Jump puddles, puddle jumper! (raBt tRayLZ 2.2)

Earlier the thunder sounded like somebody was doing a bad job of moving a large piece of furniture around next door. The storm is over us now, and it rolls all the way across the sky, from our west windows over the house, to our east windows. The latter of which Estrella is lying beneath and pouting, telling me that "she wishes she could go outside and jump in the puddles." For my part I haven't really got out of this chair since I woke up, seeing as how I fell asleep at 3:30 and woke up at 7. Seven is actually a bit late for me lately. Still tired though. Soon I'll get up and make some coffee. We don't have much, but we've got coffee - and a little bit of milk and sugar to boot.



At first I thought it was cute (except not really) that kids these days were dressing like what they thought kids dressed like in the '80s, and then it really annoyed me, but then it dawned on me: aren't we in for a timely grunge revival? If you think the 80's brouhaha is bad, it's going to be really annoying when kids start wearing green cardigans and flannel shirts again. Anway that's my prediction - we're going to skip Ska this cycle which is fine, as I like my Ska-ffinity to remain relatively confidential. Already, the winds of change are blowing.



On a completely different note, I've found the amazing website of a group of architects based in Bethlehem, whose goal is to "to extend the analytical reach of our respective investigations and engage with the spatial realities of the conflict in a propositional manner. The project includes multiple ways of architectural intervention and activism and it uses architecture as a form of tactical intervention in a political process." In other words, to address the reality of colonial occupation in the West Bank through creative and critical means. I haven't had much time to peruse the site, but it's refreshing and encouraging to see the multitude of strategies and fronts on which the colonial program can be critiqued and ultimately (hopefully) dismantled.

Culled Blog Draft/ Gratuitous Tired Post #1

The words roll like an avalanche, being pushed by a vicious gravity. It isn't a sentence, it's a calamitous cavalcade, a rolling maelstrom, behind which the residue of experience is left: it is a sentence, a sizzling white wake that dissolves into the blue.

It swirls into the eddy of a paragraph and piles up against the others at the checkpoints and the margins. Eventually the story will swell and coalesce into an explosive potential.

Google search:maelstrom

Wait, What?

Once, a long, long time ago, I had what we called in prison terms, an "internet girlfriend." Shortly before meeting my wife I began chatting with a young woman whom I'd "met" online. This was when I lived in Kansas City, next to the swimming pool and the statue of St. Francis across the way with no head. I also still had the old sofa I'd inherited from my Grandma.

Once, while chatting with her online, I asked her what movie she'd gone to see earlier.

"Dude, where's my car?" came the reply.

Ummm... I typed. What?

"Dude, where's my car?" again.

I think you're getting your IMs mixed up, you must be talking to somebody else.

"No, that's the movie I went to see: Dude, Where's My Car?"

I didn't believe her that a movie existed and was called that.