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

“Take these to the general outside Atlanta”. The rider lifts the stack of sealed letters off the kitchen table, salutes and runs out the door. He grabs the reins of his horse and swings into the worn saddle. Today, he would be considered a boy. But at nineteen he has seen the battlefields of Bull Run and Shiloh, been shot twice and killed four men. Home is a farm in Missouri, and the arms of Ann. The war is almost over, but the duty of a dispatch rider is never easy: avoiding enemy pickets and patrols, riding all night and into the morning, navigating foreign territory; all of these conspire against and lead many men into the arms of death. Outside Atlanta he asks a patrol for the location of the general's command post. He ties his horse to a post outside the two-story wood frame house. His boots smack on the floor. The general sits behind a table in the front room. The room is full of couriers, aide de camps, and officers. He waits, then hands the general the messages. He stands at attention to receive any responses the general might have for him. The general takes the messages and pats the air between them, "there, there, boy. I'm sure its been a hard ride. Take a seat." He motions to a spindly wooden chair standing in front of his desk. He sits and watches the general read. The general reads through the messages quickly, scrawling at the bottom of them. He waves over a waiting courier standing against the wall. One by one, "Take this to Cornel Macintosh. Take this to Captain Jude." The general stops at one of the messages sealed in an envelope. "Who's Ann?" He jerks awake in his chair, "what?" "Does anyone know who Ann is? Corporal find out is there is a nurse Ann attached to the surgeon. One of her letters has gotten misdirected to my command." A spindly boy with a shock of red hair runs out the door. "Wait. I know an Ann. She's my wife." The corporal waits in the door. The general lifts a bottle and pours two shots of whiskey into coffee cups, handing one to him. The general stands, hands the letter to him, and lifts his glass. His eyes flash across the page. "Congratulations, you're the father of a healthy boy and the husband of a well wife." He looks up at the general. "May you make it safely home to them when this is all finished." I have the strangest dreams. posted by James @ 7:47 AM	Donnerstag, Februar 06, 2003
I have never actually met a Simon. I had a cat named Simon when I was a child and I have always loved the name. In one of the best stories I've ever written the main character's name is Simon. So imagine my surprise when I found a real Simon. Look at his website, send him presents; make him a sandwich the way he likes it. Here is the e-mail I sent him: I've been collecting various Simons from around the world, and you are the first flightless southern variety I've seen outside of a field guide or a museum. I would really like to add you to my rather impressive collection of Simons by linking you on my website, http://mereanarchy.blogspot.com/. You see because I am an individual Simonist, I lack the funding of a government sponsored program. In other words, I can't afford to flay the skin from your body, tan it, and reattach it to a Simon simulating robot, the preferred method of Simon preservation. Oh yeah, you have a good website and awesome art, but that has nothing to do with it. ~James posted by James @ 11:28 AM	Mittwoch, Februar 05, 2003
How to play monkey ball. Gather all of the pool balls together. Drop them from an acceptable height. Once the balls are scattered you try and sink them by using the cue ball to "hit" causing the force of the cue ball to be transferred to the target ball thus ensuing its movement. If you sink a solid, you have to sink a stripe next. If you sink two balls in a row you must lap the table doing your best monkey walk with requisite sounds. Failure in sinking your second ball in an attempt to avoid the "monkey walk of victory" means you opponent gets to chalk your nose making squeaky sounds, ee-er ee-er is an acceptable "squeaky" sound. If you sink two balls of the same category, i.e. two stripes in a row, you have to put the cue stick up your nose. If you scratch and your first name is James, it doesn't count you may replace the ball. When replacing the ball and your first name is James you may place it anywhere on the table. If you scratch and your first name is not James you have to "Tune in Tokyo" with requisite "beep beep" sounds. Members of the same sex, or attractive members of the opposite sex may turn your breasts like dials while staring at them in confusion calling out, "Tune in Tokyo. Tune in Tokyo." There are ancillary rules that include spanking and lewd behavior that can only be invoked after a requisite amount of alcohol has been consumed. The person who sinks the last ball wins. posted by James @ 11:21 AM
I can't wait for Halloween. posted by James @ 11:45 AM	Dienstag, Februar 04, 2003
Your circuit's dead, there's something wrong posted by James @ 10:59 AM
Some people are confused by my sense of humor. I call those people vegitarians. Last night I heard one of the best jokes ever. Why did the armadillo cross the road? It didn't. I almost wet myself. I had to call people at ten at night just to tell them the joke. posted by James @ 10:49 AM
Have you ever had something break? A computer? A car? And have you looked at it? Taken it apart? Crawled under it? And been just like, "damn what the fucks wrong with you?" All the parts are there. It doesn't look broken. You try it again and sure enough its fucked. So you stand there looking at it, refraining from kicking / throwing / beating it into dust with a sledgehammer. You wish it was a person, a person you don't like very well. So that you could be all like, "bitch don't make me slap you, cuz I will." Have you ever felt that way about yourself? You don't know what's wrong, but you're broken. You go into the bathroom and take off your clothes to see where it is that you might me broken so that you can stick it back together with glue. You find nothing so you look in the mirror and say, "bitch don't make me slap you." I was just wondering. Have you ever had something break? I'm gonna go out and try the James again. I don't need an expensive repair bill, and it takes too long to run the diagnostic. So if he doesn't work this time I'm gonna cannibalize him for parts. posted by James @ 11:40 AM	Montag, Februar 03, 2003