crude futures

A stranger asks another stranger, "Do we have friends in common?"

Brackybork-lewtnop-snoweld / Tadnol-zeighrel-kashentat-aplo

Brackyborklewtnopsnoweld
Tadnolzeighrelkashentataplo
Dackshadlorbnoyzenklorashed
Torkyonnairdijugjagsorshane
Jesroskureldondoiellekoonda
Loinmomurdjecisnogadgoota
Tosspruppnockixafixtudbrub
Leblohrchondasseudandand
Feiffpukdrotchemidarbyot
Jenkjenkitrankychaspencin
Robatlovilarbemelshidde
Geheybeyuhihelyayzabixom
Caddeziblatemblecorteod
Broburkenkoxinjerrpusoy
Kuddidhoylrogeppstoorzalti
Pozbyiskiskyshteltambolinks
Omelmuzzonlelitacaxigmanje
Watpoytwepjantscolengoodel
Loltorlbylobyolbrydednennid
Mimomd

"Babies Don't Keep" by Ruth Hulburt Hamilton

 

Mother, O Mother, come shake out your cloth,
Empty the dustpan, poison the moth,
Hang out the washing, make up the bed,
Sew on a button and butter the bread.

Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She’s up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.

Oh, I’ve grown as shiftless as Little Boy Blue,
Lullabye, rockabye, lullabye loo.
Dishes are waiting and bills are past due
Pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peekaboo

The shopping’s not done and there’s nothing for stew
And out in the yard there’s a hullabaloo
But I’m playing Kanga and this is my Roo
Look! Aren’t his eyes the most wonderful hue?
Lullabye, rockaby lullabye loo.

The cleaning and scrubbing can wait till tomorrow
But children grow up as I’ve learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down cobwebs; Dust go to sleep!
I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep.

McSweeney's 37 — a book designed to look like a book

Coming soon:

You're my bartender, and I wrote this poem for you

Crag rag,
Tap tamper,
Foam spray ray—

Burn a dollar,
Tip a dollar—
San Francisco Bay Guardian.

(I don't read it.
It's free, and the only copies I touch
Are the ones that get thrown to my outdoor staircase.
I've touched them all to get them out of my way. I've thrown them all away.)

Shark-fin bubble gum and pudding in a pout—
Choco-tremble, brain a thimble,
I've wanted to tell you how when I call my wife, the first thing I often hear is screaming.

My son watches videos on my wife's phone, and my casual phone calls interrupt his entertainment.

Is there any precedent for this?
For an invention that makes your son cry when you reach for your wife?

(Sure there is: the precedent is life.
Life was the first invention that makes your son cry when you reach for your wife.
What is the precedent for life?)

Any remark about the technological infliction of pain is, at root, an affirmation of life.

There is a wife.
(Or: there was a wife.)

There is a child.
(Or: there was a child.)

There is time to remark.
(Or: there was time to remark.)

Maybe I'll do a little jig right now. I've thrown in some rhymes. It's not all bad, ever. It's never all bad. Any claim to the contrary is a sloppy lie.

I walk into the street with an open bottle of ranch dressing wedged sideways in my armpit

I walk out
into the street
pouring ranch dressing.

I walk into the street,
an open bottle of ranch dressing wedged in my armpit.
I bought this bottle today, or yesterday, or last week.
Today, I cracked it open.
The bottle is tilted and the dressing pours freely, smoothly, behind me.

I pour eleven and a half ounces of dressing from a twelve-ounce bottle.
For a while, the stream is steady. The rest
dribbles.
Some drips hit my
pants.
I don't like the smell of ranch dressing on
food.
I like the smell of ranch dressing on
pavement.
I enjoy pouring its contents, a bottle's contents.
I enjoy pouring them through the
air.
I enjoy having them on the
ground.
It is not a waste. I don't like the taste.

(I think of an emptied ranch-dressing bottle as an empty model house.
Someone has hired an interior decorator to decorate the house to paint its walls and ceiling and floor with ranch dressing.
Or: someone has entrusted the house to a friend, and the friend has sprayed every surface with ranch dressing and then abandoned the premises.)

This is my favorite way to enjoy ranch dressing:
To walk into the street
with a full bottle wedged sideways in my armpit
and let the dressing pour until the bottle is full of outside air.

When I pour the dressing out of its bottle, I don't drizzle it.
I don't dump it or force it.
I let the dressing pour in a steady cream ribbon, a quiet white velvet stream.

I am a car, and the bottle is my muffler.
The ranch dressing is a fluid porcelain exhaust.

I don't like the taste of ranch dressing, but I search for a bottle in the supermarket.
If I can't find it, I get help.
I buy a bottle.
I've never liked the taste and I never liked the smell of ranch dressing
until I tucked a bottle in my armpit
and unscrewed the cap
and walked into the street.

I've started to occasionally blog for PRINT magazine's IMPRINT blog

Here's a link to my first original blog post for IMPRINT, a new blog that was launched (or is about to be launched) by PRINT, an NYC-based graphic design magazine. Officially, I think it's still a non-launched blog. Google doesn't seem to know about IMPRINT yet, and PRINT's main website doesn't seem to link to IMPRINT yet.

My first two IMPRINT posts (1, 2) were rehashed/recycled crude futures posts (1, 2).

Meanwhile, crude futures (this blog) remains alive. That is: I'm not giving it up. I'm not ready to give it up, and I don't want to give it up. It's been six years — man, can you believe it? Six years of crude futures. So weird.

"Flu Runner"

The Believer & Cabinet both have great issues out

I'm particularly enjoying Cabinet's "friendship" issue. Sina Najafi's short text about a long-forgotten childhood friend is, for example, good and unforgettable. The images that accompany the text made me laugh aloud.

Likewise, the Believer's May 2010 "trucks" issue is chock full of good material. One writer differentiates "emo" from "goth" by saying that emo is more like the loud sound of trucks f***ing, whereas goth is less like that sound. Another person, in another Believer piece, describes someone's face as having been run over by a truck 100 times.

Is CHLOE a "risible" movie? Four critics have their say.

I had a really good time watching Chloe at the Westfield Mall yesterday. Here are four of the countless things I enjoyed about the movie:

• A gynecologist (Julianne Moore) hires a lady of the night (Amanda Seyfried) to aggressively flirt with her musicologist husband (Liam Neeson).
  
  
• Will Neeson lunge at the dangled bait? (If he does, he sux!!!)
  
  
• Julianne Moore gives Liam Neeson a bottle of Laphroaig ("The World's most richly flavoured Scotch whisky") for his birthday, even though (or maybe because?) she suspects him of long-term serial infidelity.
  
  
• Liam Neeson's home-office library includes a hardcover book by Rush Limbaugh.

Is the movie "risible"? Here's what four critics have said:

• "'Chloe' [is] the risible new marital drama-thriller from Canadian director Atom Egoyan ('The Sweet Hereafter')." —Leah Rozen
  
  
• "[I]t's all too soigné to be truly risible..." —J. Hoberman
  
  
• "Even the throbbing score, by Mychael Danna, sounds unwittingly risible..." —Anthony Lane
  
  
• "The final third is so outrageous, so risible, as to approach high camp." —Phil Bacharach

There's a lot of super-implausible stuff in this movie—the hardcover Limbaugh book is but the tip of the iceberg—but I really liked it.

Sketches for an artwork e-commissioned by Barack Obama

I've known for a long time that Barack Obama loves contemporary art, and I've also known for a long time that Barack Obama cares deeply about the welfare of America's contemporary artists.

Still, I was very surprised, proud, and flattered when President Obama emailed me personally this morning to commission a special project. The subject line says it all:



As you can probably imagine, I couldn't wait to get started!

Here are some preliminary sketches for the piece I'm constructing for our president. I'm super-stoked to finish it up and send it along to him this weekend.

Brian-Barack ObaMcMullenma

BaraBricank McObamaMullen

BaBrirackan McMObamullena

BriBarackan OMcMulbamalen

John Davidson's double mispronunciation of "Galoob" on Hollywood Squares (1987)

Wow! I'd figured that this TV moment—utterly trivial, but highly memorable to me—was lost forever:



John Davidson's doubly flubbed pronunciation of "Galoob" in this 1987 episode of Hollywood Squares has always burned brightly in my memory. After this episode aired, I could never look at a Galoob toy without thinking "GALLUB... or GAYLEB" silently to myself. It's crazy, sometimes, the things that stick with you.



Thanks to Craig Brolley, the voice of Mr. Gameshow, for posting this video clip.

PS: Smash TV's gameshow host owes a debt, certainly, to Galoob's Mr. Gameshow. Likewise, Galoob's wildly successful Game Genie product line owes a debt to blockbuster videogames like Smash TV. #symbiosis