on saying sorry

A sickness grips America, that of habitually saying “Sorry.” For reasons that are so complex as to beggar explanation and baffle the mind, many of our fellow citizens apologize any time they are even remotely put on the spot. Walk past someone, he'll say sorry; ask him a question, he'll say sorry; try to hold a door open for her, she'll say sorry. My sister started the process that helped cure me of this disease by referencing the movie-film Pineapple Express. “Stuff your sorries in a sack, bro,” she said to me, meaning every word. Keeping this simple rule in mind, one can regain one's self-respect, lift one's chest high, and know that saying “I'm sorry” to every single tiny little fucking detail is a real fucking drag. So don't do it. Huzzah.

mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥

on the sickness

As the year 2012 draws to a close and flurries of snow fall fitfully from the darkened skies, the sickness that plagued me this past week now infects a half-dozen others. I cannot help but blame myself, in part, for getting them sick: my self inflicted quarantine was too short, and my desire to be in their company was too strong, for me to have effectively denied the disease access to additional hosts. It has been years since I felt so ill that I had to skip work; I shall remember this sickness fondly.

The character of the disease included infection of the sinuses and bronchial tubes, which then produced steady amounts of thick, tenacious mucus. I also suffered from weariness, confusion, and decreased appetite. Such was my inability to think clearly that I resorted to editing and posting old texts instead of writing new ones. (I was not surprised to find that many of my previous blogposts were riddled with grammatical and contextual errors, which has lowered my already low opinion of my abilities.)

As the malaise abates and my faculties begin to spin back up to speed, I welcome the opportunity to reappraise the routines and habits I formed this past year. With a bit of foresight and a lot of luck, I may just change them for the better. Mahalo.

mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥

encylopediamericanifesto - phaltscape withdrawal

  The phaltweary smog rider proves her phaltworthiness by bicycling the phaltscape. The evidence of her efforts lie in her callused hands, in her creaking bones, and in gritty, fleeting smiles that threaten sometimes to skate across her youthful and vibrant face. She accepts her station in life so long as she is allowed the exhilarating freedom of gliding around town atop a skinny metal sled. If she can ride smog in the city of her choosing, she has beef with no man.

  But what happens when injury, weather, or mechanical failure incapacitate the smog rider, and keep him from his Rounds? He will descend slowly but surely into the same type of madness that inflicts any proud and majestic beast that is kept away from its preordained way of life. Similar to a tiger taken from the jungle, the smog rider who cannot ride will develop a variety of diseases, among them shingles, bulimia, and long spells of wild-eyed, howling insanity. He will move about the area in which he is confined with increasingly erratic and violent movements until such time as he must be contained to avoid damaging himself. The color will flee from his once-rosy cheeks, he will put on weight, and his overall happiness will decrease markedly.

  If your smog-rider begins to develop symptoms similar to those mentioned above – if she turns cranky, impatient, or bossy, or if she loses sight suddenly of the horrible beauty of life itself – get her onto a bicycle and out in the phaltscape as quickly as you can. Every school-aged child knows that to keep an animal locked up far from its usual habitat is cruel and unusual punishment. She who smog-mashes, her insanity dashes.

  Spes Mea In Ratio Est - 場黑麥 John Paul Roggenkamp