All women are liars.

All women are liars and all men are wise.

In the umpteenth day of the sixth month of the double-thousand-some-odd year after the invisible man hung himself on a giant mathematical operator a medium-sized hairless monkey sits down in the middle of a large, empty room in front of a giant supercomputer to write a manifesto. This is what he says, more or less, though because he is a monkey and becaue he has been drugged by his capitalist captors, he is wont to make clerical and thought-process errors that would make most beasts’ hair stand on end:

– Something’s gotta turn out right
– But maybe not for a long time
– We refuse to serve anyone not wearing a shirt, especially women
– On the road to St. Ives there was no-one who didn’t also appear in Candide
– There has never been an end to slavery
– You gotta sing to yourself and rock gently a little or you’re just another schizo
– Death is joy
– Joy
– Joy, joy, joy (melodic)
– This is my manifesto
– Amen

He stands, looks around, and pulls his arms off. Hairless and bloody, they lie there like modernity on the concrete until the wardenkeeper comes to take them away. Later, he will fed them to his small, hairless children.

It is a Gacy world, mostly.

I never, ever want to become “southern California people.”

I had planned to go climb a mountain today and maybe (though I hadn’t decided yet) carry a camera and shoot some trite photos, but instead yesterday my radiator hose blew up in the middle of the day while I was on lunch break and so, since I need my car for all kinds of general stuff (including getting to work) while in southern California, I spent the first half of the day or more working on fixing it.

Then I was going to try to get my oil changed and then maybe go and do something this afternoon downtown or god knows what, but I have this new neighbor exactly across the way who left me a note saying that she needed to “angle” her apparently sizable furniture into her apartment through my open front door and perhaps it was the subtlest hint or perhaps it was my imagination, but I suspected that if I didn’t give her a call within an hour or two, she’d call the landlady to come and open my door in my absence so that she could finish moving in.

The problem with that is that my place has been an incredible mess, stacked high with paperwork and and endless stream of empty beer cans and bottles. That’s enough by itself to trouble a landlord, but add in the fact that I don’t have any furniture and so everything is stacked high on the carpet around a sleeping bag and I suspect I’d have had something of a crisis on my hands if anyone were to come busting in.

So I spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning and mopping recycling and organizing and uncluttering and going through my paperwork and blah, blah, blah, shite that I hadn’t planned to have to deal with this weekend. And now it’s after 4.00 and I don’t really want to do anything anymore, I’m pretty beat, mainly because I’m a fucking weenie.

So.

I’m gonna play some video games and drink a beer and watch some television and take a shower and contemplate the possibility of hiking tomorrow.

when they were young they read twain, old — proust
and when the sun descended each day, they would always wait for the sound of the last car passing
the sound of today sliding into forever