Greetings Earthlings,
I discovered a website featuring bikes I would ride if I weren't crippled. It's called "Street Lowrider"
The video can be found here: videos
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Monday, September 18, 2006
BLOCKED [part three]
At 5:45 I awake. I lie in bed until 6 and, then, finally emerge from my womb of blankets and quilts. Naked, I feel the ground, in darkness, for my work clothes.
Later, in the kitchen, I sit down to a bowl of Choco Dynobites and a huge cup of coffee. The steam from the cup sways hypnotically in my peripheral vision as I read the latest Burgand book.
I pack my lunch, a turkey sandwich and orange. It's been the same lunch for the last two years. On my way out, I give the cat a quick, but attentive stroke and she arches her back in pleasure.
The drive to work is smooth. I'm half asleep which doesn't matter because I know exactly where all of th potholes are, and I know that you should always in front of the bus before it gets to Prospect otherwise I'll be stuck behind if for a good half mile.
I hit green lights all of the way and punch in at 6:58. I run on automatic , even when I'm sleeping. I should just sleep all of the time. I guess with a routine this dull it beats being awake.
[I plan on putting out smaller, easily-digestable parts like this one. I hope this will make it easier to digest...Blogs are cool because, even though it's a pretty lenghty story, I can seperate it into sections. And the sections flow continuously to make the story as I published it...
Speaking of publishing. I sorta miss reading shit on paper...Woops - I mean STUFF on paper... No, I don't examine my used toilet paper after pooping.]
Later, in the kitchen, I sit down to a bowl of Choco Dynobites and a huge cup of coffee. The steam from the cup sways hypnotically in my peripheral vision as I read the latest Burgand book.
I pack my lunch, a turkey sandwich and orange. It's been the same lunch for the last two years. On my way out, I give the cat a quick, but attentive stroke and she arches her back in pleasure.
The drive to work is smooth. I'm half asleep which doesn't matter because I know exactly where all of th potholes are, and I know that you should always in front of the bus before it gets to Prospect otherwise I'll be stuck behind if for a good half mile.
I hit green lights all of the way and punch in at 6:58. I run on automatic , even when I'm sleeping. I should just sleep all of the time. I guess with a routine this dull it beats being awake.
[I plan on putting out smaller, easily-digestable parts like this one. I hope this will make it easier to digest...Blogs are cool because, even though it's a pretty lenghty story, I can seperate it into sections. And the sections flow continuously to make the story as I published it...
Speaking of publishing. I sorta miss reading shit on paper...Woops - I mean STUFF on paper... No, I don't examine my used toilet paper after pooping.]
Friday, September 15, 2006
BLOCKED [part two]
"Come here," he said, stumbling over to his work space in the corner of the living room. He held a full glass. I noticed that he put an olive in it for the occasion. He turned on the desk lamp, and on the desk laid and eight and a half by eleven linoleum block clipped to a board. It was a city scape, only half finished. It was really quite good, but it didn't look any more finished than the last time I saw it. I noticed that all of the carving tools were packed away. The desk chair was pushed in and the lint balls, collected at the feet, swayed like cottonseed from the air burstin out of the heater.
"I'll give you a print when it's done," he said.
"That'd be great," I said.
I went to the kitchen and poured a glass of water. Tobias was still in the living room with the block in his hand, shaking his head in dismay. He plunked it down carelessly, and looked at it for a few seconds. His fingers probed his cocktail glass for the olive. After pulling it out, fingers wet with gin, he popped it in his mouth and chewed it violently. He then turned off his desk lamp and hobbled back to the kitchen.
"You're right. You know, that thing about being a starving artist. I know that you have to throw yourself into it to be successful..."
"No," I said, "I was just messing with you. I'm sure there are plenty of artists that have never suffered." I could tell that my bid to make him feel a little better came too late.
The record ran out, and Tobias made no move to put a new one on. I could hear the repeating crackle of it, but he payed no heed.
"Christ, I'm hungry," he said with a change in his voice, trying to shake off his slump. "You want something to eat?"
"No, I gotta get going," I said.
I grabbed my windbreaker as Tobias heated up a can of beef stew on the stove. "Make sure you turn that thing off when you're done," I said, taking heed of his drunkeness. He grunted, head hanging, looking into the brown, chunky sludge. He looked tragically comic, with the wooden spoon in one hand, stirring,an inch and half of ash dangerously defying gravity.
"See ya tomorrow," I said, closing the door behind me.
"I'll give you a print when it's done," he said.
"That'd be great," I said.
I went to the kitchen and poured a glass of water. Tobias was still in the living room with the block in his hand, shaking his head in dismay. He plunked it down carelessly, and looked at it for a few seconds. His fingers probed his cocktail glass for the olive. After pulling it out, fingers wet with gin, he popped it in his mouth and chewed it violently. He then turned off his desk lamp and hobbled back to the kitchen.
"You're right. You know, that thing about being a starving artist. I know that you have to throw yourself into it to be successful..."
"No," I said, "I was just messing with you. I'm sure there are plenty of artists that have never suffered." I could tell that my bid to make him feel a little better came too late.
The record ran out, and Tobias made no move to put a new one on. I could hear the repeating crackle of it, but he payed no heed.
"Christ, I'm hungry," he said with a change in his voice, trying to shake off his slump. "You want something to eat?"
"No, I gotta get going," I said.
I grabbed my windbreaker as Tobias heated up a can of beef stew on the stove. "Make sure you turn that thing off when you're done," I said, taking heed of his drunkeness. He grunted, head hanging, looking into the brown, chunky sludge. He looked tragically comic, with the wooden spoon in one hand, stirring,an inch and half of ash dangerously defying gravity.
"See ya tomorrow," I said, closing the door behind me.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
BLOCKED [part one]
I quit drinking early, but Tobias, man, you should've seen him go to town on those gin and tonics. I went over there to pick up some records, and he wanted me to stay and have a couple cocktails. I accepted his offer having nothing better to do at the time, or at any other time for that matter.
We sat in his well-decorated kitchen and listened to some soul. The open face cupboards were crammed with 50s-style appliances - half of which didn't work. And even it they did, he wouldn't know how to use them. Every object in his apartment serves an aesthetic purpose. It's all arranged strategically, with balance in mind. From the 1930's time clock to the nouveau bread box collection. It's tasteful, yes. And when I'm at his place I wish I had the energy to be as stylish as him.
As he bitched about his nympho girlfriend, I found myself particularly drawn to the art deco, metal popcorn popper. It almost seemed like a prop from an old sci-fi movie.
My gaze shifted toward the kitchen window. It was raining, and the gutter must've been clogged because a small stream of water drizzled down from above. The half-vacant parking lot below was spotty with oily, rainbow-colored puddles. It was an ugly, but welcome, reminder of spring.
"Man, I'm so glad winter's over," I said.
"I enjoy Wisconsin weather. I hate the heat," he said. "I'm more of a cold weather person."
"Yeah, but don't you ever get depressed," I responded. "I mean everything is sleeping - it feels like death. The sun sets at four o' clock. And half the time you don't even see because we're stuck in that fucking sweatshop most of the time."
"Now come on. I don't mind working there," he said.
I had had too many drinks to refrain my pessimism. "Did you get a degree to satisfy you aspirations to paint portraits of rich people?"
"Oh, come on, don't start with the whole starving artist bit. That's a cliché and you know it. Besides, I have bills to pay," he said.
"Do you still want to make a living off of your art?"
"Yes, of course. But I'm a realist."
"Have you worked on any of your prints lately?" I asked.
"As a matter of fact, I have," he said, going to the kitchen counter where the open bottle of gin sat. "Let me fix another drink, and I'll show you."
I took the opportunity and excused myself and went to the bathroom. In the bathroom, as I pissed, I noticed the toiletries on the shelf in front of me: tortoise shell nail clippers, matching comb and brush, 1940's safety razor - all items he doesn't use. I flushed and washed my hands. On the sink ledge lay, in stark contrast, his functional items: Barbasol, pomade, toothbrush with ratty bristles, tube of toothpaste. I must've caught Tobias off guard because normally these items are hidden in the medicine cabinet.
I walked out to the living room, and the heat hit me. I took off my sweater. God, it was miserably hot. The heater sat in the middle of the living room. It was an industrial-sized piece of machinery. The air coming out of it must've bee 100 degrees, literally. "Man, Tobias you need to turn the heat off." He gave me a drunk grunt of indifference. I don't think Tobias knew how to operate the thermostat. He's afraid at what might happen. Most of the trinkets in his pad were purely aesthetic. Laden with knobs and dials that didn't work anymore. Tobias is just used to that , turning dials that just don't work anymore. Face with something functional, something linked to a chain of events with a conclusive purpose, he's at a loss. I just put up with the heat.
Tobias was kind of wobbly and had a hard time flipping the record. After finally getting it into position, he placed the needle down scratchingly. The music, Aretha Arrives, plays medium loud.
We sat in his well-decorated kitchen and listened to some soul. The open face cupboards were crammed with 50s-style appliances - half of which didn't work. And even it they did, he wouldn't know how to use them. Every object in his apartment serves an aesthetic purpose. It's all arranged strategically, with balance in mind. From the 1930's time clock to the nouveau bread box collection. It's tasteful, yes. And when I'm at his place I wish I had the energy to be as stylish as him.
As he bitched about his nympho girlfriend, I found myself particularly drawn to the art deco, metal popcorn popper. It almost seemed like a prop from an old sci-fi movie.
My gaze shifted toward the kitchen window. It was raining, and the gutter must've been clogged because a small stream of water drizzled down from above. The half-vacant parking lot below was spotty with oily, rainbow-colored puddles. It was an ugly, but welcome, reminder of spring.
"Man, I'm so glad winter's over," I said.
"I enjoy Wisconsin weather. I hate the heat," he said. "I'm more of a cold weather person."
"Yeah, but don't you ever get depressed," I responded. "I mean everything is sleeping - it feels like death. The sun sets at four o' clock. And half the time you don't even see because we're stuck in that fucking sweatshop most of the time."
"Now come on. I don't mind working there," he said.
I had had too many drinks to refrain my pessimism. "Did you get a degree to satisfy you aspirations to paint portraits of rich people?"
"Oh, come on, don't start with the whole starving artist bit. That's a cliché and you know it. Besides, I have bills to pay," he said.
"Do you still want to make a living off of your art?"
"Yes, of course. But I'm a realist."
"Have you worked on any of your prints lately?" I asked.
"As a matter of fact, I have," he said, going to the kitchen counter where the open bottle of gin sat. "Let me fix another drink, and I'll show you."
I took the opportunity and excused myself and went to the bathroom. In the bathroom, as I pissed, I noticed the toiletries on the shelf in front of me: tortoise shell nail clippers, matching comb and brush, 1940's safety razor - all items he doesn't use. I flushed and washed my hands. On the sink ledge lay, in stark contrast, his functional items: Barbasol, pomade, toothbrush with ratty bristles, tube of toothpaste. I must've caught Tobias off guard because normally these items are hidden in the medicine cabinet.
I walked out to the living room, and the heat hit me. I took off my sweater. God, it was miserably hot. The heater sat in the middle of the living room. It was an industrial-sized piece of machinery. The air coming out of it must've bee 100 degrees, literally. "Man, Tobias you need to turn the heat off." He gave me a drunk grunt of indifference. I don't think Tobias knew how to operate the thermostat. He's afraid at what might happen. Most of the trinkets in his pad were purely aesthetic. Laden with knobs and dials that didn't work anymore. Tobias is just used to that , turning dials that just don't work anymore. Face with something functional, something linked to a chain of events with a conclusive purpose, he's at a loss. I just put up with the heat.
Tobias was kind of wobbly and had a hard time flipping the record. After finally getting it into position, he placed the needle down scratchingly. The music, Aretha Arrives, plays medium loud.
Thursday, September 14, 2006 BLOCKED
I'm going to work on putting, my zine of short fiction, Blocked online. I hope my readers find it decent...Or, at least, bareable.
Pre-coma, I used to right prolifically. Writing is something I'm slowly approaching again.
It's not a story that's split into chapters. But, to make it easier to read online, I'll make small chapters out of it. I'll probably publish a chapter daily until the story's finished. ENJOY!
Pre-coma, I used to right prolifically. Writing is something I'm slowly approaching again.
It's not a story that's split into chapters. But, to make it easier to read online, I'll make small chapters out of it. I'll probably publish a chapter daily until the story's finished. ENJOY!
Sunday, September 10, 2006
September 10, 2006 Xtracycle SUBs
Great advancements had been made in the area of bicycles...
When - or maybe I should say "if" - I get back on two wheels again, I'm definitely going to get one of these: Xtracycle. They call it the "Sport Utility Bicycle". And it's great because it shows that one can have alot of the benefits of an automobile on a bike.
Why do I have to be crippled!?! I'd love to try one.
When - or maybe I should say "if" - I get back on two wheels again, I'm definitely going to get one of these: Xtracycle. They call it the "Sport Utility Bicycle". And it's great because it shows that one can have alot of the benefits of an automobile on a bike.
Why do I have to be crippled!?! I'd love to try one.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Saturday, September 9, 2006 Whammy!
My new favorite show is a gameshow called Whammy!
On the show today, they aired a poem written by Jason [age 10], Josh[age 8], and Jeremy [age 6].
It's a beautiful poem. It goes like this:
Whammys, whammys in the air
Those little varments are everywhere
Even in the ocean blue
We love you, the Great Whammu!
Not bad!
On the show today, they aired a poem written by Jason [age 10], Josh[age 8], and Jeremy [age 6].
It's a beautiful poem. It goes like this:
Whammys, whammys in the air
Those little varments are everywhere
Even in the ocean blue
We love you, the Great Whammu!
Not bad!
Monday, September 04, 2006
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
About Me
- Cully_J
- I'm a happily married 33 gentleman. My wife Allyson and I have an 11 year old daughter named Veronica.