Tonight I received over electronic mail a poem from “andy.treichler”--a man whom I don’t even know. The poem is below.
From: andy.treichler [mailto:wgvcwgetpyo@hotmail.com]
Sent: Monday, November 28, 2005 8:40 PM
To: david@awdsf.com
Subject: Plaid skirt cutie
Perfectly round natural 36dd’s
Babe loves fucking in stockings
barely legal boys gangbanging horny granny plumper
Teen amateurs posing
Also included was an "Internet Link" to a site that contained pornography. With regard to the issue of content, the spatial conflict between formal juxtapositions of thought and visualization piqued my interest.
The poem itself seems to be an attempt to capture all of reality within the confines of the poetic form--Mr. Treichler appears profoundly influenced by other Modernists, in particular T. S. Eliot and James Joyce.
The poem, suitably named “Plaid skirt cutie,” although not total, is nevertheless remarkable. What could have been a longer, more sustained and more elaborately lyrical work was instead offered as something less personal, tighter and more abrupt. However, it is precisely these qualities which lend the poem its air of modernity. Maybe in this sense we can see written small the larger tragedy of the 21st Century, of men trying to prove themselves equal to the Creator, while at the same time finding it necessary to admire His work.
Monday, November 28, 2005
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Fucking Nick
Nick was an out of work actor, and not the most cleanly of fellows.
Nick’s style?
Half eaten waffles in the sink with syrup. Dirty socks left on my couch overnight.
Nick was my roommate.
One day Nick dragged his ass off the couch and went to Costco. He bought the big ol’ Costco milk—two gallons of the stuff. He drank one gallon, and left the other in the fridge, unopened. The expiration date came and went, but the milk didn’t go anywhere. It sat there for about two-and-a-half months past the expiration date...
"I am not throwing Nick’s milk away." I told myself. The gallon jug was still sealed, so I wasn’t too worried about it stinking up the place.
...and then one day it was gone.
"Good, he finally threw it away." I thought.
About three weeks later, it was a delightful Saturday morning and I had just roused myself out of bed. I was walking down the hall.
La, la, la.
About halfway down the hall I noticed an odd smell. As I advanced closer to the living room, the smell got… unpleasant.
Uhhhh, what’s that smell?
I entered the living room and the full-power bona fide smell hit me. Hard.
It smelled like someone took a great big steamy dump right in the middle of the living room. When I say it smelled like shit, I’m not just saying it smelled bad—because it actually smelled like shit, humorless, hardcore, I-don’t-even-know-what-was-in-that-burrito kind of shit.
And what was Nick doing during this odor abomination? He was splayed out on the couch flipping channels with the remote. “Hey, Dude.” He said to me. He didn't seem to even notice the stench.
“Urgh, Nick, what’s that smell?!!” I asked.
“Oh, sorry dude.” He says in a lackadaisical no-big-deal kind of way, like he farted or something.
Let me tell you, God could have farted and it wouldn’t have smelled that nasty.
I shook my head and hunted for the smell. I followed my nose around the counter and spied some unusual white stuff on the floor near the cabinets. I reached down and found that—
Some time ago, for reasons unknown, Nick took the milk out of the fridge and put it in the cabinet.
...and it EXPLODED!!!
Milk. Fridge. Cabinet.
Explode.
Maybe he was trying to hide the milk. Maybe he didn’t want to carry it the extra five feet to the trash. Maybe he was just the biggest dumb ass in the history dumb asses. Who knows?
That very same day my friend Tarik called me and told me that his roommate was moving out. Was I interested in moving?
Yes, God damn it. Yes, I was.
Fucking Nick.
Nick’s style?
Half eaten waffles in the sink with syrup. Dirty socks left on my couch overnight.
Nick was my roommate.
One day Nick dragged his ass off the couch and went to Costco. He bought the big ol’ Costco milk—two gallons of the stuff. He drank one gallon, and left the other in the fridge, unopened. The expiration date came and went, but the milk didn’t go anywhere. It sat there for about two-and-a-half months past the expiration date...
"I am not throwing Nick’s milk away." I told myself. The gallon jug was still sealed, so I wasn’t too worried about it stinking up the place.
...and then one day it was gone.
"Good, he finally threw it away." I thought.
About three weeks later, it was a delightful Saturday morning and I had just roused myself out of bed. I was walking down the hall.
La, la, la.
About halfway down the hall I noticed an odd smell. As I advanced closer to the living room, the smell got… unpleasant.
Uhhhh, what’s that smell?
I entered the living room and the full-power bona fide smell hit me. Hard.
It smelled like someone took a great big steamy dump right in the middle of the living room. When I say it smelled like shit, I’m not just saying it smelled bad—because it actually smelled like shit, humorless, hardcore, I-don’t-even-know-what-was-in-that-burrito kind of shit.
And what was Nick doing during this odor abomination? He was splayed out on the couch flipping channels with the remote. “Hey, Dude.” He said to me. He didn't seem to even notice the stench.
“Urgh, Nick, what’s that smell?!!” I asked.
“Oh, sorry dude.” He says in a lackadaisical no-big-deal kind of way, like he farted or something.
Let me tell you, God could have farted and it wouldn’t have smelled that nasty.
I shook my head and hunted for the smell. I followed my nose around the counter and spied some unusual white stuff on the floor near the cabinets. I reached down and found that—
Some time ago, for reasons unknown, Nick took the milk out of the fridge and put it in the cabinet.
...and it EXPLODED!!!
Milk. Fridge. Cabinet.
Explode.
Maybe he was trying to hide the milk. Maybe he didn’t want to carry it the extra five feet to the trash. Maybe he was just the biggest dumb ass in the history dumb asses. Who knows?
That very same day my friend Tarik called me and told me that his roommate was moving out. Was I interested in moving?
Yes, God damn it. Yes, I was.
Fucking Nick.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
A Very David Morning
6:35am: Clock radio alarm goes off, softly crooning C&C Music Factory. I’ve been feeling under the weather lately, and the 9 hours of sleep I got last night didn’t feel like enough.
**Note to self: when sick the previous week, it’s probably not a good idea to spend all Friday night dancing at Get Freaky—jacking yourself up so much that sleep never quite comes—and following it up by partying the next night with your hand shoved up a monkey’s ass.
6:50am: I drag myself out of bed and decide that today is a hat day if I want to make it on time to my contract teaching gig downtown .
6:51am: Copious coughing produces a strange formation that looks eerily like Abraham Lincoln. I study this unexpected arrangement of bodily fluids, convinced that it must “mean something.”
7:05am: Hat-shod and Dayquil doped, I arrive at the bus stop just as the train arrives. I accept my good luck as I board the train. I am also forced to accept my bad luck as I realize that I haven’t brought the extra quarter necessary for the 1.25 bus fare. The embittered and sulky MUNI driver takes no pity on my plight, and tells me I’ll have to get off the train if I can’t come up with another quarter. I decide to pay two dollars instead.
7:08am: We arrive at the next stop. Determined to get the most out of the extra 75 cents, I stand directly in the front of the train. I tell the first person who pays cash that I already paid .75 cents of his fare. This charming act of philanthropy gets me a sour look from the driver. The timid passenger does his best to ignore me, drops his $1.25 into the slot and wordlessly moves to the back of the cab.
7:15am: Three stops later, the MUNI driver tells me that if I don’t stop harassing other passengers, I’m going to have to get off the bus. I ask him how offering to pay part of their fare constitutes as harassment. He tells me to “just sit down”.
7:20am: On a beautiful San Francisco morning a nice old Filipino lady gets on the bus with her quarters, and at 33 years of age, I get kicked off the bus.
7:30am: Another bus comes and takes me downtown. Now I’m pissed off and slightly stressing out, because my class starts at 8am, and I need time to set up the board, check the computers, and other crap.
7:55am: I arrive at my destination, but can’t find my classroom.
7:56am: I check the computer, and realize that…
I am teaching TOMORROW, and not today.
Score:
Universe: 3, David: 0
**Note to self: when sick the previous week, it’s probably not a good idea to spend all Friday night dancing at Get Freaky—jacking yourself up so much that sleep never quite comes—and following it up by partying the next night with your hand shoved up a monkey’s ass.
6:50am: I drag myself out of bed and decide that today is a hat day if I want to make it on time to my contract teaching gig downtown .
6:51am: Copious coughing produces a strange formation that looks eerily like Abraham Lincoln. I study this unexpected arrangement of bodily fluids, convinced that it must “mean something.”
7:05am: Hat-shod and Dayquil doped, I arrive at the bus stop just as the train arrives. I accept my good luck as I board the train. I am also forced to accept my bad luck as I realize that I haven’t brought the extra quarter necessary for the 1.25 bus fare. The embittered and sulky MUNI driver takes no pity on my plight, and tells me I’ll have to get off the train if I can’t come up with another quarter. I decide to pay two dollars instead.
7:08am: We arrive at the next stop. Determined to get the most out of the extra 75 cents, I stand directly in the front of the train. I tell the first person who pays cash that I already paid .75 cents of his fare. This charming act of philanthropy gets me a sour look from the driver. The timid passenger does his best to ignore me, drops his $1.25 into the slot and wordlessly moves to the back of the cab.
7:15am: Three stops later, the MUNI driver tells me that if I don’t stop harassing other passengers, I’m going to have to get off the bus. I ask him how offering to pay part of their fare constitutes as harassment. He tells me to “just sit down”.
7:20am: On a beautiful San Francisco morning a nice old Filipino lady gets on the bus with her quarters, and at 33 years of age, I get kicked off the bus.
7:30am: Another bus comes and takes me downtown. Now I’m pissed off and slightly stressing out, because my class starts at 8am, and I need time to set up the board, check the computers, and other crap.
7:55am: I arrive at my destination, but can’t find my classroom.
7:56am: I check the computer, and realize that…
I am teaching TOMORROW, and not today.
Score:
Universe: 3, David: 0
Monday, January 03, 2005
A Sweet New Year
Everyone screamed and jumped around when the clock struck twelve. Marc Fong relentlessly spun his self-described crappy music, which is actually more cheesy than crappy; he favors “crappy”, as crappy sounds cheesier than “cheesy” does. Everyone was in a delightful mood.
Def Leopard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” was playing earlier, so I guess it was appropriate that Liz approached me with Kirtley in tow and put forward that we each eat a spoonful of sugar. “It’s a Greek tradition.” Liz said, “My family does it every year. The spoonful of sugar symbolizes sweetness to come in the approaching year.”
Heck, I’m down with sweet years, and I’m down with eating sugar. Off we went searching for sugar in the kitchen. The apartment we were partying in is occupied by Mr. Fong, who is a bit of a pack rat, and Sandy, who has fabricated an extraordinarily special diet for herself which includes all kinds of raw materials and super healthy organic specialty food. They don’t have a kitchen cupboard; they have a kitchen walk in closet. Sugar shouldn't have been too hard to find, though, right?
Wrong.
Look, look, lookity look. Where’s the goddamn sugar?
Well, we were all quite pleased when Liz discovered the sugar in a sizable and wide open tin, right on top of the stove.
After settling on three individual spoons instead of the somewhat more romantic, but much less hygienic share-a-spoon plan, we each scooped up our sugar. I think Liz said something in Greek and we popped sugar in our mouths. I was excited. Sugar is good.
“Hmmmm. This sugar isn't very good” I thought.
Def Leopard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” was playing earlier, so I guess it was appropriate that Liz approached me with Kirtley in tow and put forward that we each eat a spoonful of sugar. “It’s a Greek tradition.” Liz said, “My family does it every year. The spoonful of sugar symbolizes sweetness to come in the approaching year.”
Heck, I’m down with sweet years, and I’m down with eating sugar. Off we went searching for sugar in the kitchen. The apartment we were partying in is occupied by Mr. Fong, who is a bit of a pack rat, and Sandy, who has fabricated an extraordinarily special diet for herself which includes all kinds of raw materials and super healthy organic specialty food. They don’t have a kitchen cupboard; they have a kitchen walk in closet. Sugar shouldn't have been too hard to find, though, right?
Wrong.
Look, look, lookity look. Where’s the goddamn sugar?
Well, we were all quite pleased when Liz discovered the sugar in a sizable and wide open tin, right on top of the stove.
After settling on three individual spoons instead of the somewhat more romantic, but much less hygienic share-a-spoon plan, we each scooped up our sugar. I think Liz said something in Greek and we popped sugar in our mouths. I was excited. Sugar is good.
“Hmmmm. This sugar isn't very good” I thought.
I mentally accused Sandy and her diet of good-for-you twigs. “Organic crap... Not very sweet.”
It was actually kind of bitter.
Uhhhh… Getting worse… kind of nasty, actually.
Uhhhh. What…?
I don’t…Um…
Oh, shit.
THIS IS SALT!
I had a really big fucking spoonful of salt in my mouth.
I could barely talk. I managed: “Uhhhh! Ith sthalt!... Ith sthalt!!!”
When I was a little kid I remember eating at Ray’s Pizza in Pacifica. A Pizza trip was a fantastically brilliant thing to me. I remember I had just taken a first sip from my brand new glass of Coke—except it wasn't Coke; it was root beer. I was so surprised that the soda shot right out of my nose, and soda shooting out of your nose hurts, man. Can you imagine what a mouthful of salt tastes like when you are expecting sugar?
No. Sorry, it’s much worse than whatever you just imagined.
So, here I am in the kitchen with a big ass mouthful of salt. This situation obviously called for immediate and determined action, so I stood there like an idiot.
It was actually kind of bitter.
Uhhhh… Getting worse… kind of nasty, actually.
Uhhhh. What…?
I don’t…Um…
Oh, shit.
THIS IS SALT!
I had a really big fucking spoonful of salt in my mouth.
I could barely talk. I managed: “Uhhhh! Ith sthalt!... Ith sthalt!!!”
When I was a little kid I remember eating at Ray’s Pizza in Pacifica. A Pizza trip was a fantastically brilliant thing to me. I remember I had just taken a first sip from my brand new glass of Coke—except it wasn't Coke; it was root beer. I was so surprised that the soda shot right out of my nose, and soda shooting out of your nose hurts, man. Can you imagine what a mouthful of salt tastes like when you are expecting sugar?
No. Sorry, it’s much worse than whatever you just imagined.
So, here I am in the kitchen with a big ass mouthful of salt. This situation obviously called for immediate and determined action, so I stood there like an idiot.
"Ugnha fa! Ugh! Uh, uh!"
Liz saved the day by grabbing onto the sink like it was the last chopper out of ‘Nam. “Spit it out! Spit it out!” she commanded.
Only children on fire could have blocked me from that sink, and I would have just spit salt all over their burning little asses.
Through it all, Kirtley kept his composure. He calmly walked to the sink after Liz and I finished and coolly disposed of his salt. The man has a boner for pain, or something. I’m surprised he didn’t just swallow it.
By a stroke of luck, we quickly found the actual sugar, spooned some into our mouths, and boy, was it ever sweet.
I think Liz said it best when she stepped back and pontificated:
Liz saved the day by grabbing onto the sink like it was the last chopper out of ‘Nam. “Spit it out! Spit it out!” she commanded.
Only children on fire could have blocked me from that sink, and I would have just spit salt all over their burning little asses.
Through it all, Kirtley kept his composure. He calmly walked to the sink after Liz and I finished and coolly disposed of his salt. The man has a boner for pain, or something. I’m surprised he didn’t just swallow it.
By a stroke of luck, we quickly found the actual sugar, spooned some into our mouths, and boy, was it ever sweet.
I think Liz said it best when she stepped back and pontificated:
“WHO THE FUCK keeps a five pound tin of SALT on top of the stove?!!”
Hellooooo, 2005.
Hellooooo, 2005.
Monday, December 27, 2004
Here's How it is at My House During Christmas...
So, I’m standing in the kitchen with my Dad, my Uncle, and my Uncle’s friend, and we’re all smoking weed.
My Mom comes by, and my uncle turns to her with the mini-bong. “Maureen, you have to try some of this!”
“No way!” my Mom says, “I tried it once and I couldn’t even get off the couch.” This is a story I’ve heard many times. In fact I hear it most every family holiday when my Uncle tries to get my Mom to smoke weed.
“Ah, come on…”
“Nope. Uh, Uh.” she said. “I was so out of it someone else had to put my babies to bed.”
Someone else putting your babies to bed is a very-bad-thing in my Mom’s book.
Mom made her exit—sort of scurried out of the kitchen. (The older my Mother gets, the more she seems to scurry.)
My uncle tried some good old fashioned peer pressure. He announced “Oh, she’s one of those people who tries something once and never tries it again.”
“Yeah,” my Dad pipes up, “She’s the same way with anal sex.”
Uh,
You know when you’ve been throwing up, and your body wants to throw up more but there’s nothing left, and you heave anyway? Your whole body tenses up, and for a second, time just stops. That’s what it was like, but in my brain.
“Noooooooooo!”
My hands clamped to my ears.
“Not in front of the kids!”
I couldn’t see. Everything was blurry. I knew I was screaming, and I knew I was screaming loud. People in the living room wanted to know what happened. “Nothing! Nothing happened! Arhhgh!” I managed to stumble in very loud shrieking circles—my hands fastened to my ears—and find my way out of the kitchen.
I hid in the garage for about five minutes.
My Uncle laughed so hard he hurt his damn back.
My Mom comes by, and my uncle turns to her with the mini-bong. “Maureen, you have to try some of this!”
“No way!” my Mom says, “I tried it once and I couldn’t even get off the couch.” This is a story I’ve heard many times. In fact I hear it most every family holiday when my Uncle tries to get my Mom to smoke weed.
“Ah, come on…”
“Nope. Uh, Uh.” she said. “I was so out of it someone else had to put my babies to bed.”
Someone else putting your babies to bed is a very-bad-thing in my Mom’s book.
Mom made her exit—sort of scurried out of the kitchen. (The older my Mother gets, the more she seems to scurry.)
My uncle tried some good old fashioned peer pressure. He announced “Oh, she’s one of those people who tries something once and never tries it again.”
“Yeah,” my Dad pipes up, “She’s the same way with anal sex.”
Uh,
You know when you’ve been throwing up, and your body wants to throw up more but there’s nothing left, and you heave anyway? Your whole body tenses up, and for a second, time just stops. That’s what it was like, but in my brain.
“Noooooooooo!”
My hands clamped to my ears.
“Not in front of the kids!”
I couldn’t see. Everything was blurry. I knew I was screaming, and I knew I was screaming loud. People in the living room wanted to know what happened. “Nothing! Nothing happened! Arhhgh!” I managed to stumble in very loud shrieking circles—my hands fastened to my ears—and find my way out of the kitchen.
I hid in the garage for about five minutes.
My Uncle laughed so hard he hurt his damn back.
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Free Drinks and a Picky Pug
A while ago I went to my friend Bridget’s Holiday work party. There was free food, lots of good lookin’ people, an OPEN BAR, and some good DJ’s.
The highlight of my evening was the little pug dog that some guy brought with him. Mr. Pug didn’t really like all the adoring-girl-attention, but he did seem to enjoy the food I (blap!) dropped for him.
Holding my drink and a piece of chicken and in the same hand, I’d walk up near the dog all commando like. Then, as smooth as any ninja, I’d shift my grip on the drink and (oops!) the meat would fall.
Happy pug.
Happy, but dumb. He kept staring intently at the magic spot on the floor where apparently tasty treats would spontaneously appear.
The pug liked:
· Chicken
· Beef
· Italian Salami (although he had a hard time getting it off the floor)
The pug did not like:
· Crab cakes.
What kind of dog doesn’t like crab cakes?? I mean they weren’t the best crab cakes ever, but it’s not like Mr. Puggly should be the most discerning of epicureans. He’s a dog, for the love of goodness. If it’s a meat product, he should gobble it down like it was god’s nuts.
I stopped feeding the little bastard after that.
The highlight of my evening was the little pug dog that some guy brought with him. Mr. Pug didn’t really like all the adoring-girl-attention, but he did seem to enjoy the food I (blap!) dropped for him.
Holding my drink and a piece of chicken and in the same hand, I’d walk up near the dog all commando like. Then, as smooth as any ninja, I’d shift my grip on the drink and (oops!) the meat would fall.
Happy pug.
Happy, but dumb. He kept staring intently at the magic spot on the floor where apparently tasty treats would spontaneously appear.
The pug liked:
· Chicken
· Beef
· Italian Salami (although he had a hard time getting it off the floor)
The pug did not like:
· Crab cakes.
What kind of dog doesn’t like crab cakes?? I mean they weren’t the best crab cakes ever, but it’s not like Mr. Puggly should be the most discerning of epicureans. He’s a dog, for the love of goodness. If it’s a meat product, he should gobble it down like it was god’s nuts.
I stopped feeding the little bastard after that.
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