what was that? is that all there is? who is this? this is it.

“On one page of the book, I amuse myself imagining a society sufficiently tolerant for people to swap pornographic magazines quite happily with complete strangers in the same train compartment.”

–Catherine Millet

In 2001 this book hit the shelves, and it was nowhere on my radar. When the 20th anniversary edition came out with its New Afterword by the author, it was still way outta my wheelhouse. 

Then one day recently, reading Maggie Nelson’s  Bluets   she refers to a line or two from Millet’s book. That got it on my radar, got me a used copy on eBay and got me into reading it on the train. 

if

only if

if and only if

if then

what if

as if

if only

Jiffy

muffin mix

Tuesday is Surplus day. 

I spent $3.33 on these three little academy awards and three 7-sided weekly pill reminders. 

gold is the new gold below behold sevenfold gold + 3 more gold components. Currently seven of the ten members in this group are from UW Surplus. Composition continues continuously. 

On Tuesday November 1, 1988 I went to a Van Halen concert in Ames, Iowa with a few college friends. That much is true. 

The concert was not very memorable. I do recall that Alex Van Halen’s drum kit was HUGE and rose up and down about 30 feet on a mechanical lift.  And I remember getting hit in the head with a lighter that someone hurled across the coliseum. I pocketed that lighter and kept it for years. 

On the drive back to Grinnell, we did not wait out a hail storm in a 7-11 parking lot. But we could have. I can almost see it. Selective memory. Recombinant recall. Phantom nostalgia. Fictional nonfiction. 

This hail storm photo I found in the Atmospheric Sciences recycling bin turned into a postcard that evoked that Van Hagar concert. I sent it to Professor David Gerard in Appleton, Wisconsin. He sent it back as a component of a care package. Long story short, there was no postmark or cancellation on the stamp, so I silkscreened some more features on the front and mailed it back to Appleton. Round trip and a half. Out & back & out again. 

 ...

"give me a lever long enough and a fulcrum on which to place it and I shall move the world"  

–Archimedes 

grinding home uphill out of the saddle on the Poprad, there was a disturbance emanating from my bottom bracket area:  a cricky creaky icky squeaky unpleasantly embarrassing sound. 

I finally got around to it this weekend. 

However, when I first took an 8mm swing at the non-drive side bolt that holds the crankset together, I found it to be wicked-tight. After a very brief youtube check-in, I was reassured that I was on the right track. The youtube dude propped the driveside crank on blocks of wood to gain leverage on the nondrive side crank bolt. I took a different approach.

give me a cheater bar long enough and I will bust that bolt loose. Pig Boy would be proud if he could’ve seen me utilize the Cannondale Police cheater bar set. One over the crank arm, one over the 8mm wrench…  …easy peasy like Sunday morning. That bolt broke loose. I pulled it all apart, removed the cranks and bottom bracket and greased the shit out of it, all of it. Then I...

had a slow leak

for a week

pump it up

once a day

perhaps today

will be the day

it goes away

ONE WAY

or another

fifteen years later

caught in time’s incinerator 

seein’ things clearly

I thank you so dearly

There are books piling up here and there. Today the mail carrier delivered The Sun and The New Yorker and another used book from eBay, adding to the pile. There are other back-burner piles too and a little pile at the mothership as well.  There are not enough coffee breaks and train rides in my day to keep up with it all if my attention span for written material hovers in its current state. Fortunately it cycles through cycles, phasing in and out, now and then, more or less.  

here you are

you super usurper

you are here

please take a moment

to locate 

the fresh hop

nearest you

keep in mind

it may be 

behind you

however

happy hour

begins at 2

hands

little Big Time hands

reachin’ out

touchin’ me

touchin’  you

Pilder, a regular-regular, approaches the bar and signs the bunny ears with both hands to his head. No words are spoken. 

Yo-Adrienne smiles and says “shit yer pants” 

Pilder smiles and thinks, “you read my mind” as she pours him a Citra Pants. 

Big Time Brewery’s 

Citra Pants 

fresh hop IPA

checka checka

check it out

hands

tomato hands

reachin'   out

touchin' me

touchin' you