You see her stuffing her thin arms into the sleeves of her red woollen cardigan, and she is across the inlet. She shouts "I'll come over soon" but you hear "It will be over soon." She comes near and you smell the Gauloises in her hair. You warm her cheek with the back of your left hand as she grasps your right. Her Revlon lips taste like plastic, her tongue nicotine and spearmint.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Friday, December 11, 2009
AWARENESS
The proximity of sense. To observe danger from afar to experience from within. The farthest distance to the nearest detail. The order of awareness. The distance of intimacy:
Sight
Sound
Smell
Touch
Taste
The ones to go, first to last; the ones to remain, last to first:
Sight
Sound
Smell
Touch
Taste
Sight
Sound
Smell
Touch
Taste
The ones to go, first to last; the ones to remain, last to first:
Sight
Sound
Smell
Touch
Taste
Monday, December 7, 2009
GRUMP
I wear my sunglasses during the dark night for the following reasons:
1. I like to.
2. They are prescription, and if I've been out all day, and day fades into night, my sunglasses usually, magically, remain stuck to my face.
3. Fuck off.
All you strangers who pass me by and mutter Corey Hart, I am tired of you.
1. I like to.
2. They are prescription, and if I've been out all day, and day fades into night, my sunglasses usually, magically, remain stuck to my face.
3. Fuck off.
All you strangers who pass me by and mutter Corey Hart, I am tired of you.
Friday, November 6, 2009
'
Perhaps it was the messages on the road to look right and look left, or refusing to carry maps because she couldn't read them, or avoiding the Tube if Norman wasn't with her because how the hell would she know where to go and who the hell is she going to ask, or spending the past week in Shropshire in close communion with a dozen English speakers, or having taken a day trip to Aberystwyth where her son had exhausted his meagre capacity to translate between Kathy, himself, his father, his mother between Cantonese, English, and three words of Welsh, or finding Chinatown today where she could finally speak without effort, whatever it was that inspired grammatical clarity, at that moment, the mother used an apostrophe superbly.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
DÉJEUNER
Two hours to eat lunch in France? Are you fucking with me? Who is fucking with me?
That's incredible. That's my kinda pace. I never once felt rushed while eating in France, at both restaurants and friends' homes. Those of you who grumble mutter when dining with me 'cause I take fucking fore-e-e-v-e-e-r to eat a-a-anythi-i-i-ing*, consider it my gastronomic ballad to the French. They do it right.
* I can make a Kit-Kat last a month.
That's incredible. That's my kinda pace. I never once felt rushed while eating in France, at both restaurants and friends' homes. Those of you who grumble mutter when dining with me 'cause I take fucking fore-e-e-v-e-e-r to eat a-a-anythi-i-i-ing*, consider it my gastronomic ballad to the French. They do it right.
* I can make a Kit-Kat last a month.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
SCHWARZE
"Here is lemon." She placed a fresh half-lemon in front of me as she set down my coffee, which I didn't understand, but then, this was my first time in Germany. I put stupendous amounts of sugar and copious amounts of cream in my coffee, but never a single pulp of lemon. I frowned puzzled. She grasped the lemon hemisphere and dribbled a trail around my wooden bench table, the path of citrus encircling my bowl of muesli and yogurt. "...And if the bees still don't stay away, just...," she dripped sour onto the furry back of a nibbling bee, "like that."
The portions were huge. My mound of muesli alone would have been enough to smoothe this hangover from a 7AM-night of no food and much, much weissbier. Maybe I shouldn't have ordered a saucer of sausage, cheese, bread, fruit and salad. And an egg. More for the bees, perhaps. They must have felt invited, the way they honed in on my berries. If they knew they weren't welcome, they didn't care, the way they attacked my little packet of honey. The bees were crashing my Berlin brunch by the dozen and I was armed with half a lemon. I dotted my table with more juice and they walked over the drops like I do rain puddles. I dripped their backs and they didn't mind. More bee comrades arrived at the party zzzzzing across my face. I swatted. "No, don't swat. Waft." My bandana-pigtailed server undulated her arm. "Or drip."
I didn't want to drip. These German bees had grown accustomed to the lemon and dripping them was fruitless. I glanced at the other diners savouring this gorgeous August noon in the shade on Choriner Strasse; their conversations flowed uninterruped by bees. Some squeezed lemon nonchalantly, others wafted at the insects gently, as if drawing up the aroma of delicious goulash. I noticed these Berliners had learned how to enjoy their food in the company of friends and bees: by accepting them. And so too would I. I also noticed every woman pushing a baby carriage in Mitte was hardly twenty-five.
I accepted the bees. Moreover, I befriended them. There was no need for six of them to cram themselves together, yellow-black butts throbbing, suckling at the teat that was a packet of honey open a sliver, no. My muesli was honeyed enough, so the rest shall be for bees. Let me help. I tilted the packet to spill forth a golden pool. More bees arrived. I accidentally dowsed one. His wings were syrupy. He tried to cross the glossy pond but one leg was deep in the stickiness. Then two legs. Then all six. He tried to beat his wings but nothing. Every step he'd take would be followed by a stumble. He was drowning in honey. I approached him with the prong of a fork to scoop him out, but his languid thrashing enveloped him in more thickness. I dripped on him, not with juice but water. A wing sprouted away from his abdomen. I dripped more water and the free wing sagged from the drenching. How could I help the guy? First I tried to feed him, then I tried to clean him, yet I had done nothing good. I was concerned for him; I am not a bee murderer. His cleansed wing then vibrated and I rejoiced privately, tentatively. He was still mired in sweet muck, advancing sluggishly, each step a labour. He tried to stay upright as a topple to the side would be execution. I would have poured more water on him but he needed his wing dry. A step. A step. Vibration. A step. He was free. Six minutes to cross two inches of honey.
He was out of the swamp but still in a bad way. One wing was adhered to his body and he was toppled unto himself, a clump of viscous insect. His comrades nibbled at his saccharine limbs, mandibles munching on the fallen friend, freeing him from his coat of honey. But were they helping? The exhausted bee struggled across the wooden table, fleeing from the others as they ravaged his body. They stopped cleansing him, stopped eating off him, allowed him to escape. Was he banished? Was he now deemed too weak to serve the community, a liability? He was not dead but merely covered in honey -- surely his comrades would understand the folly and forgive him, no? If you give him a chance, he will fly. But the bees took no interest in him, only in the berries upon my yogurt and the puddle of honey inches away from my sausages. The unfortunate bee stopped at the edge of the bench. He was less sticky, but he was ostracised. Then he fell.
At this point I knew water was in order. I dribbled onto the concrete where he had fallen three feet yet remained upright and alive. I believed I was replicating rain, and bees know how to deal with rain, yes? He freed his adhered wing, which soon vibrated. Where his legs had been bound, the drops of water now provided him with six distinct, separate legs. He crawled with renewed ease to the plaster exterior of Schwarze Pumpe and climbed the side of the café. I returned with relief to my coffee and flaccid half-lemon. Ate some sausage. Ate some cheese. A mighty spoonful of muesli. Two twenty-three-year-old mothers gossiped while pushing perambulators. I looked at the plaster and the bee had gone.
The portions were huge. My mound of muesli alone would have been enough to smoothe this hangover from a 7AM-night of no food and much, much weissbier. Maybe I shouldn't have ordered a saucer of sausage, cheese, bread, fruit and salad. And an egg. More for the bees, perhaps. They must have felt invited, the way they honed in on my berries. If they knew they weren't welcome, they didn't care, the way they attacked my little packet of honey. The bees were crashing my Berlin brunch by the dozen and I was armed with half a lemon. I dotted my table with more juice and they walked over the drops like I do rain puddles. I dripped their backs and they didn't mind. More bee comrades arrived at the party zzzzzing across my face. I swatted. "No, don't swat. Waft." My bandana-pigtailed server undulated her arm. "Or drip."
I didn't want to drip. These German bees had grown accustomed to the lemon and dripping them was fruitless. I glanced at the other diners savouring this gorgeous August noon in the shade on Choriner Strasse; their conversations flowed uninterruped by bees. Some squeezed lemon nonchalantly, others wafted at the insects gently, as if drawing up the aroma of delicious goulash. I noticed these Berliners had learned how to enjoy their food in the company of friends and bees: by accepting them. And so too would I. I also noticed every woman pushing a baby carriage in Mitte was hardly twenty-five.
I accepted the bees. Moreover, I befriended them. There was no need for six of them to cram themselves together, yellow-black butts throbbing, suckling at the teat that was a packet of honey open a sliver, no. My muesli was honeyed enough, so the rest shall be for bees. Let me help. I tilted the packet to spill forth a golden pool. More bees arrived. I accidentally dowsed one. His wings were syrupy. He tried to cross the glossy pond but one leg was deep in the stickiness. Then two legs. Then all six. He tried to beat his wings but nothing. Every step he'd take would be followed by a stumble. He was drowning in honey. I approached him with the prong of a fork to scoop him out, but his languid thrashing enveloped him in more thickness. I dripped on him, not with juice but water. A wing sprouted away from his abdomen. I dripped more water and the free wing sagged from the drenching. How could I help the guy? First I tried to feed him, then I tried to clean him, yet I had done nothing good. I was concerned for him; I am not a bee murderer. His cleansed wing then vibrated and I rejoiced privately, tentatively. He was still mired in sweet muck, advancing sluggishly, each step a labour. He tried to stay upright as a topple to the side would be execution. I would have poured more water on him but he needed his wing dry. A step. A step. Vibration. A step. He was free. Six minutes to cross two inches of honey.
He was out of the swamp but still in a bad way. One wing was adhered to his body and he was toppled unto himself, a clump of viscous insect. His comrades nibbled at his saccharine limbs, mandibles munching on the fallen friend, freeing him from his coat of honey. But were they helping? The exhausted bee struggled across the wooden table, fleeing from the others as they ravaged his body. They stopped cleansing him, stopped eating off him, allowed him to escape. Was he banished? Was he now deemed too weak to serve the community, a liability? He was not dead but merely covered in honey -- surely his comrades would understand the folly and forgive him, no? If you give him a chance, he will fly. But the bees took no interest in him, only in the berries upon my yogurt and the puddle of honey inches away from my sausages. The unfortunate bee stopped at the edge of the bench. He was less sticky, but he was ostracised. Then he fell.
At this point I knew water was in order. I dribbled onto the concrete where he had fallen three feet yet remained upright and alive. I believed I was replicating rain, and bees know how to deal with rain, yes? He freed his adhered wing, which soon vibrated. Where his legs had been bound, the drops of water now provided him with six distinct, separate legs. He crawled with renewed ease to the plaster exterior of Schwarze Pumpe and climbed the side of the café. I returned with relief to my coffee and flaccid half-lemon. Ate some sausage. Ate some cheese. A mighty spoonful of muesli. Two twenty-three-year-old mothers gossiped while pushing perambulators. I looked at the plaster and the bee had gone.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
HAUPTBAHNHOF
I almost caused a bomb scare in Berlin. I was mad hungry at Berlin Hauptbahnhof, waiting for my train to Amsterdam. My duffle bag weighed as much as five toddlers and the food joints were down the stairs. I also needed cash. The ATM was also down the stairs. I set my duffle on the platform and scurried to the floor below. I guess I didn't need to rush after all 'cause the guy ahead of me in the queue seemed to be consulting the ATM for mortgage advice. Or something. After a good five minutes of impatient huffing I finally got my chance to stuff some Euros in my money clip. I bought some food at LE CROBAG, which has a croissant in the logo but I didn't get a croissant.
Up the stairs. I recognised the back of the large female Hbf employee whose name tag read C. Wirtz and who had helped me earlier: "Ja, Platform 13 to Amsterdam." Now she was talking into a cell phone and still wearing her nifty cap. She was staring at the ground, a large perimeter of passengers' feet keeping clear of the area where her gaze fell. I walked straight into the middle. She hung up. "Is that your bag?"
"Yeah," I panted.
"You can't leave your bag!"
Um...
She thrust her head at me and exploded her arms, "It could be a BOMB!"
Shit. She's allowed to say that out loud?
"But my bag is so heavy and I am so hungry..."
"I called the police."
Shit. I showed her my LE CROBAG bag of packaged salad that had corn niblets nestled between tomato chunks.
"You can't leave your bag."
"Sorry. Danke," I pleaded. She walked away, leaving me alone with my duffle and the disdain from a horde of Germans tsk-tsking at the strange Chinese kid who speaks North American. I'm glad I was wearing my sunglasses. I heaved my sack over my shoulder with an exaggerated oof! to let them know I wasn't playing around when it came to heavy duffles. I trudged down Platform 13, down down down, far far far from them all. At least I'd managed to get my salad for the ride, and it had corn.
The Hbf woman approached me on her surveillance beat. She gave me a pursed smile and wagged her finger. I smirked back, sheepish and foreign. Her name was probably Claudia.
Up the stairs. I recognised the back of the large female Hbf employee whose name tag read C. Wirtz and who had helped me earlier: "Ja, Platform 13 to Amsterdam." Now she was talking into a cell phone and still wearing her nifty cap. She was staring at the ground, a large perimeter of passengers' feet keeping clear of the area where her gaze fell. I walked straight into the middle. She hung up. "Is that your bag?"
"Yeah," I panted.
"You can't leave your bag!"
Um...
She thrust her head at me and exploded her arms, "It could be a BOMB!"
Shit. She's allowed to say that out loud?
"But my bag is so heavy and I am so hungry..."
"I called the police."
Shit. I showed her my LE CROBAG bag of packaged salad that had corn niblets nestled between tomato chunks.
"You can't leave your bag."
"Sorry. Danke," I pleaded. She walked away, leaving me alone with my duffle and the disdain from a horde of Germans tsk-tsking at the strange Chinese kid who speaks North American. I'm glad I was wearing my sunglasses. I heaved my sack over my shoulder with an exaggerated oof! to let them know I wasn't playing around when it came to heavy duffles. I trudged down Platform 13, down down down, far far far from them all. At least I'd managed to get my salad for the ride, and it had corn.
The Hbf woman approached me on her surveillance beat. She gave me a pursed smile and wagged her finger. I smirked back, sheepish and foreign. Her name was probably Claudia.
Monday, September 7, 2009
PONG
[Words in bold are in English. Everything else is Cantonese.]
My mom is a ping-pong champion.
ME: Mom, in Berlin they got ping-pong tables in the park. You just bring your own balls and paddles.
MOM: We have that all over China.
ME: I never seen that in Canada.
MOM: The tables are concrete.
ME: Yeah, that's what I saw in Berlin. How do you say "Berlin"?
MOM: Berlin.
ME: What?
MOM: Berlin.
ME: Berlin.
MOM: It's the city that was divided...
ME: Yeah...
MOM: East... West...
ME: Yeah.
MOM: ...the Wall came down...
ME: ...Twenty years ago.
MOM: Now it's all West.
She means non-Communist.
ME: The city feels new, all the buildings... new. During the war--
MOM: Yes.
ME: During the war it got flattened. The British... how do you say "bombed"?...
MOM: Bombed.
ME: Seventy percent.
MOM: [scowling] The British are the worst with that...
ME: Mmh...
MOM: Look at New Zealand, Australia, Hong Kong... all these places they forced themselves on...
She sips her soup.
ME: India.
MOM: India.
I eat some noodles.
MOM: You just wait. Soon China will be on top.
My mom is a ping-pong champion.
ME: Mom, in Berlin they got ping-pong tables in the park. You just bring your own balls and paddles.
MOM: We have that all over China.
ME: I never seen that in Canada.
MOM: The tables are concrete.
ME: Yeah, that's what I saw in Berlin. How do you say "Berlin"?
MOM: Berlin.
ME: What?
MOM: Berlin.
ME: Berlin.
MOM: It's the city that was divided...
ME: Yeah...
MOM: East... West...
ME: Yeah.
MOM: ...the Wall came down...
ME: ...Twenty years ago.
MOM: Now it's all West.
She means non-Communist.
ME: The city feels new, all the buildings... new. During the war--
MOM: Yes.
ME: During the war it got flattened. The British... how do you say "bombed"?...
MOM: Bombed.
ME: Seventy percent.
MOM: [scowling] The British are the worst with that...
ME: Mmh...
MOM: Look at New Zealand, Australia, Hong Kong... all these places they forced themselves on...
She sips her soup.
ME: India.
MOM: India.
I eat some noodles.
MOM: You just wait. Soon China will be on top.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
STRAAT
Sex was slowing down on Monday 2.03AM in the RLD. I wanted to bid adieu to Amsterdam with swan song seedy exploration, but the windows had grown tiresome and every shop boasting Flesh Lights was rolling down riot screens. Even the peep shows were blocked off for their bleaching. So I said, "Fuck this sex stuff, I'd rather eat."
I went to Kebab House of Halal Food. Man that salad tasted great.
I went to Kebab House of Halal Food. Man that salad tasted great.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
PANNEKOEK
The Dutch are the tallest people in the world. After stuffing myself with 3/4 of a pannekoek for brunch in Amsterdam, where I wanted to order a glass of milk but forgot, I had to use the urinal on tip-toe.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
SASKIA
They were Chinese dudes, probably. Asian some-sort. Five of them clustered on the slick cobble of a wet night under Amsterdam's red lights. American maybe. Maybe Canadian. The accent.
"...So how long did it last?" said one.
"Ten minutes," said the tallest.
"TEN MINUTES!?"
Pause.
"That's how long I paid for."
Pause.
"...So what else happened?"
"...So how long did it last?" said one.
"Ten minutes," said the tallest.
"TEN MINUTES!?"
Pause.
"That's how long I paid for."
Pause.
"...So what else happened?"
Monday, July 27, 2009
10W-40
I sell brake pads for Ford F-150s and tires for Toyota Corollas. Naw, you'll want 10W-40, not 10W-30 'cause the... uh... viscosity something um. Trust me. I have a computer that tells me these things. I got WHMIS.
At our training session the mechanic -- who looks like a Tamil Wheels (Degrassi, Jesus...) -- tells us to treat the battery lovingly, and don't connect this connector to that connector or the battery will lose its charge "dramastically".
It's 1996 and I'll be graduating high school this year, what. I've got a job at Canadian Tire, word. I've got a job selling you auto parts. At the end of the night, if you peep me while I'm restocking shelves with motor oil, you'll see me I'm in the stock room curling boxes of 10W-40 as I carry them out to the floor. At least 20 pounds, those boxes. At least 10 reps. I've got a mad crush on this cutie from another school and she likes biceps.
Me. Selling YOU. Auto parts.
At our training session the mechanic -- who looks like a Tamil Wheels (Degrassi, Jesus...) -- tells us to treat the battery lovingly, and don't connect this connector to that connector or the battery will lose its charge "dramastically".
It's 1996 and I'll be graduating high school this year, what. I've got a job at Canadian Tire, word. I've got a job selling you auto parts. At the end of the night, if you peep me while I'm restocking shelves with motor oil, you'll see me I'm in the stock room curling boxes of 10W-40 as I carry them out to the floor. At least 20 pounds, those boxes. At least 10 reps. I've got a mad crush on this cutie from another school and she likes biceps.
Me. Selling YOU. Auto parts.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
CHOKE
Naw, it's gotta go, man. It's just not cool anymore. It hasn't been cool in mad long. That whole I'm gonna drink this drink and you're gonna say something shocking and I'm gonna choke and/or geyser it outta my mouth onto your face like a spritzer... and the audience is gonna laugh... Naw man, it's gotta go. Like in (500) Days of Summer, when Zooey Deschanel says she was known as "Anal Girl", and guy next to her chokes on his Long Island iced tea or whatever... tasty lemonade or whatever... I didn't laugh. Shit's supposed to be funny but it's played out. Cliché. Look, no one chokes when in mid-drink, no matter how shocking the news. You know what you do when you're sipping Snapple and someone says, "'Sup, I'm Anal Girl"? You stop sipping. You pause. Process the information. Proceed. Not spit up, you baby. That joke ain't funny anymore. Stop it. Jack Tripper mastered that joke in 1982 and no one does food gags better than Jack Tripper. It went to comedy heaven with him.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
WAFERS
I don't remember his name but he was a good ol' Canadian kid with lots of Richard Scarry books and lived on William Street with his good ol' white family. Anglo-Saxon. Maybe Protestant. He was an early friend and maybe his name was Chris. That's a good name for someone like him. He knew me as Norman, which of course is my name but I'm also Lup-Man. Four years before I met him, I was pooping my cloth diapers in a village in China. I met him in kindergarten.
Chris was having a birthday party, the first birthday party that I'd ever been invited to. What is this "birthday party"? What do we do? "Mom, my friend up the block is having a 'birthday party' and I think I'm supposed to give him something."
"That's nice. What are we supposed to give?"
"I dunno, but it's gotta be soon. The party is now."
"Oh. Well..." My mom searched the kitchen cupboards. I guess we could have given him fruit, but that'd be the bummest gift of all bum gifts. I guess we could have given him money in a red envelope but he wouldn't understand, and besides, we didn't have money to give. "You can give him this," my mom beamed triumphantly as she pulled a package of wafers from the top shelf. "They're very good." It was Garden brand. It was strawberry. It was unopened.
My mom escorted me up the block as I clutched the wafers at my chest, wrapped in a plastic bag with the slogans of an herb store in Chinatown. Not even wrapped, just... bundled.
As we walked up the steps the shrieking of jubilant five-year-olds got louder. I knocked, the door opened, and the squeals were intense. Chris's mom greeted us with a smile, "Are you Norman?"
"Uh-huh. We're here for the 'birthday party'. This is my mom."
"Hello!" my mom said in the broken English she had just learned.
I held out the crinkly package proudly, with both hands. "This is for Chris."
"Oh!" the mom said with modest, if not fake, surprise. "Chris! Your friend is here!" Chris came bounding to the door, his head sweaty. "Norman and his mom brought you a gift!"
"What is it what'd you get me?" he panted. He unravelled the bag -- the easiest unwrapping he'd performed -- and pulled out the treat.
"Ooh, cookies!" his mom chimed. Chris dumped the wafers back into the bag, handed it to his mom, and ran back into the house to join the squealing. "Thank you," she said politely.
Chris was having a birthday party, the first birthday party that I'd ever been invited to. What is this "birthday party"? What do we do? "Mom, my friend up the block is having a 'birthday party' and I think I'm supposed to give him something."
"That's nice. What are we supposed to give?"
"I dunno, but it's gotta be soon. The party is now."
"Oh. Well..." My mom searched the kitchen cupboards. I guess we could have given him fruit, but that'd be the bummest gift of all bum gifts. I guess we could have given him money in a red envelope but he wouldn't understand, and besides, we didn't have money to give. "You can give him this," my mom beamed triumphantly as she pulled a package of wafers from the top shelf. "They're very good." It was Garden brand. It was strawberry. It was unopened.
My mom escorted me up the block as I clutched the wafers at my chest, wrapped in a plastic bag with the slogans of an herb store in Chinatown. Not even wrapped, just... bundled.
As we walked up the steps the shrieking of jubilant five-year-olds got louder. I knocked, the door opened, and the squeals were intense. Chris's mom greeted us with a smile, "Are you Norman?"
"Uh-huh. We're here for the 'birthday party'. This is my mom."
"Hello!" my mom said in the broken English she had just learned.
I held out the crinkly package proudly, with both hands. "This is for Chris."
"Oh!" the mom said with modest, if not fake, surprise. "Chris! Your friend is here!" Chris came bounding to the door, his head sweaty. "Norman and his mom brought you a gift!"
"What is it what'd you get me?" he panted. He unravelled the bag -- the easiest unwrapping he'd performed -- and pulled out the treat.
"Ooh, cookies!" his mom chimed. Chris dumped the wafers back into the bag, handed it to his mom, and ran back into the house to join the squealing. "Thank you," she said politely.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
SCOUNDREL
At fifteen he is mischievous.
In his twenties he is an asshole.
In his thirties he is spiteful.
In his forties he is malicious.
In his fifties he has no friends.
In his sixties he is regretful.
In his seventies he is forgiven or murdered.
The murder may happen earlier.
In his twenties he is an asshole.
In his thirties he is spiteful.
In his forties he is malicious.
In his fifties he has no friends.
In his sixties he is regretful.
In his seventies he is forgiven or murdered.
The murder may happen earlier.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
EAT
Just so you know, I can out-eat almost anyone.
...And you can quote me on that, but do mind your syntax, you saucy buggers.
...And you can quote me on that, but do mind your syntax, you saucy buggers.
Monday, May 25, 2009
LIP
...something mundane, like, "What happened to your lip? There's blood. Did you cut yourself? Did you get-- You didn't get hit, did you?" And all it is is that you yawned mightily while your lips were dry.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
CAPRICE
The radio-show debate is about whether or not a certain rapper is still relevant.
When we call someone irrelevant we are not saying he is no longer important -- we are saying he no longer matters. His very existence is not necessary to us, currently. He is ineffective.
How fickle of us.
To be deemed irrelevant is to be damned.
When we call someone irrelevant we are not saying he is no longer important -- we are saying he no longer matters. His very existence is not necessary to us, currently. He is ineffective.
How fickle of us.
To be deemed irrelevant is to be damned.
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