Torpor: Hollywood Pizza Dreamtime Vacuity

Sunday, February 24, 2002 9:12 PM.

This is not the place you hoped it would be.
Was it ever that place? Did it really happen?
Is this even pizza?
What can we hope for when pizza is involved, really?
We seek comfort. We seek company.
We seek the closure of a pie, even a failed one. We fail.
This is not pizza. This is not home.
There are shadows here, burned in by a slow florescent fire.
There was an opening here, once, a passage through.
But this is not your dream architecture. This is not pizza.
You must trace your own maps. You must cut your own pie.
You look at me like I’m the weirdo. Like I’m the asshole.
Look. This is not my pizza. This is not even pizza.
Were you not listening to me?
This was a passage between.
And you are late.

Programmed Cell Death

Paul Ryan - Programmed Cell Death

who wept at the romance of the streets with their
pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the
bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts,
who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned
with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded
by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty
incantations which in the yellow morning were
stanzas of gibberish

When you say “photocopying machine,” what do you mean?

Elf: During your tenure in the computer department at the Guild’s office, has the Guild’s office had photocopying machines?

Troll: Objection.

Elf: Any photocopying machine?

Barbarian: When you say “photocopying machine,” what do you mean?

Elf: Let me be — let me make sure I understand your question. You don’t have an understanding of what a photocopying machine is?

Barbarian: No. I want to make sure that I answer your question correctly.

Troll: Dave, I’ll object to the tone of the question. You make it sound like it’s unbelievable to you that he wouldn’t know what the definition of a photocopy machine is.

Elf: I didn’t ask him to define it. I asked him if he had any.

Barbarian: When you say “photocopying machine,” what do you mean?

Elf: Let me be clear. The term “photocopying machine” is so ambiguous that you can’t picture in your mind what a photocopying machine is in an office setting?

Barbarian: I just want to make sure I answer your question correctly.

Elf: Well, we’ll find out. If you can say yes or no, I can do follow-ups, but it seems — if you really don’t know in an office setting what a photocopying machine is, I’d like the Supreme Council to hear you say so.

Barbarian: I just want to make sure I answer your question correctly.

Troll: There’s different types of photocopiers, Dave.

there is more to see   → → →

This Machine Kills Fascists


terrorism Well okay. It doesn’t “kill” fascists, since it’s actually a blunt-tipped arrow wrapped in a pool noodle. It’s more that it’s role playing at killing fascists.

Although not actually “fascists.” More like orcs and vikings, kinda running around the park in costumes. And I’m not sure about orc politics. They might be more anarcho-syndicalist, when you think about it.

But those styrofoam shields? That foamy shit will fuck your fascist shit up!

[Toronto police display LARP costume as example of G20 Terrorist Weapons]


Stick to making movies, playing volleyball, breathing your smog filled air, sitting in traffic and surfing in your frigid shark infested waters. I really think you west coasters have been smoking too much medical marijuana to think anyone, let alone a football team, would give up Florida for the hell you live in.

Hey. Let’s not fight. We’re connected by the Interstate 10 — we’re practically related.

A Matter of Perspective

In response to Pasta&Vinegar, two extremes of perspective: Los Angeles (or… how to drive a car in narrow hilly streets) versus the eight-lane highways of Montpellier.



All cities have someone who dislikes them, even hates them. But Los Angeles may be unique as a target of reflexive worldwide disgust. It is disliked on a mythological level. It’s a metonym for everything that people hate about their own good cities. Pollution, disconnection, shallowness, disparity, violence, mediation, erasure… Los Angeles.

Romanticized places have to exist on some level as romantic fossils, and every flattering tourist asks the residents to measure their lives against a touristic ideal. One of the best things about LA is how it’s hidden behind a cloak of misunderstanding. It’s harder to suck the life out of something you can’t even see, much less understand.

Pity the romanticized places that have to measure themselves against the ideals of tourists. And pity the tourist who ends up lost in the narrow, winding streets of Los Angeles.