Entries from September 2020 ↓

Lettuce debate the philosophy of Yngwie J. Malmsteen in the face of COVID-19

By the way, in earlier posts on this blawg of mine, I fucked up with regard to the hand sanitizer. While the bar soap of Doctor Bronner ineluctably vanquishes COVID-19 — I mean somewhat — and at the same time keeps, sometimes, humans, from getting contact dermatitis — unless I suppose you get lost in Mister Friedman’s shampoo and conditioner philosophies in practice — I dern got myself discombobulated when it came to reckonin’ the hand sanitizer. Seek for yourself here, wherein I typed on 23 March 2020:

one reason why health care workers in specialized settings are often using alcohol-based hand rubs (hand sanitizer). Hand sanitizer may also be better for those directly caring for patients. On a daily ordinary human level, use regular toilet soap such as bar soap.

A daily ordinary yet also amazing human in previously-existent-yet-simultaneously-continuing-as-perhaps-vastly-superior Oregon told me repeatedly just a few months back that the hand sanitizer is also extremely useful for situations where you can’t use bar soap, like say, a woman riding around on a subway-train system and needing to cleanse herself because she’s probably still fuckin’ underpaid…

I regret the error!

I’m still angry about such as this. Good thing I keep excellent notes!

Well, let’s tune out with some of these folks (below), and I’ll try to giggle and wiggle some of these buttons to get some sort of Creative Commons stuff down below. Hope everyone’s uh, doin’ gewd, and checkin’ out brilliant posts hooked up on the Notable section of this blawg. I am solving problems close to my home plate at the moment, the backstop, the catcher, so on, so forth (“Damn bats all over the place,” a Magical middle school catcher muttered last century, in the south central region of these not quite so united as before states).

Creative Commons License

This post by me is by me, mostly, I suppose, though I’ve been shot through with the brilliance of others and yet I’m still here, carryin’ on

Sept 2018 arts internship sample post rejected by Seattle’s The §tranger: A feliz little art exhibit: Emergencia Artística

Note: In 2020, I’m writing 52 blog posts, one per week, released on Wednesdays or so…This is entry, like, a lot, for the week of whatever, Wednesday 9 September 2020. I mean, I’m also going back in time by posting something from two years ago!

Dear fuckheads in general as well as other human beings trying to figure out what to do with their relationships/interactions based on which campuses they fantasize I might need to work at next, here is a PDF file: like, here (2 pages), dudes and dudettes and others.

I had some interesting experiences today. First, after weeks and weeks of asking, I finally received confirmation that a payment card is being held onto properly; but, what was even more fun, was that I helped another lady jumpstart her car. I realized afterward that I had forgotten to ask for the jumper cables back, because she was cool and friendly and straightforward. So I drove back to make sure her car hadn’t exploded. It hadn’t. But now I’m out a pair of jumper cables. The weather here smells weird (yes, I know that word ends in a ‘d’), and posting this is likely gonna get me a lot of spam, or none at all. Oh well.

Here’s some Theodore Sturgeon, the famous opening to his novel More Than Human (1953):

The idiot lived in a black and gray world, punctuated by the white lightning of hunger and the flickering of fear. His clothes were old and many-windowed. Here peeped a shinbone, sharp as a cold chisel, and there in the torn coat were ribs like the fingers of a fist. He was tall and flat. His eyes were calm and his face was dead.

Men turned away from him, women would not look, children stopped and watched him.

I’m gonna go do laundry, hopefully, except probably tomorrow. Hope that’s okay with, like, humans and the Earth and the temperature and everything else. I have no idea what to put at the bottom of this for the licensing. How about Creative Uncommons? Probably more important is, there actually was an artwork at the event that was related to the Zapatistas. It was quickly removed. I asked and received squirrely answers in response from The Staff.

In other news, I forgot what I was gonna say…um…yeah.

Finally, I gotta get transported to some location within the next few days, and while I know that’s a Big Ask (since people are busy), if anyone has useful usefulness concerning that, kinda like, at some point, let me Know…

Mister Tchaikovsky, Mister Friedman, Mister Jeff Young (a true Flat Earther?)

Note: In 2020, I’m writing 52 blog posts, one per week, released on Wednesdays or so…This is a placeholder entry for Wednesday August 26 and also a proper post for Wednesday September 2, and if you are confused, please ask my last two most recent psychiatrists at the same time and in the same respectacles

So in general if not in principle it is perhaps more or less understandable that I would like the novel The Violent Bear It Away by Flannery O’Connor so I can read it a second time. I caminé past a bookstore earlier today and exhaled asking for a pen and the guy shook his head no. So I still have their phone number memorized except I already forgot the last two digits which I believe makes 10 times 10 possible phone calls and another person has yesterday asked for a check-in by phone today that has not happened just yet.

Returning to the compost about book prices, try to figure this fuckin’ one out. There is a trade paperback from the ’70s that is both dirt cheap and incredible hard to find in used bookstores; simultaneously, not many people actually understand its relationship to one of Mister Halford’s magnum opeyes:

I also lack on hand a 1936-first-published book by William Faulkner, not that I’m stupid enough to try to memorize that one in every possible iron placement of a sentienCheaire, I just actually think it would be sort of interesting to have lying around in case I need to get annoyed back at people on the phone who give me those phone calls I caint refuse. Or somebody could buy me an LP of Sturgeon reading a particular story of his, confused, send me the fuckin’ email down there at the bottom regarding your own lice-ensu

Regarding two nights ago when I was playing my guitar on la playa, one of ’em anyway (kind of a lot of them around this particular Deeflatport), there was an gigantically tall man with skin of black. I am worried not about him, mind you, and not either the spider who left a few whiles ago chanting at me, but that fuckin’ egg sac of the thing that’s yet on one of my many ‘squares of schizophrenia’ (confused? then before you chicken out or ostrich pout or rant at me about this and that cliche regarding when you have to poop or scoop or dupe, sit your USian eyeball right here and then riddle yourself about tourettes and emFostex), and I am just looking at that seedpod-shaped sac and wondering, though I somehow knew shining a flashlight at it would be a bad idea prior to having it confirmed by someone else who also knew I had known, anyway, the really tall guy who had to watch some other conversations with those of similar skeinburgerpianos, wondered aloud if I smoked some weed and I was like no man, these augmented 3rds, and I alLOUdingly Erkle’d my way back to a vehículo, no harm, no fuckin’ ow.

In other news, much like Lupe Fiasco, I gotta pay these bills (exactly one cheque for which I have the envelope and the stamp and the destination address and the exact dollar amount and the chequebook itself is somewhere on this goddamned carpet), and, then, I have what might be considered a show to do eventually, so I’ve been curious what happens, not only how much the Robin Cook first edition paperback novel Coma costs (which may or may not be the trade paperback to which I referred earlier), if I put a thousand ones in here while you plunge your own septictanks

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Before checking that math, eat your own ass! There is a really simple word I like to call many people (in my mind or in all’y’all’s, idgaf, if you want some konji write it by other other hand or foot first second third you elementary nerds down there right the fuck under the sudukoans), it’s real simple: COWARDS

This blog post, Mister Tchaikovsky, Mister Friedman, Mister Jeff Young (a true Flat Earther?), by Douglas Lucas, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License (human-readable summary of license). The license is based on a work at this URL:
https://douglaslucas.com/blog/2020/09/03/mister-tchaikovsky-mister-friedman-mister-jeff-young-a-true-flat-earther/ Seeking enlightenment about infinite butthole theory, well, then, I’ll fill you in if you send: dal@riseup.net.