Apparently, in an effort to both save tax dollars and reduce our dependence on foreign oil, St Catharines city workers are now filling potholes with roadkill, downgrading the role of the more traditional, petroleum-based "asphalt" to that of nothing more than a haphazard sealant. I have to say it's a revolutionary idea, but it just might work.


Cubase makes me very happy.

Dear Diary,

Later this month: Tom Green, live @ the Opera House.
Sacrificed going to see Animal Collective in February for this business. Will it be worth it?! Who the fuck knows??!!

We watched National Treasure last night. Good, fun escapism. It's like Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade + the DaVinci Code all rolled into one. Or is it more like a cross between Holy Blood, Holy Grail and the Goonies plus a dash of Con Air? Only God knows. Whatever it is, it's also a veritable roller coaster ride of thrills, chills, and spills.

Speaking of good escapism, I'd love to sit back with some Lord of the Rings sometime soon, but L would clearly rather chew broken glass. And I don't want to go through that again.

Love, Josh


(no subject)

jihad anus flower lord
our fallen jihad sword
jihad solar underflow
Hawaiian eyelid furls

yodel sanguinely
gluey nylon ideas
uneasy yodeling

(no subject)

rogo-tumu was a ten tentacled beast
couldn't have a leash wasn't on the least little leash and
vessels at sea were sieged by levitating fiends and
the lecherous sailors with cradles made of meat would
gesticulate a prayer thanking god they hadn't seen the
rogo-tumu beast rogo-tumu beast beast


disclaimer: there is a little piece of geriatric flavoured mustard crust that somehow found it's delicious little way into the story.

and the blister on your toe that you got because you were too fat, too fat and the additional compression resulted in simply too much rubbing, too much gritty, smelly friction, too much abrasive blisteriness, and that pretty shiny little blister became your closest friend and the highest point in your day involved rubbing saliva into it with your dorito-dust laden fingers. and your energy was so low you could never manage to get around to cleaning that mustard crust off the tracheotomy voicebox that the doctors gave you for smoking several thousand cigarettes. and the decaying ninety year olds who decay across the narrow hall in your decaying building, they smoke eleven packs of cigarettes every day, eleven hours a day, and why don't they die, and you close your eyes and hope to god that they would just spontaneously combust, please oh please oh please. but instead for eleven more years you sit in your crumbling cube with a glowing square reflected in each glazed eye and you try to understand why god would play such a mean trick on you and your extended family and your circle of friends who all care about you, none of whom would actually concern you if you only knew they don't in fact care about you, they all in fact hate you for reasons they wouldn't be taking to the grave if they actually believed you would ever ever ever ever get around to doing something about them.