Author: Jeremy Clarke

August 16, 2004

Today, A Brother is forced to drink four liters of a liquid who’s goal is to rid his piping of the various substances that make him a human, and, unable to complete this task, is forced to take medication which removes the natural urge to expel said liquid orally.
Today, A Brother has bucket’s worth of water passed through his body, hungry and miserable.
Today, A Son tells his mother that she should not cry, that he did not mean to make her cry.

Tomorrow, he will sleep as his body is altered forever, brought up to par.
Tomorrow he will have new and improved insides, a head full of drugs, and several weeks of intense boredom ahead of him.

Now, he just wants to sleep.

also,

August 16, 1986

Today, a new son is born, named Peter, for the rock.
Soon, he will be taken from all by the malignancy of his own mind. By a brain which could not handle this world, nor it’s radiation.
Still a toddler the universe ends for him, a memory never truly grasped.
Eighteen years from today his younger-brother-to-be will enter hospital, on the birthday of majority that will never be.
Neither will drink alcohol to celebrate.

[note: I changed the title of this post because I was getting like twenty google hits a day from people searching for “Fu[]king k[]ds” and it depressed me to see them all in the logs. GO AWAY CH[]LD PORN[]GRAPHY SEEKERS! THERE IS NONE HERE!]

Today I got my Dinosaur Comics pins in the mail from the inimitable Ryan North. A fine collection that excells in design, functionality AND awesomeness. Stop with the envy and get your own set here!

Alternately, you can just read the comic (archive), which will blow your mind. Seriously.

Women, kindly read this article posted to everything2 (a kind of ad hoc netcylopedia built on random ranting). Thank you.

No. I will never let this die. I will change the system, you will see.

(via phil)

Most people have heard of adbusting, or culture jamming. The idea that the best way to fight fire is with fire, and that culturally we must re-appropriate the images that swarm around us for our own uses. Advertising and billboards become, in the eyes of the Adbuster, material for composing a new dialog with those around them, a way to convey ideas that would normally attract no attention at all (hint: people will actually look at something more if there is a stupid logo they have been sold on it, even if they’d rather not).

Good idea right? So good, apparently, that the advertisers themselves have decided to get in on the act, using the visual splendor of public art to draw eyes towards their repetitious and numbing billboards (Click Picture at right for larger view)

This was one of the finest and most prominent pieces of semi-spontaneous urban art in Montreal. It made excellent use of the space, both physically and psychially provided it, and generally spruced up a neighboorhood that was lacking in such colorful creativity. Now it’s just a big eye-grabbing backdrop for a demi-food hocking corporation.

Seriously though, is anyone else craving a bacon salad?

Lens crafters was afraid to install new lenses in these old 60’s frames because of their tiny genetalia (lens-crafters’ not the glasses’), so Greiche & Schaff had to do the work. You should use them instead when you can’t see stuff. Their balls are huge and their vaginas could crush small nations, forget those wusses at lens crafters.

Also, what the hell is wrong with Minute Maid? Why would you put aspartame in a bottle of JUICE? I’m dying fast enough because of the coffee and booze, thank you, I don’t need you adding poison in my juice. (and here I was thinking that “LIGHT” would just mean no sugar added)

Last time I go in a mall for awhile I guess. Why is it that whenever I buy stuff it sucks so much?

in the depths of this funk i sit,
and also stand.
with a churn in my stomach,
that is really just worry,
but feels more like meat.

in the depths of this funk i wander,
from place to place in the rain,
with louisa,
talking like scientists,
dissecting the corpse,
of a love that died so suddenly,
ruptured and deflated.
we posit, and conject,
re-consider and forget,
comparing the misdeeds of today,
with the evils of the past,
and the infidelities of the weekend.

in the depths of this funk i hug Her,
as She boards a bus,
more bags than years,
and tell Her that the summer was fun,
and that school will be great,
and that i will write to her,
and that i regret nothing,
and that She has lighted my life,
like a window,
in a room,
already lit,
with too many curtains…
and what i do not say,
what i cannot say,
involves all of the above.

in the depths of this funk i walk,
by myself down the street,
in the heart of The Village,
swinging a yo-yo,
in front,
and back,
attracting the looks,
of the men in the cafes,
fishing,
as it were,
with my white wood,
and string,
for the compliment i need,
for an empty, lusty stare,
for a moments distraction,
i watch the toy fly,
i watch and i focus.

in the depths of this funk i look forward,
a book about existence beside me,
that tells of decision,
of responsibility,
of freedom,
but all i can feel is its dread,
of a clear day waiting to be filled,
of pavement reeking of tar,
of a clean drinking glass,
and What To Do eludes me,
and Where I Am is lost again,
and My Stomach Rumbles,
and perhaps it wants meat,
but it cannot have any.