you're so long it's almost legal


Studies have shown that only the sleep deprived will
sleep with me. My housemate just mentioned a velvet
dick--maybe that's the standard we're working under?
But I look upon your petrified daughters of the revolution
forest, your barns of Vermont with mallard animations
sponsored by all-things-will-pass.com, your gorges and
sweet corn, thunderstorms and chimney ingenuity,
your Presidential asparagus and miles of stone,
maple ice cream, scholarships and flannel sunsets,
wheat league baseball and weak kneed scholars,
your fifteen dollar demolition derby tickets and two
fingered prayers, blueberry marshes and cabbage malls,
hypothetical dance crazes post-Liberal victory, your pet
yawns, your house walrus, your imitation of the walrus
yawn, your cell phone chargers and giant mums, all the
Appleseed cousins agape in the Connecticut with hacksaws for
medicine, all the sisters of former Energy Secretaries in
progressive high school theatres and coffeeshop divorce trials,
your decent mileage versus your snow tires versus your
bicycle endorsement, theoretically, for others--"hey,
wait, I own seven bicycles, they're on Craigslist"--
your three dollar avocados and great advancements in
emotional theory, your Thishampton and Thathampton,
your one exit to Fenway Park and your legitimate fear of
hugs--don't worry, I'm not going to hug you, I'm an
intellectual--your byzantine Pike and moose and trains,
your girls of interesting tattoos such as powerlines,
the way your long winters crimp even Santa to liquor,
your grave, dark haired feminist boys who tow the good ship
Beard Trimmer from one sullen hook up to another, who lazily
graze on their own fuck ups and network in the shower,
who in lieu of pecans will toast your pumpkin seeds,
that being a kind of sexual innuendo I won't explain,
not in the face of your expensive research and cheap
buses, not without a draft from your snow plow driver's
early bourbon, not unless I'm allowed to debut the great
Hawaiian shirt of my intuition that suggests I call your
bullshit. Nope! For now I look upon your Hudson River
School dream innovations as an invitation to my own
entitlement, the backwards Pac Man of American Destiny
that I will do my hella best to manifest upon your shore.
In the kitchen of your renovated mill. In the basement
of an all-girls college dorm and how we're not endearing
back and forth, New England, since we're neither of us
mulberry hedges sheared toward a clever apology or
a petition to keep cocaine out of our vulnerable sunsets
and deep under the minus twenty degree snow drifts of
April where it so belongs and might lead a Hampshire grad
guilty on the bacon of Derridean blowjobs to say "I'm
tough, I know why wheat bread is better and why white bread
tricked everybody after the Great Depression, ready to say
'Hey, thanks for the footstool.' And so I announce my
intentions to announce New Hampshire's New Man in the Mtn!"
Which they really will build; I'm not saying they won't.
I'm not offending you on purpose by asking to see your
tattoo, it's just I'm curious, some curious hick on the
back of a condor all the way here from a cheap place
like Reno, the Reno in your head I mean, because I really
dig your heads and all the different little heads under
wool here. They're the evolution of heads, I think.
I look upon your heads and your thin legs built of some
cigarette / asparagus hybrid with zero emissions not
frozen like me in this stupid leather jacket and I think
"Dear Entitlement, I'm not asleep yet. Give me your
smallpox lecture. Everyone should have sex on Emily
Dickinson's grave is my theory, and if you need a
ticket man, I'll be him, or a new pronoun! I'm almost
not kidding. Home is not just where to bed an easy love.
The home should always look a little like it's dead."


ryan call press release

August 21 2008

HOUSTON, TX - Ryan Call was swamped by teenage girls kindling their fickle devotion as he announced today that he was becoming the new associate editor of popular underground dog food magazine NOÖ Journal.

When prompted by an exultation from one of the hotter teens, the one with the raccoon makeup, Ryan said he would be happy to explain his new duties at NOÖ. "I am going to be reading submissions, editing shit, and hyping on the internet. I'm also going to be working with Magic Helicopter Press doing the same thing."

Of course, everyone was wondering if this meant fascist bullshit karate fry cook editors Mike Young or Kyle Peterson would step down or otherwise relieve their duties. But Call shrugged off this speculation. "Mike and Kyle are still doing everything they were doing. We just want to do things faster and more, you know, professional 'n shit." Ryan had no comment on Mike's whereabouts, dampening hopes that the reclusive cult gymnast would appear in public for the first time since the 1843 "dinner-and-a-moon-rocket" disaster.

Instead, surrogate representatives of NOÖ--pandas, penguins, and popular black and white TV icon Andy Griffith--lofted Ryan atop their shoulders and paraded him through the muggy streets of Houston to jubilant cries of "NOÖ? What's that? How the fuck are you supposed to pronounce that? What are those two little dots called? I hate fucking Houston."



multitask musket

Magic Helicopter Press has plans!

Spread the word!

In other news, major summer blog post coming soon. A summary of summer. With: pictures!


good job brandon scott gorrell

A lot of internet people posted about each other. The project was organized by Brandon Scott Gorrell.

i only give you my situation

My essay "It Ain't Me, Babe" went live on Nerve today.

It is what it is. I am happy with it. Not what I normally write, but I had fun writing it.

The Village Voice blog linked to it in a snarky way, which means it must be good, right?

I'm just hoping someone buys me a balloon.


see chelsea, i told you i would

I have a lot to type about, many acts of kindness, sustained periods of kindness, to publicly acknowledge and thank.

But first, here is the sum of my trip to California:

If you're taking the Greyhound from Arcata to San Francisco (or vice versa), your meal stop will be in Willits, CA. The bus will stop between a McDonalds and a Taco Bell. You will be dismayed, but if you continue walking up the road past the Taco Bell and some auto repair shop, you will arrive at a Subway. It is possible to get a sandwich from Subway during the half hour meal stop. Much better than Taco Bell or McDonalds.

You're welcome.


no, not a green bean burrito, m'am

Dear Bay Area friends,

I am reading! Please come see me. Have drinks with me. I've not been in your parts in more than a year. Click flyer for details. Also I'm going to be around the weekend before, so, like, say hi. Try not to blow Oakland up. Thank you!


Cafe Royale, 800 Post St, SF, CA

Brian Teare & Mike Young



be an open node

In the spirit of Blake's internet literature manifesto, which should definitely be reprinted in various Best of the Web anthologies, I sang a full step higher than my comfort zone and recorded a cover of the song "Boundaries" by poet and friend Bryan Coffelt. Find the original version at his MySpace.

Boundaries - Bryan Coffelt (covered by The Cinnamon Urns)

I was a twelve year old punk with a doctor's note
You had a mouth full of stars
Down at the river with French fries and baseball cards
We sat collecting our scars

Boundaries, why are you why are you why are you
Saving yourself for the wind?

Now I have seen all the ways and the roads
And the roses you turned out to be
Dogs in the alleyway scare the shit out of me
Turn my bones inward on me

Boundaries, why are you why are you why are you
Saving yourself for the wind?

I ain't sayin' I'm rememberin' nothin'
That I should probably forget
But captains in jeopardy (despite their intelligence)
Always go down with their ship

Boundaries, why are you why are you why are you
Saving yourself for the wind?