Tuesday, June 28, 2005
An ancient Chinese classification system for animals is:
1. Those that belong to the Emperor
2. Those that have four legs
3. Wild dogs
4. Those that are likely to break a jar
5. Those that resemble flies, at least from a distance
6. Those that behave in a crazy way
7. Embalmed animals
8. Tame animals
9. Uncountables
10. Those that are drawn with a very fine brush, made of camel hair
11. Mythical beasts
12. Piglets, nursed on milk
13. Et cetera
2. Those that have four legs
3. Wild dogs
4. Those that are likely to break a jar
5. Those that resemble flies, at least from a distance
6. Those that behave in a crazy way
7. Embalmed animals
8. Tame animals
9. Uncountables
10. Those that are drawn with a very fine brush, made of camel hair
11. Mythical beasts
12. Piglets, nursed on milk
13. Et cetera
"Mabel is unstable..."
... and other vintage drugs ads for Methadone, Quaaludes, Thorazine and more!
If she gets stuck,
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Andrew Haley - SFSG
SFSG Sabes que yo comprendo la carne minima del mundo.
June 22.
Yesterday was the shortest day of the year. Up at dawn from tea and
cold medicine I saw the clouds in the pale sky over the smoke stacks
and abandonned projects of the industrial strip that spreads below our
balcony along the edge of Boca to the river. Now, at the end of the
first longest day of the year, I'm listening to Carla Bruni, sipping
brandy with the window open, having superheated the apartment in
preparation of a wicked apple cobbler I will take to a dinner party at
Klaus and Peck's. Klaus is pursuing a PhD in economics at Princeton
(dissertation: Why is Argentina so fucked up?) and is town for a month
to visit his wife, Peck, a sweet chipmunk-cheeked Argie in The
Program, the Georgetown masters program in international development
that all our weiguo friends are in.
I divide my life between San Telmo and Palermo and love the exchange.
Arriving in San Telmo I climb the stairs into the vaulted station and
cross through the human debris (stray dogs, stolen watches, leppers,
one peso sandwiches, calls of trains) that litter the amazing central
archway. There's a duck and a swagger past the traffic, under the
freeway, rain coming down on the greyscale of abandonned hotels and
dirty slate steeples. Then I go down Calle Brasil past the
revolutionary headquarters and the Chinese hotel, past the two dollar
diners and junkies sleeping in the dry spaces overhanging rooves
provide. The orange neon HOTEL sign of the Three Magi Hotel appears
through the rain and I duck under a scaffold with a bottle of cana
from the corner wine shop and trudge down the hill along the edge of
the park where the city was founded.
In Palermo, I wake in the afternoons and watch the evening sunlight
slanting in the willows outside the window and we have coffee and go
out to buy apples or eggs from the fruit shop on the corner and then
we go up Thames to the Genovese noodle shop where the old man cranks
sheets of pasta from an old machine and slices them by hand and we
stop at the market for tomato sauce and wine and the windows fill up
with steam when the water boils. The leaves are down and swept from
the gutter and in the middle of the night the garbage truck comes down
the cobbled street with the two guys running beside, swinging the bags
into the back and again we wake up in the afternoon even though we
promised each other to get up early so we could read. In the evenings
I get upset reading case studies from the dirty war and we talk about
Menem and Fujimori. Without distraction the time slips by until it's
five again and we crawl off to bed.
- - - -
Le Ciel Dans Une Chambre
Quand tu es près de moi,
Cette chambre n'a plus de parois,
Mais des arbres oui, des arbres infinis,
Et quand tu es tellement près de moi,
C'est comme si ce plafond-là,
Il n'existait plus, je vois le ciel penché sur nous... qui restons
ainsi,
Abandonnés tout comme si,
Il n'y avait plus rien, non plus rien d'autre au monde,
J'entends l'harmonica... mais on dirait un orgue,
Qui chante pour toi et pour moi,
Là-haut dans le ciel infini,
Et pour toi, et pour moi
Quando sei qui con me
Questa stanza non ha piu pareti
Ma alberi, alberi infiniti
E quando tu sei vicino a me
Questo soffitto, viola, no
Non esiste più, e vedo il cielo sopra a noi
Che restiamo quì, abbandonati come se
Non ci fosse più niente più niente al mondo,
Suona l'armonica, mi sembra un organo
Che canta per te e per me
Su nell'immensità del cielo
E per te e per me.
-Carla Bruni
June 22.
Yesterday was the shortest day of the year. Up at dawn from tea and
cold medicine I saw the clouds in the pale sky over the smoke stacks
and abandonned projects of the industrial strip that spreads below our
balcony along the edge of Boca to the river. Now, at the end of the
first longest day of the year, I'm listening to Carla Bruni, sipping
brandy with the window open, having superheated the apartment in
preparation of a wicked apple cobbler I will take to a dinner party at
Klaus and Peck's. Klaus is pursuing a PhD in economics at Princeton
(dissertation: Why is Argentina so fucked up?) and is town for a month
to visit his wife, Peck, a sweet chipmunk-cheeked Argie in The
Program, the Georgetown masters program in international development
that all our weiguo friends are in.
I divide my life between San Telmo and Palermo and love the exchange.
Arriving in San Telmo I climb the stairs into the vaulted station and
cross through the human debris (stray dogs, stolen watches, leppers,
one peso sandwiches, calls of trains) that litter the amazing central
archway. There's a duck and a swagger past the traffic, under the
freeway, rain coming down on the greyscale of abandonned hotels and
dirty slate steeples. Then I go down Calle Brasil past the
revolutionary headquarters and the Chinese hotel, past the two dollar
diners and junkies sleeping in the dry spaces overhanging rooves
provide. The orange neon HOTEL sign of the Three Magi Hotel appears
through the rain and I duck under a scaffold with a bottle of cana
from the corner wine shop and trudge down the hill along the edge of
the park where the city was founded.
In Palermo, I wake in the afternoons and watch the evening sunlight
slanting in the willows outside the window and we have coffee and go
out to buy apples or eggs from the fruit shop on the corner and then
we go up Thames to the Genovese noodle shop where the old man cranks
sheets of pasta from an old machine and slices them by hand and we
stop at the market for tomato sauce and wine and the windows fill up
with steam when the water boils. The leaves are down and swept from
the gutter and in the middle of the night the garbage truck comes down
the cobbled street with the two guys running beside, swinging the bags
into the back and again we wake up in the afternoon even though we
promised each other to get up early so we could read. In the evenings
I get upset reading case studies from the dirty war and we talk about
Menem and Fujimori. Without distraction the time slips by until it's
five again and we crawl off to bed.
- - - -
Le Ciel Dans Une Chambre
Quand tu es près de moi,
Cette chambre n'a plus de parois,
Mais des arbres oui, des arbres infinis,
Et quand tu es tellement près de moi,
C'est comme si ce plafond-là,
Il n'existait plus, je vois le ciel penché sur nous... qui restons
ainsi,
Abandonnés tout comme si,
Il n'y avait plus rien, non plus rien d'autre au monde,
J'entends l'harmonica... mais on dirait un orgue,
Qui chante pour toi et pour moi,
Là-haut dans le ciel infini,
Et pour toi, et pour moi
Quando sei qui con me
Questa stanza non ha piu pareti
Ma alberi, alberi infiniti
E quando tu sei vicino a me
Questo soffitto, viola, no
Non esiste più, e vedo il cielo sopra a noi
Che restiamo quì, abbandonati come se
Non ci fosse più niente più niente al mondo,
Suona l'armonica, mi sembra un organo
Che canta per te e per me
Su nell'immensità del cielo
E per te e per me.
-Carla Bruni
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Oh. Mah. GAWD.
Roger, this one is most especially for you:
"But Ann Coulter is the only celebrity I’ve ever spotted at Farmer’s Market
that I wound up fucking in the ass, hard. "
"But Ann Coulter is the only celebrity I’ve ever spotted at Farmer’s Market
that I wound up fucking in the ass, hard. "
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Creep
Who loves Tom York? WE love Tom York!
Who loves Flash?
. . .
. . .
. . .
Ok.
Well.
Maybe we would love it if more of it were always this well done and featured Radiohead more often. Check it out.
P.S. Thanks, Josh Holyoak!
Who loves Flash?
. . .
. . .
. . .
Ok.
Well.
Maybe we would love it if more of it were always this well done and featured Radiohead more often. Check it out.
P.S. Thanks, Josh Holyoak!
