rocket to nowhere

2006 Honda Civic
Mileage: 36,383
Trim: LX
Transmission: 5 Speed Manual
Doors: 4
Engine: 4 Cyl 1.8L/110 Gas
MPG: 30 Cty / 38 Hwy
Exterior Color: Red
Interior Color: Tan

This low-mileage (36383), well-taken-care-of, Honda Civic comes with manual transmission, power windows, single-CD player, and the Honda Music Link adapter for iPod. Both engine and body are in great shape. The car has never been in an accident. A small chip in the windshield was repaired in 2007. It has received all scheduled maintenance (all paperwork is available on request, and I will happily show you the Carfax). And it still gets great gas mileage. This Honda has had only one (non-smoking) owner. This may be the ideal car: Practical, reliable, and still a lot of fun to drive!

Call Shawn at 303.351.1374

Or see the ad on Vehix.com here.

(thanks pHarmanaut)

will keep rotating slowly in the Kunsthalle Düsseldorf until February 28th 2010.

Many thanks to Jess, I’ve kind of started writing again. Here are some bits:

1.
      Formidably quiet. Yes he was. Not only that, but they had to turn it up.
      He owns eight handkerchiefs, and two of them are embroidered Saturday. But there doesn’t seem to be any system, and he might carry Wednesday on Sunday. Someone asked him about it once.
      He whispered, “You’re dead.”
      He whispered, “Once more.”
      Measured quietude is more effective. But then. . . .
      But then he was on top of him, biting his cheeks, ripping the flesh away from his face, and spitting it away before lunging in for more. His fingers were making bruises where they weren’t breaking the flesh and if he had said anything during the frenzy, he would have said it calmly, quietly.
      And he would have said it again, would have looked him right in his one, dangling eye and said it again.

2.
      Surely that clicking is annoying, but what about the chewing of ice? It seems much nicer just clattering with the whiskey. Sour mash? Single malt? Don’t let’s be getting things mixed up now. I’ll take a sprig of juniper. I’ll take a spray of mint. There are reasons and then there are reasons. There are swigs and sips and slugs. There are wicker chairs.
      One idea might be to reupholster the cushions, perhaps paint the trim. One idea might be to move the willow just sixteen feet to the south and attempt to salvage the view. Or we might or we could just or even perhaps but no, let’s just sleep on it.
      In the middle of the night, the lattice-work warps, the wicker waves and reweaves itself. In the morning, there’s no more reason to sleep on it. The willow remains, but we can no longer see out, and there’s no place to sit anyway.
      Thank goodness, and I think I’ll have another, thank you.

3.
      Somewhere, she thought, somewhere there is a photograph where people are baring too many teeth, convinced for whatever reason that this moment is the happiest—No, she thought, it isn’t happiness that people show with their teeth, at least not always—sometimes, yes, that she had to admit, but not always—no, what people usually showed with their teeth was what they thought happiness might be. She didn’t believe, like many of her more cynical friends, that most people were desperately unhappy; rather, she was quite convinced that people simply didn’t know what happiness was—not something lasting but just moments, brief moments, which, now that she thought about it, could probably only be captured by a camera—and what she wanted, what she was looking for, was a photograph where too many people were baring their teeth at a singular, central character who had come to them to elicit this very facial expression. He would, of course, be wearing white gloves. What, she wondered, do white gloves have to do with happiness? But these are my desires, she though, I’m the one painting—no, composing this photograph which must already exist somewhere in the world. What else? The color red? Supple leather? Yes and no. Both of these things and something more. Three shades of red, and something blue and the leather, upon further rumination, seemed inconsequential to her. It was the other thing that drew her, and yet, she couldn’t name it, or didn’t want to. Perhaps I’ll focus on the reds some more, she thought.

. . . who is accused of talking too freely about his neighbors’ wives and otherwise rendering himself objectionable . . .

“‘When we investigated the sites manually it worked better,’ he added.”*

*The final sentence in a BBC article about the Swedish government’s efforts to collect taxes from web-cam strippers.

We just got home from what everyone else involved in the process described as one of the smoothest, fastest closings ever. We now own a house! We don’t take possession until Monday, but I have the key in my pocket right now. I can’t wait to move in. !!!

!!!

It looks like this:

***

***
I’m not sure, but the best thing about these drawings might be the fact that the products are drawn in more detail than the men and their surroundings. Now, let’s talk about Warhol.
***
More about Kliban here.

I went to a lecture tonight by Trace Reddell (Associate Professor, Director, Digital Media Studies, University of Denver). It was tremendously interesting and got me thinking about why textual collage doesn’t really work as text. Also, I hadn’t thought about quotation in writing (especially in essays) is a kind of sampling and mixing. Here are my notes (no organization or apologies):

cyberpunk vs. 19th C. drug lit.
deleuze & guattari as Sci-Fi
QWERTY
electronic book review
Litmixer: the literary remediator
*space rock?
• possible to remediate the remediation?
microsoundlist
game-oriented mentality (ok)
Palimsestry
SINE FICTION (sndtrcks 2 sci-fi novels)
non-narrative but rather . . . ?
the synthesis of collection
pHarmacological goofing around
narrative remix on the fly
premediate?
live cinema?
Guy DeBord (sp?)
a documentation of a process
cutnmix.com
distribute a process
distribute a knowledge outcome
Burroughs fold-in

I don’t care if you have to stand in line.
I don’t care if it’s cold, raining, snowing, thundering, hot, humid, bug infested, or simply unpleasant.
I don’t care if you have a day job.
I don’t care if you have classes.
I don’t care if you can’t read.
I don’t care if you’re agoraphobic.
I don’t care if you think you have some sort of excuse—YOU DON’T.

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE, IF YOU HAVEN’T ALREADY (J and I have), VOTE TOMORROW.
DO YOU DUTY AS AN AMERICAN CITIZEN.
VOTE DAMMIT
VOTE DAMMIT
VOTE DAMMIT
VOTE

thank you.