fi fy fo fum...

i went to work and played with dogs for dollars.

i planted an avocado. i plan to have my own avocado forest by the time i leave for south america. i hope it becomes an invasive species and i am eventually named in a science textbook.

goals are important.



i have finally taught ari to "speak" on command. eventually they will be able to howl on the command "mengtar will now take your questions" which will be difficult because they will need to be holding a microphone and lack opposable thumbs. by this time science will owe me a payback for all of those avocados they're eating.

in recent news, i discovered that px was secretly living as an underground rapper.



be impressed.

oh, hey, hi, remember this? typing? abcs and qwerts?




remember these assholes?

it's been a few haircuts since last time.




but don't worry, i've grown up approximately zero.



i was awakened from an afternoon nap ((4-hour)) by a drop-in from rx. we caught up on life and things over a cigarette. his mom used to live in the house next to mine where our current neighbors live with their house of lies and horrible children and ugly dogs and broken tree that has not been proven to be my fault beyond a reasonable doubt...

also, i've been trying to catch the mouse in my kitchen so i can release it through one of their air vents. ((jokes, denton police department, jokes)) --safety dance.



smug as a bug on a santa monica peir.

i've been trying to work on jokes about joke books. so far i've been unsuccessful. but i make myself laugh each time, and i think i must count as at least two people, not to mention that i've heard the joke already when i rehearsed it in my bathroom mirror this morning. twice.



i must be done procrastinating the finishing of my paper on this poem:

Why I Am Not a Painter

I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.
--Frank O'Hara



--megfergi out!