a grouse with completely feathered feet


What can I? What can anyone? I'll build my gesture nest, my winsome couvade.

Will to.



Found ten more blogs of interest:

Not sure if I've "loaded" these yet.

Also, fight against! Keep rocking in the!



(hypergolem, once again modulated)

Microsoft is a company in Redmond Washington:

In 1975, you couldn't buy a personal computer—unless you wanted to build it yourself. Collaborating with coworkers meant poring over photo or carbon copies of documents. And keeping in touch? We turned to Uncle Sam or Ma Bell.

Yet, in 1975 Bill Gates and Microsoft cofounder Paul Allen saw the potential to turn a hobbyist's toy into something more. They sold the first software language program—called BASIC—for the MITS Altair 8800, the first "personal computer." BASIC, and the many more software programs that soon followed from Microsoft developers and partners, helped spark a technology revolution that has transformed how we do business, how we live, and how we learn.

What is a Turing quotient version of Paxil?


It's been a Joey Bishop kind of day. Always my favorite.

OMG, did you see that Microsoft butterfly in that commercial advertisement for MSN? The one where he's knocking shit over! Going around the city, turning off radios, overturning card games, so those from the gated communities will NOT HAVE TO BE SUBJECTED to city life while walking through the city! OMG, I don't know why famous British writer George Orwell didn't think about that! And then he could have named it after that David Bowie song "1984"! (Diamond Dogs.) And written it just like that Macintosh commercial!

I wander what the attack butterfly would do to this mineral.

On that note, I told Evening about this.

Here we go.

Evening has visualized what she would do if that Microsoft butterfly tried to go "parental control" on her content (not that she has a content, or is content, but she is still livid!). When Microsoft butterfly would come a-knocking, Evening would come, as they say, a-rocking. When the Microsoft butterfly attempts to shut off HER music because parental control auras need to be established, Evening will (a) sweep his legs with a quarterstaff, (b) remove glasses for visualization removal, and then (c) Quail will leap out of the alleyway and start singing Lita Ford in Microsoft butterfly's face. Because THAT music is OFFENSIVE!

Microsoft butterfly, if you're reading this, my posse is onto you. If you would have gone back in time--what?--would you have prevented Allen Ginsberg from reading "Howl"? Put a monkey wrench in the printing press that was formulating Tropic of Cancer?

So you think I forgot about...them.



Magazines, online or otherwise, that do not read unsolicited submissions, and then ask for a $20 entry fee for their first book contest, are bother-some.

It kind of puts a taint on enjoying any of the enclosed work. It makes any claims to egalitarianism, of an experimental aesthetic (which is often based on restructuring, through language, conceptions about capital and its exchange), almost laughable.

Hypergolems love closed circuits. HUMANS SHOULD NOT! I am androidic. YOU SHOULD BE NOT




Hello. I just wanted to clarify--and apologize, really--that this site really isn't about ptarmigans. Not really. You will have to go elsewhere for ptarmigan-rich content: ptarmigans on the tundra, ptarmigans frolicing in the snow, or whatever they do. Although the thought has crossed my mind many times to provide this content -- since there is obviously a need for it -- I think it is beyond my time, and technical, capabilities. Setting up the streaming audio of ptarmigan calls would just be too strenuous.

But all is not lost. For like driving down the wrong street and wonderful storefronts, fountains, and public parks that you had never heard of or seen before, this will provide the same thrill of discovery. Perhaps. You need to let the discoveries creep upon you. This site is about my housemates Evening and Quail. They are not entirely what they seem. They may or may not exist. This is about Hypergolem, our wonderful bloodhound of a link-find'r. This is a site about keeping the traditions of Halloween turkeys alive, and about minerals caught in the Inter-net, and sentient thermometers, and Iraqi tourism. I wish it could be more. So much more. But it you, dear wanderer, who I implore to pick up the slack. I hope you come back.

Holy shit that was a rhyme!

Thank you.



The usual cheery news from the town in which A. grew up in.

Thousands of Great Lakes birds die of botulism



Willy Lilly Nilly - Venture capital for poets. By Meghan O'Rourke


Lots of good (sea urchin beads, watch faces, bottlecaps, cool aluminum bottles) stuff for dealer's table freebies. Cheap. Or they seam cheap at least.


(begin hypergolem)

Bowhunting editorial is applicable to all walks of life:

Any modern bow and arrow setup that a licensed hunter may choose to tote into the woods is far less important than that hunter’s personal ethics, responsible actions, good judgment, and fair chase hunting tactics. These traditional bowhunting values are what matter most.

Battle between laser compound bowmasters and "stickbows"; traditionalists vs new fangled.

If we can learn this in the fields of science fiction and poetry, all will get along.

(end hypergolem)

I just lurve undead shows. Undead means you're kind of alive, but also kind of dead. Non-dead doesn't have quite the same ring to it, though Evening tells me it is more accurate.

ANYway, the Drew Carey show. Late Night with Craig Kilborn. Just Shoot Me. No one watches them, no one promotes for them. They are the latchkey zombies, the kid waiting on the end of the bench on the bus terminal, with a knowing look. It's not a nice look. These shows are surly, dispeptic ghosts. No one loves them. But they exist. Kind of. How many times has this happened before? It's brutal. It invokes pathos. Does anyone remember the last season of Caroline in the City? Murphy Brown? And yet the film is there. They existed. Kind of.

I'm getting ready for a big diatribe on giving-90-million-dollars-to-Poetry-magazine-lady. Hypergolem and I are confering, comparing notes. Fuck. Was she drunk? No, no, but I must contain myself, gather the evidentiary.

Theme park. The Poetry Channel. Seed money for small mags. But Poet-fucking-ry?


("Get the clamps, Quail," someone calls in the background.)


My ELO post ushered in the fact that Volkswagen is using an ELO song for their next songly commercial! I am a prophetic.

Seriously, what's next? Using Beatles songs for commercials? Using "Fortunate Son" to sell jeans? Raiding the old Motown vaults? I mean, come on. ELO is only the beachhead. What's next?

Don't worry, I'm just being alarmist.

Last night we decided to git[sic] another turkey, just for the hell of it. See, we have these extra dumplings. And cranberry juice. And cough syrup. Halloween is long over, but it was festive. I had my job to get back to on Monday (talk about a gray game!), but I wasn't trying to think about that. I'm trying not to think about what it was like trying not to think about that.