Or maybe yesterday,|
[Most Recent Entries]
Below are the 16 most recent journal entries recorded in
Will Brand's LiveJournal:
|Tuesday, September 5th, 2006|
|Friday, August 18th, 2006|
|Friday, May 26th, 2006|
|I ought to have spent more than an hour on this, and finished it satisfactorily. Angelica's request:
A Hero In The Making
Curtis Markowitz is a stocky, wearied man on the far side of forty, and I'm his last appointment of the day. We've met in the one restaurant on Thaimo-thai, the “American Cafe”, but we'll have more lesson than meal. Atop a meaty neck of medium-well skin, set in a face bordered by a kudzu beard, his eyes bear into the dish before him, where twin strips of palm cradle a pale slate of marbled flesh. It is “Maluku-Luku”, “Dutchman's Treat”, “Greyfin Tuna” - Pacific White-sided Dolphin.
“At this point, you know, we're in one of the three places on Earth where this is still legal”, Curtis says. A heavy blow of the seaswept air escapes him, and it's apparent he means this as a defeat. He looks up and cocks a bit of a smile. “Used to be, you could have it at the tables of every little kitchen on this side of the world.”
And Markowitz doesn't lie. In the 1850s, Maluku-Luku was so prolific that Hermann Melville, in a letter to his brother, stated he “couldn't long escape the stench of the Dutchman's treat, for it emitted from every man, woman, child, and ship in the land. The only place in which I may seek comfort,” he said, “is by the docks, along the waves so filled with the beasts themselves.” It continued to grow in popularity until the turn of the century, at which point reformers in the United States pushed legislation against it, claiming it the “devil's fry” in what would emerge as good practice for prohibition. As esteemed psychologists everywhere found evidence of Maluku-Luku's inherent evil, Western European states quickly followed suit and outlawed the dish. Dolphin populations rebounded nicely. By the Second World War it was banned nearly everywhere, and today it is allowed on Thaimo-thai only by a special provision for the natives. Curtis begins into it in a voracious, conspiratorial glee, and cleans answers to my questions from his teeth between bites. I've ordered a salad.
Your organization, I ask, what does it do?
He shakes his head. “Almost nothing. Works in the islands, in New York. Just opened an office on the East Side. 56th and 1st. Petitioned for room in the UN, no dice.” A grab at a falling piece of fat. “Greedy bastards couldn't care two licks for the rights of these creatures.”
And perhaps rightly. The creatures he mentions are Loliolus japonica, the Japanese squid. About 20cm from tip to tip, they're a tiny, massive part of the Pacific White-side's diet. A dolphin can eat a third its weight in the crustaceans – daily. The Japanese squid is a necessary part of the Pacific's food chain. The Japanese squid is Markowitz's charge. His organization is the People Against the Crustacean Genocide, and as he wipes his face I can tell The Facts are coming. It's the same face every rights crusader gets as he winds up for his hook. I ready my notepad.
“There are an estimated 9.5 million dolphins in the eastern tropical Pacific, you know that? Each one of them weighs about 400 pounds, and each one of them eats a third of that in squid. 125 pounds. Each. You multiply that out, it's billions of individual lives lost, every day. Billions. With a B. You know how many people have died in Darfur? Millions. Rwanda? Millions. The Great Leap Forward? A whole bunch, but millions. All of 'em with an M. These squid, they're dying in the B billions, and they're doing it every day. And the UN doesn't care. And the governments, and the interest groups and the Greenpeace and the PETA and all of them couldn't give a shit as they march about because a dozen dolphins got caught in a net somewhere because they're too stupid to swim backwards. Don't get that problem with squid, you know that? Very intelligent animals. Hunters. Have to be.”
His girth sits back and recoils from the shots, and I use the pause to mention that dolphins, too, are hunters. His head bolts back over the table, fingers on either flank to provide supporting fire. “You call that hunting? Penning in a school of helpless squid and diving in at the poor little trapped bastards? In Yugoslavia that's a genocide.” A fist raps the table. “In Armenia that's a genocide.” Rap. “In the Pacific it's business,” Rap. “as,” Rap. “usual.” Rap. “It's disgusting! We're giving up on the big guys, slowly, trying to get out these facts and make a difference in the people. Grassroots, you know? Make them eat more tuna and litter the plastic jiggies from their six-packs. Every little bit.” He says. He doesn't seem to quite believe himself. “Every little bit.” Current Mood: Productive.
|Thursday, February 23rd, 2006|
|So I got up at 5 today.
"Thank you for calling UCAS, one of our cust-omer service representatives will be with you shortly."
(The London Philharmonic plays Purcell for 10 minutes)
"Your call is presently in a queue. Please hold for the next cust-omer service representative to answer your query."
(The London Philharmonic plays William Byrd for 10 minutes)
"Your queue is presently in a bangers and mash. Please hold this wooflecopter while the grockeldy-pockman goes round about the scroobouldy-doos, guv'nor, aye?"
(Winston Churchill tomb-mic, rats play Purcell for 10 minutes)
"Yadda yadda yadda tube yadda box of frogs yadda war of 1812, so get off the bloody phone already or we'll do it agai-
"Hello, this is Megan, how can I help you today?"
"Yes, I applied about a week and a half ago and I haven't received any sort of confirmation yet. I'd like to confirm I didn't botch anything. My personal ID is 100-73-"
"YOUR CALL HAS ENDED BECAUSE OF INSUFFICIENT MONEY REMAINING ON YOUR CARD."
|Wednesday, February 8th, 2006|
|Another poetry unit in literature.
You know what that means.
The well-traveled reader will notice that in the following example, there are three photographs correctly labeled, and one a gross fraud. I trust he can determine them himself.
The Angel of Death
A Poet Food
If you answered that the third picture was the fraud, you are correct. The third picture is indeed not a poet at all, but William Carlos Williams.
William Carlos Williams was the worst thing to happen since bees. William Carlos Williams was, is, and ever shall be the destruction of human civilization. William Carlos Williams puts flies in peoples soups, then kills their waiters.
Fuck you, William Carlos Williams.
so much depends
a red wheel
glazed with rain
beside the white Current Mood: enraged
Fuck you, William Carlos Williams.
I present, as compensation, a wheelbarrow from another, far superior WCW.
May God have mercy on his soul.
|Saturday, January 28th, 2006|
|I'M GOING TO END YOU
oh god yes
My mandolin is filled with ladybugs. God, I hate ladybugs.
Ladybugs are small insects, ranging from 1 mm to 10 mm (0.04 to 0.4 inches), and are usually yellow, orange, or red with small black spots on their carapace, with black legs, head and feelers. The deadliest and most territorial of the -adybug order, the ladybug has existed for millions of years. Only recently, however, has humanity attempted to chronicle its horrors.
A ladybug on the prowl.
The ladybug in modern form was first envisioned in Greek myth. According to Apollonius Rhodius, the ladybug was a creation of Hera, who, 'with revengeful spleen', unleashed them as a warning to people who thought they enjoyed nature. Vulcan crafted their carapaces, giving them such camouflage as to deceive those who confuse 'brightly colored' with 'cute'. Make no mistake, however, as the ladybug is a creature of pure evil.
Ladybugs searching for human flesh.
It is little-known that ladybugs are constantly questing after flesh, and simply suffer a severe colorblindness. This colorblindness leads them to believe leaves and stems to be delicious human tissue, as all humans were originally millimeters thick and flowering. It was not until after the ladybug genocides of 853-871 that this standard changed.
They're like the pennies, really - we all have a few about, but there's not really anything we can do with them, because they're so worthless. Secretly, though, they're subverting our way of life and dining, each night, on our delicious flesh.
I'll attempt to fight them back in the morn, when I am rested and trusting in my god. Eat, drink, and be merry, ladybugs, for tomorrow you die. Current Mood: wrathful
|Tuesday, November 15th, 2005|
Dear god is this seriously Demetri Martin on the Daily Show? I'm getting all hot and bothered.
|Monday, November 14th, 2005|
There's a whole section of my brain filled with little notes like "learn something about, then write a poem in the form of, Gaelic mouth music (puirt-a-beul)" that I put there in the half-hope they never come up again. I wish I weren't so often disappointed.
Now I'm off to spend the next hour singing "Brochan Lom" like a twit.
|And that's suicide. By tiny, tiny increments.
There's absolutely no reason I should love High Fidelity as much as I do.
Beyond Nick Hornby, upon whom I have oft wished the worst of the fates, the writers were those responsible for Kangaroo Jack and Blade. John Cusack committed Must Love Dogs. Jack Black, while a beautiful, beautiful man, could not alone explain such love. There's just something about the combination of horrors - like cow and ketchup - that forms something of such indescribable beauty that I have to try to describe it.
High Fidelity is like wearing a shirt that fits just right
like a day when everything goes your way.
like hitting one out of the park.
like the feel of your ladyboy's hair in your palm as you push and retract, requesting, demanding more than the bobbing head in your lap could ever provide. Demanding a truth, a relief from the pressing cold of inevitable time, one no ladyboy can provide.
God, I need to watch it again.
|Saturday, November 12th, 2005|
|I don't know what's going on,
but I feel really, really good.
Skipping a mile (in my own shoes) good.
Between whatever that last post was and mediating for class, I'm really incredibly amazingly bouncily zonked out.
Layla's in the hospital with monkey death pox but I don't even care, man, cause I'm keeping it real and there are beautiful flowers dying in beautiful ways out my window with the squirrels and the leaves and things are going well and people are paying me compliments and god closed a door and opened a window but it's ABOUT DAMN TIME he put some screen up on that window because I was getting BUGS like WHAT but I haven't seen one in WEEKS and there are cats nay kitties
about my furr'ed room and they purr
sweet syncope with the racing heart hurrah! Current Mood: guess.
|Wednesday, November 9th, 2005|
|ending an affair with sweet melancholia
At the beginning of the year, Age dug its feet into the clay
and proud Inertia begged a race.
This morning, as I chastised my lackings in dedication, it was a relief I was not fated to be a prodigy.
It is a fortune-tossed few who are, and destiny is the worst of userers.
I'm found Infant overjoyed in currency. Current Mood: hopeful
|Tuesday, November 8th, 2005|
I think it's reasonable to list the items I have received in the last two weeks - about half from my mother's crazed shippings and half from my own fortunes. They seem notable.1
set of disposable sunglasses2
bags of shredded money3
personal pan pizzas1000
Lego land pieces3
22inx18inx12in parcel posted boxes 8
hoodies I had when I was 1221
set of my own teeth1
baseball glove sponsored by a defunct radio station1
tennis racket, size small1
fact, that that tennis rackets come in sizes1
Catholic bible, de St Thomas More Cathedral School, circa 19991
sample razor, 'for turning 18'1
sample deodorant, for 'blazing trails' and being a 'risk-taker'0
laundry processestwo or three dozen
horrible fearsa few pounds
horrible, horrible discovery as to the extent of my own narcissism, which I will reveal to everyone
Because Christ Almighty is it scary.
*Fun Fact: the names of the books.
[P.G. Wodehouse - The Inimitable Jeeves/Very Good, Jeeves/Right Ho, Jeeves!; Evelyn Waugh - Decline and Fall; Alessandro Manzoni - The Betrothed; Jean Froissart - Chronicles; Benvenuto Cellini - Autobiography;, Christopher Hibbert - The House of Medici; Stephen Greenblatt - Will of the World; J.H. Plumb - The Italian Renaissance; Zora Neale Hurston - Their Eyes Were Watching God (ugh);Anton Chekov - Five Short Stories; Oscar Wilde - Salome; Petracca, Sorapure, Et al.- Reading and Writing about American Popular Culture, 4th Edition; Oliver Goldsmith - She Stoops To Conquer; Five Jacobean Tragedies: The Revenger's Tragedy/Women Beware Women/The Changeling/The Duchess of Malfi/The White Devil; and, uh, the latest Harry Potter.] Current Mood: worried
|Saturday, November 5th, 2005|
I am ever supported by the bunny companion Whiffle, whose fluency in the local dialect and knowledge of the trails comes as a great boon. He would have made a fine Englishman.
|Friday, November 4th, 2005|
|Okay, I lasted two entries
before becoming witness to this
"No one was injured Friday morning when a Henry County school bus loaded with students was struck by several gunshots, police said.
Responding officers discovered that Mary Faircloth, who lives in the 700 block of Colvin Drive, had been target-practicing at her home with a Beretta 9 mm handgun."
...and it goes on. How the fuck.
How the fuck do these people survive to adulthood without Darwinism striking? This is the kind of bullshit hicks 'n' Hummers food chain that makes them believe in Creationism. No fucking wonder, the fittest only survive in that they get the fuck out, and the rest are subject to light arms fire on their way to school. Here's
a little something from a few states over, just a few days ago:
"For 40 exhausting minutes, Wayne Goldsberry battled a buck with his bare hands in his daughter's bedroom.
Goldsberry finally subdued the five-point whitetail deer that crashed through a bedroom window at his daughter's home Friday. When it was over, blood splattered the walls and the deer lay dead on the bedroom floor, its neck broken.
...Goldsberry had the deer butchered.
'He's in the freezer,' the man said before walking to the kitchen and showing off pounds of freshly wrapped venison."
Here again a failure of natural selection - the inferior creature not only survives, but gets a meal out of it. Moreover, he has already reproduced.
There are children coming out of this.
Writhing spawn and miniature people.
Opening their eyes as I wish I could close mine. Current Mood: a swirling contest of anger and pity
|Thursday, November 3rd, 2005|
Perhaps now it is possible to begin a true log of our encounters. Things are, at present, none too well. Indeed, the situation itself lies sickly - while the local leaders have taken a liking to our company, the primitives as a whole understand our ways no more than we theirs. They are impressed enough by our nature, calling it by such complimentary words as they know, but are not truely cogniscent of society. Our supplies are running low; we have been without live music for longer than we care to recall, and we seem to have used our entire exclamatory stock in our last communication. We have been forced to use our few remaining ampersands for such purposes. Such barbarism&
Our only consolations of late are books; of these we have a curiously inexhaustible supply, and it is common to see us bartering our literature about the fire. How the read outnumber the readers!
Perhaps their pages might impart some delight:
"He [the fifteenth-century pope Pius II] even devoted a whole page [of his Commentaries] to the misadventures of his poor little puppy, Musetta, who first fell into a cistern full of water and, when rescued at last gasp, "was taken to the Pope, to whom she continued to whimper for a long time as if she wanted to tell him about her danger and stir his pity," but then was bitten by a large monkey, and finally, having climbed up on a high windowsill, was seized by a violent gust of wind and dashed upon the rocks. The Pope sadly commented that, like some men, she was plainly foredestined to a violent end." Current Mood: Malnourished
|Wednesday, November 2nd, 2005|
...and, resting a spell along our way, we found ourselves set upon most fiercely by a member of our own troupe! Dress'd all in the paint of the natives, she seem'd in a horrible fog - raging wide against her imagined foes, flailing violent at the meaning so deftly escaping into the brush. We are cast out!
Adrift, in a sea of unformed humanity - how the currents madden them!
They, the beasts of uncouth legend, of bawdy tell, of COPS and election results!
They, the Southerners! Current Mood: Besieged