morning, there she was. changed, as it were. off to somewhere entirely else. an Other existence. there were mushrooms involved. it was wrong that i saw her. -MBD

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All Star Jews

A dream I had last night:

I’m hanging out at a table in the sun, maybe in Berkely.

I see Lou Reed eating with Laurie Anderson.
He goes to use the bathroom and returns.

Then a friend at my table points out another guy going into the bathroom.
It’s contemporary Dylan. I’m really excited to tell people about seeing Reed and Dylan using the same bathroom. Then Dylan starts yelling that he needs a pay phone and I lend him my cell. I have another cell phone and I use it to record some audio.

Then Dylan tries to pimp out a female friend of mine who is standing there. He’s trying to get her to “date” a friend of his for some cash. She needs the money and considers it. I try to convince her otherwise. Then there is a chase. Myself and others trying to get away from Dylan and his goons. It was all so real I couldn’t wait to tell people how I saw Dylan.


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We arrive in London and it’s covered in snow. Just like Portland rare snow storm in December the snow drives people to do strange things. Groups of rowdy kids congrigate and throw snowballs at random strangers. The strangers laugh and don’t seem to mind. Maybe it’s not a big deal. The park’s a re filled with snow men. Okay, so it’s not that strange.

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I have to say this about robots, they think they’re so smart with their Foucault and Renoir and their love of all things Dada, but when it comes to things that really matter, they don’t know Jack and that’s a fact you can take to the bank. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no Rand McNally, but I do know the starting lineup for the 1991–92 New York Yankees and that doesn’t make me a super genius or anything—I’m just saying that I know this and the robot doesn’t. It was like, Alvaro Espinosa? Who the hell is he? And I told the robot, He was the short stop, dumb ass, and he sucked because he didn’t autograph my ball after I waited in line for four hours at Rickel’s Home and Garden Store in Ramapo, New Jersey.

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