Mere Anarchy

Mere Anarchy

Guilty parties.
ryan shaun wendy simon

Critical evidence.
andre breton
james dickey
kafka
theodore roethke
wb yeats
sylvia
ts eliot
irvine welsh
chuck palahniuk
dostoevsky

Forensic reports.
edward gorey
man ray
simon boses

Admissions of guilt.
deadcandance
cohen
nick cave
natalie merchant
rammstein
iggy pop

Crime scenes
aurora picture show
diverseworks
theater LaB houston
voices breaking boundaries

Damning testimony.
surrealism
roller derby
exploding dog
levity
girlsarepretty

After watching ten minutes of Rambo III. I turned to her, they should make a Rambo IV, Return to Afghanistan: When Burka Buddies Go Bad. posted by James @ 4:41 PM	Samstag, Juli 20, 2002
I have often thought of the ignobility of artillery. You are born on a farm where winter pickpockets your father. In school you run the mile, you win a few times. After dinner Mom makes noise in the sink while she eavesdrops. Across the knife-nicked table, your father twists a checkerboard napkin. Uncle John, who you have not seen in three years, lifts his shirt. Between his fourth and fifth rib there is an angry pink smile, German bayonet. You have never seen it before, but you know what happened- he is sitting at the table. Three days later a drill sergeant calls you a pussy while you spit out sand and blood. You write letters to Mom and Sarah. You shoot, you march, you eat, you cry in the latrine. You walk down a road. Its beautiful country. A river braids through a stand of oaks. Farmhouses hold their breath when your division marches past. Jefferson turns around while marching in front of you, Whad da ya call a Kraut whore on vacation? He says something that sets everyone laughing. You admire the precision of a distant orchard. Its June, the wheat should be knee-high at home. You look up at a weird shrieking. posted by James @ 12:54 PM
if I stare- at the peeling caulk around the air-conditioner, the condensation racing down the window, the wet cigarette butt in the trashcan- long enough fractures will spiderweb my eyes they will crumble onto the floor and I won't have to care anymore. The next resident will vaccum up my eyes with the lint, leaf parts and food. posted by James @ 3:20 PM	Mittwoch, Juli 17, 2002
How it’s done: Drive to wal-mart, wait in the men’s section next to the socks. Get into the Isuzu Trooper, sit in the back seat alone behind the driver. You do this because if it goes sideways the passenger has to turn around, this takes time. If they won’t let you sit in the back alone, walk, throw away their number and warn everyone you know. Don’t let them lock the doors. Don’t wear a seatbelt. Ask them why they aren’t wearing theirs. Ride into a bar parking lot. Here three guys talking in a car at midnight is not suspicious. While the passenger digs in his backpack, stare at the driver in the rearview mirror until he looks away. Feel the .38 in your jacket pocket. Put your electronic scale on your lap, put your cash in your pocket. Weigh the bag. Smell it. Taste it. If it’s light, smells off, or is tasteless, get out. Don’t say anything. They know. If its good, tell them it’s not. If they protest, walk. If they blow you off, re-negotiate price. If it’s $500, hand them $450. While they bitch, watch their hands. Take your money back. Wait in silence. Offer $480. While they bitch, throw the money onto the floorboard. Get out. Go into the bar. Drink a beer. Call your girlfriend to pick you up. Give her the bag. She drives home. You catch a cab to another bar. If you are going to get picked up, and have not been yet, you will be now. Drink until 2am with friends, call your girlfriend. Have a friend drive you to her house. posted by James @ 9:09 PM	Dienstag, Juli 16, 2002
literary theory- these are complex ideas they are the children of children you come with assumptions that transcend history the physical body this is encouraged you come with assumptions that creativity transcends this is a one hundred eighty degree turn lets look at the influences they are the children of children because it's the anti-philosophers who overwhelm in the nineteen seventies and the nineteen eighties the new technology what I'm going to trace is why these are complex ideas posted by James @ 8:12 PM
Today, the IRA apologized for thirty years of violence against civilians -more polite meaningless words. Until Ireland is unified can anyone really expect an end to violence? posted by James @ 5:18 PM
Your daddy died right where that Starbucks is. All the plans include the requirement of restoring 11 million square feet of office space, 600,000 square feet (55,740 square metres) of retail space and 600,000 square feet of space for a hotel. posted by James @ 5:02 PM
I really don’t want to write this paper. I applied ten months ago. I walked at my commencement two months ago. Yesterday, I got a letter. Re: Spring 2002 Graduation. Due to insufficient credit hours in your chosen major, we must deny your application for graduation. If you have any questions concerning this or any of the other petty, arbitrary, ways we’ve fucked up your life, please contact us. We hope that you have enjoyed these years of confusion, red-tape, and struggle at the University of Houston, as much as we have enjoyed the challenge of creating new and infuriating ways to drive our entire student body to suicide. Today, I am writing a paper over a text that is as subtle as a sack of hammers, in a class full of lobotomized lab monkeys. I really don’t want to write this paper. posted by James @ 6:29 PM	Sonntag, Juli 14, 2002
She throws the mail onto the kitchen table, next to the spray of dusty silk roses. She hangs her purse, more of a brown leather sack, over the back of a chair. In the bathroom she pulls her wavy brown hair back into a clip. She scrubs her face, paying particular attention to her nose and forehead. She pats her face dry and notices that she is shaking. She sits on the toilet, three drops of pee splash quietly. She wipes her dry crotch, and inspects the paper. A little blood. She pulls her sweatpants up. She measures two cups of water, and pours them into a shallow pot. She hits a spoon on the pot’s chipped edge until the margarine splashes. She twists the stovetop knob to five. She takes the ground beef out of the fridge. She takes a cookie sheet from a near empty cabinet. She breaks off a handful of cold beef. She rolls it into a ball. Then flattens it between her palms. Repeat. She washes the little bit of blood from her hands. The cookie sheet clangs in the 350-degree oven. The front door closes gently. His familiar footsteps approach the kitchen. She stands looking at the quivering water. “How did it go today?” She braces herself on the oven. In her mind’s eye he is leaning against the opposite counter looking at her. Fine. The margarine curls into yellow cloud in the shaking water. “Yeah”. He nods slowly, and crosses the kitchen towards her. He embraces her softly from behind; his fingers twine themselves over her stomach. She pushes his hands away, twisting her chin to her left shoulder and closing her eyes. She listens to his footsteps cross the linoleum onto the carpet of the front room. Next, on the CBS evening news… posted by James @ 6:17 PM