How To: survive if you have no one to kiss on New Year’s Eve

1. Kiss a pet.
Dogs are generally agreeable and have relatively clean mouths. Cats are usually well groomed but are more passive and tend to get rather than give. Keep your mouth closed.

2. Kiss yourself.
Find a mirror, pucker up, lean close and kiss. Keep the lips slightly parted.

3. Kiss a celebrity.
Watch a favourite movie or show on television and kiss the screen when an appealing star has a close-up. Wipe the screen to remove dust and static electricity, and wipe the screen after to remove any evidence.

4. Hug a pillow.
Full-body pillows are more satisfying.

5. Call a friend on the phone.
After you wish your frind a Happy New Year, give the telephone mouthpiece loud, smacking kisses. (This works less well with cellular phones.)

— Lifted from The Worst-Case Scenario 2004 Survival Calendar

�What do you want from me? They drove a big dump truck full of money

I moved sunny breaks, but I forgot that Nucleus doesn’t like Mozilla or any of its relations making its database back-ups (duh!) so it’ll be a couple of days before I get the archives back.
And in the coming weeks, from the makers of Sunny Breaks, a new exciting project will be popping up in the old space.
Anyway, if you’re in the market for some dandy Australia + environs web hosting solutions, check out Host Central. The only thing more reliable than Host Central is god. And even that’s debatable. I should suggest that as their moto, “Host Central, more reliable than God”.
The email support is way quicker too. And talk about roomy!

machine is bored with love

… Buys a train set, gets ALL the trains and coaches and freights and stuff, name them after your favorite characters, go to bed… soon you’ll have dreams about your trains coming to life and doing the race… and you’re only eight years old and you dream of trains having sex and stuff like that… oO
… You go to the skating rink, you’re so hyper and you want them to play a good song. You make requests but they don’t play THAT music… so whenever they pop in Shitney Spears, you blow them off, run into the middle of the ring where everyone is dancing, and start doing LATEOTT dance… and oddly enough the dance goes with the music… NEVER DO THIS! THEY’LL SEND THE POLICE AFTER YOU AND KICK YOU OUT!…

… When you are given an essay about the history of trains, you find yourself slowly and gradually changing that first Steam Train into Hoffa, making him meet up with a Sleeping Car, the two give birth to a little Steamer called Derwent and a stupid freight called Miles. Then you introduce new characters as you go along, including Gavin when the Diesel trains were made, Nintendo when the Bullet train was made, and Bobo, the 120 MPH Sudest! You name every character and their orgin, even CB’s, even though you stated the original CB looked like a cheap Akon MP3player Mario from Super Mario Brothers. Then you get into Race Night, how Derwent goes to enter the race to prove himself to Mini, a nice and new (and a little byatch) Observation car in need of a good humping. Of course you introduce the new train, Caramel, the AC-DC Train of the Future (imagine me explaining what AC-DC meant) and his five ultra cute and ultra sexy components. In a nutshell you’re telling him the whole story of your dreams and a pack of lies. So he read your essay and just DIES laughing… because he actually KNOWS what you’re talking about! *that was the only reason why I didn’t get suspended for mention sex and ac-dc trains in a school essay*. You fail the test, but you have a new friend, right? …
… Jumps into your skates, run outsides, and start screaming when a diesel train rolls by, singing about a stupid stuck up Diesel train. They’ll stop the train and ask if there’s a leak of gas or soemthing and if it’s intoxicating your brain…
… Gets skates on and skate up and down the road, screaming about your boyfriend ‘lacks the apparatus (sp)’ after you break up with him….

playing the breaks

joliffanto bambla Ô falli bambla
grossiga m’pfa habla horem
égiga goramen
higo bloiko russula huju
hollaka hollala
anlogo bung
blago bung
bosso fataka
ii  ii ii  ii
schampa wulla wussa ólobo
hej tatta gôrem
eschige zunbada
wulubu ssubudu uluw ssubudu
tumba ba- umf
ba -umf

I have always known
That at last I would
Take this road, but yesterday
I did not know that it would be today.

— Nirihara
(translated by Ken Rexroth, One Hundred Poems from the Japanese)

Those Who Sit

Dark with knobbed growths, peppered with pock-marks like hail, their eyes ringed with green, their swollen fingers clenched on their thigh-bones, their skulls caked with indeterminate crusts like the leperous growths on old walls;

in amorous seizures they have grafted their weird bone structures to the great dark skeletons of their chairs; their feet are entwined, morning and evening, on the rickety rails!

These old men have always been one flesh with their seats, feeling bright suns drying their skins to the texture of calico, or else looking at the window-panes where the snow is turning grey, shivering with the painful shiver of the toad.

And their Seats are kind to them, coloured brown with age, the straw yeilds to the angularities of their buttocks; the spirit of ancient suns light up, bound in these braids of ears in which the corn fermented.

And the Seated Ones, knees drawn up to their teeth, green pianists whose ten fingers keep drumming under their seats, listen to the tapping of each other’s melancholy barcarolles; and their heads nod back and forth as in the act of love.

– Oh don’t make them get up! It’s a catastrophe! They rear up growling like tom-cats when struck, slowly spreading their shoulders … What rage! Their trousers puff out at their swelling backsides.

And you listen to them as they bump their bald heads against the dark walls, stamping and stamping with their crooked feet; and their coat-buttons are the eyes of wild beasts which fix yours from the end of the corridors!
And they have an invisible weapon which can kill: returning, their eyes seep the black poison with which the beaten bitch’s eye is charged, and you sweat, trapped in a horrible funnel.

Reseated, their fists retreating into soiled cuffs, they think about those who have made them get up and, from dawn until dusk, their tonsils in bunches tremble under their meagre chins, fit to burst.
When austere slumbers have lowered their lids they dream on their arms of seats become fertile; of perfect little loves of open-work chairs surrounding dignified desks.

Flowers of ink dropping pollen like commas lull them asleep in their rows of squat flower-cups like dragonflies threading their flight along the flags – and their membra virilia are aroused by barbed ears of wheat.

Arthur Rimbaud
(translated and prosified by the folks at Penguin)


I feel like I’m running out of material here. There’s only so much one can say about television or old movies before it becomes monotonous. I’d like to squeeze out something that didn’t have so many sentences with ‘I’ in. I have to go back to the institution in a week or so. Maybe something will happen there. I still haven’t made it to the zoo yet but intend to next week.