a new era dawns

first there were three. now there are five. sometimes, the world seems like it's caving in, but you gotta keep pushing. pushing hard against the foam of the ceiling and ignoring the chuckie-cheese dolls screaming at you from the sidelines. who ate all the chocolate? where my apples at? these are the primary questions. the rudiments of life. the apples of life. see that synecphronesis? you'll notice that I've avoided all hiatus in this post. Ciao for now, but I'll be back quicker than you can say "Jimminy Cricket". All smiles (zortax).

too hot for tv

for sheezy. charlie cheesy. you all missed me, i know. but now i'm back and you can breathe out deep and inhale the sweet crisp air. a long time has passed, i know, since we last talked, since we last crossed our blessed paths. but now, a new era of daily posting is here, wherewithall we can discover the secret passions of life together, familially.

She must be at Harvard

uno momento

non-kosher cannibalism? who comes up with this satay? the little red hen you say? went out to the Frick museum today, with my dadday. was funnay. saw some manet and a monet. i enjoy music by loeille (hint: pronounced with "ay" ending for extra fun!)(!)(?!) sittin' on mah couch, you know, just relaxing. i guess people are already moving in to school, like jill. she was busy with her super secret packing on wednesday. the whole world knows now that dr. octagon is the man. i cut out his picture from the weekend arts section of the nytimes. its going on my wall or something. speaking of newspapers, the ny sun is clearly better than the times. I am going to start subscribing. maybe, just maybe, if I convice a few more people, there will be a landslide and everyone will abandon the times in one fell swoop. believe, brother. cinna-man bandstand land. more like cinna-bun or cigga-weed. chinese checkers. im glad everyone is in the one-up club. i invited many more people, but it will just take time, i guess. thats the way these things are. people are so. timid. but i. know the truth. it will take a while and then. a landslide of people.

and then went down to the ship

that's pretty crazy about lab rats. i prefer sugary things too. i guess we must share the same genetic code. did you know that humans share 99.9% of the same genetic code? hard to believe. that's why i don't. they be hating on my style. gotta counteract. new beginnings, fresh starts, facebook. mini feed. you know what i'm going to say about that. don't respond with a heckle, you sardine mustard face. tomorrow I may go to the Natural History Museum with my father. imagine that. I know I am. that '70s show marathons this weekend were good, exciting, fr-fr-fresh (friggity wee-bop). can't take the heat of my insane designs. collaborating and collapsing at the same time! oh no, refridgerated mushroom cauliflower soup is sprinkling my head with rainbow showers. too bad mohammed wasn't there to see it, but I did hit him up for a falafel with wally wall the viscious killer with his Black Magic. Yeah, you know, foo. packing good, going well enough, but soon in the high time the minions drone on and on, waiting for the solemn ending song to finish them away. activities for the new year, classes, these things are on my mind and interest me philosophically. what of the other things? social awkwardness from being ostracized in dewolfe? gatherings? sophomore get-togethers? what will I say in all of my grandiose toasts with cabernet savignon and colt 45 moustache top-touchery? tom foolery, y'all. just timberlake, antacid pills, caliber nitrate solution soluble enzymes. can't debilitate my rhymes. in rhythm as it flows like Greek and natural solo. mumbojimbo. been readin' poe short stories. they are good. I recommend "gold bug" and "x-ing a paragrab." both classic, one long one short, cut to the chase, mac daddy spleen. Bodies exhibit--too graphic for these virgin eyes. fetuses all dead and rubberized, nasty things like cancer and goiter. sexy chinamen with the flesh melted off and muscles preserved, holding american footballs. wonder what the world comes down to, huh? money and cash, hos, entrepreneurial skill sets and street smarts. little kids get swept away, wind swept into the sea. small fish small fries, they all wish they want to die. morbid thoughts? chicken salamander throat weasels, evil kneival, kneisel hall and books of self-mastery. jet li like a tiger makes you fearless even over death. I thought it was impossible, but in this human life we don't go on and on. one day perhaps I'll flit about along the tongues of men, my body ash and spirit wasted dust beneath the ground. sometimes it seems that we are all preoccupied with the individual, when really look at the ant and how the race lives on through all these years. when will we have time to procreate? master plans and fish farming all consume the expendable energies of a weary animal world. toil, toil, double double boil. trouble's hear and that's all I'll say. you know that you wish that you could that you might be one day a storyteller too? well, fiddle-de-doo.

From the NYTimes magazine

Some interesting reading from the New York Times magazine, about some addiction research conducted by Bruce Alexander at Simon Fraser University in British Columbia (full article here):

Beginning in the late 1970's, Alexander and his team of researchers at Simon Fraser set out to study the role of our environment on addictive behavior. Until that point, most scientists studying addiction put rats in small, individual cages and watched as they eagerly guzzled drug-laced solutions and ignored water and food, sometimes dying in the process. This phenomenon was noted — first by researchers, then drug czars, then parents trying to keep their children off drugs — as proof of the inherently addictive quality of drugs and of the inevitable addiction of any human who used them. This was false, of course. Most people who use drugs don't become addicted.

So what made all those lab rats lose their minds? Bruce Alexander and his research team had a rather simple hypothesis: The rats had awful lives. They were stressed, lonely, bored and looking to self-medicate. To prove it, Alexander created a lab-rat heaven he called Rat Park. The 200-square-foot residence featured bright balls and tin cans to play with, painted creeks and trees to look at and plenty of room for mating and socializing.

Alexander took 16 lucky rats and plopped them into Rat Park, where they were offered water or a sweet, morphine-based cocktail (rats love sweets). Alexander offered the same two drinks to the control group of rats he left isolated in cages. The results? The rat-parkers were apparently having too much fun to bother with artificial highs, because they hardly touched the morphine solution, no matter how sweet Alexander and his colleagues made it. The isolated and arguably depressed rats, on the other hand, eagerly got high, drinking more than a dozen times the amount of the morphine solution as the rats in paradise.

The rest of the article is 7 pages of analysis on prevailing attitudes toward addiction as a disease, but the real question is -- when can I play in Rat Park?

Alright bishes... make me a sammich

Hey you crazy fuckers. I know, I know. You're saying to yourself, "Is that really him?" ... Well yes it is. IT IS t3h PETRUSZ0rZ!!!!

Now that the wonderful intro is out of the way it's time to get to business. First order of business? I have slept for 4 hours in the past....let's see if today is Tuesday... is it Tuesday? Yeah... Saturday... to... yeah... carry the zero... no wait... two zeros and a monkey then divide by your mom... 53 hours. So basically this is going to be short and sweet or I'm going to mangle a kitten (but only if it's a vampire kitten). I'm coming up to Maine, Zach's lame-a-tude-ness of coming up later suits me just fine as I will be coming up either mighty late Sunday or fucking crazy ass early Monday (whatever works best for you, Jue) and if Zach wants to join me for a wonderful drive up then give me a ring-a-ding-ding baby, yeeeeaaaah ;-) and we'll work out the details.

PS: For those keeping score I've just finished my presentation at the lab and now will be cutting back hours in preparation for the return to school/sanity. It was ok but the essence of it was "I'm going to need to stick around for a while to actually finish up this stuff... and then I think I'll stay some more... oh yeah."

PPS: Ya momz!!!

another brick in the wall

today, when i officially finished my course and got my sweet sweet greek t shirt which i designed, i felt so releived and relaxed. it was wonderful. i almost hit the cieling with happiness as i roamed nyc to various locations to do my collections. big shout out to my people at def jam, lady luck, method man, the whole JMT crew, you know how we do. ciao, folks.

excited?

i was really excited when i saw that there were two comments on my latest post. but then i looked at them and saw that they were not posts but porn spam that got posted twice in a row. i feel like a sham. the only people who want to listen to me speak are actually lists of code for porn software. i guess its better than nobody.

and then...there's life

of course, a thing is only dead when you call it dead. therefore, im revoking my previous comment. this blog is very much alive. As Frank Zappa says:

a moonbeam through the prune, in june,
reveals your chest.
I see your lovely beans
and in that magic go-kart, I bite your neck.
The cheese I have for you, my dear,
is real and very new.

What to make of this genius? Later on, Zappa explains that a real prune "knows no cheese" and is "taller or softer than any tree (or bush)." Zappa's manipulation reminds me of the poem, Dreamland, by edgar allan poe, which begins something like this:

by a route obscure and lonely
haunted by ill angels only
where an eidolon named Night
on a black throne reigns upright
...
from a wild weird clime that lieth sublime,
out of space--out of time.

later, Zappa tells us that "a prune isn't really a vegetable," which could be seen as an affirmation of the fact that the prune knows no cheese.

our blog is officially dead.

obvi. whatev whatev i do what i want. ayathoi d' eridakrues avdres.