A brief intermittence/additions to annoyance.

As everyone complains about a lack of Seattle summer (hello, all my life, how are you today?) I find myself wishing the sun was out, simply for new conversation topics. In the same way, I'll be glad for November 10th(or so) until re/inaguration, and until then will probably block all photos, because the political photo memes are. . . well, read the three words again.

all things return to a saturday off.

one day in a puddle.

a craftsman home.

a couple, slowly walking through a yard sale, picking up items,
setting them back.

two cars, perpetually rounding the block in search of parking.

a toddler running, juice in hand, eyes crazed, toward the street.

two days off, three.

a bean-counter, white beans, black beans, pinto.

half-a-sandwich long walk to the bar. you must stand outside, chewing, before you can enter.

there would be umbrellas in any other city.

a patio with metal chairs.

a pork chop.

OLDNESS ATTACK

Up, coming:

Claustrophobia #5. The overflowing patio.

Greenwood Lit Crawl

both things I have been directly and furiously involved in planning. for now, however, I have not eaten anything that's not come wailing back up my throat. all day. i'm going to watch some simpsons and lay down.

fj sketch #6

the men at the dogfights abhor good lighting. all they care about is sound and silhouette. the men at the cockfights, they want to see the feathers casting shadows, angle of each peck. blood on the beaks. at the dogfights, it’s all about barks and growls, yips and howls, the chanting, the cheering. big doug is the onhand vet. the city department of controlled activities turns a blind eye as long as there is a vet onhand. big doug is very good, has saved at least three chickens, four dogs lived to yelp another day by the spiked fences beneath the dental repair school, he is also a bouncer, keeping those like filthy jerry, or phillipe the sexy, from entering and scaring away the respectable types. rumors had it that jerry had spent a year filing and stapling for an architectural firm, paid in vanilla wafers and poker chips, and these are the types of people who give underground animal death rings a bad name. big doug knew the men who came in, whose hair gel doubled as cologne, whose swagger turned to a stomp, whose girlfriends lingered in the back and pretended it was a movie, except for loose mary, who shouted herself hoarse at the scenes unfolding. they all knew—big doug, harold the handshake—who was and wasn’t wanted here, loss of animal control like greek tragedy in another language.

_____________________________________________________

this is part of an ongoing series that should be wrapped/booked pretty soon. not sure if this segment will go in the final product, partly because I'm not sure how well it stands on its own. thoughts?

in other news, Sounds of Youth I Haven't Re-Filed*:

*i still like this a lot. perhaps not with the monolithic "best _____ of ____" that I did, but such hyperbole is best left to youth and music writers.

The only way to not be dead

Most of my writing lately has been particularly acidic towards people who claim to mean well. I am already late for an appointment and later will have the last shreds of my eardrums mashed into a fine paste by A Place to Bury Strangers, but feel compelled to enter some "content" here for my "audience" to "read."

Internet Jazz Hands.

Here's what I listen to, over and over, while writing some purposefully overwrought SAILOR PROSE about Filthy Jerry's adventures in Squidheadland.

another reblog!

from friends at babel salvage.

if you've read the piece before, you haven't read it in such good layout.