more consternation for the hoplessly labile

I don't know... yeah, I think my humble blogging life is over. AA- Signing off. Folks, I'm gettin' out of here. But, before I go, a little hating on my way out:

Tis true. I've had a change of heart. So fickle. I've been (de) mediated, (re) mediated.. whatever.... No more self recognition, reflexivity, identifications, pontificating. Who's who to say? Or does it matter anymore? Honestly, who gives a shit what I say? (actually, just scroll down to the end of this shit)
Everybody's got something to say. So many opinions, options, interests, (special interests, single interests), groups, fields, identities, expressions of who you are, sensibilities.. so much fucking "special". But we're not. not reaaalllly. Everybody's famous in a tribe, or something, right? (Too long, Clanky, too long... ) Shut up already! Too much information and still decidedly empty; no content. Just cut and paste, man, cut and paste... acknowledgement, celebration, popularity...success..self improvement..more more more? (born to lose, we are) Me. Me. Me. And, narcissism just might be boring (?) Hmm...yeeee..Woah. Who could have thought? (hate, hate, hate...* punch* punch*) What's the matter with being hidden, insignificant, unimportant, being a nobody? (hey, that's what i'm talkin' about) No fame, no glory, no recognition. (pssstt...it's all really the same, just representations of options) ....blah, blah, blah....
Here's a thought: NOTHING. yeah! Just nothing. Just fucking sitting on your ass, not listening to anything, not reading anything, not consuming a goddamn thing, oh, and not fucking talking (or blogging). Just being.
Hmmmm. that sounds pretty good. . (you clean up pretty nice. what, did you take a shower or somethin'?)
I'll take it.

hey, it's cool. i'm only half kidding. in lighthearted fun. sort of.
huh?
love you guys. next posting: tomorrow.

less than hip

a: hey dude, can you call some of your friends so i can hang out with them?
d: what? hell. call them yourself.
what is our generation? it's been given up on according to some old dude out on Ave. A. really though.

fanny pickin's

so, after one week's commitment to the fanny pack exposition (note: i, ari, actually carried through with this little agreement. sad but true.) i'd have to say my conclusion is simple: fanny packs are TOTALLY AWESOME!!!! I think this might be one of the greatest purchases of my life thus far. Seriously. One: hands free is totally the way to go. what a sense of lightness, autonomy, unrestraint, such simplicity... everything of any consequence right at my groin. (perhaps some insight into the male arena?) no.. i jest- i have no idea about this. Two: feeling like a tourist, for that matter, looking like a tourist.. daily. pretty fun and stupid- my two favorite pastimes... as if there were any others. so. all i'm advocating here is that everyone run out and buy fanny packs. immediately! no question. and get some ice cream while your at it. fanny tastic. famed fanny. fanny fabulous. fanny riffic. fanny, fanny, fanny....

FLAMES, TRAINS, AND HAIRY TIRES

too juicy?
just suck on it till it's dry, man.
then you eat it.
accidental reassurance... "preventing accidental nostalgia"
NEEDED: FANNY PACKS
daniel and ari will wear them. and, it will be awesome. ari is to try to obtain a super 80's version of one currently in the possession of her mother. that's right- it's made out of super science NASA gelatinous stretch material like that of those weird swedish pillows found in sharper image and other such fine venues.
(p.s. Sweden and NASA are in cahoots conspiring to produce the awesomest of pillows. It's part of George W's "put the population to sleep so we can fuck them in the ass"plan.)
now for our fanny pack stipulations: ari will choose the contents of daniel's fanny pack and daniel chooses the contents of ari's (nothing else to be added or removed) they are to be worn all day. they must remain within the front 180 degrees of the hip region and no sagging with that shit. must be worn on the waist.
now for the contents lists-
ARI'S:
1. the entirety of the bottom strata will be covered with odd edible objects i.e. smooshed jr. mints, old bananna runts
2. cell phone
3. wallet
4. keys (with best keychain since 1994 but witheld from public viewing since 1995)
5. lunch
6. Sartre's "Existentialism and Human Emotions" for keeping it forlorn.
7. one crushed up cigarette for druken urges
8. one bag of unpopped microwaveable popcorn for druken urges
9. puzzle piece made by ari's grandfather
DANIEL'S:
1. spectacles
2. testicles
3. romantic timepiece
4. magnifying glass
d: why did you put magnifying glass? you saying i have a small dick?
a: no... do you know how awesome magnifying glasses are to have around? to look at stuff up close and to start fires when needed? pretty fucking useful..
5. wind instrument- shaped like a bird, also works for smoking (also real fucking useful)
6. baby wipes
7. laser pointer for the movies
8. yo-yo
(man, how come ari's fanny pack is paled in comparison to daniel's greatest hits one..seems a bit lop-sided here..)
STAY TUNED FOR FANNY PICS

just don't want to

ari here. okay, okay, people. so. i've been limp-dickin' it lately. "limp-dickin' it?" you ask. that's right. the ultimate state of apathetic sedation. me. lately. i think it works. anyway, it's been repeatedly brought to my attention (by a certain co-poster, not to reveal anyone's identity) that i need to respond to daniel's last posting. interesting. guess all i have to say is, "i don't have a lot to say." (well. maybe..nothing other than, "what the fuck is with that picture, yo???")
wow. how incredibly weak? limp, even? yeah, but production is beyond me. i'm in consuption stage now. eating. reading. capitalism... global markets... schools of thought-- union square bag ladies? yes... that's my goal. preparing for my union square debut. be forewarned. eccentricities welcomed. i retreat. but, ahhh..no. seriously. in the mean time i'll continue to avoid getting older. being thought of as old in any way. looking old. talking old. smelling old. you get the picture. not that i'm old. i just want to be way younger. way. target range? about 12. i'd say i'm pretty close. no tight pants, all sneakers, all games, all the time... mmm..good. and fun. fun. skip, jump, pop.
and as these two sides of my personality unravel in somehow opposing, counterbalanced (we hope) directions- one of a serious informed (we assume) agenda and another of carefree goofyness- let's just see how these two things wind up shall we? perhaps sleeping? well, one can only hope...

ps- hilarious side note- picture a dude just sitting eating peanuts. whole peanuts. shells and all. i thought that was a funny picture. sorry. uhhh..bye.

POWER COMEBACK, Y'ALL!

(you save baby dino, and i electrify yo senses)

FW: fw/alert: Re: verbBBal spamMM for the new UU//Subject: rococo_emcee, Check out these amazing deals on eBay!

Here’s a thought, Mrs. Missus:

I don’t think that marijuana/marihuana/mariguana makes you laugh more…I don’t think that it makes anything funnier. Things are already funny and we just don’t let ourselves laugh. We don’t laugh enough when we’re sober, and we have all these laughs contained…and.

Question: Would you say that?

a: it lets the voices speak

b: it feeds the burning fire

c: it is a covert operative from cuba who claims to be a costa rican immigrant in order to change the ideological inclinations of one lucky lady (with much support from public radio).

or..

d: c is irrelevant, but possible. b is too wilson phillips, and a makes weed sound like a lesbian seagull new age drum circle in which you mistakenly witness your step mom’s saggy boobs as she runs naked on the beach.



Another thought:

Don’t put your laptop on your lap for hour. The unrelenting heat may lower your sperm count. But you don’t have sperm…so no worries.

d: so what do you think? can we keep talking?
a: i’m not really here…remember?
d: oh, yeah. (turns inward)

He thinks that “inward” is the same surface as “outward”, in the same way that the top of an escalator is the same as the bottom… like in those books about the universe that she reads…He misses her, and he is somewhat comforted by the thought of her reading this blog.

a: and he continues to write!
d: okay. we should call it:

sung lives in all of us. we miss you…and your sniffing dog, too. you’re both “the bomb”!
or

remember when mark slapped the shit out of you?
or

mark works in mysterious ways... cause he’s a weirdo.

The TV is playing in the background. It grows louder as their laughs slowly come to a stop. Zoom into the back of a phone bill on the coffee table. Reads:

Photography : Glamour Shots : : City : Los Angeles

a: I think I could be an American idol. don’t you think?
d: (silent. continues to type)…..d…a…n…i….concentrese, guevón. no podés escribir a maquina porque pasaste esa clase en el cole tratando de dibujar caballadas en la compu y jodiendo a la roca que daba esa mierda...esa mierda que terminó siendo muy util. fuck it.

La pasaba con Pat Murphy (aka paboo): un punkero que me prestaba cassettes de bad brains y black flag. Y con Ken: el amiguillo que tocaba bajo en el grupillo punk. El mismo mae que luego se cogió a la hija del “Reverend”: el cura borrachín que nos compró la choza de Andover. Según el mae, se la tiraba en “La Penthouse”... el piso que construyó Guillermo (aka Billy): el roco tico que se peleaba con Robert porque:

1) Robert no hablaba español.

2) El tal Billy le decía “bod” a la madera, y nadie le entendía ni verga. Y Robert menos, obvio. Casi todo el hijueputa piso estaba hecho de madera, entonces era imposible comunicarse. Hasta que al fin nos dimos cuenta que Billy estaba tratando de decir “wood”, pero como no lo podía pronunciar, nada más le decía “el bod”.

3) Robert chocó contra el camión de Guillermo/Billy, por su famosa costumbre de retroceder sin fijarse que hay detrás del carro.


a: i could be the next American idol. yeeeah!
d: yeah! (he makes an air guitar move, and then gives her a high-five. then he actually considers it. could she really be the next American idol? he repeats the same action, except that the second time he gives her a less sarcastic high five. meaning is overcome by joy)

d: and a kiss.
a: no, actually. just a high-five, mister man.
d: alright, alright… (he secretly plots: how to grab her booty...not yet. in the meantime he’ll go back to the story)


Daniel found it annoying that Microsoft Word auto-corrected american to American. Not so much because of the political implications of this hegemonic software’s behavior, but because it ruined his neat capital to italic syntax bulllllllllshit.
Ariana had always been critical of the rigidity of his writing methods. That thought made Daniel want to get down, just to prove her wrong. He imagined that he would improvise an unwarranted performance in which he would make his bones wiggle and pop arhythmically to a dope synthetic beat. He would do it so well, and so consistently fresh, that you would realize that he was just funking you all along.

In his own mind, he has built himself up to be a playalistic expialidotius clay motion AND the anti-dote (hence the creation his alter-ego: emcee rococo).

Deep inside he’s just a scared little bitch. He hasn’t been without her in years, and already it feels like he’s been without her for years.

a: i think my brain stopped working.
d: me too.
d: that’s alright, though. i think we’re okay…

a: maybe we don’t need them.

d: i think my heart stopped working, too.
a: i think we’re okay, dude.