Art Bar, Discovery Night

The hypothesis of Eternal Return postulates that reality has recurred innumerable times.

It has done so, long before God, who in her infinite wisdom, provided fish with the wherewithal to crawl towards land; thereby escaping the influence of extremely tedious water-breathers.
Therefore, all evidence suggest that Eternal Return is going nowhere. Well, it may come here, but later.

Anyhow, what I am trying to say is that Friedrich Nietzsche twice-predicted that repetition shall reign supreme, that is, "until all rhymed verse had been transmogrified into infinite quantities of chicken-soup epigraphs for Rilke’s under-appreciated soul".

The previous statement is not true; however, much like Hell, Windsor, or Chuck E. Cheese, such concepts can affect change without facts.

In fact, did you know that according to his recent exposé in The Fiddlehead, Stephen Hawking now believes that worm holes actually result from the universe caressing its own egg-tube? That’s a fact. That’s a Stephen Hawking fact.

On an unrelated note, I entered a poetry contest at the Art Bar last night. I was voted out in the first round. I returned to my table & graciously attempted to vote for the remaining contestants, but I could not. My ballot had somehow become a seminal vesicle, & my ballpoint pens had all become tiny, lemon-shaped cocoons of worm eggs.

I was left with no choice but to, once again, get very drunk. Would you like some Underberg Bitters? No seriously, take some. I have lots.

My Name Is Eugene

Today, I bought a book from Zoinks!

I removed the dust jacket. I can rarely abide dust jackets.
The point is though, I am quite happy.
I often pick up Vonnegut books that say:

by the best-selling author of Hocus Pocus,

but I never get to buy Hocus Pocus.
Instead, I just end up buying whatever Oprah tells me to buy.
Because really, if she says it is the Summer of Faulkner,
then I believe her.

It is better than re-living the Summer of George.

Sure, I could just pre-order Hocus Pocus from Chapters,
but such thoughts hold little appeal to me.
I mean, why settle for scheduled gratification?

Used book shops are like my thrill of the hunt.
If I were ever a survivor from Oceanic flight 815,
my unique island-skill would be my ability
to mysteriously obtain worthwhile books
from a perpetually shirtless Sawyer.

Or at the very least, I could take out a patent
for my own brand of coconut skeeball; Perpetually Topless, Coconut Skeeball.

Anyhow, back to the Vonnegut book which, according to the NY Times is 'purportedly written in prison on scraps of paper, each scrap a thought, story or digression unto itself.'

So here are some scraps of writing that I have not yet been able to do anything with, & I would be greatly honoured if you would steal these from me & write something with them:

1) He was a master of bunnies.
2) You are the sexiest, one-armed go-go dancer to ever baby sit me.
3) Bully belly, rumbly numb.
4) The hoof prints punched through the black paper sky.
5) Jake was with the wine when the blade struck noon.

A Letter to Kirk Cameron

Dear Kirk,

I hate to begin our correspondence this way,
but I have a confession to make: Dave Eggers
never returns my letters. I don’t blame him,
& neither should you, he is a very busy man.
I knew you’d understand. You don’t know
Dave Eggers by any chance, do you? No wait,
forget I even mentioned him. I don’t want you
to feel like you have to measure up to Dave
Eggers or anything. I am sure you will make
a fine pen pal. Heck, you’ll probably answer
me without dropping quite so many literary
references that I shamefully have to look up
in Wikipedia, & then pretend that I didn’t look
them up in Wikipedia, because I knew who
Cormac McCarthy was all along. Do you know
who Cormac McCarthy is? I could teach you.
We could hitchhike across America & work
odd jobs as we travel. You could perform a few
scenes from Mad Max, while I do some of my
famous birdcalls. Of course, everyone would
go crazy for your Mel Gibson impressions,
but no one would appreciate my bird calls.
‘What is a bird call?’ they’d demand. ‘Why,
they’re calls made by birds’ you’d say. ‘What’s
a bird?’ they’d ask. Then you’d smile patiently,
& explain that birds are like feathery cannibals
that used to fly all over Earth. ‘I remember those’
they’d say. ‘They also had hollow bones which
rode upon currents of air,’ you’d add helpfully.
Then the men would let us live, because you
helped them feel a connection to a past that
they thought was lost forever. Then I’d dust some
ash from your shoulder, & you’d smile at me.

Sincerely,
Ryan

Urine Crisis Has Passed

I live here.