Wednesday, February 17, 2016

The Polish Adventurer.

So I am reading this Atlantic article about Baron Roman Fedorovich von Ungern-Sternberg (who was a White Russian who sort of took over Mongolia in the 1920s) and in it the author Nick Danforth
drops a mention of a Polish guy named Ferdynand Antoni Ossendowski who is described as
an “adventurer and reputed fabulist” and I am left sitting here wondering how the fuck I get that on my business card.

I mean, let’s be honest here, I basically am an adventurer and fabulist, but I have really got to turn it up to eleven if I’m going to get other people to describe me that way.


It's supposed to rain here for another 13 hours. Good thing I went in on that canoe timeshare.

via Instagram

Tuesday, February 16, 2016

An Actual Text Message I Just Sent.

Hey, in your travels have you ever come across a film critic named Manny Farber? I think he was big in the 70s and 80s. His thing was that he wrote like a food processor.


Thursday, February 11, 2016

Hail, Caesar! My Mom’s Movie Review.

A NOTE FROM THE EDITORS HERE AT STANDARDKINK: Sometimes my mother emails me her thoughts on recent movies and sometimes I post them here without telling her I am going to.

Recently she went and saw Hail, Caesar!, which I have not seen yet. I have read several professional reviews, but I honestly think this one is the best I’ve come across:

I had thought that, since this movie has George Clooney and the Coen Bros, it would be a clever comedy. Actually, it was neither!

Sure, there were some funny (stupid) gags and George Clooney was in it, but it was much more Josh Brolin's movie. Wayne Knight was a wonderful villain,  which he does so well. But, he was only in it about 5 minutes. Channing Tatum is surely a rival for Gene Kelly in the tap- dancing category. He was really good. But, once again, for only about five minutes. The cowboy star was good, but he should have had a much bigger part. Josh Brolin was very believable as the studio boss, but his constant praying was uncomfortable. Scarlett Johansson might as well not even been there. Frances McDormand was funny, but once again, was only on screen about 3 minutes. Oh, Josh Brolin's secretary was well played.

All in all, there was basically no story - except George's kidnapping- and the talent of all these actors was just wasted. I would see it again if it was free!

Otherwise, when it was over, you Dad and I looked at each other and said, WTF?

How awesome is my mother, BTW?


My New Clothing Line.

Yesterday my friend Tommy and I (via text) designed a t-shirt! You can go buy it here.

Is it juvenile? Sure. 

Is it also kind of brilliant? Yes. 

Is it a perfect commentary on our current feelings about politics in America? You betcha.


Accidental (FTD) Poetry.

I still use a Yahoo email address for some stuff because I have had it for about a hundred and fifty years. It is also the email I use whenever I sign up for things, so all my later marketing (spam-ish) email goes to one place.

Well I just got a marketing email from FTD (because when I am seeing a lady I like to send flowers, because that is the kind of thing one should do) and the way Yahoo mail works you see not just the subject line of the email, but also a brief preview of the text. Well the FTD email was enabled with links and so I saw in the preview the names of the links and this is what I saw:

Shop Birthday Sympathy Questions

How is that NOT  a collection of poetry yet??? Because I am a sporting kind of guy, I will give the internet 24 hours to claim that title and write it, otherwise I am going to have to do it, because obviously that needs to exist in the world.


An Actual Email I Just Sent.

For the last twelve hours or so I have been listening to off-and-on Youtube audio live streams of telephone calls between the Y’all Qaeda militia idiots in Oregon and some crazy person named Gavin Seim who seems to be a go-between of some sort for the FBI and also an aspiring D-list celebrity. This is an email I just sent to the girl who told me about the live streams:

… those idiots from last night are livestreaming again with (apparently) the only guy left and I can't stop listening to it! Why did you tell me about this?! I’m addicted.

So the holdout is named "David". On the phone are the same people from last night (Gavin and Monica) and "Mark the FBI Agent" is on a separate phone with David and we can't hear that.

The conversation is interesting because Gavin & Monica sound like Christian AM talk radio hosts. David, apparently is some kind of Jewish (which Gavin & Monica were surprised to learn and immediately cut all the Jesus talk when he said that) and "Mark" is this demon-like character haunting the background who we never hear.

David is clearly unhinged and his sense of the world is as influenced by the X-Files reruns as it is the Constitution. He's anti-Capitalist, pro-America, anti-American government, anti-oil, pro-green energy, anti-Obama, pro-Islam (somehow??), anti-taxes, pro-Syria (??), pro-UFOs, anti-immigrant (which sets up an oddly incongruous kind of xenophobia). To my mind, he actually comes off more sympathetic than Monica & Gavin (they are craven people and they are going to be famous in their circles after this).

If we do not produce a play about this, someone else is going to.


Wednesday, February 10, 2016

RAWWWWWWR! (Or just, you know, a yawn.)

via Instagram

Machu Picchu.

So in one of my classes there is a guy who seems to either not understand - or just outright disavows - the notion of white privilege. He is also a straight, white, cisgender, American male in the 21st century. Well the other night before class I heard him in conversation with someone else and he said (and I quote, because I wrote it down): “When I was hiking up Machu Picchu I met a person that I took a class with in Rome.”

And that was when my head exploded.


What my commute looks like this morning.

via Instagram

Monday, February 8, 2016


I just realized that whenever I talk to my phone, I refer to it as “Siri” even when it is not doing Siri stuff. Like I was just listening to NPR and the reporter said something I thought was stupid and I said, “Well Siri, that's just stupid.”

So I guess that now - in my brain - “Siri” does all the things my phone does. Which means that the ghost of Steve Jobs lives in my subconscious now, which I am not crazy happy about, but even I have to admit that is some really well done brand inception-ing.

Surely I am not the only person experiencing this, right?


Creative Engagement.

One of the classes I am in requires that we write responses of some sort to everything that we are reading in class. This week we read a book called The Activist by Renee Gladman. Full disclosure: the class is seminar in prose fiction and the title is “This Is Not A Novel: Exploring the Boundaries of 21st Century Fiction.” So this is not a 19th Century lit class. We are going to be reading books that are primarily “experimental” or “avant-garde” in nature, subject matter, and/or construction. So it is the kind of stuff that I enjoy, though it is also the stuff I tend to be most critical of because often this is the kind of writing that I think is most self-indulgent.

Anyway, below is a “Creative Engagement” response I wrote to Gladman’s rather “avant-garde”. Note how I do not even mention the book. That is because I am a grad student and all FAF.


The Activist - A Creative Engagement.

Our term d’art “avant-garde” derives its meaning, oddly, from military terminology of the 15th century and, not so oddly, from the French.

The “advance guard” of “vanguard” of a military force consisted of those out in front. Or, as David Strathairn said to Joan Allen over egg white omelettes and coffee in The Bourne Ultimatum, “We are the tip of the spear now.”

He, of course, was discussing highly trained assassins and his insistence on egg white omelets was meant to make him seem effete, which is a French word that describes how Americans feel about the French.

That we have borrowed a term from European battlefields - a term which once implied death and blood and the first to witness fresh new horrors - to describe the paintings done by elephants and the occasional sea lion, tells us much about how we enjoy using words.

The French themselves are weary of our tendency to do this. They fear that on some imaginary future battlefield, some future de Gaulle (whom - rightfully, they believe - is leading the world against some imaginary future Hitler simulacrum) will call for an advance guard to lead the charge over the top and across the no-man’s-land of charred bodies and chubby rats and we will arrive, all of us, with urinals. Urinals, which we have been plundering from the towns we have rolled through - even though de Gaulle has told us not to - and we have inked our names on them with sharpies and we hold our urinals up the gray sky and we shout out to de Gaulle 2.0, “PANCAKES! SQUEEGEES! PHILIP GLASS!” And he presses his hand to the center of his forehead, looks down at the mix of mud and shit and blood caked on his boots and shakes his head slowly, almost imperceivable from side to side.

To prevent this - in the French estimation - completely plausible scenario from playing out, they established the Académie Française, which is tasked with the preservation of the French language. Across the Channel, the chums at the Oxford English Dictionary take great care in selecting new words which they will allow into the language that they granted themselves the right to police. The reality, of course, is that Urban Dictionary is real arbiter of language, but like that time there were two Catholic popes for a while, the boys at the OED just act like they are the ones who knock. Over tea they survey all of the words, all of the malapropisms and portmanteaus, and like EU border guards, only let in the cute ones.

Meanwhile, the French, over wine, smoke cigarettes - which tourists in Paris keep asking them not to do - and wonder silently to themselves where it all went so wrong for them. They all know the answer is Dechamp, but no one has ever said this out loud.

The Académie Française was established by world-renowned pussy-footed tight-ass Cardinal Richelieu in 1635. Notably, it was suspended during the French Revolution, a unique period in French history when they attempted to reboot political revolutions in the style of the Americans, but with lackluster results. “No one really understands the French Revolution,” the actor David Strathairn - who prior to his star-making role in Good Night, and Good Luck, studied the French art forms of mime and clowning at the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Clown College in Venice Florida - told Slate magazine in a 2005 interview, “the meaning got lost somewhere in all that bloodshed. The French Revolution might still be going on for all anyone knows,”

The Académie Française was reestablished as the “Institute de France” in 1803 and some short time later sent a letter to Marcel Duchamp asking him to just chill on all the avant-garde stuff because people down the line might get the wrong idea and that it was okay if he was only showing his stuff off in France because obviously they would all get it, but please keep it way the hell away from the Americans.

Try as he might though, Duchamp couldn’t avoid the firestorm in the American press after he and New York-based friend and artist Francis Picabia went on a graffiti rampage while on a bender one weekend in The Meatpacking District. Dragged before a judge in the Southern District of New York court and asked to explain himself, Duchamp slurred, “Art is destruction!” The following day Duchamp was released into the custody of Tristan Tzara who had mysteriously materialized in New York wearing an elegant swan dress and who posted Duchamp’s bail by handing the court clerk envelopes filled with pancakes.

The Institute de France smuggled Duchamp back across the Atlantic as quickly as possible, but the damage had already been done. The Americans knew now that there was something to this idea that art and destruction could somehow be linked. That there might be beauty in malformity. That boundaries between the made world and the sublime world were not so real as they seemed. In typical American fashion, not long after, they invented the atomic bomb.
The American Buddhist and mystic J. Robert Oppenheimer, father of the atomic bomb, once wrote in a letter to then-President Harry Truman, “You have never seen a sunrise of such terrible beauty as the one I have made in this desert.”

In the 2009 documentary film The Trials of J. Robert Oppenheimer, the physicist was played by the American actor David Strathairn who - when once asked in a article about his friend Steve Martin’s extensive collection of abstract art - said, “Yeah, Steve has a lot of great stuff. I don’t really understand much of it, but I like looking at it.”  


Thursday, February 4, 2016

It is February and it looks like fall and/or maybe spring has finally come to Southern California!

via Instagram

Songs for My Band’s Next Album.

Many of you know that I am in a completely hypothetical band. We don’t - you know - actually “play music” or “own instruments”, we simply exist as a band in the universe. Pretty much anybody can be in the band. Do you want to be in our band? POOF! You’re in the band. Congratulations.

Over the years I have been compiling a list of songs that I will never write. The songs below will be on our forthcoming album which will never be written, recorded, or released. Enjoy!

The Abstract Machine

Your Unengineered Moral Architecture is Crumbling

The Root Book

Magical Realism on the Great Plains

Binary Logic is the Spiritual reality of the root-tree

Too Thin Information

The Abortionists of Unity

Pay to the Order of Disorder!

The Alligator Knows an Eskimo

The Charming Crimes I Commit

Flat Multiplicities of
n Dimensions

That Gun-Penis Thing

What We Do in the 6th Floor Stairwell


White Dudes Speaking for Other People

Your Wikipedia of Desire

Follow the Plants

Pop Nihilism

Heavy Metal Hanukkah

Partying in Secret

Jimmy Smits and the Riots!

The Fossil Song


(Some of these are words/ideas straight up lifted from Deleuze & Guattari’s introduction to their book a thousand plateaus [which I was recently made to read] and luckily for me, their “rhizomatic” approach to systems of knowledge seems to preclude the possibility of plagiarism and so they can’t sue me for stealing from them. Suckers!)

An Actual Email I Just Sent.

I just realized something. Yesterday in my class I showed a Youtube clip from the end on the movie 2001. It was the part when Dave is turning off the computer HAL and HAL is getting dumber while Dave is doing it. HAL starts to talk all slow and weird because Dave is killing its brain. The essay they read for homework referenced this scene and I thought they should see it because 18-yr-old probably have never seen 2001.

Well something didn't sit right with me about the clip. I had watched it previously (I thought), but something seemed different. I didn't remember HAL singing exactly that way as he died.

This is the clip we watched.

I just realized what HAL is singing, it is Rick Astley's "Never Gonna Give You Up". I Rick Rolled my own class.

Next Monday I am going to use this as a teachable moment to demonstrate the dangers of trusting what we find on the internet.




Perfect Pizza Storm.

On Thursdays I get to spend most of the day working on stuff for school (I have class tonight at 7pm) and so I spend a majority of Thursday's sitting here at my kitchen table where I do most of my writing and most of my schoolwork. These are relatively peaceful days and I open the blinds on my big window that looks out into the courtyard of my apartment building. The window faces north and the quality of light is usually quite nice. I also get to see all the comings and goings off all the randoms who live in my building. There is a weird mix of other college students, 20-somethings who are probably living on their own for the first time, some families, but also pensioners, and some straight up burn-outs. This ain’t exactly a middle class haven or anything, the rent is fairly low and so that attracts a certain type of renter. I love it here. I have never felt uncomfortable and while the building is old, the place has never felt dumpy to me, though my expectations are probably someone different. A couple months ago I was at a Christmas party thrown by some friends-of-friends and those friends-of-friends had just moved into a beautiful and GIANT house with like 5 bedrooms, they’d put in new tile and redone the kitchen and bathroom. It was a beautiful home in the style of a Pottery Barn catalogue and I couldn’t help but think, “It is a good thing these people don’t come visit me ever because my apartment has wine-stained carpet and some visible water damage. I don’t mind those things, but clearly what I value is different. My friends-of-friends don’t even have kids yet, but their house throbbed gently with the anticipation. That place was too big and I can’t even imagine the size of the mortgage. The place was big in that way that vastly exceeds need. And while we all get to choose how to live our lives, I shook my head a little bit while trying to locate a bathroom amongst the thicket of doors and bedrooms and garages and offices and hall closets. Who needs all this? I was asking myself.

I do not, but then I left a decent career to go back to school, to write, to learn how to teach and thereby guarantee a life of debt and poverty. But I’m happy and no amount of empty bedrooms can ever add up to that.

So I am having a nice and peaceful Thursday sitting here at my little table and watching the cast of the play “My Apartment Building” going about their lives. One thing that I’ve observed and which you might find interesting if you are a sociologist or cultural anthropologist (and aren’t we all, in a way, amateur sociologists or cultural anthropologists?) there is almost constantly a pizza deliveryman showing up. The socioeconomic mix of tenants here seems to have created a perfect storm of pizza. It is not yet noon and I have seen 3 different pizza guys show up. Who orders pizza in the morning? I think this is worthy of study.

Speaking of study, I need to get back to mine. All these fancy books aren’t going to read themselves.


Wednesday, February 3, 2016

An Old Pearl.

I have had a little but stuck in my brain all week. Something stuck in my craw. I had not been able to put my finger on it. It was like when you have a word on the tip of your tongue, but it never seems to come. I have had an idea, or a memory down there in the folds of my brains, like a little pearl down in the gray pink meat of an oyster, but I just couldn't quite figure out what it was.

Well I just realized what it was. JUST NOW! this is literally happening in real time!

So what was stuck in my craw? It was a fake short play I wrote in 2011!!!

It is reposted below.

The more things change, the more they stay the same


Scenes From an Italian Restaurant.

Some of you may know that I have a background as a playwright and that from time to time I like to dash off short plays for fun. Well, here is a short play re-imagining a conversation/lame publicity stunt which recently took place between Sarah Palin and Donald Trump. 

Scenes From an Italian Restaurant 
a short play 
by james bezerra 

ACT I SCENE I A man and a woman and the man’s disastrously bad “hair” sit at a table in a pizzeria. The woman is former Alaska Governor and current media-whore Sarah Palin. The man is former and current and perpetual media-whore Donald Trump. The hair is of an unknown composition. The three quietly eat their pizza slices. 

TRUMP: Hey Sarah, remember when we were politically relevant? 
PALIN: I don’t know what that word means. 




On Instagram (Again).

I have posted this before, but it has been on my mind alot lately because I am working on a project that I think will end up being part photobook and part fictional narrative. I’m imagining something is like a coffee table book of photography that is filled with lies. In my head it is the kind of cool little book you would buy at Urban Outfitters, but - you know - good.

Anyway, this is what I posted before:

On Instagram.

I’m not suggesting that you actually read this article by Neil Shea,
as it is like 5,000 words too long, but it does contain this paragraph, which I quite like:

I came to understand the Instagram experience, with its constant flow of images and text boxes, presented an alternative story geometry that demanded from me new things. Shorter stories, sure, but also the app asks for a deeper consideration of photographs and the rich, nuanced ways that words and pictures work together. Over time I realized that beneath the selfie surface, Instagram provided a powerful, unexpected, and mostly underutilized storytelling tool.

Bad Goodreader.

I never post to my GoodReads account (because I am a slothful person, I guess), but I was asked recently to describe my “ideal bookcase” and below is what I wrote.



Oddly - or perhaps not - my ideal bookcase is not significantly different from my actual bookcase. For several years now I have been engaged in a life project of minimizing what I own and this has led me to a place where I’ve downsized my library by more than half. So when I sit at my table writing, I can glance up and see them peering back at me, the books. My living room is dominated by several of those cheap black Ikea honeycomb shelf cubes. They’re low and flat and I don’t put anything on top of them. The long bare line of the top of the bookcases helps make the room seem tidy, it makes the ceiling seem high, and it helps to create a sense of calm which brings me a lot of joy. Depending on what I’m writing, I will rearrange the books on the shelves nearest to me. Much like the lighting design of a theater, I like to design the creative radiation coming at me from the nearest books. This would be my ideal design:

Amnesiascope, Steve Erickson. For the longest time this was my favorite book. It is strange and sexy and meandering and not really about anything, but also kind of about everything.

Still Life with Woodpecker, Tom Robbins. For my money this is just about the most perfect and beautiful small novel.

Girl in the Flammable Skirt, Aimee Bender. Basically just the best collection of stories ever.

The Godfather, Mario Puzo. Despite the book’s pulpy reputation and the movie(s) overshadowing it, this is a huge and epic novel that deals with everything from Medieval history to Vegas showbiz politics in the 1950s. I’m shocked that it isn’t read more.

House of Leaves, Mark Z. Danielewski. There is something darkly magical about this book. When you read it, it invades your life and hides in all the dark places. I have never read anything else that is as much of an experience as this weird, weird, weird book.

One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez. So cliche, I know! But it is only about 400 pages long and yet seems to contain within it everything.

Collected Stories, Carol Shields. Shields is a talented writer, but I own this collection because it contains her story “Various Miracles” which is one of the best things I have ever read.

Said the Shotgun to the Head, Saul Williams. This is the “book” that first made me question the differences between poetry and narrative, fiction and nonfiction, text and graphic design. This book is still a big deal to me and I think about it WAY more than is reasonable.

The Collected Stories of Lydia Davis, Lydia Davis. Does it get better than Lydia Davis? I love not just her writing but also the way that she will write something and say, “Here world, I wrote this. You figure it out, I’m busy writing the next thing.”

The World Without Us, Alan Weisman. This is the nonfiction book that everybody was reading on airplanes several years ago. It simply imagines what would happen on Earth if all humans suddenly disappeared. Such a simple idea, but it is fascinating.

All in the Timing, David Ives. This collection of one-act plays contains the seminal work “Variations on the Death of Trotsky” which is not just absurd, but brillant.

Sixty Stories, Donald Barthelme. For the better part of a decade I have been haunted by the story in this collection “Robert Kennedy Saved from Drowning”. I cannot figure out what makes this story work. When I don’t know what to write, I take this book to a bar and try to crack that story.

Pocket Atlas of Remote Islands, Judith Schalansky. This is literally a tiny book of maps of remote islands. Accompanying each map, there are two pages describing something about the island. It is oddly heart-breaking in a way that I have never been able to properly describe.

Disappointed in You.

In one of my classes we just read the Gertrude Stein essay “Composition as Explanation” and I had to write a “response”. I’ve posted it below. If you’re not familiar with Stein, she was one of those boho American writers living in Paris in the ;20s. She was played by Kathy Bates in “Midnight in Paris” (See? Now you’re all like, “Oh yeah, I remember that!” I’m so disappointed in you). She was big on repetition in her writing but like REALLY into it and she would write sentences that worked like mobius strips. Imagine if someone with a stutter was obsessed with the word ‘repetition’, that’s what her writing is like.


An Open Letter to Gertrude Stein.

An Open Letter to Gertrude Stein
by james bezerra

Oh Gertrude Stein you strange giant beast of a person you Nazi-collaborating tastemaker you who died decades before I managed to get to Paris who once upon reading the poetry of Picasso took him by the shoulders and proclaimed “Pablo go home and paint” you reminded me of something and in doing so made me happy immediately after having made me so unhappy you reminded me as I was sitting at the table where I do my writing you reminded me as I was reading you reminded me that I was reading like I read and that in so reading was failing to really read you. You. Gertrude. You strange giant.

Which is to say that I put the wrong hat on before I read you the other day. I guess I had forgotten what your deal is. It took me a page and a half of banging my face into the rough brick wall of “Composition as Explanation” before I took a step back and wiped the blood away and remembered that you were basically an anti-semitic Jewish lesbian before it was cool. When you wrote, “No one thinks these things when they are making when they are creating what is the composition, naturally no one thinks, that is no one formulates until what is to be formulated has been made” I jotted in the margin, “Can a brother get a comma?” and you (apparently) replied down through time: “No.”

But you reminded me of something Gertie, with your incoherent waterfall babble that at first pissed me off because when I sort the contents of my brain by effect I often place you Modernists at the same campsite as the Post-Structuralists whom I adore as one adores their own child but not other people’s, I blame the Deridian destruction of language as (one of) the philosophical underpinnings of the Neoliberalist resurgence that gave us Reaganite Doublespeak and made it possible for Connecticut-born millionaire and son of a President W to call himself “an outsider” I blame you because Patron Saint Stephen had to make the word “truthiness” just to keep the fuck up with the language of lying that you helped make possible when you turned the page into a swirling vortex of word gravy. Goddammit Gertie.

But you reminded me of something. You reminded me as I started marking the breath pauses in your sentences just so that I could keep up, you reminded me that you were basically writing poetry and I was notating it like music and you reminded me that together we had just invented jazz and you reminded me that Kerouac didn’t write about jazz he wrote in jazz and so why had I put on my reading hat to read you when I was sitting at my writing table and should have been reading you like I was writing you.

You reminded me to snap my fingers and to tap my foot along with your beat. You reminded me that when one seeks to manifesto on the virtue of the incomprehensibility of all things, that one need not do it in sentences that make even any small amount of sense. Basically.

You reminded me of my conflicted relationship with Donald Rumsfeld. You compelled me to watch that whole documentary again where Rummy mugs at the camera as he reads his memos the collected works of the greatest ever language poet of bureaucracy and in the silence on Errol Morris’s side of the camera you can hear him wanting to scream, “You’re a fucking maniac! But I just can’t quit you Donald.” Known knowns and unknown knowns and known unknowns. You did this to us Gertie. Somehow you made this possible from Paris a hundred years ago. Somehow with a bottle of wine and a chat with Hemingway and Woolf you made this possible Gertie and bombs and bombs and bombs from the sky fell. Awe. Shock. When you make things mean nothing you are stealing from the future because when you remove the inherency of meaning other people will always come along and fill the empty place with something else. We are a race of meaning hoarders Gertie it is our addiction and just because you have cleaned our home out and shown us how pretty it can be when it is empty does not mean we want it pretty and empty. We want things Gertie and maybe your thing is pretty but it is too pretty for us. We like carnival barkers and Apple watches and shit that is bad for us. We prefer even lies to the chilling existential dread of the meaninglessness that you are trying to show us. We don’t want to eat our vegetables Gertie. And so we get Donald.

We were fine Gertie with general mediocrity. When you take that away from us by showing us that it is mediocre we like bratty children or teenage daughters will always say to you, “Oh yeah? Well watch this!” and like a rebound relationship we overcorrect into a different kind of vacuousness one that at least is willing to claim to have meaning. Donald Trump is running for President Gertie and not sucking at it and that is okay because we all know that he is actually just a bunch of rats wearing a trenchcoat, but he like you is going to enable the lunatic psychopaths to seem like not craven lunatic wolf psychopaths. When you pull back the curtain and expose the lack of meaning in everything then you put us in a situation where we have to buy meaning from the pimps of fecal ideology (ie: Ted Cruz) because we just can’t stand for everything to be nothing. We are not all equipt to be nihilists Gertie. We don’t like knowing that the universe was started by an accidental explosion and that there is a black hole at the center of our galaxy. Can you please just let us have some birthday cake and let us watch The Big Bang Theory in peace Gertie? And of course down through time you reply: “No.”


Walking to campus and found this across the street from the dorms.

via Instagram