Utter Stuff

See Prize Below

All You Have To Do Is - - -
Sort These Statements by Solemnity:

Just because you’re #5 doesn’t mean you’re not in the Top Five.

How long does it take to perceive a room?

Mathematicians go round and round because circles don’t exist outside the mind.

Quick Question: What can I bling to your party for me?

Information is rampant, but the ability to process information is rare.

Watch time. However minute our daze.

A stoic cannot shop for vegetables until he understands that he will soon die.

We are now funding a double blind study of shit that will never happen.

We need a ton of strings for a theory.

Congress mirrors your mind.

The first hundred years are the hardest.

A homonym is a word that sounds the same but is spelled differently, so a heteronym must be a word that is spelled the same but sounds differently.

The winner gets a year of free advice!

Thanks for your prompt submittal.


The ad says industrial painting. I’ve never really painted, industrially or not. But I can hold a paintbrush as well as the next guy, right? Anybody can paint, right? The industrial part I’ll figure out. The ad says show up at the jobsite.
     The jobsite is a chain link fence. Inside the fence sits a water tower, and a guy on the hood of a Ford pickup. 
“Here for the job?”
“Ever painted a water tower?”
I look up at all that metal in the sky and try to hide the fear. The thing is really big. “I know how to paint,” I lie to him.
“Where’s your last job?”
This satisfies him. Then he says, “You climb a water tower?”
“Sure.” I lie again, and look at him like what idiot hasn’t climbed a water tower.
“Show me,” he says.
My head flies up to see where the top of it is, face going white, but I march right over to the monstrosity like I’m Mr. Watertower and grab the first steel rung like I own the thing. Start climbing like it’s easy. And, wow, it is easy, and I grab one rung after the next and get into the rhythm of ascending. It is easy. I can do this. Heck, I can probably do this with a paintbrush in hand. Nice day, too. I look up and the thing hides the sky like it’s a second moon aimed at my head. Shit. Scary. But I keep climbing. Then I look down. Way down. Shit. I can’t do this. I can’t keep climbing. I could die. If I slip or stumble, I will die and won’t even have enough time for life to flash before my eyes before splatting. Hands start sweating.  Harder to grab these rungs with damp hands. Am I halfway yet? I keep climbing because if I stop it will be worse. And if I do stop, what happens? Are they going to send a helicopter to rescue some chickenshit college hippie from a water tower? I keep climbing. I hate the entire water tower. Way above the treetops now. Keep climbing and glancing out there without looking down and keep climbing some more. Then, finally, a few more rungs, and I make it to the platform and, wow, it’s great up here. Amazing, actually. I love standing up here. Strolling on the platform is a luxury and gazing into the beyond is thrilling. Where’s the city? Atlanta is just a few buildings, a little midget place, lost in an endless forest. Maybe I could get a job up here . . .
But the guy never calls me back and anyway a few days later there’s an ad for welder. I figure I can weld as well as the next guy, or at least as well as the next guy who has never welded. So I call the number. And the guy says, “Can you weld?” And I let him know that if I didn’t know how to weld, why would I be calling? So he says “Come on in on Thursday at lunchtime.”
Why did I tell the guy I can weld? How did I get into a jam like this? I don’t even know a welder. All I know is it melts metal to metal and you have to wear a funny helmet with a dark slot of window in it. Then I remember, yeah, do I know a welder, an artist at Atlanta College of Art. Her name is Wendy Shulman and she’s Jewish so I figure it’s okay to call her up, as if it’s written in The Talmud that Jews must teach each other to weld.

by Jonathan Marcus


  The Sixties really begins for me one summer afternoon around the middle of the decade.
  I’m just leaving Jacksonville, driving alone down to Daytona Beach in the family Impala on Phillips Highway, the old U.S. 1. 
  When the light turns green at the corner of University Boulevard, I spin the big boat to the south, and all I see in the windshield are the knees and thumb of a hitchhiker. He must be really tall. I hit the brakes and crunch onto the shoulder. Hitchhiking is normal. Dad used to tell stories about hitchhiking after the war, and we know the story, word-for-word, of how Mom and Dad hitchhiked to their wedding.
  So now that I’m driving, and making the big decisions, this is a new part of things to capture for myself.
  The door opens, and all I can see is legs. Legs already folding into the car. Red hair falls to his shoulders and the bandana he’s wearing, it’s cherry red, school bus yellow and Dodger blue. He seems adept at collapsing himself. His knees poke above the dashboard. The door closes and we’re rolling.
  “Thanks, man. Glad to be riding. Nobody around here wanted to pick me up.”
  I can see why. He doesn’t look like anyone from around here. As tall as a truck, and the long red hair. Everyone in Jacksonville probably sped up when they saw him.
  “Where you going?” I ask.
  He says there is a scene in Key West.
  Nobody talks like that in Jacksonville. A scene is either on a postcard or in a play.
  He’s glad to be rolling down the road. He thanks me again.
  Then he doesn’t say anything. He seems content to simply leave Jacksonville.
  But I’m curious. “What kind of scene?”
  He looks at me, deciding whether or not to answer. Then he says, “A different kind of scene is happening in certain places now.”
  This is way before Life Magazine's shocking cover story about a newly coined word, “Hippies,” and how these people are living in a different way.
  It’s like some future Daniel Boone is sitting with me in Dad’s Chevy. He knows stuff that nobody in Jacksonville can even ask a question about. I want to know what he knows. I want to be like him.
  He says, well, if you’re that interested, a lot of what we were taught about the way things are, well, they’re not that way at all.
  Yes, I am that interested. Very interested. Extremely interested.
“A lot of stuff, about our government, about the purpose of life, about the nature of love,” he says.
  Again: nobody in Jacksonville talks like that. The patter in Jacksonville concludes foregone conclusions.
  “Like the war in Asia.” Nobody in Jacksonville is talking about the war. “Why is the government making guys fly half way around the world to blow up villages in the jungle? Guys like me. But I got lucky. I’m six-foot-nine. They won’t draft me because I don’t fit in the Jeeps. So I don’t have to go. But you have to wonder what’s driving all that madness.”
  “I’m not going,” I tell him.
  “But that’s just a small part of it,” he says, like I’m not getting it. “It’s more about ‘What forces do we represent?’ And, ‘Why are we alive?’”
  Finally. Somebody is talking about a more profound life.    
  He says, “Your neighborhood. Everyone’s in a box, right? Sure, the houses look like boxes. But so do their heads, man. Once you see it, all the people are boxes living in boxes.”
  I picture this one guy in our neighborhood. He lives alone. Everyone else is the same. A mom, a dad, and some kids. I never thought about the guy until right now in the car. We never play in front of his house. He’s just different. His yard is always tidy, but he’s never in it. All of a sudden, I like him a lot and want to see him out in the yard.
  “After high school, you should learn how to walk on stilts and make yourself six foot nine, go down to the draft board, and get out of the war.”
  He cracks a smile and says, “You can be better than this war. Go find your own war. Fight a different war, man. Fight your war.” He smiles bigger. “That’s how you make peace with the world.”
  When we get to Daytona Beach, I take care to place him at the best hitchhiking intersection in town, at the corner of US1 and Main Street. He thanks me for the ride.
  But even though I can’t get the words out, I’m the one who’s really thankful. Like I just met not only some future Daniel Boone, but also the prophet Elijah. I’m chewing on something new and raw and fresh and dangerous. I want to fight my war.

by Jonathan Marcus


A mapping of over 50 small community churches in the Hosea Williams Blvd corridor from Candler Dr. to Cabbagetown, 2011/2012. Three services were filmed and edited from the original 2 - 2 1/2 hour length to 5 or 6 minutes: True Deliverance, Jesus House of Prayer and Faith Christian Fellowship. Links to the videos can be found by clicking on their pins on the map. Click here for full version of map. map produced by Calvin Burgamy



It’s not like that at 37 Bolton Road. Everything unpredictable, unenforced and everything always up for gobs of discussion. Even simple matters, like where to stop for gas, become bloated, confusing conundrums for the entire family to chew on. No line between the two parents and two children – my sister and I – cleans up these free-for-alls. 
     “No, don’t go to the Shell station.”
     “Why not?”
     “It’s on the wrong side of the street. You’ll have to make two left turns.”
     “I have to go to the bathroom.”
     “No, don’t go to the Esso.”
     “Why not?”
     “I don’t know, I just don’t like it.”
     “Don’t like it? How do you ‘not like’ a gas station?”
     “You just went to the bathroom.”
     “We wanna go where the horse is.” 
 “Yeah, Pegasus. We want to go to Mobil, c’mon. We wanna see the horse. . .”
     “Let’s just get it on the way back. We have gas right now.”
     “No, Bob. You always do this. We need gas, and we need it now.”
     Judy and I never doubt that Mom and Dad love us, and we take that for granted, along with all our other blessings, when we form our non-verbal early childhood alliance to fill the power vacuum in the general nuthouse atmosphere at home. Most of the time, nobody’s in charge. And then we have the “go ask your father” and “go ask your mother” volleys when the two big people can’t agree over what to do about the upstarts.
     Sometimes, when the confusion engulfs everything, Judy and I exchange a glance that means enough is enough, at which point we step into the shambles, grab the rudder, and right the listing family vessel. Every now and then, something extraordinary results.
On this one thick and still summer Sunday, the sky goes dark with hulking thunderclouds. Trees curve, elastic in the gusts. Wind pours through the house, then curtains of rain shimmy everywhere. The lawn gone to pewter, everything sideways and swaying, everything wet, even the windowsills and the floors around the windows and little fingers, wet, clutching the windowsill. The storm full and fat and thrilling.
And then it’s gone. And everything’s changed. The temperature plummets, maybe fifteen degrees. New scoured air electrifies the land. Judy and I bounce around the house as if we’re plugged into that current.
     We start bellowing, “Let’s go for a ride!”
     We have to go for a ride. Mom and Dad never want to go for rides. But so what? We have to see it, the washed world. It won’t last, we know it won’t. We have to see it before it disappears. We’re in emergency management mode. Mom and Dad are beached whales, immoveable and mute, but within minutes they succumb to the force of our desire. We herd them into the car. "C’mon, hurry, before it goes away!"
     The car rolls down Bolton Road to Hartford Terrace, but instead of turning left towards school and work, the car turns right. In no time we’re out on Oneida Road, out in the country. Nobody else has yet emerged. The empty road glistens pitch black and forest green and sky blue. The car hums, windows down and ballooning with pure new air. On rolling Adirondack foothills, the road curves through the dairy farms and the spruce groves. Nobody speaks. The spectacular new world overwhelms our small family, and binds us together.

by Jonathan Marcus


This Just In From Our #1 Rated Cause + Effects Department:

Effects that have nothing to do with causes are so effective.
The universe thrives by effects hardly related to causes.
That's what distinguishes life from machinery:
a system in which effect discombobulates cause is a living system.
Any system where causes affect effects is a machine.


Threads in Search of a Loom

I wanna be a technocrat.

What happens in Afghanistan never stays in Afghanistan.

Area roofer comes down with shingles.

OK, so who wants to be a rear admiral?

Director of Client Services unable to state what client services are.

Would like to trade interesting three year old North American male for predictable zero year old Asian flat screen TV, 27" or larger.

They offered me Turkish coffee but Iran.

The World Health Organization is fucked up.

I'm drawing a pencil skirt.


Dealing With the Future Now and Then

So, when everything is digitized, will digital reality become really, like, “real”?

Hold on, don't snort too quick here. Yes, I’m talking to you, the snorter in the back, because I will digitize your undignified undigitized snortus before it exits your nasopharyngeal apparatus. I know you are susceptible to digital self-snortification delivered by the etho-digi-sphere. I mean, who isn’t?

Whatever. The great thing about the process, is well…...
this whole process can at any time be deleted, digitally, dutifully.
I think you know what I mean, yes? Thank you for “understanding”, such as it is.  I really appreciate it in a way that is, thankfully for you, magnified digitally within my own socio-digi-cybersphere, which of course is far superior to any conventional “real” biological/emotional/intellectual magnification of the stated appreciation.


If you have any questions about this photo, 
feel free to contact us at The Information Center. 
We're in and out. 


Lorem Ipsum: The Netiquette Rules

-Never answer an email with a fax. 

-Don’t floss with MS-DOS.

-Don’t think you are smart when you say “the internets.”

-Use the phone for anything but talking.

-Vivamus euisimod dolor id tristique internetus dummioso.

-Spam ain’t worth the ones and zeros it was written on.

-Weave portmanteaux into your internet fiber optic badinage. 

-Always never say, “Ah, well, when I was at Stanford . . . or was it Oxford?“

-Don’t go on and on about your hard drive and shit.


This post is brought to you by our breezy benefactor,
"We hang over so you don't have to."

Therefore, due to circumstances and conditions and a certain lack of focus, there is really no solid prepared message to deliver like there most often usually is. All we ask is that if you have a better idea, please send it in. Otherwise, you really oughta use this opportunity the way we are.



Take the two way street with the four way stops. There's no three ways about it. The congestion is due to gridlock in Little Rock and will persist forever and ever. Take a surface street to plumb the depths. And while you're at it, don't forget to floss, trim your ugly nose hair, and get over your fat self. And by the way, does anyone really know if  "on the wagon" means you're drinking or not drinking? And one more thing: there's no such thing as a divided highway. All highways are unified by the Theory of Relativity. Absolutely.


This space is reserved for your personal notes. Please write on your screen with wild abandon and send us a photo. The best entrants will be awarded a rapid ride in our Chevron Algonquin Mint Julep Matador DeLuxe Solid Leather Beast-o-Matic Supreme. 



After an endless eleven minute board meeting, Whirled HeadQuarters has opted to spin off its construction subsidiary despite wild success as a cash cow that keeps this entire barge awash in beverages. 

Therefore: Lucky You! Because now all the names reserved for subsidiaries of the subsidiary are no longer needed, and we'd rather share them with you than them, for a modest fee of course. All reasonable offers might be refused. Might not. Whatever. Anyway, 

Construction Business Names Available for a Short Time Only

Homes for Honkies
Groveling Clients Construction
Rube Goldberg Homes
Immobile Homes
            “We Ain’t Goin’ Nowhere and Neither Are You”
Placenta Construction
Sign of the Beast Builders
Craven Construction
Beaver Builders
Hypotenuse Trapezoid Apocalypse
You Lookin at Me? Builders 
Casa Bluto
Stiffy Erection Co.
Flushing Homes
Quicksand Construction
            Formerly – My Name Is Mud Construction
Spandex Underwear Thongkini Construction
Level My Ass Builders
Free Sex If You Buy One Homes
Gay Happy Shiny Special Residences
            For happy shiny peoples


Barely Used Fragments of Conversation
Now Available for Re-Uptake

  • Well, what if you can't find in Epicureanism what you find in Stoicism?

  • The term "dead end" really brings me down.

  • Just because she apologized doesn't mean I have to.

  • Does that mean you'd like to go back to the barter system?

  • You're invisible now. You don't need a passport.

  • There are never apples in that apple tree.

  • So you think he was the next Jesus?

  • How do you speak for a generation that has nothing to say?

  • Don't say I never warned you about watermelon.

  • You hafta have a sense of humor about bankruptcy and death.

  • Not all Swiss cheese has holes, and not all of it is Swiss.

  • Just because you hafta ask doesn't mean you should ask.

  • Two left turns do not make a right, but three do.

  • You don't smell like you look.

  • It's a lot easier to mix liquids together than it is to mix them apart. 


The future is formed 
from the collision of 
mute forces 
with language. 


The Emotional Periodic Table

The mostly good folks in our psychology laboratory are assembling the long-awaited Emotional Periodic Table. It isn't done yet, but in a rare departure from the stringent standards at Whirled HeadQuarters, we have deemed this work so important that we releasing it in a developmental state and are welcoming input from sophisticated readers, if we have any, no offense intended. The following "feelings" will be arranged in bunch of boxes, just like the thing in chemistry class, with specific gravities and numbers and stuff like that assigned to each box. Enough already, you either get the idea or you don't. Comments and suggestions are welcome until Midnight, Greenwich.

Pro Athlete


Whirled HeadQuarters Elevator Pitch

Wow, man, it's weird we both wound up in the same elevator. You, the big deal god of creative writing, and me - the undiscovered genius. Are you, like, going to the top floor? What the hay, I'll ride with ya. And, wow, listen to this about my book. Unbelievable. It starts off where the young genius is riding the elevator with, like, the biggest dude in publishing, and they get into this conversation that is so completely profound, I mean, it not only jumps off the page, it changes your fucking life, you know what I mean? Anyhow, it blows the mind of the publishing dude so bad that he punches the emergency button so he can keep talking to the young genius! Cut to the chase: they take the elevator back down and get totally blissfully smashed and ultimately the book winds up with the Nobel Prize! For Literature!


Whirled HeadQuarters is closed for the day. 
We are not closed for any of the following reasons:

  • For Repairs
  • So you you may pardon our progress
  • For inventory
  • So we can figure out how to serve you better
  • For staff training
  • For the installation of new software
  • National Guard Duty
  • Taking a me day
  • Rented out for a celebrity benefit
  • Issue with the parole officer
  • We were just elected President!
 We are closed because, well, just because. Not sure why, frankly. It just happened. We are trying to take a picture of it but we can't focus, and neither will it.

See you on Friday or Thursday.


Whirled HeadQuarters invites you to participate in any and all events in the forthcoming whirled premiere of The Zen Olympics. The events will take place in cosmic time and universal space. Each event will be commence in silence and will conclude with a palpable bong.

   The Zen Olympics

  • Creek Sitting
  • Sprawling
  • Eyebrow Plucking
  • Deleting Photos
  • Wishful Thinking
  • Cancelling Reservations
  • Wading
  • Loitering
  • Bullshitting
  • Breaking & Entering
  • Spitting
  • Breast Pumping
  • Imitating
  • Wondering
  • Sweating
  • Masticating
  • Procrastinating
  • Defensive Driving


A few facts by which we may momentarily moor ourselves
even as we throb in the corpuscular maelstrom:

  • Distance from the earth to the sun: about 93 million miles, or 8 light minutes.
  • From the sun to the former planet Pluto: 4.6 billion  miles, or 9 light  months.
  • Radius of the solar system: a few light days, depending on things.
  • The Milky Way is 100,00 light years in diameter, contains about 200 billion stars.
  • (At this point, the difference between radius and diameter may not matter.)
  • Our local group of galaxies: 3 million light years in radius.
On a different portion of the scale . . .
  • The human brain contains about 100 billion cells.
  • And the human body contains about 100 trillion cells.
  • But we have ten times as many microbes in our bodies as we have human cells. 
  • Oy.
  • But without them we would die. 
  • But we're gonna die anyway. 
  • Oy.


top nine lobstervations from outside the general area:

  1. everything’s all fucked up because of sex.
  2. the jury is still out on plywood, but how right can twelve people be?
  3. life is a job whether you have one or not.
  4. grow more tumbleweed.
  5. waffle irons are so decisive.  
  6. numbers drive the world economy, and they don’t even exist.
  7. camping is so in tents.
  8. seek the plethora.
  9. divide your observations into groups of eleven.
  10. cheese becomes cheesier over time because it just does.


crayons in the can
do anything
crayons in the hand
do something


Waiting for Session

A brief interlude between sessions at the Reusing Indigenous Clay Modalities Conference at the Fort Pierre National Grasslands Conference Center outside of Pierre, South Dakota allows attendees to network with one another. Conference co-chairperson, Addison Cuthwinning, said this years conference was one of the best ever. Said Cuthwinning: "This year was one of the best ever! Attendees were able to sit and listen to presenters give presentations about various topics related to Reusing Indigenous Clay. Some of the presenters used computers and powerpoint presentations and attendees were thrilled at the lifelike images of things we do with clay and things we would like to do with clay in the future. So exciting! There were so many good ideas!"


Favorite Obscure Wikipedia Articles, Part XVI


Incident at 30, 000 Feet

Imagine my surprise when flying at 30, 000 feet and traveling at or near 500 mph I look out the window and there is this dude's head. The head is screaming but of course I can't hear it because the head is outside and AirTran has inexplicably installed engines right next to the windows as well. So I am trying to mouth to the head that I can't hear a word he is saying. This exchange goes on for about 5 minutes when I decide to call the stewardess and get someone in authority to see what the fuck is going on. So I start to push the button and the head sees what I'm doing and starts shaking itself violently from left to right in the classic "NO!" style.  I "hear" what he is "saying" so I stop myself. I  look  around the plane to see who else is scoping out the floating head situation but no one seems to notice. I look out once more and shrug my shoulders and he nods in silent agreement and slowly disappears into the gray fog that surrounds the plane.


From the Whirled HeadQuarters Random Inquiries Department:

These words are both homonyms and antonyms:


If some people are named Frances
how come some other people are not named 
SpainsMongoliasKenyas or Laoses?

The proper concession to the digital age 
is to quit doing things in real time.


In Pursuit of The Word

Pursued by the agents of formalized cliche, and in pursuit of the roots of true language, we ducked into a speakeasy - such places had sprouted like organic slang since the passing of the latest municipal syntax. After knocking twice and correctly identifying the true author of shakespeare's sonnets, the door opened and a boggy irishman ushered us in with a soggy nod of his head. "Say what you will, gennelmen", said he, "but parse not lest ye be parsed. Um's the word, y'know."
He beat a peaty retreat towards the bar and we entered, in Finnegan's wake.
The heat was off . This was cool. All about us came the hubbub of mother tongues, from sanskrit to gallic to y'all, all rising to a haze of thick glossolalia stirred into meaning by the lone ceiling fan. Verbal gumbo. We looked at each other and smiled wide as our prefrontal lobes ignited in phonetic sympathy. "Ah, the sweet elixir", said one of us, "Neural drool", said the other, laughing. "I think something stout is calling my name", said one more - and we eased into the din of antiquity, heading for the taps.

Edging, shouldering, sidestepping past poets, griots and stern-looking umlauts, we arrived at the bar and asked for pints of the local dialect. The irishman fixed us with a brassy glare and boomed "In the beginning was the Word!" "One word!" came the sudden chorus from from the room. "BUT", roared the son of Erin, "One word cannot be said without a second to give it meaning." "Two words!" shouted back the crowd. "And so", said Finnegan softly, "this one Word, unspoken, breathes life into all you say and hear." All grew silent as the ceiling fan creaked to a stop and the irishman leaned forward expectantly, looking at us each in turn. We drew straws on a napkin and the shortest sketcher frowed his burrow, shrugged and cried, "Yo! What's the Word?!". The room exploded in laughter and high-pitched doggerel and the ceiling fan stirred anew. "Congrats lads", said the barkeep, "Yu'v just recapitulated the ontogeny of yer own vocabulary!" 

We didn't know if this was good or bad and a little greek guy with a sticker on his chest that read Hi, my name is Homer leapt onto a table and yelled, "And here's another history lesson: In a land where words were few and stark, no synonyms abounded. Each word described an equal portion of reality, and their relationship to other words was a succinct grammar in itself. This natural tongue, though noble, could not help but grow incestuous to preserve itself. Some words began to have more than one meaning; others survived only in reference to other words. As time went on, this fateful trend continued, from burble to babble to riot. And just when every word seemed to mean anything, everything, nothing, a very strange thing occured..." 

The doors to the speakeasy suddenly flew open, dark figures silhouetted in the streetlight pouring in. "Shadduuuuuup!!" screamed a hooded voice, and then menacing, "Stow yer tongues and nobody gets... hurt." The figures began to advance, reciting lines from cheesy gangster flicks in a low liturgical litany. "It's a raid!" yelled Homer, scrambling off the table, and all was bedlam. "Thought police" hissed Finnegan, pulling open a trap door behind the bar, "this way to clarity. Hurry." 

We hustled down the chute, recognizing the dark figures as our pursuers, centuries of articulation receding as we sped, chasing the word, and being chased by its constraints...


One of Many Internal Conversations
 About the Medical Crisis of 2013

The extreme medical crisis brings me full circle on the brain question, the question about whether our brains are in charge of anything, and if so how much, because in a medical crisis you pretty much have to trust the medical professionals, because, let's face it, they use their brains and the accumulation of medical knowledge, to do things – such as save lives – that you, with your carpentry and plumbing tools and paint brushes and nice way of talking and cool life experience, simply can't do, plus they can prescribe morphine, which you also can't do, but speaking of brains, there's nothing like a medical crisis to engage you and your own brain to ask the bevy of doctors urgent questions and more questions and more questions until you start to notice that their answers don't always fit their other answers nor do they always fit the others guys' answers, so you ask more questions until you are layers deep into the accumulated medical knowledge of the eons, and now your questions are getting pretty good and engaging their brains because your brain has been paying very close to attention to the words they speak and parsing the words and breaking the facts down and stacking the facts up since this is a matter of life and death, and one day in the office of a major doctor dude, you realize that regarding the question you are asking he doesn't know the answer. He's never thought about this before. This is a scary moment. The doctor doesn't want to admit it. Neither do you. He's got his reasons. You've got yours. But none of the reasons are worth a flip compared to life and death, and within the space of one more question you don't care about anything but your hunger for knowledge, because his reasons and your reasons are small and shabby compared to life and death, and because your brain is engaged with your heart because your heart wants to go on beating and your brain wants to keep on breaking through the veil with new questions about the brain question and because of the crazy desperate throbbing exuberance of the immortal dizzy deep mystery of cells and space and the spinal column, and what doesn't belong there.


Some Favorite Obscure Wikipedia Pages


DreAm  DiAry

I'm at an arts center, like the High but smaller. There is a sudden hubbub, people moving around excitedly, almost like a crime scene. Turns out a forgery has been discovered - one of the featured pieces. Patrons, workers, art people, everyone is commenting on it and giving their take. A spontaneous seminar takes place with gallery people talking about the history of "art crime" and individuals, even the waiters who are circulating with finger food and ice water, piping up with anecdotes, jokes and pointed remarks.
The atmosphere is "we're all in this together" in this spontaneous event, very convivial, a brief comersion of rich and poor, patrons and workers. It's hot, and amid the talk, people are guzzling ice water and asking for refills like there's no tomorrow. You can hear the click of ice cubes against glass all over. The waitrons are happy to oblige, whisking around with big pitchers of water, commenting on the forgery and pouring water here and there. At my table the waitron pours water into our glasses and I take a satisfying pull of clear ice cold water. The guy is just about to go away to refill the pitcher when another table nearby waves to him urgently about something. He can't do two things at once so he stands there for a second and in a moment that crosses the usual boundaries he turns to look at me, holds out the empty pitcher and asks if I would do him the favor of refilling the pitcher with water.
This is THE LOOK - our eyes are locked and a lot is going on in that look. He's taking advantage of this spontaneous democratic atmosphere, and I'm wondering why me and why should I and am I obligated. But I am thirsty so.... I say ok. He is greatly relieved and pushes the pitcher into my hands and mutters something about the kitchen being back there before rushing off to the other table.
So I get up and move uncertainly to the back of the big central room. There's no kitchen, just a sink, and I fill the pitcher. I'm just about to go back to join in the fun when I look down and notice there's just a couple of weakass little leftover ice cubes floating on the top of the pitcher. The water's cold, but its not ICE COLD. This won't do. That was the whole thing that made the water so good - the ice. I look back at what is now a party and look around for an ice machine, but there isn't any. I've got a choice to make - go back or look for ice. The ice wins.
There's a couple halls leading out of the room so I walk down one holding the pitcher of water. The sounds of the party fade and it seems the rest of the center is empty. And no ice machines. Everything looks dark, weird and eerie as I proceed. I get to a room and there's a woman there. She turns and asks, "so what should I paint?" Turns out she's here for a class and we chat and I clear up the misunderstanding. "I'm just looking for some ice" I say, hefting the pitcher by way of explanation. I ask her if there's a fridge or ice machine nearby and she gives vague directions to another part of the center, so I head off again, in search of ice for the pitcher of water.


Interesting Thoughts

"Everything is somewhere always."  - Max Zictim, a relative of the Absolute

"If you wonder whether or not you did something, you either did or did not do it."  - Fergus III, Duke of Whaxam

"I wanna be in a nut commercial." - Gregg Almond


Report from Armuchee:

talked to my dad last night. he just took delivery of a Massey Ferguson 45 hp 4wd tractor paid for with insurance money from the fire.  So he's out there with his macular degeneration and his periodic neuropathy, at 94 years old. putting about with this drop dead sexy tractor pulling up burnt cedar trees.  a good hobby at 94, no?  the last time he took delivery of a new tractor was more than 70 years ago, just before he and his brother entered the war.  He may be nutz in his intellectual allegiances but he is rock solid in the Artes Mechanicae.  His twin brother with Alzheimers is still holding steady too.  Makes me wish I had abused myself more when the opportunity was there, as I obviously  have an account to cash in, at least on his side of the family.  None daunted, there is still time to exhaust the ledger.   wish we could do it together . . . 


Eleven Leading Job Interview Questions:

  1. With whom have you hobnobbed?
  2. Do you have chapstick on your lips? Lipstick on your chaps?
  3. Have you ever had sex with a Bolivian?
  4. What is the capitol of Missouri?
  5. Where would you like to massage Mrs. Bush?
  6. What color bra are you wearing?
  7. Do you know my half sister Meagan?
  8. Do you know when to punt? If so, when?
  9. Where is the Crimea?
  10. Do you believe in Atlantis?
  11. Say something interesting in Esperanto.
  12. Are small potatoes good for you?
  13. How long was The Hundred Years War of 1812 Overture?
  14. How do you pronounce “pronunciation?”
  15. How bad are you in bed?
  16. Would you work here for free?
  17. You wanna go get something to eat?


Official Announcement
no photos available at press time

Our work at WhirledHeadQuarters is certified state-specific, as duly noted in the archives. In addition, at no extra charge, we offer our ironclad guarantee: None of our work is done in the eternal now because the eternal now is driving us all crazy. With one foot in the last millennium, the other foot in the millennium before that, you can trust us to pitch you hungily and irritably through the digital divide and onward into the next-to-the-last millennium. 


whirls o wizzdom

The title of our next book is The Next to the Last Book.

We’re with the decentralized intelligence agency.

I really miss everyone being afraid of Communism.

You might not be stuck but you sure don’t move a whole lot.
I’m not stuck. I’m diving headfirst into a boulder.

Can’t wait to get home! No, wait, I am home. Shit, I’m home.

We’re in the top 99%.

The world is our reef.

It’s quiet on the bottom of the ocean except for the screams of psychotic squid.

The integrity of this consensual hallucination is in the hands of your mind.

I ain’t never seen leather shoes so shiny. You oughta patent them leather shoes.

Start stopping people before they start stopping you.

Good News!!! Our membership just topped one hundred million! We all benefit because now your dues are only twenty-two dollars a month!

This just in: Avoid trust fund waiters.

Yeah, you’re a damn good physicist, but you didn't change reality.

If you know where I’m going with this, please let me know before I don’t get there.

Friend is saved from hornet on his nose by extra good friend who chops down his nose with an ax.

The title of our other next book is: Why Am I Eating This?

That type guy at the print shop is just a font of typefaces.

Always never kick a knife.

HQ is the safe harbor where the truth can mean absolutely nothing.

All of our work is certified state specific.

Your name has a lot more syllables backwards.

That’s left, as in wrong.

Send us ten bottles of good wine and we’ll check ‘em out for ya’.

We fuck up the easy part. Every week.

If you want a good laugh, translate everything into Fortran and back again.

There’s a lot to be said for some of what’s being said.

Far be it from us to be so far from it.

The Question men will never ask each other, #81:
What were you wearing?

For the entire five minutes I was a millionaire, all I thought about was money.

This bumper sticker available here.

If you drink somebody else’s spit, rinse it down with alcohol.

I heard you got a new Monitor. Why didn’t you get a new Merrimac?

Yeah, it’s exciting, like pain is exciting.

All our poetry is written in Dyslexic Quintameter.

We missed when we know about a good opportunity.

There's no time like 9 A.M.