so many foreign worlds

if you've been fortunate enough to enter the forbidden palace (i.e. the apartment), you've perhaps come into visual contact with "denim menace" that was our slip-covered couch. if you were really fortunate you sat down on the coffee-stained beast, and you may or may not have cringed at the thought of what lay beneath the faded denim epidermis that poorly encased the rest of the connective tissues and wooden skeleton. if you were supremely lucky you and bill cosby went halfsies on a gross (= 144) of strawberry banana "hood-rat vodka" jello shooters and you got to wake up lying in the strong rarms of the blue man group's ex-basement lounge piece.

approximately thirty six days ago i stuck an antler-veneered pocket knife (which i actually found in the humanities garden on campus when conducting an EM-38 survey with my digital archaeology class...) into the foremost part of the couch's arm, the homologue of a human humerus. it so happens that when i pulled the knife out, instead of a steady, tarantinian stream of wood chips and cheap poly filler that one would expect the damn thing actually clotted. the demin-fibrin scab that formed on top of the deep incised wound indicated that my obnoxious, physiological descriptions of the couch were based in "RL", which is the slang that the kids who live in the 'world' use when talking about extra-'world' things. this effing thing is actually alive (i know, right mary shelley?). following this discovery, i took the steps that any perfectly sane would in the same situation, i ate a grilled cheesed sandwich (a perfectly sane food to eat) and schemed. how best to kill the beast? matches? prescription pain pills? oil? in the end i decided that i would use the antler-veneered pocket knife to cut out the heart of the couch, eat the heart, and then bury the empty vessel in an indian grave yard (i know of one in close proximity to gallup, new mexico...a short drive from denver). i could not, however, go forward with the ritual, as tito informed me that he was taking (his) couch with him up to boulder to reside in his new apartment. an argument ensued. as much as i hated the thing, the prospect of having no couch seemed worse than having a denim one. my contention was that having maintained and utilized the couch for the better part of a year i was as much its parent as he was, and he countered by saying, "hey asshole, i own this couch." having completely discredited his argument by calling me an asshole, we had to call in an impartial judge and...yada...yada...yada...i said that i would gratefully take a sawed in half section of the couch and in doing so lost all custody, the judge citing my desire to "...see harm come to the child." fuck it, i don't need a couch, i'll put a chair and a small table in the front of my television (so that when you sit down in the center of the rather large room you'll feel generally like someone who hides the bodies of their family members the walls of his home).



i need a couch. and luckily after using my powers of persuasion i was able to recruit courtney into spending her morning on craigslist, where she promptly found this lovely camelback couch for $75 dollars. the seventy-five dollar price tag was accompanied by two strangely innocuous photographs, showing only a small corner of the couch that was used by the owner's cat as a clawing post. to me this indicated that the couch was either serving as a cat urine sponge in the home of the two owners, or they are just nice, well off and would like a couch in their living room not scarred by the talons of a fell beast. felling optimistic, we rented a u-haul, drove to franktown, and about an hour later discovered that the couch was in almost pristine condition. courtney bought a coffee table from them.



juice by sarah juice by sarah juice by sarah, new couch!

the boat times.

i found this lurid police officer crime sketch lingering at the bottom of the "photographs" folder on my desktop. as we close in on the final two weeks, of the last quarter of the year, this sick, dead, "jeffery dahmer-esque (excepting all of the half eaten men in the freezer and hydrochloric acid barrel)" son of a bitch epitomizes how i feel right now...like i'm sixteen feet underwater trying to get my kicks in a homemade asphyxiatory contraption, which handily employs a clear plastic jump suit, a pair of ski boots bolted to a 1x1 meter square of plywood, a hockey mask, chains, a twenty-three dollar yellow plastic boat from walmart, silicone tubing, and finally the jury-rigged floating red plastic gas container. when i wake up in the morning i feel like i can’t breathe, much like this man couldn’t in his final moments (not due to the whole act of sexual asphyxia, but rather the inherent flaw in the design of his "sexy-times lake boat penile codpiece device"…the one-way breathing tube). yeah, that’s how it feels. i can only hope that when the police find my bloated, homogenized body that the small lake fish won’t yet have pecked my lips/ears off, and also that significant shrinkage hasn’t occurred, thus sparing me post-mortem embarrassment in case the morgue employee on duty is the foxy vice-direhcteur sphortif of the women’s colavita cycling team. unlikely, yes, but i did once fall into a sand pit on a beach right across the street from the pua’kei deli where i was immediately transported to midtown manhattan, but not the manhattan as we know it today but to some alternate dimension manhattan, where in 1997 it had been walled off and turned into a high security prison ruled by imprisoned warlords and methamphetamine addicts. after something like that happens to you it sort of shakes up the notion of implausibility. it also makes you realize that your calf tattoo with the lizards wrapped around a 52-toothed chain ring probably will make you someone's bitch if you end up in real prison. that's why i decided to put a big skull around the whole thing, and a cobra that is coming out of the eyes of the skull and eating one of the lizards...who is now wielding a small butterfly knife, and putting up a decent fight until he realizes it's a spitting cobra and he isn't wearing his oakley m-frames.

cool sketch, eh.

i tend to be one of those people who will use tai chi and other asian herbal remedies to exorcise stress from my body periodically, however, stress evasion can only last so long before there’s no amount of five pagodas powder in the world to keep it at bay. at this moment i’ve reached the tipping point, i’ve strayed but a little and fallen off the edge of the eleven-forged knife. although i’ve admittedly never tried asphyxiating myself in a crude, sexual manner it’s possible that it could be a great way to get rid of unwanted stress, brain cells, and dignity. kind of a convoluted way to ‘unwind’ in my opinion, i prefer the “old fashioned” way. a sugar cube, two dashes of bitters, a teaspoon of maraschino cherry syrup, three ounces of classy, expensive bourbon, club soda, ice, and a twist of tangelo rind. …and speaking of underground 1920’s drinking establishments i recently celebrated my twenty first birthday, belatedly, in a fashion befitting a true sorority girl. all of the necessary elements were present in their necessary ratios, much like how you need one carbon molecule, four hydrogens, and an oxygen in the right arrangement to create methanol, a simple chemical compound that will turn you into a miserable, dying version of ray charles, which is to say ray charles during the ‘heroine phase’. there were blue and red jello shots, lots of other drunk guys, red bull, mystery booze carbonated punch, cake, and the crux of it all…projectile vomit, which obviously presented itself later in the evening. as a former child star (see “ke huy kwan”, “the goonies”, or “indiana jones” on imdb) i know what it’s like to wake up in a pool of one’s own vomit, but i won’t lie even after waking up the morning after splitting three bottles of strawberry boone’s farm with feldman, i’ve never felt like this. it was almost as if for one night i became fully asian, and fully incapable of metabolizing alcohol, and fully lacking any acetylaldehyde dehydrogenase molecules. right around twelve i became aware of my…impairment, shortly thereafter i sprayed devyn’s toilet bowl, the floor, and the lower parts of my black pants with what looked like a bowl of acidic-smelling beef ramen soup, sans the noodles, but with the reconstituted multi-colored vegetables. i was promptly put into bed, to awake promptly six hours later (vomit again) and ride home on a boosted white bicycle. the apartment that ted and i will be living in next year was unlocked, covered in butter (?) and saltines, and reeking of jello. nobody was home, and i choked down a piece of bread, took a shower, brushed my teeth with a steel wool toothbrush (that i had lying around from my days on the 4H circuit) several times, and then took off (sober) in my car to pick up kiddos for our archaeology field trip. i ended up having to pick up some generic pepto-bismol in boulder, on our way up to sunshine canyon, which in retrospect was a mistake because it only made my vomit look all the more bizarre, and perhaps effeminate, to the rest of the class when i lost it in front of them. later that night, when all of our survey and excavation was complete it became less bizarre to everyone (professor included) as i recounted the misfortuitous events of the evening prior…



thank you ted, eric, rabah, and anonymous.

...a lugubrious droll...

this blog is not dead, just in hibernation like mount saint helens (who one day will awake from her slumber and belch plumes of noxious, pyroclastic death, which she will irradiate the pacific northwest with. she'll pummel them with pumice, and when the recovery is over they'll stick it back to her when cleaning the calcium deposits off the edges of their pools, wearing european water suits...and such will be this blog. it's going to hit you like a charlie mingus/ella fitzgerald/nickleback jazz-rock fusion ensemble, sir. you be ready for that day because it's coming).

realistically, i have decided that since i don't have time right now (at the end of winter quarter) to start updating again it only seems rational to participate in something i once described as "representing the downfall of american society"...as if there weren't enough of those already (e.g. the third hour of the today show, sweatpants, people who don't like jazz, and the economy). i am temporarily moving over here...

http://twitter.com/HowardTJMoon ...tell your friends.

other people who should tweet with me (twss): eric moore, tito, kyle d'auria, ben quinn, professor conyers, and there are probably loads more.
...it doesn't contribute to the degradation of society if we ALL do it.

today i turn in a load of final assignments, but i'm not too worried about it after reading about ted's day, i don't think i would be possible for things to get effed worse than that.

for Cindy Wool

it happened again.

i woke up from my benadryl induced nap seven minutes ago and i think i had better eat some cereal. my body went into full on red, rashy, puffy grossness after a cyclocross race outside of boulder this afternoon. i took off all of my clothes to take a shower when we had finally returned to denver and i now wish i had taken a photograph because my whole body looked as if it had been colonized (colin-ized :) by the "red plague" (see also, "red mung").

bonfire of the vanity fairs, trading a rolex for an atladl, and norman, tricia, and grandparents.

denver museum of art with a cossje van bruggen and claes oldenburg.

post-theatre cocktails and treats, one of the waiters was persuaded to eat ice cream with us.

more ice cream, this time made by a three foot seven man who toils away on the top floor of this giant milk pail. waking up early, drinking bailey's, and making ice cream. that's how he does it, three hundred and twenty five days out of the plutonian year.

breakfast (pancakes, eggs, and syrup) with cindy and tara.

"the timeless art of sedution"

the gray foxes were frolicking over all of the bread. red-staurant.

i may or may not have been in last place in this race. i actually do not think that i was, but it certainly did not go well. i will blame poor performance on the fact that i was pre-occupied with looking good for the camera, as my friend bryce was shooting away throughout the race. "oh, there's bryce at the sand pit...okay, look euro look euro, pretend you're not working hard...don't breathe through your mouth. wipe the vomit off your lower lip."





:) - insert name (verb) here.


eric moore - "...i strive to one day be a dave towle "rider of the apocalypse"."

"i'd ask for a sharpie and a bucket of ice"

i just overheard this conversation in the library. i was sitting in a corner using the library's internet to watch "frida" for my art history class, and much to my chagrin these pseudo-athletic business school fuckers sat beside me...and started discussing pressing matters (camel toe, facebook, why bitches ain't shit, and "fucking, fuck, ass, whore"[their 'bro vernacular']).

"i got better things to do than vote for his ass" [his ass a reference to barack obama's ass]

"yea, son that's why i didn't register to vote"

"word"

...not sad necessarily because they're under the age of thirty and they don't want to vote for barack obama, but because they don't want to vote. what the fuck. if i was the bitchy, supercilious kid at the coffee shop that writes in his journal, i would say kids at du for the most part are big douche bags (edit: 16% of them). most of them (60%) are majoring in business, most of them (50%) are uninterested in actually learning, and most of them (80%) spend their time working in groups...getting their work done "together". too often i find myself unable to tolerate my fellow classmates, and this is a vent because i was sorely tempted, while i was trying to watch this film, to turn around and ask them to please shut the fuck up.