Being very drunk is like eating acid or psychedelic mushrooms, but much less illuminating. Some readers may not have had the firsthand knowledge necessary to immediately apprehend the truth of this. Readers who do not know: please take my word for it right now, and if you really must learn the good, old-fashioned way, please be sure to schedule an appropriate amount of time required to perform the necessary experiments. But we can all agree that many more people are drinking to excess right now than are experiencing psychedelic rapture. We can readily see the effects of this all throughout society. For example, in several days, it will be the Day After Thanksgiving Sale, so-called “Black Friday” because of a complex sex-magick ritual that is very much en-vogue in the upper echelons of the Satanic Cult that attempts to control society (in addition to the moon). I’m not going to tell you about it, because it’s really gross. But more to the point: people are going to die on “Black Friday”, like they do every year. The dark Lord demands it.

But alas, life is not like it is in the fairy-tales, wherein whichever dark Lord is easily appeased with a few virgins on a quarterly system, when profit/loss statements are due. In the fairy-tales, the virgins are unwilling sacrifices that really ought to remain in the gene pool, and marry goodlooking heterosexuals (preferably blue-eyed blonds) and spin straw or whatever. But with the people who die underfoot in Wal-Mart’s, and teeth lost between mothers over cheap, expensive toys, these real live virgins step willingly onto the altar. We offer up our kidneys in service to the Combo with Choice of drink. We offer our hearts and those of our children to that heavenly choir of fake hamster pets, to all the dolls and action figures that instill unfortunate but crucial flaws in the psyche of our young, and to the plastic that makes all this possible. Hosanna to the living MasterCard! It’s easy to get all sensitive and liberal about people dying. But good people: there’s no shame, only glory, in martyrdom. Think about all those people in Peshawar, blowing themselves up just for the chance to have stuff (like virgins) in heaven. We don’t have to go to heaven for stuff, we can get it at the store. And some of us who go to the store this Friday may also go to heaven. How glorious! That voice from above is calling you. Answer the call. Go, then, even unto the aisle 7, and take the sacrament of lil’smokies offered by that cute little old high priestess of low prices, and shop. Then go out from the temple into the city, and go amongst the people, and tell them what you have heard in the temple, that it is good. Then return to the temple and prostrate yourself before the altar, and when you are asked, choose plastic. There is no Wal-Mart but Wal-Mart!

Doubtless some have noticed by this point that I have included paragraph structure in this post. It is no accident. But the meaning behind it must be puzzled out on the level of the individual. Speak to no one about this, for I have written secrets here. Do not discuss with your peers. To do so would be to risk angering the marketing department, and maybe the board of directors. Heads will fucking roll. And while you’re trying to do your Xmas shopping, just remember why you’re here, and what’s important. The reason for the season, if you will. You are to consume with extreme prejudice, my virgins. And never forget that the highest purpose humanity has is to privilege objects over human beings. This is important, dammit! Now go forth, and MULTIPLY YOUR SAVINGS!!!

The other day at my birthday gathering, my friends and I brainstormed fun activities to engage in during a party or get-together:

• Invent amusing names – such as “Ivan Goodfuk”
• Make up your own games – such as Spin-The-Bottle Except with Fucking, Fuck the Bottle, or Let the Bottle Fuck You
• Crafts – Homemade Anal Beads. Some ideas: avocado pits, frozen cherries, and blueberries – that way, when getting a rim job, your ass tastes like blueberries (okay, and maybe poop)
• Fur Pie – obviously, this is self-explanatory.
• Scissoring is also acceptable.

Have a good party!

Dear Professor Potts,

I’m sorry I called you a “huge dork” on November 3, when I saw you on that big red bicycle.

It was the second time I had seen you with that monster bike – which I have privately dubbed the “killer tomato.” The first time had been a week or so prior; you were going up the incline right outside the long Hale Library entrance, towards the English/Counselling Services building. At the time, I was in that very Hale entrance, enjoying some premium tobacco product, and so happened to see you. Your feet were pedalling much faster than seemed suitable for the speed of the bike, up that incline, and you had to practically sprawl to reach your handlebars. It gave the impression of a puppy trying to climb onto a kitchen countertop. I wished one of my friends was there to see it with me (forgetting for the moment that I don’t have any friends). Also, I couldn’t get to my camera in time.

At any rate, the next time I saw you – on that very same tomato – I told you that you looked like a “huge dork.”

But really, what’s wrong with being a huge dork? Let’s consider your colleagues. Liz Dodd with those fantastic floral-print pants; Phil Nel with his bowtie; Michael Donnelly has those eyebrows (it would be more accurate to say that the Eyebrows have Donnelly); Wendy Matlock watched the entire Extended Lord of the Rings and the special features, and then there’s Anne Longmuir, who doesn’t even speak English! Even I often feel isolated by my own superhuman strength and agility. All these, however, are at worst “loveable quirks.” Except for Longmuir’s thing. She really should work on that.

Nevertheless, Dr. Potts, it was disrespectful. And counterproductive, considering that I’ve asked you to write me a grad school recommendation. And for calling you a “huge dork,” I am truly and deeply sorry. Please continue to ride your killer tom—ahem, your pretty red bicycle with grace and aplomb. So concludes this apology. HA HA THIS IS EXACTLY LIKE THAT ONE TIME YOU READ PLATO.

Turn off your iPod and ditch the half-full Starbucks iced venti mocha. This week, the Union Courtyard offers you an exciting opportunity to save the world.

Students and visitors on campus this week can purchase goods from around the world that promote fair trade. The Fair Trade Marketplace will be held in the Courtyard Wednesday and Thursday from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. The marketplace is part of International Education Week.

Nathan Retta, senior in chemical engineering and member of K-State’s Fair Trade Advocates, said this was a good opportunity to bring awareness about people’s consumption, and to promote selling of more fair trade products.

When you enter the union head downstairs, you shall be accosted by a bisexual sophomore wearing a shawl and Keds. She’ll get all indignant when she finds out your trail mix isn’t truly organic or some such shit.

Fair Trade ensures farmers in Third World countries are paid a fair wage to sustain and better themselves and their communities. Some products featured at this year’s marketplace include coffee, tea and chocolate. The products featured come from all over the world from countries like Kenya and Guatemala.

I hate chocolate and I hate coffee and come on: tea? Lets sweeten the pot with some Korean electronics and Russian warheads and let market forces work everything out and hopefully someone’s around with an iPhone to videotape the explosion party that will surely unite all cultures in an apocalyptic rainbow handshake of fair trade. That is all.

[K-State Collegian]

Local suicide squirrels to adopt new tactics in bid to return society to state of nature

The wires that ferry power to most campus buildings will soon be replaced so they can deliver power more efficiently to said buildings. Ideally, the enhancements will reduce the risk of electrical outages around campus. Local squirrels, proud of their rich and colourful history at the centre of many such incidents will not take these changes lying down. The Hour Badly Spent caught up with the bushy-tailed masterminds behind most of these devastating attacks for some additional perspective on the matter.

The Hour Badly Spent: So it says here “Little green boxes have been popping up around campus as signs of the maintenance department, in conjunction with an outside contractor, upgrading the electrical lines coming into campus buildings.”

Cheeky Squirrel: They look like unripe acorns, so soft and delicious. And those electrical lines! Might as well be neon arrows that say “Eat at Joe’s.”

The Hour Badly Spent: “The boxes are being installed in an effort to rid campus of its “Frankenstein Room,” said Bruce Shubert, vice president of administration and finance, which is where all the on-campus electricity used to come from.”

Secret Squirrel: Ha ha ha the Frankenstein Room. Some good times in there. It was built on our ancient squirrial ground and we go back there every now and then to have some fun with nuts. Nibbling and so forth.

The Hour Badly Spent: “The current electric wires carry 4,160 volts of electricity to each building. The new wiring can carry up to 12,500 volts, said Ed Heptig director of facilities maintenance.”

Stripey Squirrel: Twelve thousand bolts? You better believe we will be up on that. Just think about that next time you see our fearsome armies marching single file up and down the electrical supply lines. We will find your little green power gems or whatever and we will open them up and BAM! Or BUZZ, whatever. Blackout, is the point. And you will still have to go to class.

The Hour Badly Spent: But…why?

Long-in-the-Tooth: Hey, there goes that beagle what chased us up the oak that one time. I fink he’s spotted us. We gotta bail.

The Hour Badly Spent: Lame.

[K-State Collegian]

Rejoice! Be happy! Business is booming! Overpriced Corporate Product is still selling despite all your griping! And what’s good for business is Good. For. You. Trust Chuck Fischer on this!

Capitalism is alive and well in Manhattan. Just this past week, the Collegian has printed two articles on local businesses expanding their services to new locales.

Kite’s Grille and Bar just opened up a new banquet hall for private events, and Radina’s Coffeehouse & Bakery now has another location with a drive-thru to boot.

As Kite’s goes, so goes the rest of Kansas. As long as soldiers and finance majors keep donating their fancy upscale “money” to community icons like Kite’s, the rest of us will benefit from the growth in wealth through availability of employment; beer will pretty much trickle down to everyone else in the community. 

Radina’s and Kite’s are not the only businesses doing well in Manhattan. Dara’s Fast Lanes seem to be everywhere. I was sure during the recession, at least two of the Dara’s in town would close. And yet, to my knowledge, none have.

I figured gas stations would be some of the first places to have to close as many people don’t need gasoline. I pictured gas stations closing while necessities like grocery stores would be the select few not suffering terribly during the recession. Whatever the case, it seems Manhattan grew quite a bit during the recent recession.

Your cocaine-laced "premium" gasoline — available NOW only at Dara’s! — is indeed a luxury. Your V6 is HOOKED, and that addiction is keeping this land of intransigent farmers strong and hale.

The area around the new Hy-Vee is a great indicator of recent growth. None of those businesses were there a year ago. There is also a new Walgreen’s and Sonic out by Westloop. These two areas of growth may not be the only ones in town, but they are hard to miss.

Eating at Sonic always makes me feel like the Exxon Valdez just crashed into my stomach — mostly because it makes my faeces come out as oil-covered ducks — but whatever, we will be all right as long as the fast-food industry is still thriving.

[K-State Collegian]

Last Thursday at the Kathouse’s “Ska vs Pop vs The Funk” was absolutely the first time I have felt like dancing since I was in my younger 20s and even then I didn’t have anyone to dance with but whatever, fuck you all, it was ska and those well-dressed trumpeteers were archetypal music douches and their sound seriously took me back to when I was 20 and felt like 16 and ska had been popular for about 10 minutes and I couldn’t listen to it without getting up and doing some sort of dizzy-dino fast-paced bodily flailing so here is a picture of The Ruckus, sexing up their brass instruments with energy and grace.

Wasn’t that picture just terrible? Then I noticed Hipster Glo was in the audience too and so I tried to get a good pic of her just to prove that she is indeed a hipster b/c who else comes out for ska but homegirl is elusive; it was like trying to catch minnow with your bare hands or something. I’d have had an easier time getting footage of the Loch Ness monster or witnessing a female orgasm. That didn’t stop me from giving it my best shot though. If you look closely at her eyes you can see, under the shadow cast by her fingers, pure fear in the most remarkable shade of blue. Cerulean, I think that colour is. Cerulean blue fear. Amazing, isn’t it? That’s the real hipster glow.

Afterwards I felt bad, like I had infiltrated some sort of planning meeting for the next revolution just so I could take names for the FBI and Hipster Glo seemed to know instinctively that the consequences of being caught would entail days, maybe even weeks, of housemates asking her “Is Hipster Glo some sort of super-villain alter-ego trying to overthrow the WTO and replace it with a debate squad?” I get the feeling that the question has no easy answer.

Then this dude with curly golden locks started skanking and the girl right next to Hipster Glo went at it too but it didn’t catch on because you undergrads fucking suck and are needing my fucking wisdoms really bad, just standing there and grooving or whatever like drowsy stoner kids and that’s exactly what we need. More of those. So anyway, Whitney was there too and since she called me a “citizen journalist” last week I thought I’d ask her what she thought of this concert. Then she gestured for me to give her my little diary, which I did, and she wrote down “Miss Hodgin reported feeling the Ruckus’ good vibrations in her nether regions.” Then she kissed right below the part of the page she wrote on and it left a huge lipstick mark. And now here’s another picture of the Ruckus. The end.

And I Lost It Here.

It’s happened to me ten thousand times: I post something on a friend’s wall, something misogynistic, homophobic, racist, antipapal, parliamentarian, unparliamentarian, unchristian, logocentric, slavophobic, anti-semitic, antidisestablishmentarianistic, anti-Big 12, anti-alcoholic, anglophobic, or, in short, just plain truthful and because my Facebook friends’ senses of humour are so far below mine, I have to write some sort of sort of column inquiring as to why people still use Facebook when there’s sooo much beauty elsewhere in the world. Which is why I identify so closely with Tim Schrag.

In recent months, I have come under fire for my use of Facebook.com profile, though the items posted and written have been neither libelous nor obscene, but perhaps merely catty. In spite of some people’s opinions, Facebook is just like everything else on the Internet and should be protected by the beloved First Amendment.

Tim Schrag’s sarcasm is above your head. Laugh off his quote-unquote offensive Facebook posts, like you’re supposed to. If you can’t handle it, de-friend him (but do it ironically or something). But, by all that is sweet and holy under heaven, please don’t let him turn Facebook into a free-speech issue.

[K-State Collegian]

Okay fine if YOU think you can come up with a better headline then email me. Nonetheless, if there’s one point upon which we can all agree, it’s that everybody else sucks. By “everybody else” of course I mean all you bleary-eyed slackers, drifting through college life like after-hours convenience store drunks, hardly knowing what brought you here in the first place yet still constantly demanding stimulation and answers (and I know you’re reading because who else do I hang out with?). To you, life is nothing but an endless display of colourful yummies. And as you haunt the campus, you just make life harder for the studious and diligent around you. And it’s frankly bringing Delores Pearsall down.

In college, I find we are lacking motivation in our coursework and school in general. Maybe you should ask yourself, “How many classes did I miss this week, because I felt like sleeping in?” Why aren’t we more motivated to accomplish the task at hand?

I have a few answers to these questions. Many students do not make it to class because they would rather sleep in after a late night of partying and take college as a joke. While other students become lazy in college without the motivation or the push from parents to do well in school like we had in high school. But there are also those who are simply unprepared for class.

Personally speaking, I have friends who are unmotivated to make it to class because they spend their nights partying in Aggieville. They don’t do their homework, rarely go to class and are clueless about the material when they finally do go to class for exams.

Why are some students so unmotivated? Well, with all the modern-day distractions like Facebook.com and video games, as well as the classic pastime of partying, students would rather let themselves procrastonate than spend a few hours sitting in front of a book and reading a few chapters of chemistry.

Imagine that! Thanks a lot, mom. So in summary, (1) Facebook shmacebook; get a life. No wait, don’t do  that – that also unproductive! (2) Your friends are not as good to keep close to you as your professors are. (3) defeating the Four Fiends will destroy civilization, not save it, and (4) it sorta goes without saying from the article, but do under any circumstances not waste time with lengthy sexual encounters. There is urgent work to be done. Ha ha, “chemistry.”

[K-State Collegian]

Dude, your Puma™ jacket makes you look cool.

This photo features Shannon Curtis, crooning out jazzy songs of love and heartbreak in the Union right this very second as part of their “Lunchtime Lounge” thingie.

Because she sounds so good, here’s another pic. One more lovely and amazing thing you can’t tell from photos: she’s from Los Angeles! Oh right, that means nothing to you. Whatever; here’s the photo.

For reasons that are not apparent from the photos, I am inclined to buy all three of her albums.

Oxygen is the blowjob of fire.

Latha Venkatesh’s fingers, though frantic, were always careful. Venkatesh herself huddled over her musical instrument, the veena, as though listening closely to every sound coming out of it. As though the veena was continually on the verge of telling her something.

This was all at a carnatic instrumental concert which took place Sunday afternoon in the Union’s Little Theatre. Named “sur dhwani” (“the sound of music”) and sponsored by K-State’s Society for the Appreciation of Bhayativa Heritage and Arts, the concert featured Venkatesh as well as a mrindagam-player named Shiva.

There is a sweet mellowness even to the faster pieces. It’s in the veena’s strong twang. It reminds one of a sunset over water in the evening. The two instruments made a wonderful pair, creating music that was both soothing and energetic at the same time.

At 3:04, Venkatesh put down her veena and, with her head bowed, started clapping while Shiva made the melody with his mrindagam. Roughly seven minutes of this passed; during this time, it did not take long to realize one incontrovertible fact: Shiva’s right hand was clearly insane.

Stern-faced but wild-eyed, his fingers, though also frantic, belied an exceptional amount of control. He struck the mrindangam near its centre, then near its rim; he struck with two, three, four fingers. He struck with a steady, even rhythm and then he sped up, as though tap-dancing with his phalanges.

About 70 people attended the showcase of South Indian classical music.

The singer was Breanna Stewart, a freshman in vocal performance. The song was “Superwoman.” The place was Bosco Plaza. The date was October 30. The weather was bad. The event was Be Bold Be Red, part of a national campaign to raise awareness of and oppose violence against women of colour.

Does anybody have any information on this show-stealing ginger, passing out flyers that were as bold and red as his coat? Feel free to use the comments to speculate boldly as to his identity.

The groups involved were Ordinary Women and Zeta Phi Beta, whose sorors were out in memory of Alheli Alcantara. Via Nobody’s Writing:

Alheli Alcantara’s body was found outside the Quality Inn on East Poyntz Ave. in Manhattan, Kansas Sunday. Her co-worker at Burger King, Deon Ross, has been charged in her kidnapping, rape, and murder.

[Update from the comments: “Also — members from United Multicultural Women, W.A.R., Besos/Besitos, and BSU were involved with this event.” – thanks Bonerkiller!]

That is all.

Look, whatever. I was waaay too drunk to remember anything from Auntie Mae’s Mighty Fine Poetry Night IV. What did you expect? Blogging <> homework. I did take some notes though. Let’s see what I’ve got here.

1. Arrived late and was stuck alone at a table in the back where I couldn’t see anything. That’s what I get. Blake was just starting to read, so I skedaddled up front and took a photo.
2. Chelsea Imers (?) read her “Humble Bumblebee” poem. It was “interrogative and inquisitive", I wrote.
3. Then someone read a poem titled “To Whom It May Concern,” which was a letter announcing her resignation as an adult and affirming the happy simplicity of yesteryears. Best line: “I want love to be something felt with happiness, not sought after with distress.” Right? Nevertheless, Christ, what a downer. And what a great childhood! Though I can’t remember six years old being that much fun.
4. Then Lauren Someone read “so you want to be a writer” by Charles Bukowski. I couldn’t tell whether this poem was facetious.
5. Then, something called “Hell on Earth,” about war. Wtf is with people tonight? I arrived late expecting to catch the party in full swing. Instead, I’m hearing lines like “I’ve just been captured and am now a prisoner of war.”
6. Then Adam read a poem about the conversations he has with people who, in casual conversation, find out he’s majoring in theatre. “I could use my training to act…like I gave a shit what you thought about my major.”
7. Jimbo read a mosaic called “66506.” It had five parts. Jimbo lately looks like he drives a Harley. And that folksy twang he’s been affecting lately doesn’t help. OR DOES IT???

Anyway, here’s a picture of Blake and another one of Donna Potts, because why not. Enjoy your week!

• We came to terms with our insomnia. Some of us had more trouble with this than others.
• We wondered how you found us.
• We resolved never to break our diet.
• We read the Collegian. At least twice.

No thanks to that preposterous bacon post, there were bunches of comments this week! Thank you, all! The comment of the week, however, goes to Tim Hadachek, after a post in which I voiced agreement with and support for his point of view:

• “ I feel like this is some sort of trap.”

I know, right? Was I serious? Was I kidding? Was I drunk? Who am I, really? And on to a more serious point for speculation: has anyone seen “robertlowelldunn” around lately? Aside from that, if anyone’s got any comments or suggestions or questions or wants to give me a piece of your mind, feel free.

To be perfectly honest I don’t really do the whole poetry thing. Sure, once in a while I’ll get schwasted on Everclear and burp out a couple of fragments that are evocative or loaded with imagery but I mean, that hardly counts, right? Nevertheless, the few pieces I have written would not exist if not for Jonathan Holden. I know his intro poetry writing class is considered an “easy A” but the truth is he provides a lot of helpful information for those in his class who are serious about developing their writing, and he brings a cheerful, supportive attitude to the class discussion, and what that does is it quells the new writers’ panic over having their work ripped apart by an imaginary panel of experts. His class is sort of a gentle coaxing into the art form. Anyway, whatever. I owe him heaps of thanks. One day this week I stopped by his office to do give him just that. And there he was, deep in concentration while scrutinizing what was clearly an important missive. I knocked, gingerly. Then I heard light snoring. Then this happened:

Immediately regretful, I textmessaged an authoritative peer in search of…forgiveness? Redemption?

Btw i just stepped into holden’s office and he was asleep but in a way that made it look like he was reading something important so i took a pic. I am so wrong. Plz don’t hate me.

I couldn’t stay and camp out. I had miles to go.

It used to be a simple time-wasting alternative to watching TV: show off your awesome by blasting your crush with insanely witty wall posts. Those days have long been over – nobody can just use Facebook for fun ever again; your profile’s basically gotta look like a screen capture from careerbuilder.com. On the bright side, one day you’ll be in a job interview, wearing the hell out of your chinos and your oxford and maybe a simple two-colour stripe tie that adds personality to your outfit, and the boss will be all “Where did you go to school?” and you can go “Facebook University. Let me show you my F.U. credentials.” And then I guess you can go get drunk on blush or something, I don’t care; just don’t drag me into it. I really need that job.

Way back in April I spent about four hours and 1,800 words blasting Star Parker and yet this “star parker is full of shit” google query is probably the first time anyone’s read that post. Meanwhile, for god knows what reason, “viennese oyster” (nsfw!) gets me several hits on a daily basis. What can I say? Thanks for reading, and alternately sorry if this site wasn’t quite what you had in mind when you googled “proper usage and care of the phallus” or whatever. Also, just for visitors who are new to The Hour Badly Spent: “ITALIAN METHOD” “KOBE TAI” “UPSKIRT.” You’re welcome, internet.

Ever since I myself became an olde – which was a loooong time ago – I have been bored to death by the mindless geezerey tirades against all youth because their facebooking will abort the Islamosocialist apocalypse all over your illegal immigrants. Hobbies are just that: hobbies. Sort of like how kids in the 50s collected baseball cards and smoked Pall Malls and what exactly was wrong with that? I’d say more about it, but Tim Hadachek said it better here, there, and since it’s on the web, pretty much everywhere.

Parties are so over. You’d normally think of them as just some deal where your parents are going out of town so you decide to have a friends over and you send McLovin out to score some booze. Not any more! Now they take “planning,” which sounds suspiciously like “work.” And as we all know, work just leads to poorly-timed firings. Some party, eh?

• “For students living in a house or apartment, a “formal night” can be a fun way to find an excuse to dress up and eat a delicious meal. The idea is simple: Invite a few friends, ask everyone to chip in a few dollars, cook a delectable dinner and make formal clothes a requirement. For the over-21 crowd, adding some fancy cocktails or simply using plastic cocktail or wine glasses for some well-loved Natural Light beer can help contribute to a classy atmosphere.” Why stop there? Why not invite your parents over too?
• Have a theme! My fun suggestions: togas, Communism, prom, or divorce.
• “A party theme that rarely gets old with college students is a classic dance party, especially with a good disc jockey. Dave Powers, junior in elementary education, has been playing host at dance parties for a little over a year and said they are always a lot of fun.

  “Powers and his friend Ernie Straub, senior in construction science, act as DJs while their friend John Churchill, senior in music composition, provides the house. Powers goes by his DJ name, ironKIDZbread while Straub uses the name EIV.” When I’m at parties I also make sure people only refer to me by my screen name, “BlacksOnBlondes.”

Anyway, I guess the whole point of this is suck it Ella House, the whole “lets strategically place some bisexual hipsters under the strobe light and see what happens” is simply not enough. You need deejays and you need this guy to show up and you need to do this like now but please waive my cover this one time. You know I’m good for it.

[K-State Collegian]

The poors can’t just run around naked, brandishing their tattoos and the scars they got from those hazy “prisoner of war” days. It’s simply unseemly. Moreover, without enough cash on hand to get the name-brand stuff that flaunts their successful assimilation, what should they do? Keep shopping, that’s what. Fall catalogues have been available for some time, after all. Some helpful advice:

1. “Some say spending more money on a purchase for a better-quality piece is worth the price.” Thank you!
2. “According to TheBudgetFashionista.com, people should look at every purchase with the “cost per wear” theory in mind. For every item that they consider buying, shoppers should divide the estimated amount of times they will wear the item by the price they are going to pay for it. The Web site gives the example of a $500 Burberry trench coat: The buyer planned to wear it 72 times in a year (three times per week for six months). She decided she would probably keep the coat for about five years, making the cost per wear $1.38. This cost, according to the Web site, makes the coat a wise purchase and worth the initial investment." Thank you again!
3. “The Web site also explains a bad “cost per wear,” using the example of a $250 diamond necklace.” Fuck you very much; I stopped reading and stuck my head in an oven after the phrase “diamond necklace.” It’s a Pavlovian thing.

Whatever, maybe it would be better if we just all ran around naked. You first though. Don’t be shy; I promise I won’t make fun of you like last time.

[K-State Collegian]

Sometimes I draw with black pens – always black pens – on non-porous surfaces, and I press all eight of my fingers and each of my thumbs to it, repeating the image until it is barely there on my skin, an echo of what bright black blur it once was.

This is somewhat like poetry.
This is somewhat like falling in love.

Right now I can hear, too loudly, the sound of seconds, sliding past my eyes, and while they slip, everything kind of burns bright and fades, in rhythm, but not attached to skin, or whatever else.

This is kind of like dying.
I guess, it’s kind of like living, too.

I take drives out to cemeteries sometimes, and sometimes I walk. Cemeteries on hills are the best. And cemeteries near water (but not in or on). I like cemeteries with trees, and I like to run my hands over the old Indian graves, and old settler graves, and I like to write love letters to all the bodies, as they slowly crack apart and become simultaneously less meaningful and more full of meaning.

I guess this is why they call me,
The dark hour of the soul.

I love you,
3 A.M.

A servicey tipster posted a few baconey links on my Facebook page. To be clear, I do like bacon, just as long as I don’t have to actually think about it. Once I get that image in my head — rust coloured-strips lacing a grimy pan, I remember how for a few minutes after they’re done frying they look like someone spit on them. But whatever, it’s still all right on a biscuit or something.

Anyway, since the tipster’s links included some simple instructions (“Now you have to blog about it – we’ve provided sex, food, alcohol, and bacon-related links. Irresistible.”) and I’m nothing if not a blog-whore (sadly, not as lucrative as real-life whoring), here we go!

Why stop there? Why not also fry eggs off her bellybutton? Commenter “rose” also made a good point:

Thinkgeek additionally features a bacon martini (because an olive isn’t salty enough?), bacon mints (self-defeating), bacon ice cream, bacon cheesecake, bacon toothpicks, and a rather fetching bacon scarf.

On thefrisky.com, there’s this:

I thought cooking breakfast came after sex. Like, waaay after. Not during. But far be it from me to impose my heteroporcine mores on the rest of you.

To me, a man smelling like bacon would not turn me on. I would think he worked at Denny’s or something.

-Michelle

Again, via Thinkgeek: white America’s clinically depressed, greasy answer to Vegemite: Baconnaise?

And…bacon salt?

Is it made of bacon or is it made for bacon? Does this even matter?

And just for the KNT house (the debate sorority), here’s a picture of Francis Bacon [via Luminarium.org]:

The blogger at Bacon Is My Anti-Drug is not gonna be happy about this, which is not good for me at all. I need all the friends I can get.

Via Facebook:

I’m reasonably sure the underaged spoil-sport trying lamely trying to defraud the comely, venerable bartender was none other than professor Donna Potts, so thanks a lot. As for me, I don’t have anything to read as of yet so you’ll probably see me frantically scribbling what I remember of “The Welcome to Sack” on the back of a coaster. Then I’ll order some bourbon and forget to sign up to read anything, which is probably best for everyone anyway (announcing a standard of “fine” poetry obviously disqualifies me). What will you be up to tonight?

I think I’m slightly in love with that poem Bonerkiller posted the other day. I’m also in love with the lunar rants from “robertlowelldunn” (what a wacky nickname, eh?), but not in the same way. It’s more of a “declaring my love out loud would mean coming out of the closet” way, and I don’t know if I want do do that. I just don’t know how to process all these new feelings. What I do know is that these two are terrific writers and I’m glad it only took two long hours of cajoling, bribery, seduction, and blackmail photos to persuade them to devote time to this dusty little corner of the blogosphere. For that I am immeasurably grateful.

We would like to hear from more of you! Do you have anything you’d like to contribute? Perhaps that term paper in which you got graded down for excessive profanity? Or maybe you want to rant about something you read in the Collegian? Or maybe you saw something silly the other day and took a photograph? Maybe your professor said something dumb and you wrote it down? Maybe you want to nitpick my grammar? Maybe you want to tell us all about the party you went to last weekend? Maybe you want to tell us all about the play you saw last weekend? Maybe you want to show us the poem you wrote last weekend? Maybe you hate this town because there was nothing to do last weekend? Whatever the case, let us know what’s on your mind! Submissions, if we get any at all, will be kept anonymous unless you say otherwise. Kthxbai!

I’m in love with a girl who doesn’t exist anymore,
of course, because she was never a girl,
and that is only what I called her
inside kilns.

I am in love with a girl who doesn’t exist anymore,
though I swear I saw her today,
working at a bookstore,
with soft curly hair,
slightly darker than
the color of hay,
perhaps — the color of rainy hay.
She had a small mouth,
and a butt chin.

She wore many buttons,
and though I don’t know what they represented,
I might assume they were declaring her allegiance
to a band, that was just on the verge
of selling out;
buttons which would soon be discarded.

I even knew the way she spoke,
high, and loud, and slightly too fast,
as though all the air was pushing itself against her lips,
(lips I am certain tasted like milk,
the bottom of which,
would fit perfectly
between mine).
I didn’t listen to the words that slipped between them,
too concerned with what her hands were telling me,
and the way mine ached.

I am in love with a girl,
who is, and is not, on the verge of seventeen.
She does, and does not, wear a blue pinstriped suit,
a cream silk shirt.
She may or may not wear
a strap from a bag I gave her
as a belt.

And the truth is,
I have turned into Humpert Humpert,
going mad with memories, –
which may or may not be accurate–
and the need to touch you,
though you no longer exist.

Former Poet Laureate Billy Collins read to a full house at the Alumni Banquet Hall sometime last week.

After a delightful introduction from Elizabeth Dodd, Collins started with A Portrait of the Reader with a Bowl of Cereal, in which Collins’ poetic persona addresses an imaginary audience of one over breakfast.

Every morning I sit across from you
at the same small table,
the sun all over the breakfast things—
curve of a blue-and-white pitcher,
a dish of berries—
me in a sweatshirt or robe,
you invisible.

Most days, we are suspended
over a deep pool of silence.
I stare straight through you
or look out the window at the garden,
the powerful sky,
a cloud passing behind a tree.

There is no need to pass the toast,
the pot of jam,
or pour you a cup of tea,
and I can hide behind the paper,
rotate in its drum of calamitous news.

But some days I may notice
a little door swinging open
in the morning air,
and maybe the tea leaves
of some dream will be stuck
to the china slope of the hour—

then I will lean forward,
elbows on the table,
with something to tell you,
and you will look up, as always,
your spoon dripping milk, ready to listen.

Which pretty tells you all you need to know about him. Collins’ poetic persona seems to be that of someone idle, distracted, contemplative and yet somehow incredibly shallow; an eye that just wanders around the house, over tables, into corners, through memories and even out the window. Especially out the window. It is an eye that’s persistently, self-effacingly superficial, giving the impression of a cheeky hipster reciting Pound’s Cantos while chewing bubble gum. It continuously treads the cusp of mocking what we are accustomed to hearing as "poetry."

Yet, despite the somewhat mundane details of the scene — after all, it’s only breakfast — the Persona sees much more than it pretends to. The casual clump of images assembling the whole scene truly imparts, as Collins asserted (quoting Flannery O’ Connor), that "there is nothing that does not require attention." Most importantly, the Persona sees you, dear listener, ready to hear something. It takes you into account; it is not abstract and passionless, does not demand that you furrow your literary brow trying to tease out the elaborate turn-of-phrase borrowed from dusty tomes written by well-dressed old white men; it refuses to just take and take and take all your energy and leave you bored and intimidated. Rather, his poems give and give and give. All you have to do is listen. All you have to follow is a few light-hearted twists. You’ll like where you end up.

He read 18 poems in all before going into several haiku ("So many nicknames/for you, but none as lovely/as marijuana"). Perhaps best of all, Collins was careful never to overdo it; his works were all satisfyingly short. He spun them out in a mischievous deadpan that let their playfulness speak for itself. Perhaps by way of explanation, he offered "One of the drawbacks of going to a poetry reading is that unlike the reader, you can’t see where the poem is going to end, and sometimes you fear the worst." There was no fear in the room; we were all simply ready to listen.

The Trouble With Poetry

The trouble with poetry, I realized
as I walked along a beach one night —
cold Florida sand under my bare feet,
a show of stars in the sky —

the trouble with poetry is
that it encourages the writing of more poetry,
more guppies crowding the fish tank,
more baby rabbits
hopping out of their mothers into the dewy grass.

And how will it ever end?
unless the day finally arrives
when we have compared everything in the world
to everything else in the world,

and there is nothing left to do
but quietly close our notebooks
and sit with our hands folded on our desks.

Poetry fills me with joy
and I rise like a feather in the wind.
Poetry fills me with sorrow
and I sink like a chain flung from a bridge.

But mostly poetry fills me
with the urge to write poetry,
to sit in the dark and wait for a little flame
to appear at the tip of my pencil.

And along with that, the longing to steal,
to break into the poems of others
with a flashlight and a ski mask.

And what an unmerry band of thieves we are,
cut-purses, common shoplifters,
I thought to myself
as a cold wave swirled around my feet
and the lighthouse moved its megaphone over the sea,
which is an image I stole directly
from Lawrence Ferlinghetti —
to be perfectly honest for a moment —

the bicycling poet of San Francisco
whose little amusement park of a book
I carried in a side pocket of my uniform
up and down the treacherous halls of high school.

[K-State Collegian]

There are any number of great reasons to get interested in a foreign language.

For me, of course, it was a Chicana named Lesley. We were both working at Brentano’s (imagine a snootier Waldenbooks) on the top floor of the Beverly Center.

"What are your favourite books," I asked, inevitably. It was the second time we’d seen each other. She had skin the colour of beach sand in the afternoon, and eyes like smooth, dark stones. She would always joke that she looked like Lilo (this one, not the Mean Girl). That evening it was near closing time and she walked me around the store, showing me her "staff picks," books scattered around the store with a small blurb written by one of my fellow booksellers. One of hers was Susan Orlean’s The Orchid Thief.

"What are you reading right now?" She walked me to a display at the front of the store and started telling me about The Lovely Bones.

I’d heard about the book before and had even recently read a critical essay on Salon, but something about hearing Lesley say it out loud stuck with me.

Latinas have this special way of saying their Ls when they’re speaking English. I’d heard it before countless times (growing up in Los Angeles and later working in Miami), but by this age I was feeling super-writerey and had long been in the habit of writing down things that happened to strike my ear a certain way. This one thing drove me wild, the way her “lovely” Ls bled into the syllables around them, softening and smoothing out the phrase like gloss. I asked her to say "the lovely bones" again. She got embarrassed and told me to shut up. A week later we went bowling.

Sometimes while we were out together, of course, she’d explain certain elements of Latino culture to me and sometimes, of course, she would code-switch and then backtrack, telling me what that word or phrase meant, what sense it carried, how her friends used it. I’d respond en español figuring it would impress her and assure her I was following along.

"Huh?" she replied, the first time I tried that.

I repeated myself otra vez, mas despacio, making sure to lisp those esses like I’d heard in Miami (not too difficult; apparently I lisp them anyway). She laughed at my "schoolboy Spanish." I was deeply moved. "Teach me more," I beseeched.

Naturally, however, she was in love with someone else.

One night we got all dressed up and couldn’t find anything to do. I drove her around in my beat-up blue Mazda, playing chick rock on a cassette tape while she talked about the history of Abbot Kinney Road, one of her favourite haunts. She said she knew of an Italian place on Melrose where we could stop and eat.

We sat out on the terrace, out on dark wood under a dark sky but set off by candlelight. All Italian food is basically the same so I asked her to order something good for me. We ate and had some glasses of red wine and talked some more. Before we left I took a picture of her. She’s tilting her head to the right just a bit; on the other side of her face, a petal of hair — her hair always smelled of austere Herbal-Essencing –- anyway, a petal of hair droops and curls down to her cheek. She’s wearing shiny black shoes and a black dress. Sleeveless, but garnished with a black shawl.

For years I would remember that as the best date of my life, even long after a later girlfriend made me discard the photo. I never went back to that restaurant, either; last time I looked it up, it was long gone. And I will probably never read The Lovely Bones. But once in a while I will hear a girl make her "L"s glide just so and I will think about how much I wanted to be fluent in Spanish. And maybe there would be some sort of knowing look — googly ojos? — and maybe then an introduction and some conversation. If only.

Which is all to say, yes Beth Mendenhall, we can definitely overcome “xenophobia” by learning additional languages. We can even "diffuse both domestic and international conflict," if we’re the type to get all utilitarian about it. I, for one, am not. But if you want to take away anything from this schlocky personal essay, it ought to be this: my sole purpose for learning Spanish has always been, and will always be, to hit on “exotic” chicks, and this is really the best reason to ever do anything, especially if you’re a romantic like I am.

[K-State Collegian]

Assume a twelve-inch dick is sticking right out of your forehead. Just how much of it can you see? Since this is a cultural blog, I expect that many readers will be hesitant as to exactly how one might set up this equation. And maybe a few will ask, “Is this culturally relevant?” Let me express that it is my sincere hope that, while neither you or I really know the cultural relevance of this post, by the time I have finished, I will seamlessly suture this profound question to our glorious culture, with all or most of the pertinent quotes from both the Old and New Testament. And don’t bother with clever things like the angle of the dangle in trying to answer the question. To do so would miss the point. The answer is simple. You can’t see shit. This is because you have two huge balls hanging right in front of your face. Are you starting to sense the moral here?

In chapter nine of the Gospel of John, a man who, blind from birth, is healed by Jesus. Jesus says a bunch of really sweet shit such as, “’As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world.’ When he had thus spoken, he spat on the ground and made clay of the spittle, and he anointed the eyes the of the blind man with the clay.” Of course, some say that it was not spittle in the dust, but rather LSD. We read that, like most everybody else who Jesus tried to “turn on”, the guy blabs to everyone and the Pharisees get hip. Jesus is then accused of blasphemy (a real trick). By the way, this is a complete digression, but did you know that the Honorable Senator Sam Brownback, who is soon to be our governor, anoints himself with unctuous oils before he casts votes and holds committee meetings? Is that not creepy as fuck? And he supports the wanton gang raping of females working for defense contractors (cf. http://www.republicansforrape.org/). Anyway folks, the analogy I’m trying to draw here is that, here we are in the middle of this Babylonian shit-storm, but we don’t realize it, because we can’t see shit. Just like when your significant other was fucking every man, woman and child in the district, you will be the last one to know that you got a big dick on your forehead. It’s truly a parable for our times. Consider Fake Patty’s day. The Lord expressly forbids it. Open your books to Isaiah, chapter five, where the practice of getting up early to drink is addressed by the Lord God Almighty: “Woe unto them that rise up early in the morning, that they may follow strong drink; that continue until night, till wine inflame them! And the harp, and viol, the tabret, and pipe, and wine, are in their feasts: but they regard not the work of the Lord, neither consider the operation of his hands.” Just think people; He’s got the WHOLE WORLD in His hands. What, I ask you, is in the hands of idolaters, fornicators, and carousers? It’s like one of those really gross key chains that the creepy-ass gas station attendant (no offense) hands you, only the key is to the gates of Satan’s gas station unisex restroom, replete with all manner of lascivious latex products. The situation is getting absolutely out of hand. Even bats are beginning to behave in immoral, lustful and debauched ways. They’re performing acts of fellatio! “The foxes have their holes, and the birds of the air have their nests. But the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.” Meanwhile, we’re running out of comfortable places to lay our heads. We’re less like Jesus here, and more like Pinocchio. For we are liars, and the father of our lies is none other than that old dragon, Satan. But of course, I’m hopeful. In fact, I have more than hope—I have faith! Just think about the most obviously hallucinogenic drug-inspired book of the Bible (and my personal favorite), Apocalypsis de Iohanni (The Revelation of St. John). In perhaps the most glaring reference to LSD consumption in the whole Holy Bible, the Angel gives John a book (a whole stack of blotter!). “And he gave it me and said, eat. And I ate. And it was sweet like honey in my mouth, but bitter in my stomach.”  Poor guy! After that, the angel gives him a tape measure and tells him to measure the temple. A word of advice to all you gung-ho psychonauts: never do that to your friends who have just consumed psychedelic drugs. It will confuse them, and the measurements of the temple will most likely have inaccuracies. Of course, this was all going on at a jazz concert, with an angelic trumpet septet, so it’s really no wonder that John started freakin’ out, ‘cause those horns were fuckin’ hot and the cats playin’, well, they was all fucked up too. Can you imagine trying to measure the temple with a head full of acid while not one but seven Miles Davis’ are getting up with it? And then out come seven more vials of acid? That’s when things get really fucked up. And think, good people: this is how we’re to be saved. This is how we remove the dicks (analogous, at this point, to the trappings of the ego, and culture with a lower-case ‘c’) from our foreheads. Think of the Revelation of St. John as step-by-step instructions for dedicking. What’s next? You should read all the details for yourself (especially if you haven’t lately, because otherwise few of these jokes will make any sense at all), but the long and short of it is that shit gets crazy, the Beast 666 comes up out of the pit, talking a bunch of shit. So Jesus, who looks like some crazy seven-horned goat to poor John at this point, whoops Satan’s ass and knocks his dick in the dirt. Good guy gets the girl (in this case, all of us repentant sinners are his bride), and we all live happily ever after, alright? So fucking chill. Of course—and this is just a minor point or a side note, or whatever, but I’ve always found it interesting what John says at the very end of the book, after it talks about how we’re all going to be brides of Jesus. John, probably not quite back to normal yet, seems to feel a little inadequate after contemplating the idea of Jesus consummating this heavenly marriage with everybody, probably all at the same time. He writes, “He which testifieth these things saith, Surely I come quickly.”

Is it just me or does this sentence from slinkers’ recent review of Speech and Debate make no sense whatsoever?

Woven into the theatrical experience are cellphones, podcasts, and a large screen announcing and the titles of and setting up a theme for each act, each title alluding to an element of formal debate.

I thought about texting him and asking him WTF he was talking about, or leaving a scathing comment, and then I realized that the slinkers thing to do would be to make a blog about it. Now of course, one might argue it is an easily understandable sentence despite its grammatical errors (which I am pretty sure have to do with prepositions and possibly a conjunction, but that’s all I am going to say about that). However, it is from the all-mighty slinkers that I have learned that no one is above reproach for the minute errors they make in journalism, even if that “journalism” consists of blog posts fueled by vodka and adderral.

Now I’ve done my duty. I’m going to masturbate.

Edit: Wait, that was ten days ago. Has the statute of limitations or whatever passed for rebuke on grammar in journalism? Whatever. BOOBS.

PJs smelled like someone went to a shit buffet and regurgitated. In front of the fan.

Overhear any cutting remarks today? Let us know!

Since I don’t really do weekends any more, I have to rely my Facebook feed and on (unwitting) correspondents to keep me posted with the news of the world. Last Friday, a couple of master debaters (I know, I know) turned 21 and in their honour, the roommates threw a “Communist party,” because clearly those are the kind of people who know how to celebrate. Via Facebook:

Glo and Shlee are turning 21, and we want YOU to come party it up.
Come dressed as your famous communist, bring your favorite beverage, and help us celebrate some bitchin’ birfdays.Trotsky or Al Franken…you make the choice.
there will be some drink, but byob to share, we’re collectivists here.
Working (wo)men of all countries, unite/drink!
dont be a Menshevick! see you there!

I received a special invitation:

Rhymes With Leather Goods: your ass better be at the communist party or i will never again believe in the power of blacks on blondes.com [ed. note: I have absolutely no idea what this is. also: nsfw]
The Hour Badly Spent: i have other ways to convince you of such power
Rhymes With Leather Goods: false
Rhymes With Leather Goods: only way = communist party
The Hour Badly Spent: no. it’s true. i’ve already thought of 6 different positi…err, ways.
Rhymes With Leather Goods: lol. see you tonight.

In the spirit of blacksonblondes.com, I showed up there and pulled out after three minutes. Thankfully, an unwitting correspondent was kind enough to let me in on how the party actually went. Apparently there was a proletariat revolution?

Hipster Grey Lady: haha we lost a window and a table.
The Hour Badly Spent: how’d that happen? 
Hipster Grey Lady: rafi has a huge ass which attacked the window. and joey sat on the table.

Sounds exactly like the end of Invisible Man, pretty much word for word. Well, you people go on and enjoy your little rumble. Party pics, plz?

I read this in the Collegian on page 8 of the Collegian and duuude, it like totally blew my mind, man. Because it seems like it would be fun to go see it, but what if you could, like, see it twice? In the same place? At the same time? I sat back and stared at the wall for a minute, slack-jawed, contemplating the universe’s infinite possibilities and just letting my mind just groove you know? Then a minute later I realized I was totally doing the exact same thing but not really a minute later but really in the exact same minute as before a minute later which got me to thinking, is this what it’s like to be a Tap Dog? If time is relative, could it also somehow link with the eternal return through the rhythm of metal-studded shoes skadiddlydoobopping up and down a stage at 7:30 as envisioned by a copy editor in Kedzie hall at 7:30 tonight? Cuz if not, what would you do; correct a copy editor? Whoa. Correct a copy editor. I am so fried, man. Just whoa. I’d like totally go see the show if I didn’t have to work.

[via the K-State Collegian]

These are the search terms people used yesterday to find Slinkers.

Yes.

I can’t decide which is better.

“i want to buy a live ostrich”
or
“chicks with dicks for marriage”

Whoever you are,
I love you.

I know you were all very excited this past weekend by re-enacting American colonialism as represented in the following illustration, and truth be told, I was sorry to miss homecoming, because I often enjoy things like having my brain liquified and eaten out with a spoon.

Willie the Wildcat Demonstrates "How to Practice Safe SadoBestiality"

Of course, this is very similar to what I did this Saturday instead of participating in Homecoming. I made my way out of Manhattan, fighting against the tide of SUVs bearing huge purple flags (and the occasional confederate flag), chain-smoking and trying not to hit anyone in my rage. The highway was easy rolling, and then into Lawrence, I breathed easy. Of course, until I was met with lots of people wearing red and blue, which was equally stressful, and I tried not to hit anyone again, picked up a pumpkin, had some cookies, and somehow ended up at LIBERTY HALL.

If you have ever been to a show at Liberty, you know it’s a strange venue. There are painted ladies on the wall, and everyone has really bad B.O. There was a guy with goggles, some thirteen year old kid that looked ecstatic to be surrounded by freaks, and somebody’s grandma. I hung back out of the crowd, wary of inevitable mosh pits (which rarely happen at Liberty, it seems), getting a good view on the side.

Some really crazy band came on, hoisted some obscure banners up behind them, and ran around the stage with a sign reading “Who else is high?” which was greeted with enthusiastic applause, as I watched soberly from my safe corner. They were actually pretty good, for Canadians. I drank some beer and stood around some more, and waited for the show to start.

Then these guys came on and everyone kind of freaked out.

Wear a Rubber, Use a Dental Dam

I am trying to think of a good way to describe the show and this is the best I could come up with: it was like having really rough and dirty sex with a marching band composed of a bunch of foreigners, while throwing red wine all over everyone, and being videotaped by a masturbating unicorn. Yah, that’s about right.

In conclusion: everything is better than homecoming.

This may or may not be a WoW music video of Gogol Bordello’s Through the Roof ‘n Underground. Which is certainly better than homecoming.

Moi: That guy with the red baseball cap. He just stepped out the the building and had the absolute douchebaggiest smirk on his face. Thing is, it wasn’t directed at anyone or anything at all.

Vous: Oh he’s planning his next rape.

According to experts, the moon has become increasingly stale ever since satanic NASA blew several tons of material from its nether-region. This is a culture blog, so, as you might expect, the moon’s freshness will now be discussed in relation to “culture”. Do we need to define culture? Let’s not. Let’s just say that culture is different things to different people, ok? According to experts, culture is not our friend. Consider the culture of “Islamofacism”. That’s obviously not our friend. But what about the Christo-Fister-Capitalistumption culture that is existing right here in this fair state of ours (‘Merca). According to experts, this culture, unlike others, IS our friend. It just goes to show that, while experts are often well informed, well-meaning people, just as often, they don’t know shit. This brings me to my next point, which I think will prove popular in our fair state (Kansas): Experts are not our friends. Many of them are snooty, and few contribute to worthwhile charities. Even less are kind to animals. The one trait that all experts seem to share is that they all do very well at standardized tests recently popularized by the No Child Left Behind Act. These are just the facts, as reported by the experts. I think, when the time comes, we will have to do without experts, just as we will have to do without facts, culture, the moon, and many other things human beings easily grow attached to. It will be hard, and sad. In our culture, we have increasingly come to rely on experts to tell us how we feel, ought to feel, what we should do, what we shouldn’t do, what is going on, and why it’s good or bad that what’s going on is going on. I don’t mean to suggest that the experts haven’t solved some problems, for indeed, they have. But haven’t they created some problems too? Like global warming or climate change or whatever the fuck the experts call it now? Wouldn’t it have been more fun and more “cultural” to invent some superstitious bullshit about how it is the fags, feminists and islamofacists of this great nation that, due to their obviously deviant practices have incurred the wrath of that great Expert in the sky? The answer to this question is easy, and requires no expert. I’ll give an anecdote instead. I attended a town hall meeting with our Representative, what’s-her-face. You know, the “great white hope” lady. Let me just say that, while the topic was supposed to be healthcare reform, idolatry, sexual deviance, the right to bear arms, and the fallacy of global warming (“I dunno ’bout you, but I sure thought it was a purdy chilly summer.” Resounding Applause!) were the hot-button issues. It didn’t feel cultural, nor did it feel fun. It was fucking scary. But where are the islamofacists? Has anyone checked the “Experts’ Lounge”? What the fuck does that term mean? According to experts, it don’t mean shit. Oh yeah, her name is Lynn Jenkins, and she looks, acts, and in fact, is, completely psychotic. The experts probably won’t tell you this, but she easily constitutes a danger to herself and others. That’s why we sent her dumb ass to Washington, D. C. We don’t need that shit here. She belongs in D. C., with her ilk: the ilk of experts. See, I’m sort of down on experts right now. It was them, along with the satanists, that justified blowing up the moon. And once those satanists get a taste for moon rock, good night moon! If the experts spoke spanish (which, interestingly enough, none do), they would say, “no bueno.” But the experts have fallen silent lately, and I think it is because we are on to them and they are beginning to sense it. I could be wrong. I’m no expert on these matters. What is clear to me is that humanity is on the fucking precipice. Even if the world doesn’t end in 2012, experts say, our little hero party is getting lame, the time is late, there’s too much hate and pain, Lynn Jenkins is insane, all of our dicks are in the dirt, polar bears are dying from acid rain, and it’s all the fault of an expert. They are to blame. Paz.

The IIIrd fortnightly Mighty Fine Poetry Night took place Tuesday at Mae’s, and as far as I know, it went mighty fine. Ly. I sat next to Blake and across from Beth Mendenhall (you may know her from her weekly Vegetarian Reich newsletter). Beth’s grandmother was a published poet and so Beth read a few ancestral selections, which were mighty fine, as far as I can remember. I don’t really know; I was too busy drinking bourbon to really take notes.

Here’s Blake’s “Dizzy Dino” poem, reproduced in full with the permission of the author (Thank you very much, by the way!). I like it, but for the full effect you’ve got to read it quickly and with feeling, just like she did. Oh right, you don’t speed-read do you? Well, read at whatever pace is comfortable for you. I’ll wait. I can just fold laundry or something.

Dizzy…. Dizzy…. Dinosaur!

And we begin.

Spinning in circles

Short, frantic steps

One two tree four

How fast can you go?

How long can you go?

Who will be the last one to go?

Ryan, Kyle and I compete to be the dizziest dinosaur of them all.

The dizziest dino is the last one to fall.

I’m always the last one to fall-

Cuz I’m an expert dizzy dino.

I spin so fast I make the world race by

The shapes morph and the colors blend

And I am not where I was before

Everything shifts, dances, changes

Including the rules.

I spin so fast I don’t notice Ryan

That little cheater.

Each step careful and slow so he won’t get dizzy.

Each shout of “whoah” so you think he is.

Competitive and crafty, he always tries to win.

But it doesn’t matter.

I spin so fast even dizziness can’t catch me.

Even cheaters can’t catch me.

I spin so fast I don’t notice Kyle

Lying on the ground laughing

The first one down, the loser, but not acting like it

He just goes on spinning as fast as he can till he can’t.

And he laughs.

Laughs at the sky dancing for him as he looks up.

Laughs at his cheating brother and his crazy sister

Laughs at the competition

But it doesn’t matter.

I spin so fast even losers can’t catch me.

Even laughter can’t catch me.

I spin so fast I don’t notice the game.

Done and over a long time ago.

Ryan and Kyle fallen down and gone away.

But I’m an expert dizzy dinosaur.

And I don’t stop.

I spin so fast I don’t notice the change.

Colorado, Ohio, New York, Kansas, Kansas, Kansas

Inches, breasts, pounds,

Red, black, yellow, black, red, black

Dance, music, theater, speech

I spin so fast I don’t notice the change.

I am free to dance and I do dance

No vines wrap my ankles, no weights hold me down

Books, words, ideas flow pass through

Momentary flits and I am just a filter

You cannot claim me

You cannot hold me down

Cannot pin me down

There is no stable ground

I cannot destroy with my steps

When I dance I am free

But I must dance to stay free

But I start to get dizzy.

My head feels fuzzy

And my world feels hazy

And my body feels prickly, itchy, unable to hold still

Stand still, so I pace

One two three four

Though the rhythm is distorted, uneven

My feet cannot express the dizziness of my mouth, my lungs, my mind

I spin so fast even time can’t catch me

Even consciousness can’t catch me

Cos I’m the best dizzy dinosaur

And I don’t fall. Don’t fail.

Don’t hold still.

Can’t hold still.

Can’t keep moving.

If I keep stumbling.

I have nothing to hold onto

Nothing to anchor to.

I am lost in my steps and my multicolor rave

I spin so fast even ropes can’t catch me

Even lucidity can’t catch me

But you can see me and I can hear you

Your words chase me and coat me,

Braiding my hair

Grazing my neck, taunting me with their touch

This is not what a dizzy dino is supposed to feel

So I spin

I spin so fast even you can’t catch me

Even I can’t catch me

Cuz I am a dizzy dizzy dino

Who

cannot

out dance

the end.

Please,

Hold my hand as I fall.

Thanks to National Poetry Slam champion (or something!) Michael Mlekoday for dragging my lazy ass out to Mae’s that night. I shall leave you with an obligatory photo of Donna Potts reading a selection from her upcoming book, because it’s my blog and I can do what I want.

I’m beginning to worry. While there is at least an august tradition of slaughtering foreigners and claiming it was their fault, I am starting to sense that maybe our culture is shifting from callous, often hateful violence towards (brown) people, to wanton, terrible destruction of celestial objects, such as the (mostly non-brown) moon. I know that the war of aggression (the highest of war crimes) that we recently began to prosecute on the moon is now old hat, but the cultural implications of a society hell-bent on destroying everything that gets in its way, for example the moon, have just begun to show themselves. I wonder: how does this atrocity relate to the death of Michael Jackson? Jackson, by the time of his death, was very pale, much like the moon. Michael Jackson meant quite a bit to a lot of people, all around the world, much like the moon. Michael Jackson and NASA both heavily publicized the so-called “moon walk”, when it was really anything but. To my knowledge, there is no strong evidence linking Michael Jackson’s doctor to NASA, but more investigation definitely needs to take place. There’s certainly no evidence ruling that out. That so many correlations exist between these scandals is, at the very least, suspicious. That such violence as we continuously perpetrate on ourselves should be spread to heavenly bodies is a little disheartening for those of us who wish to live in peace with the lunar citizens and learn their simple, yet beautiful language. Will the moon go the way of the buffalo? Will the moon be one more casualty of Manifest Destiny, and more importantly, how will reality television respond to the bombardment? I think that more celebrities need to weigh in on this. I’m sure Bruce Willis is all for it. He’s done it all before. But Bruce Willis is a major supporter of the Republican party, which has long propounded the subjugation of Michael Jackson, the moon, and its citizens. True, Democrat presidents also oversaw the CIA and NASA programs enacted to oppress Jackson (who was a sex-slave for the CIA) and the moon (which is a sex-slave for NASA). It is also well known that the CIA and NASA have been infiltrated by Satanists, some of whom are obsessed with the moon, others of whom are obsessed by Michael Jackson. A case could be made that the interests of national security were served by killing Jackson. Not so with the moon. While Jackson (with notable exceptions) pretty much sucked after the Jackson Five, the moon has consistently been oh-so-fuckin’-fresh. But how will this recent act of war affect the moon’s freshenss? Stay tuned to find out!

This dude randomly approached me today in Hale library and was like “wanna contribute on my blog?” so I was like “okay, whatever.”

It’s finally happened! I noticed this afternoon when I finally rolled out of  bed and drug myself up to Hale’s third floor, where I camp out when I’m not working. I started up Firefox to see this (look to the right side of this page):

That’s right bitches: ten thousand hits! And it only took like two years and five zillion posts and the occasional contraband Adderall (just kidding, mostly)! I try to come off all humble and nonchalant but who are we fooling; this is the most ambitious culture blog in Manhattan (for what that’s worth) and I keep my eyes glued to my stats like it’s the Truman Show. So thanks to all for reading, special thanks to few for commenting, and extra-special thanks to fewer still for contributing.

Ah, my sweet, lovely “contributors.” About three times this year they’ve gotten so sick of me begging and pleading with them to "write 50 words about whatever you want" that they finally just gave up and emailed me copies of their wittiest tweets:

• Slinkyrie
• Slinkerdoodle
• Slinkyboneur

The reason they all have dorky-looking login names is that I promised them all complete anonymity. So there.

Which reminds me: anyone else want to contribute? I know I’ve asked a bunch of you — and all of you are clever and thoughtful people who, I suspect, are far more talented at writing than I will ever be — and I keep getting guff like "I can’t because I’m too busy trying to think of a clever Facebook status update while I write my term paper" or "A blog? How preposterous! I’m a real writer" or "I just don’t have time these days; the fourth season of Gilmore Girls just came out on DVD." But seriously, it would be nice if this thing were a bit more collaborative. There’d be more voices, more perspectives, more of a sense of community, more people reading, yadda yadda yadda. Plus, I dunno, it might be “fun.” Email me please.

Anywho, even more thanks to the following, who have for the most part unknowingly contributed to this mediocrity:

• The K-State English Department, which is staffed by surprisingly good sports.
• The K-State Collegian, which is staffed by surprisingly poor sports except for Whitney Hodgin.
• Love, which doesn’t exist.
• Boobs, which according to legend, actually do exist and are locked in a castle with a lake-of-fire moat and guarded by a dragon that only eats boners. "Tender and flavourful," the dragon often growls while I hobble away, vowing to return after I’ve showered and updated my wardrobe.
• Liquor, which has basically written about half of the entire Internet. One day someone will invent a USB connection for bottles of Jack and that’ll be it for me. I’ll just plug it in, let it drip, and the next day my master’s thesis is done AND I have the most charming eHarmony profile ever.
• Google. The following search terms have been used to find this blog over the last two days: “freckle fetishes,” “free fuck virginey,” auntie mae’s fine poetry night", “fratbang,” “angela hubler tim dayton,” “sexy soviet” and “i can’t this weekend the jonas bros are in town.” Go figure.

Now go do something productive with your lives. Me? Oh I’m fine here. I’ll just curl up here with a bottle of wine and the latest Janet Evanovitch. But you all, go have fun.

Earlier today I was in Jonathan Holden’s office discussing an essay idea, "Ghosts of Goethe: comparing The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao to The Sorrows of Young Werther."

"Wao is a fat nerd who, no matter how hard he tries, absolutely can not get a girlfriend." Werther’s story is very similar, I explained.

"Of course, that’s a crock," Holden chuckled. "Nerds get all the girls.

I thought about my secret blog-crushes on Whitney and Blake and Caitlin and Mackenzie and Priyanca the Indian girl who I worked with in an office four years ago and went out with Mario instead of me, and I thought about this one waitress at IHOP and then another waitress at IHOP who I also had a lit class with years ago and I thought about this one girl Lesley I worked with at Border’s and then I thought about the girls I liked in high school (Leslie, Shireese, Veronica) and I thought about the way Ntalie Portman always looks at me like she’s my secret lover but never calls or writes then I looked back at Holden, enormously befuddled.

"As the poet laureate of Kansas, I get a lot of…attention," he said, raising his impressive eyebrows.

"But I love my wife," he continued, turning back to his iMac.

Duly noted.

At Oct. 2’s “The AMERICAN WEST”, Joseph Lorusso, a favourite artist from our last Strecker-Nelson visit, had several new pieces to show off. Nearby, several copies of a magazine article emblazoned with the phrase “Scenes that Trigger Emotional Responses” articulated exactly what I felt about Lorusso’s art: moments of distinct, overpowering emotional force.

I was thrilled with “Napping.” I would have rather just called it “A Pretty Picture of Lesbian Bed Death.” The dissonance between – on one hand, tenderly lying in bed together, lightly touching, and on the other – their reluctance or inability to commit to a frenzied outbursts of affection (i.e. lip lock, ass grab, nipple tweak) generates an erotic tension in the viewer – who is indicted as a voyeur by the very existence of the portrait. Combined with the softness of the natural light source, the portrait hints at the brutal nuances of love; not passion but instead the memory of passion and perhaps a faint longing to reclaim it.

Maybe this portrait says something about the brutal nature of love. How intimacy can be faked and even stolen; how disappointments get iced over with warm paint until the wounds beneath grow deep, perhaps even fatal.

Or maybe they’re just friends. What do I know?

But then there was this couple: “A Kiss.” Aren’t they a bit much? A bit cloying? A bit like a scene from the end of a  rom-com, where the spunky independent workaholic (played by Kate Hudson) learns to let herself go and just love the laid-back yet surprisingly successful motorcycle-riding investment banker? The fluid, Romantic brush strokes infuse this portrait with a hazy emotional shade that just feels manipulative and ticks me off even more.

With idealized couplehood, there’s nothing to look at or examine because haven’t we seen this before like everywhere? Is this picture not akin to a soul-stealing polaroid, robbing the yuppie couple – real or imagined – of the tenderness that’s supposed to be at the core of this portrait? Does it instead just remind you that love is a lie?

Maybe I ought to have felt the same way about “Morning Kisses” too, but…this one’s tenderness is so simple, so big, as to stultify my own cynicism, strip it of its pretenses and leave it at the door to be discarded by hired help so that my lover and I can just get on with it without being disturbed.

Yes, it’s definitely still kitschy (does this couple really have flowers on their nightstand? I rather think I hate them. A lot) but what am I, some cyborg with a heart of wires and synthetic muscle fibre? You might think so from watching me translate mathematics into music on my enormous blue guitar every morning, but I assure you, I’m just as humanoid as everyone else. I’m also kind of glad that the dude finally lost his porn ‘stache.

“Savouring the Moment” delivers some unshaven Googlebait to you, complete “whatever-Lola-wants” eyes and lush but not-entirely-idealized flesh tones. 

The works of James Borger reappeared thusly:

“Balance of Sky II” and “Pretty Please:”

Lacey Lewis’ portraits also managed to convey strong emotion, but through solitary subjects who were exclusively women. They are marked by flesh and chiaroscuro and expressive subjects making bold, often-exaggerated gestures.

Anyway, wasn’t this supposed to be about “the American West?” Let’s hit up some landscapes! Yay!

Louis Copt’s tranquil evening limned with simple, at times stark fields of colour, remind us of the uncomplicated joy of seeing.

Overheard from a cute spectator regarding John Hulsey’s “El Capitan:”

It’s like nature flexing. The mountain looks like a giant muscle."

Duly noted.

Landscapes should be serene and reassuring. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Therefore, if something is beautiful, it was meant for you to look at. And if it was meant for you to look at, it was created just for you!

Or maybe landscapes should be violent. Dynamic. HOT. Exhibit A: Hulsey’s “Evening on Big Thompson II.”

Which brings me to my 93rd reason for distrusting landscapes. I know this is probably supposed to be someplace in Kansas, because the Kansas countryside is the most beautiful thing in the world ever since Jesus wrote the Constitution, but here’s the thing: what if we said this painting was of someplace else? What if we just titled it “This Is What It Looks Like If You Drive 50 Miles North of Mexico City” or “Isn’t Montana Gorgeous in the Summer.” One could easily just say that. How would anybody know the difference? What would happen to the supposed emotional impact of gazing upon the lovely landscape of your homeland? Would you feel the same surge of pride for Nature’s Awesome splendour or would you just remark “How utterly interesting” and move on to a photo of the Konza prairie? This food for thought brought to you by our nation’s breadbasket.

[Okay, update: These landscapes are NOT Kansas. Thanks, bonerkiller!]

You kids have it easy. In my day each school was allowed only one outcast, which basically meant he (or she) read too much, talked too "proper," and didn’t wear the right shoes. Now what? The so-called misfits sing and dance through the hallways, keep blogs, come out of the closet, enter debate tournaments, and get handjobs at recess (in my day this was the surest sign you were not an outcast).

Which explains why Speech and Debate, running at Nichols Theatre, "struck a chord" with you nerdy college sophomores or whatever you are.

The dark comical performance takes place in a high school in the small town of Salem, Ore. A witch-hunt begins after a scandal occurs involving a teacher at the high school. Following the scandal, three unlikely students, Solomon, Diwata and Howie, organize a speech and debate team to uncover the truth surrounding the outrage. The production includes musical accompaniment and contains some mature content.

"Speech and Debate" is a Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation Media Award nominee.

Right on! It started with Solomon, an uptight high-strung pushy student journalist played by Kyle Myers, angling with a guidance counselor to write controversial articles for his high school newspaper.

Next, Diwata, another high-strung and ambitious personality, albeher also animated and passionate, shouting and gesturing with animated élan into her Macbook like a witch at a crystal ball. Think of a supergay Captain Kirk; that’s how Diwata talks. Erica Elaine Smith played this role. Rounding out the four-member cast was Howie, an out-of-the-closet barely-legal but laid-back senior, played by Christopher Auten.

Through the acquisition and leveraging of sexual secrets, the trio of outsiders come to be a "group of misfits confiding in each other." Concurrent with Solomon’s crusade to expose the sexual "misconduct" of a teacher (who never appears throughout the play), Diwata unites everyone into a Speech and Debate club and an alliance both precarious and tender. Woven into the theatrical experience are cellphones, podcasts, and a large screen announcing the titles of and setting up a theme for each act, each title alluding to an element of formal debate. "Duo interp." "Declamation." "Crossex" (would it look cooler written as X-ex?). It all unites to encapsulate the shared experiences of the youth of modern misfits. Though eternally ahead of their time, they are never too arrogant to reach out to just a few around them, others who are Not Like Them except that they are also Different. And because of that, these misfits are Not Alone, but only barely.

Energy cartels are the modern Illuminati. They hoard wealth. They influence governments. They topple nations. Especially Indian ones! Wednesday evening, Ordinary Women presented a film, Homeland: Four Portraits of Native Action in the Union’s Little Theatre. The film showed four vignettes depicting reactions of Native American nations to corporate incursion upon their land and natural resources.

It opened with the Cheyenne. Bushes 41 and 43 greenlighted drilling for “natural gas” (methane) in and around native land, in ways that violated Cheyenne territory and disrespected the Cheyenne people and their treaties with the federal government.

In Alaska, oil corporations (who else?) successfully lobbied to drill in a wildlife preserve, threatening the natural habitat of the caribou, upon whose abundance local Gwinch’in Indians have depended for food and as a cultural marker since prehistoric times.

Elsewhere, Navajo who had worked in uranium mines at the advent of our nation’s glorious Atomic Age have begun to – wait for it – get sick and die. Because these workers came home, day in and day out, with radioactive dust in their clothes and skin, their wives and children – wait for it – also suffered from high rates of painful and terminal uranium-induced ailments. One miner explained that, without any water or facilities in the mines, workers, after using the restroom, had to wipe themselves with the ore. “Nuclear waste,” I remarked. No one laughed.

The nuclear industry receded in utility and popularity after the major PR blow that was Three-Mile Island. But in 1994, one family was indignant to discover that uranium mining was making its way back into the community.

In Maine, a paper mill (not an energy company but nevertheless also more smegma on the corporate phallus) dumped toxins into a local river. Downstream, a Native American nation that attempted to get Dunder-Mifflin to stop polluting the river so that they could eat fish and let their children swim someplace during the summer found their leadership arrested and their federal treaty violated. This vignette illustrated a strategy growing in popularity among corporate interests, whereby, they attempt to circumvent Indians’ federal treaties by making nations negotiate with individual states, who are more amenable to corporate interests.

The movie was pretty straightforward and I agreed with its political aims. I sorta had to. Who among us, when faced with a choice between Alaskan baby caribou vs Big Oil profits would choose the latter? The entire Republican Party. And who wants to be put in a camp with them?

The absolute “old-vs.-new” conflict, is simply going to devour the Old and frustrate the New. Surely, I wondered ethnocentrically, somewhere between (1) building a pipeline out of the blood vessels of baby deer, and (2) erecting a Great Wall of Cheyenne, there must be some space for…negotiation? Trust? Respect? Then Streeter reminded me that in the 89 minutes it took for the movie to run, America’s legal and economic apparatus has broken tribal contracts 1,673 times. “Oh right. That,” I replied. I couldn’t think of anything else to say after that, so I pretended to take a phone call from my stockbroker.

From curtain to curtain, this play is basically a mid-90s soap opera. But! With better acting.

Full disclosure: that’s what Streeter told me to say. And she’s absolutely spot on! (she should be; “Melissa” means “honeybee” in Greek, a clear indicator of some deep-seated affinity with the play’s title). In As Bees in Honey Drown, written by Douglas Carter Beane, a gay male writer offered a big break by a charismatically aristocratic boss is swept into a reckless, fragile romance. What next: do they ride off into the sunset together against impossible odds, as we make funny frowns?

No, of course not. Don’t think for a moment that I’m spoiling anything for you. Plot forwards in this play are heralded in a way that draw attention to themselves and always deliver what we expect. Though this robs the viewer of real curiosity or surprise, it ferries the viewer along on a wave of satisfaction.

The real question, nevertheless, is what compelled us to actually keep watching? The role of Alexa Vere de Vere – an overpowering stage presence filled by Micia Becktal – was a treat to watch. Micia pulled it off with the soap-operatic flair of European old-money royalty, sporting evening wear” and elegantly dragging on cigarettes through a slender holder. She speaks with punny nouns even as she spends money in town. No one else stood a chance with her on stage – not even the gay sales clerk (played by Ryan Moya) whose swishiness was so over-the-top as to render watching him uncomfortable. Moya seemed more at ease in the third of three roles he played in this production: as Alexa’s gay ex-husband – a struggling gay painter (“Just po’ white trash!”) with an authentic streak of humility. 

It was definitely not the flatly straight-laced protagonist, writer Evan Wyler (bilked and beset by ruin, at one point he sophomorically exclaims “but I’ve lost my voice!” as if we should, for whatever reason, care.) Shouldn’t a card-carrying member of the creative class show off some non-cliched semblance of style, individuality, and passion? Should he not, in short, be interesting? But he’s just not. Watching him and his annoying naivete lured predictably into misfortune, as bees in honey drown, I couldn’t help but feel like he deserved it.

[Photo clocked from kstatenews.org]

Ladies and gentlemen, here is how you keep your laptop from getting clocked when you’re taking a nap or a cigarette break at Hale.

1. Quit smoking. It’s gross, unless you’re a girl and can do the O-ring thing and make it look suggestive (+1).
2. Sit somewhere with people around. Their ambient attention might come in handy if someone creeps up on your belongings.
3. Arrange some books and notepads around your keyboard, so you look really busy. The key is to send the message that you just jumped up to grab a book from the stacks and you will be back any second now.
4. Plug in some headphones and turn some tunes up real loud. It should be something wacky, but that everyone would notice if they heard it, like Theme Songs for Campy 80s Sitcoms or something. That way, if someone does try something and they unplug the headphones, it makes a ruckus; people around you will look up and notice the jackweed at the source of all the commotion. Thieves wouldn’t want to get noticed.

It should go without saying, but don’t leave your phone out. You’d have more protection if you went through your phonebook and etched everyone’s numbers into the bathroom stall with a blood-tipped talon. Because, you know, some people don’t like to use public restrooms and therefore won’t ever notice it. Probably not thieves though.

[K-State Collegian]