54 across, 34 down

The Search Is ON.

Thu, 17 Apr 2008 20:36:21 GMT

Portrait of Garlic Through Mugicha (麦茶) (むぎちゃ) (barley tea)

Wed, 05 Dec 2007 03:43:48 GMT

Here is a non-caffeinated drink made of barley for you, so that you may sleep well.

Portrait of Joseph Garlic Through 麦茶 #1:

Portrait of Garlic Through a Half-Drunk Glass of Airborne™

Tue, 04 Dec 2007 05:14:44 GMT

I was on the subway tonight and noticed that the man across from me was reading from a packet of paper entitled:

Your Next Steps to Join the Nouveau Tech Secret Society

I immediately devoted this gem of data to my hippocampus and repeated the words over to myself several times. When I arrived home, I did a search on the topic: "nouveau secret society". I read and read and read, and it all led me down the same path, the same quagmire, the same question:

How the hell can they use Times New Roman in such a tasteless fashion? (standing so coercively and flirtatiously next to a sans serif font)

So here tonight I dedicate my portrait to the NOUVEAU SECRET SOCIETY (o, not so secret anymore, are we?) in the hopes that they may hire a better typographer. Please tell them when you see them.

Portrait of Joseph Garlic Through a Half-Drunk Glass of Airborne™ #1

Portrait of Garlic through a glass of Whole Food's Sparkling Mineral Water #1

Mon, 03 Dec 2007 01:23:07 GMT

1 quarter-full glass of sparkling water
1 Garlic
1 night

You do the math. What we have here is something very, very Robespierre.

Portrait of Joseph Garlic Through Water #1

Portrait of Garlic through a Glass of Chinese Medicinal Tea

Sat, 01 Dec 2007 05:00:13 GMT

I am curious if it will enhance my aging bioenergy.

Portrait of Joseph Garlic Through Tea #1:

Thu, 12 Jul 2007 14:16:45 GMT

Railroad history
crossing rooms and crossing eyes,
repainting plastic.

The freshest and hottest frames.

Thu, 15 Mar 2007 22:46:42 GMT

Free your mind.

More feedback from the Source itself.

Sat, 24 Feb 2007 05:06:46 GMT

Hello,

Thanks for your feedback regarding out bathtub crayons! We are thrilled
that you enjoy them so much. We always appreciate great feedback
regarding our products.

Feel free to contact us again if you have any other questions or
concerns.

Best Regards,

S****** W******* | Assistant Manager, Sales Administration, Americas

Re: Your Crayola.com inquiry regarding: Color Revolution.

Fri, 23 Feb 2007 05:26:00 GMT

Dear Joseph,

Thank you for your e-mail and interest in Crayola Bathtub Crayons.
Crayola has partnered with several manufacturers to produce high quality
products. The item you reference is an official licensed Crayola
product. You may wish to forward your suggestion regarding the color
assortment to them at the contact information below:

Logistix Retail, Inc.
6330 San Vicente Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90048
Phone: 888-208-4728
http://www.poprocket.com
E-mail: crayola_support@poprocket.com

If you have further questions, please e-mail back or call us at (800)
272-9652 weekdays between 9:00 AM and 4:00 PM Eastern Time and we will
be happy to assist you.

We appreciate your interest in Crayola and our products. Make
www.crayola.com your online destination for creative solutions, colorful ideas
and fun developmental activities!

Colorfully yours,

A******* M*******
Consumer Affairs Representative
CRAYOLA

Obstacles.

Sun, 18 Feb 2007 03:52:45 GMT

Dear Crayola,

I am writing to you today to deeply encourage you to increase the color palette of your "Crayola Bathtub Crayons" from 8 or 9 to a more liberal count. I currently have trouble creating rich soil-like textures for my bathtub mural, as well as blending the current colors.

In your investigation I would suggest at least a 32-count set, if not a 64-count for color-mindful bathtub artists. I would also point you in the direction of your "Crayola Telescoping Crayon Tower" for inspiration on how to contain such a palette. Perhaps even a floating tugboat to house the crayons would be suitable. Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,

-Joseph Garlic

Bathtub Art: Kimono Engulfed in Reverse Fire

Mon, 29 Jan 2007 06:32:01 GMT

DISPATCH:

Stuck in the bathroom of a house on the beach in Nicaragua. I cannot leave. This is what consumes my time.

Fri, 28 Jul 2006 05:50:13 GMT

Hm.

i just come across these things...

Fri, 09 Jun 2006 18:42:52 GMT

"Suicides were the aristocrats of death- God's graduate students acting out their theses to prove how limited were the alternatives He had allowed Himself and His creatures. Their act was, at its best, superb literary criticism."

-Daniel Stern

Fri, 19 May 2006 01:14:28 GMT

At 2:00 AM today I woke up to a phone call from someone named "Private Phone". As I had developed an irrational fear in high school of accepting phonecalls after midnight because I thought I might answer and hear only screaming, I declined to answer.

Here is the message that was left on my phone (the first part is a misquote of the first 2 paragraphs from The Great Gatsby, so I corrected it in brackets):

"In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me a piece of [some] advice that I have been going [I've been turning] over [in my mind] ever since."

"Whenever you feel like criticizing someone [" he told me, "] always [just] remember that not everyone [all the people in this world] has had it as good as you have [haven't had the advantages that you have you've had]."

I wanted to tell you this as a present to a story which I am going to tell you now. When I was in France with Pablo Neruda and F. Scott Fitzgerald, F. Scott Fitzgerald came up to me with a book he had written recently. It was called Great Expectations. I read it [GIRL'S VOICE IN BACKGROUND OF MESSAGE: "fuck you, I--"]; it was pretty good; but I told him that there was no need to have written it, because Charles Dickens had already written it. Then after, he drank a lot... and Pablo Neruda punched him in the mouth.
Have a good night and remember: I'm watching you.

The most I can gather is that it might be from an old Woody Allen standup routine, but that was from the POV of Pablo Neruda, not whomever the hell this is.

Ah, to be confused.

the things i rhyme when i anticipate company that never comes...

Sun, 14 May 2006 07:35:49 GMT

there's no fucking reason
for believing
that murder marked
by grieving
will cripple all the loss
that we've since known
and kept closely in our hearts while
teeth are sharpened in the dark
a quiet preparation for the dawn
that carelessly displays our wrongs
as blooming, blighted, broken
and keeping hard-bitten tokens
to measure sound-by-sound
all the echoes dug underground

in freshly shat seasons of reasons...
in freshly shat seasons of reasons...

i'm supposed to be writing scripts... instead i write this:

Fri, 12 May 2006 06:23:06 GMT

this is what we are... and nothing else
a hurdygurdyburley pin-up self...
...dancing demurely across dreams

for you morning peeps...

Sat, 06 May 2006 04:04:09 GMT

"Bright morning comes; the bloody-fingered dawn with zealous light sets seas of air ablaze and bends to earth another false beginning. My eyes open like cornflowers, stick, crusted with their own stale dew, then take that light... Brandished and flagrant, the sunlight strikes this dun plain and makes of it a cauldron where rising vapours multiply and summit only to, in clearness, disappear, dissolved within an oceanic waste of sky."
-Iain Banks

to Jordan... (a quote for my favorite of favorites)

Mon, 24 Apr 2006 03:49:59 GMT

"The whole world can be divided into those who write and those who do not write. Those who write represent despair, and those who read disapprove of it and believe that they have superior wisdom - and yet, if they were able to write, they would write the same thing. Basically they are all equally despairing, but when one does not have the opportunity to become important with his despair, then it is hardly worth the trouble to despair and show it. Is this what it is to have conquered despair?"

-Kierkegaard

unshakable quote of the day

Fri, 21 Apr 2006 05:50:09 GMT

"One must be amazed, when one learns of the inner nature of man, that the number of criminals is so small."
-Wilhelm Stekel, ~Sadism & Masochism~

Renew Orleans

Mon, 17 Apr 2006 17:28:05 GMT

Spent the last 4 days in the Crescent City in the heavily guarded, nearly empty FEMA Camp Algiers.
I gutted rotting houses and drank chicory coffee.
I wandered around the alien ghost town of the upper 9th ward, capturing images that looked vaguely familiar as if humans once inhabited the area but now centuries have run their course and fossilized the neighborhood into an haunting tableau of utter randomness and complete destruction.

And the levees, the ones that burst first, still cast a shadow over the district.

I got stinko on Bourbon St., listened to music that functioned more than anything else with the exception of food, as a healing agent for the people.

Touched base with an old friend whom I haven't seen nor talked with in 5 yrs. He drank daiquiris during the evacuation.

I got in a car accident, devoured roasted duck po'boys and gumbo, and purely for the hell of it, attended an easter baptist service for the displaced survivors of the 9th ward with 4 of my friends. So there were 2 Indians (Miska & Rohan), a Morrocan woman (Naima), a crazy white southern woman (Melissa), and me in a shanty gospel church filled to the brim with southern African Americans.
And it went beautifully.

I didn't want to leave.

Wed, 12 Apr 2006 06:03:46 GMT

I just found out today that Mark David Chapman grew up right in my neighborhood.
I seem to strangely (since I feel that "serendipitously" is somehow not fitting) find myself living near or in rather close proximity to the homes of famous murderers and/or their killing grounds.

This is not the first, nor the 2nd, nor I feel is it the last time.

(In 20 yrs by pure chance I'll be wandering around my pay-by-the-week hotel in Guyana wondering "How the hell...?")

more words I find...

Mon, 10 Apr 2006 05:13:54 GMT

"Nobody deserves to live. We all had our chance, -we lost, we failed- now we go nowhere, just lower, into the ground, push them down and then they'll grow again -clean, simple, like- like a little animal."

~Woodrow Parfrey's death scene as a mass murderer on the Naked City episode, "Burst of Passion"

I find myself singing to myself...

Thu, 06 Apr 2006 03:13:02 GMT

I will curse you,
I will find you,
and weave poison wire around you,
and let you sweat and thrash and dream
of simpler hells than your own.

I will curse you,
your hungry hands,
cast you to creeping sands,
and crystallize your useless heart
into stone.

-J

Fri, 31 Mar 2006 03:23:40 GMT

(Sometime around ’87)
My ______ kicked a hole in the wall. It was aimed for my brother. I’m told that I set up a carny barker stand in between the trees out front and sold tickets to see the hole.
I don’t remember that.
There was an apple tree, a raspberry bush, and a cherry tree. The apples were inedible so I fell picking cherries. It was over 30ft high and I broke nothing on the ride down. There might have been a peach tree in back, but I’m not sure if I remember that.

(Roughly late ’89)
I started to wonder if the spook season candy I was skipping around for was poisoned. No nagging suspicions, nothing approaching genuine fear… just a casual, silent wonder.
I was cast as a murderer in Macbeth and no one came to see… they didn’t remember.

(A good 3 years before that…)
A next-door neighbor’s jazzed-up boyfriend drove his jazzy ride through the front of their home. Apparently, he missed the gas line by a couple feet. I don’t really remember… I slept through most of it.

(A prelude)
Our house was on New Orleans Way and we did not live in New Orleans.
I bit my own arm in the basement of that house to see if the teeth marks would resemble a dog’s… they didn’t.
My body scarred easily. It was beginning to tell its story. I say it because it has a memory of its own.
I was shouted at. They were trying to get my attention. My eyes were occupied elsewhere.
I didn’t hear them and I don’t remember their shouts.

Woman with grubby (and yes, delicate) hands. . .

Wed, 22 Mar 2006 17:13:39 GMT

There once was a woman, a black-haired crow.
Flapped the wings and had 5 kids in a row:
1-baby,
2-baby,
3-baby,
4.
Just one more baby boy and down on the floor.

And this lady lied,

Oh this woman schemed…
(you see- if the truth was told, they’d be born into a den of scoundrels)
(you see- at last count the crow’s # was 14 or 15… another mouth to whine)
(you see- it was a place –no longer- called Wolves Pit…some cursed hollow down in the Carolina’s)

For each and every child, a shaking hand would jot down the mother’s P.O.B.
‘Cept it was different each and every time.
Besides, it ain’t nobody’s business where this crow was born.
But it ain’t business best forgotten either.
These petty little lies may beget petty crimes but those 5 little children never got eaten by wolves.

~T