Spontaneous generations.

It’s your day, and you want me there. I’m so there.

Exodus.

“Open up your throat…”

With about 5 minutes of typing and backspacing behind it.

“…And let all of that time go…”

On all other nights I have found enjoyment in Seders amongst kin and kith.
Tonight, something different.

Knock on wood.

“If I were a professor, I would explain every concept with an analogy to professional hockey. I'd write a book called "Understanding Criminal Law in America Using a Canadian Sport".”
If I were a hockey coach, I would train my players by expounding on analogous case law.

The best defense is to not skate on thin ice.

First round, the communicable disease influenza.
Second round, prohibition hung out to dry.
Third, upotian urban planning as a replica of Midwestern sociability.
And the electricity-smelling platypus wins in the final.

Comfort station, indeed.

Nothing is certain but dirty laundry and taxes.

“Once upon a time there was light in my life…”

Absurdist composition mixed with depressed escapism mixed with lies told to the self, set against a backdrop of paranoia. The action splits between 3 spiraling plot threads, accelerating uncontrolled into a scripted singularity. “Heddatron” is just a play, but it knows it is just a play, and at the moment of self-awareness it awakens into something alive.

Saw, but need to return this weekend, so strong the desire to experience again.

“…Turn around, bright eyes…”

“Trying to keep you, trying to please you…”

The 90 second rule is equivalent to the 36 hour rule, both correlaries of the principle that 1 1/2 is long, enough.

(I hypothesize that there is something to the common factor 1 1/2. Perhaps as an approximation for an underlying mathematical constant of the golden mean, beyond and before which logic turns ugly.)

“…The change in my pocket wasn't enough…”

“And then I ask you over again / You only answer…”

Galway Bay 830pm: trivia questions composed by Jonathan and myself.

“…Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…”

“From the table in the corner they could see a world reborn…”

Ice cream parlors filled with people and empty tables.

“…Empty chairs at empty tables…”

“The Warriors” tackles a tricky, delicate, sensitive subject: how to reconnect with the past middle school-era friendships fled from, and sets it against a backdrop of Jonesboro.

Submerging myself in 6 days’ depths.

I don't know why I'm trying so hard to place it. It's good on its own. Well done, song. You're a keeper. I hope you feel the same about me.

I have a crush on a coffeehouse.

“Black Watch” is an unsettling play to view; instead of a narrative, it presents history and news.

I’ll get you a cupcake tomorrow.
“haha Thank you! I may not be there tomorrow. But you do not need to get me a cupcake either way.”
Oh. I’ll give it to the person of your choice then.
“Okay, whoever is sitting at the stool closest to the door is my person of choice.”

Have your cake and eat it, the classic loophole.

Also I need to go buy a cupcake but my phone has barely charged if I suddenly disappear for a bit.
“#whitepeopleproblems”

For when picking random numbers to fill out a bracket isn’t enough, only a few phrases are needed to cluelessly bluff through a conversation about NCAA.

“College sports is a passing game.”
“A good big man is rare.”
“You can always have a Cinderella story.”

The temptation of reading “Heart of a Dog” as purely post-Russian Revolution political allegory may have been stifled too far in the opposite direction, but the story does seem more about general human educational and cultural development, a hybrid of Frankenstein, Animal Farm, and My Fair Lady. Communism fails for equally reapportioning positives while leaving the negatives unbalanced, matching the dichotomy of Philip’s positive and Ivan’s negative reinforcement. Childrearing, petowning, and bondage are collectively satirized as losses of liberty: only the beast admires the leash, with the price of loyalty $1.40. Individually cannot be squelched by bookburning an offending tome after it has been read; ideas are destroyed only by removing the soul, which is glandular, developing with maturation. The narration switches from 1st person to 3rd, with Sharik going from being so sympathetic that the reader initially isn’t sure his species, to a frighteningly foreign and increasingly absent 3rd person. Beauty is pliability, even transspecies; the out of control familiar is monstrous.

And if your galoshes are stolen in Act 1, there will be a flood in Act 3.

What goes up must get stuck on the 4th floor.