and 4 months later.

whatever. i'm bad at keeping up with things like this. and this post isn't funny, and i'm all sorry about that. and eventually i'll get back to BIPSBAT and finish that guy.

but i went to church today for a thing and got my cookies all frosted. here's a poem i wrote a few years ago that i want to fix and revise and make better and more immediate and less dorm-room debatey (a conversation about religion that doesn't make you sound like a pissy teenager? no way!) . i want this to grow up, basically. like, a lot. but at the same time, i want to say it outloud. i think it merits a voice.

An idol threat,
idle, yet ever present,
ever converting,
--or, if you will--
perverting the pious.
i don't pretend to understand the man who
(JESUS, I LOVE JESUS!)
preaches to the open hoping for pieces of him.
public lonely boys should marry such a god.

and nuns are the epitome of something that i can't quote put my finger on.
intimidation, perhaps?
or drunken whores on sunday, emotionally overeating the body of christ.

LUFF.

howtobearetronaut.com is obsessionworthy stuffs. Mostly composed of everything, it's a visually driven collection of cultural ends and oddities, things that make culture and things that culture has made. Pretty darn nifty, too.

There's this one collection of a rotting new orleans amusement park that breaks my heart to look at, but offers so much to talk about. I want to say a million words about it (there are at least a billion in there). I just have to find the right ones.

http://http://www.howtobearetronaut.com/2011/07/new-orleans-amusement-park/

BIPSBAT: iii.

Oh man. I have to rethink this title font. Again. in legible english letters and roman numerals--BIPSBAT: iii

So. Okay. Here's an issue that should either be addressed head on or never talked about ever again as long as any of us are alive:

I find Wolf Blitzer to be drop-dead handsome and I'd probably make out with him given the opportunity.

He's old. He's pretty cranky most of the time. And I question his suit choices on regular occasion. But you know what? All non-issues. I'd call him a silver wolf, because that would be all clever of me, but in most sincere honesty, I think the dude's more of a silver honey badger. Wolf Blitzer just does. not. give. a shit. Also, maybe sometimes he eats snakes probably.

http://http//www.youtube.com/watch?v=szJvyaylJww

Incidentally, if you put a sweet potato in my supersonic nuclear war weapon microwave for any longer than 4 minutes, terrible, awful, smoky things happen.

Reworking the Spin Class monologue. ( most masochistic excercise ever. hateful and wrong.)

Seven or eight minutes into it and my legs are threatening secession from the rest of my body. A wone woman civil war fought on a bicycle that doesn't goddamn go anywhere. I hate spin class. It's so stupid. I HATE spin class. It's SO STUPID! My leg muscles are totally petrified, horrified that I would put them to such monotonous and cruel work. I can feel them commiserating, tightening and forming alliances in there. The muscles have thrown in the towel, yeah. Yet the bones keep going--my legs keep going, and the former have no choice but to go along for the ride, spinning and spinning and spinning with so much wild abandon, trying to get nowhere as uickly as possible with as much speed as they can drain from the rest of me. Rightleftrightleftrightleftrightleftrightleft! No one should go this fast, I think, unless they're being chased by much bigger people. And the big people want to kill them. My legs just keep going, and going, and the pain is a fiery cold snowball, spinning and rolling and building and burning and getting bigger and becoming my legs. They fade in and out of numbness, feeling nothing one moment and an intense and scorching rippin burn the next. My legs are going to fall off and I won't even know it. It's like having a rug burn on the inside. Or when someone twists both their hands around your forearm in opposite directions--the Indian rope burn! INside my legs, throughout my legs, some slick bastard has managed to wrap his hands between the muscle and bone of my thighs and is twisting in opposite directions. Probably Satan. And this spin class instructor guy is in on it, too, i 'm sure. I suspect he knows Satan. They were probably roomates once.


If I hadn't seen them with my own eyes, I would swear to you I've lost my knees at some point during this hellacious 45-minute ride that doesn't go anywhere. I'm trying! I'm trying! Spinning and spinning and spinning. My heart knows we're in a terrible place and it wants to abandon ship, banging, POUNDING on the inside walls of my chest with all the enthusiasm and terror of a conductor trapped inside a train about to fly off the tracks. The imaginary hills ARE THE WORST. He's making us stand up. Are you INSANE, guy?! Stand and pedal with your lifeless stiff legs, ladies! And so I stand on legs I'm not even sure exist anymore. Still spinning. I'm standing, they're spinning and dizzy and hating me. Trudging up steep stairs made of heavy wet clay and giving a piggyback ride to a baby elephant. At 4 miles an hour, please, ladies! The room is thick with heavy, sticky air. Evaporated, syrupy air. Like if you take the trees out of the rainforest in the middle of July on the hottest day of the year and replace them with bicycles that don't goddamn go anywhere. I have expect to hear monkeys howling along the the abrasive techno shit blaring from all four window-less walls. A little box of hell. Hell is a little botx of dense, moist heat and I am inside of it.


I was wearing a light gray shirt when I'd started eighteen minutes ago, and the room was a cool 72 degrees. I know because it felt like my house when I arrived. I was smiling then. The world was a kind place. Now my shirt is mostly dark gray and clingning, damp and drenched, to my arms and my stomach and my back and my chest. I in turn am clinging to these horrible rubbery handlebars, which were certainly not made with warm wet palms and slippery fingers in mind. Fumbling, scrambling to hold on to these horrible effing handlebars. I am NOT smiling anymore. There IS no santa claus. I am sweating. No, no. I am RAINING perspiration. The moisture has in fact coated me, my once light gray shirt, and my ponytail that I really wish I had worn high now that I feel it plasted to the back of my neck, holding on for dear soaking wet life so as not to fall off this bicycle that still doesn't seem to be going anywhere.


How much time is left. Where's the clock. WHY DON'T WE HAVE A FUCKING CLOCK?! I can feel thel signle bead of sweat slide down my forehead, and I can feel it hanging from my eyebrow, plotting its launch into my open ey---OH MY GOD WHY CAN'T I SEE?!?! And my right eye is clenched like a violent fist wrapped around a salty sting that won't go away.

http://http://www.fanpop.com/spots/its-always-sunny-in-philadelphia/videos/3775579/title/always-sunny-philadelphia-spin-class

Running

is a thing i used to do on a regular basis. Like, 4 days a week, at least 2 miles a day regular basis. And i hated every goddamned minute of it. BUT. The overwhelming satisfaction buzz I got after each complete round was totally worth it. I stopped when i moved to chicago in favor of y'know, way too many cigarettes and a baby elephant's weight in whiskey. And as a direct result, my face no longer looks like my face. For flippin real. Puttin on some pudge in the cheeks and it's just annoying me at this point. SO. This past weekend I got my gym on and this morning I ran sprint intervals for 2 and a half miles along the lake. And it felt soooooooo gooooooood. I will do it again tomorrow. Aiming for a monday, tuesday, thursday, friday routine. Saturday I work, Wednesday I sleep in, and Sunday I rest like Jebus.

Speaking of Jebus, JESUS this is a boring post. I'll make it up tomorrow. Or who are we kidding. The next time I make it back here.

Also, I think JAY Z should come out with a cleaning album and he should call it Housekeeping with Hova. Because that's what's up.

overheard on the corner of clark and addison at 8:30 a.m. on a tuesday:

"...as long as it isn't urine or gasoline, i think you'll be fine."

meh meh something about clocks

Of opulence and heart attacks
Uneven hands snap invisible fingers
against a rhythmic moment.
Steady, dark, and sweet components
digress, outlasting only twelve
crushed against a wall and nailed
to
morrow.
Only hands.
Deaf and dumb and
eyeless face.
Only hands
cradle that fire (in which we sunbathe)
with such a sad, hot, tight embrace.
Tickling ivories: the clicking soundtrack of lives.
Talking.
Not talking.
Talking again.
Stillness is a myth.