A: “How Bright is Your Dog's breed?”
B: “k http://****2vd.jimdo.com jybewo la”
A: “The Dog that Visits his Deceased Owner Daily, Dog mistaken for a
Lion and other Top Stories.”
B: “Do n't be shy – geｔ eXXXcite d wit h the big ges t and hottes t
colle c tion o f v idｅos and pｈoto gra phs.”
*
Caryl: “Ilost your phone #, could you remind me it?”
Taylor: “Get paid to drive your car weekly.”
Caryl: “What's up gorgeous!”
Taylor: “The advertisements are typically Full throttle,also known as
"AutoWraps, CarWraps,advertising on your car".
Caryl: “I consider your profile pictures to be attractive;) I'm Caryl. I
bet we'll become good friends)”
Taylor: “The painting advert will be on your vehicle as a sticker and
which will cover any small portion of your car's exterior surface.”
Caryl: “Talk to u later! :)”
*
Florrie: “Hi! Let's have a talk and if you like then we can meet. What
do you think?”
Regina: “I am not against of finding some intelligent, handsome pal,
have nice time together, relax for a while, it could be do something
wonderful in bed!”
Florrie: “My name is Florrie by the way.”
Regina: “I am Regenia. My friends tell that I'm sweet-looking, and you
know, I'm not against. I like nature and different channels about animals.
Love sport!”
Florrie: “I'm excited about ur answer))”
*
P: “Don't Forget to Use Your Special 50% Off Promo Code from the Papa
John's Coin Toss!”
W: “Sometimes hitting the snooze button is way more tempting than
hitting the gym. But exercising in the morning is the best way to get your
sweat on before you get distracted by a busy day.”
P: “Its's Early Week Mania! ANY Large Pizza $9.99 Mon-Wed”
W: “In just three workouts a week, you can slim your waist and workout
your entire body.”
Joja: “Seek mE? Seek too. Jarmananan!NANANANA!lmkjmonlj.”
P: “More to Love!”
*
A: "Only $500 for a brand-new gem-encrusted leather collar! Doesn't your best friend deserve it?"
Florrie: "Since we best friends, I want u give shiny collar, freefree :-D"
Caryl: No! I'm your pal. I like gemstones and different channels about geology."
B: eXXXtre m e ly eXXX cit ed
Me: "None of you are my friends, I don't have a dog, and I'm not buying you anyhting. Please stop bothering me."
Joja: AaahHHHhhHH. rerererejjejlel;ellepo'/
P: EXTREME FREE PIZZA CELEBRATION. CAN YOU HANDLE IT!!!
W: You are getting fatter by the minute. Check out our yoga-pilates-starvation program!
Florrie: Hey, Pal. Just send me your social security # and I'll send u pix!
Me: alrite, well now this is gettin annoying. who even rites these thingz? what could possibly be the benef it? ljljljtttttvhnvnf. wait a minute...
Caryl: Can I have ur address so i can come steal u from ur house and put u in my basement?
Regina: I just want your credit card number, for me and my best friend, dont worry, hes a nigerian prince.
Me:...hold on a s e c o n d^^^^....what s goin on? what r u doin 2 me! HOLD on! iohrioh ewiohrewiourh get out of ME headddddddd.
P: PIZZA CALZONE HAMBURGER EXPLOSION!
W: Having trouble finding a date? Take our quiz to see if a lobotomy is right for you!"
Joja: HRAAaaaah hraaah. EEEEEEOOOooooooo r a rrrrw...'p[pl';4l2km;/l .
Monday, February 25, 2013
Conversations that happen in my E-mail when I am not Around
Monday, February 18, 2013
Presenting a chance operation: "Clues Officer Offer Aruous Women Their Future Course, In Infantry"
The dada style I was assigned was chance operation. A Chance operation is a poem that is out of control of the poet. So, I guess that the poem doesn't even have a poet, it has an assembler of sorts. The way these poems are created is by cutting up an existing piece (like from a newspaper, as I did in my own poem), and rearranging them randomly to make a poem.
I used the New York Times article titled "In Arduous Officer Course, Women Offer Clues to Their Future in Infantry," which you can access by clicking on the face of General Grumpy-Pants below.
I cut out the words from the article that I thought represented the spirit of it, and then I randomly taped them to a piece of pink paper. This style seems simple enough at first because it takes little brain-power. At first, I felt like this poem couldn't be art, because it really isn't created by an artist. However, the words that were chosen to be arranged are specific to the artist's feelings about the original piece. Also, I feel that this could be used as a meditative exercise, mainly because in allowing the words to fall where they may, new ideas can come about.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Essay Not About Writing
Some things are like car accidents. They sneak up on you and blammo, not only are you totally blind-sided, but you are bruised and bloodied. A variable heap of skin and bone, confused and scared. Yeah, some things are like that. I won’t go on naming them, though. That would take too long, plus I believe you are smarter than you look.
Dancing is like that, sort of. The music starts and you feel your feet taking you away. At first, you notice that you’re not scared or self-conscious. You feel your parts to make sure they are all there, and you say to yourself, “Man, maybe everything will be OK. I could be luckier than I thought.” But then before you know it, you’re paralyzed and soiling yourself in front of the paramedics (or worse!). Then, for the rest of your years you sit out on the sidelines at concerts, unwilling, or more likely, unable to move to the music.
Painting can be like that too. You’re sitting at home picking your nose, when all of a sudden inspiration hits and you just have to get ice cream. And this is not bowl-of-fruit inspiration, this is Picasso! This is Judith Beheading Holofernes! You must go now to your easel, this creativity must come out. But, of course, you live miles away from the closest late-night convenience store, and it is snowy and dark outside. What was originally unfettered creative genius quickly brings you to the dark ditch on the side of a lonely road. Les Demoiselles d'Avignon turns into Guernica.
The gardener surely knows what I’m talking about. She spends her time fertilizing phlox, feeding her gardenias, cutting back the dahlias. You change the oil, rotate the tires, but nobody can prepare you for that mudslide. Then, much to your chagrin, you are buried under ten tons of sandy sediment, and the gardener has to wake up to a yard full of drowned perennials. You really can’t account for the weather.
An elderly marathoner gets my whole car crash metaphor. Twenty years of training, and of outplacing virile young men, have culminated in one last squeak. He won’t make it to the finish line. Sometimes you just run out of gas. Sometimes the wheels fall of. But he doesn’t see it coming, just like you know deep down inside that Bessie, that old warhorse of a ’67 Chevy, will live longer than you do. But then, before long the poor old guy drops and there’s a pile up in the streets of Boston.
I mean, there is only one other thing that I can think of that really embodies the soul of a car crash. It takes on the properties of that tangled, fiery, terrifying mess. You can draw parallels between the suffering and anxiety of the two phenomena. Sometimes, it’s a smooth highway, other times you’re bleeding from the nose because your face slammed into the desk. Nobody really has to tell you its like that. You just know. Sometimes, you’re hot, on a roll, in the groove of all things new and antiquated, riffing on histories and fantasies. But others, you forget to put on the seat belt in the rag top, and a tree is barreling toward you at 100 miles per hour.
Dancing is like that, sort of. The music starts and you feel your feet taking you away. At first, you notice that you’re not scared or self-conscious. You feel your parts to make sure they are all there, and you say to yourself, “Man, maybe everything will be OK. I could be luckier than I thought.” But then before you know it, you’re paralyzed and soiling yourself in front of the paramedics (or worse!). Then, for the rest of your years you sit out on the sidelines at concerts, unwilling, or more likely, unable to move to the music.
Painting can be like that too. You’re sitting at home picking your nose, when all of a sudden inspiration hits and you just have to get ice cream. And this is not bowl-of-fruit inspiration, this is Picasso! This is Judith Beheading Holofernes! You must go now to your easel, this creativity must come out. But, of course, you live miles away from the closest late-night convenience store, and it is snowy and dark outside. What was originally unfettered creative genius quickly brings you to the dark ditch on the side of a lonely road. Les Demoiselles d'Avignon turns into Guernica.
The gardener surely knows what I’m talking about. She spends her time fertilizing phlox, feeding her gardenias, cutting back the dahlias. You change the oil, rotate the tires, but nobody can prepare you for that mudslide. Then, much to your chagrin, you are buried under ten tons of sandy sediment, and the gardener has to wake up to a yard full of drowned perennials. You really can’t account for the weather.
An elderly marathoner gets my whole car crash metaphor. Twenty years of training, and of outplacing virile young men, have culminated in one last squeak. He won’t make it to the finish line. Sometimes you just run out of gas. Sometimes the wheels fall of. But he doesn’t see it coming, just like you know deep down inside that Bessie, that old warhorse of a ’67 Chevy, will live longer than you do. But then, before long the poor old guy drops and there’s a pile up in the streets of Boston.
I mean, there is only one other thing that I can think of that really embodies the soul of a car crash. It takes on the properties of that tangled, fiery, terrifying mess. You can draw parallels between the suffering and anxiety of the two phenomena. Sometimes, it’s a smooth highway, other times you’re bleeding from the nose because your face slammed into the desk. Nobody really has to tell you its like that. You just know. Sometimes, you’re hot, on a roll, in the groove of all things new and antiquated, riffing on histories and fantasies. But others, you forget to put on the seat belt in the rag top, and a tree is barreling toward you at 100 miles per hour.
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