brickwallviews

dead man talking

watching that (so-called) state of the union address was akin to watching a condemned man babble regrets just before getting the needle.

-brickwallboy

you think you've seen jihad Osama but i'm telling you you haven't seen anything till you've seen what happens if they let Arsenal and Chelsea fans mix going into a game.

-chris cleave, from Incendiary

what are we doing with a Statue of Liberty?

-the vindicitives, from Assembly Line

 

so there i was flipping channels in an effort to avoid the white-house-warrior when i realize i need to be gearing up for solo blogging month-athalon in february and suddenly my so-called friend doug alerts me to the fact that this a damned leap year! you believe that shit! the nerve of the mayans... or whomever. next thing you know they'll be massing all the old presidents together for one birthday or something. sheesh! what's next? telephones without cords?

anyway... 29 in 29 then... DOUG!

so be it. it will take every fiber, but i can do it.

guess i'll have to let that guy from the Times know his title will have to change.

oh, and get enough for one MORE gingko-meth cocktail!

 

if today, at say, 2 pm cst you feel some stirring, get a slight chill... that would mean they just kicked-off in north london. arsenal v newcastle. 4 out of 5 therapists recommend turning on you telllie about then (fox-soccer-channel folks).

 

read to a child people.

 

brickwallboyout.

emmanuel adebayor, arsenal's togo-lese hit man

howdy from texas

mere days until my self-imposed 28 posts in 28 days... oh boy i can almost smell the excitement!

the gunners took down newcastle 3-nil to move-on in the fa cup!

the same two sides reunite tuesday in a league game! c'mon you reds!

shall begin reading chris cleaves' INCENDIARY at beddy-bye time tonight. it is a novel apparently entirely comprised of a letter to osama bin laden from the mother of a victim of the london subway melee. also includes a (fictional) attack on emirates stadium... yes the home of my our beloved gunners! neat!

 

red leader brickwallboy out

an exercise in blahging

i like to exercise.

the act of getting exercise.

exercising makes me feel alive. energetic. healthy. hopeful.

the THOUGHT of exercise is paralyzing. dreadful.

 

substitute the word exercise with the word blog in the above statements and there you have it.

 

perhaps i'm bipolar. you know, i reside at both the north and south poles simultaneously. or is that some sort of psychological disorder?

 

or perhaps i'm just stupid. lazy. and weak.

 

yea, that's probably it!

 

this is a flash fiction / poetry / english-football / post-punk / manic depression    blog.

starting...

 

 

 

 

 

now!

 

from wikpedia:

Flash fiction is fiction characterized by its extreme brevity, as measured by its length in words. While there is no universally accepted exact word limit, generally a short story is considered to constitute flash fiction if it is less than 1,000–2,000 words long, and most flash-fiction pieces are between 250 and 1,000 words long. (By contrast, "traditional" short stories range from 2,000 words to upwards of 20,000, and are mainly between 3,000 and 10,000 words long; they are distinguished from longer forms, such as the novel and novella, primarily by the intent that they be read in a single sitting.)

 

longing to be hip yet discernible,

brickwallboyout.

helen frankenthaler, mountains and sea (1952)

the immoral of the story

seems 'ol heath ledger felt the kenyan runner was not cause celeb' enough to cap the trilogy of death... so he took (or 20 or so) for the team.

anyway.

 

once upon a time...

there was this guy who foolishly spent money who was quite immature and reinvented himself constantly... wait. that's me!

oh, here we go...

so there's this guy. we'll call him marty. well one day marty boarded a large plane with a group of comrades and headed across many a ponds to shoot at the enemy. marty was good at this particular endeavor and spilled his fair share of blood. one fateful he was ascended a sort of ridge like edifice and got his damned left leg blown off. marty boarded another large plane shortly thereafter and headed back to recoop among his family. marty was not alone on that plane ride home. he brought all types of shit back with him. largely the type that fucks with ones head. he withdrew. he drank. and cussed. but mostly withdrew. soon he was alone as this is basically how his family came to feel, alone i mean. marty rarely left his house unless he needed liquor or cigarettes and his mind and body took a beating.

he started to feel a bit better after he began doing heroin quite often.

he swore his right leg was also lonesome. missed that 'ol left leg as it turns out.

after a particularly successful day with the needle and the spoon he cut off that right leg with a cordless saw-all and a rusty hack knife.

he grinned and then he ate his shotgun just as the sun was coming up.

 

you come back and see us now. ya hear!

brickwallboyout.

jj cromer, leakers (detail - 2007)

promises promises

“politics, as a practice, whatever its professions, has always been the systematic organization of hatreds.”

-henry brooks adams

 

the trilogy is complete.

you can stop SEARCHING for bobby fischer!

he's dead.

 

check mate.

 

sir edmund hillary. he peaked.

 

the kenyan marathoner who won the race here in h-town a week ago. no longer running. wesley ngetich was hit and killed by an arrow (yes, i said arrow) in the continuing post-election violence in kenya. have ya seen africa in general of late? yet we continue to referee a civil war in iraq.

if say, john mccain wins the presidency in november, can i break out my quiver and shit?

 

(lighter fare)

the gunners jog a few blocks across north london to face those c*ntly c*nt spurs in leg 2 of their carling cup semi today. it will again be our teenagers vs their senior eleven. c'mon you (wee) reds!

the new england patriots and the new york football giants shall do battle in the super bowl in a fortnight. one has to lean towards the pats... but there does seem to be something a bit special about the big apple boys of late... hmmm...

hobbs! chili, chips, dips and such! your place or mine?

(and so concludes the global football report)

 

i fully intend (not shit, really) to attack you on a damn near daily basis with useless drivel and hardly defendable opinions... apologies in advance.

brickwallboyout.

theodore gericault, the woman with gambling mania (1822)

circa today

californians invented the concept of lifestyle. this alone warrants their doom.

-don delillo, from white noise

 

hard to argue there.

 

many say that delillo's white noise is the best and the final example of american post-modern literature. WRONG on both accounts! but it is a masterpiece of the highest order!

 

tao lin has a cool little piece on esquire online. check it out yo.

 

 

 

that is all for now.

carry on.

brickwallboyout.

charles demuth, my egypt (1927)

cinco

MY DAUGHTER IS 5 TODAY!

celebrate accordingly.

 

(pause)

 

the dreams of a hopeless dreamer.

stacked atop one another.

delicately placed on the barstool.

stale cigarettes and warm beer.

stupidity as a credo, a dissertation on things not needed.

financial wisdom of an eight-year-old.

rollin' rollin' rollin'

getting comfortable with mirrors is hard work.

 

(pause)

 

quandary: what does one do when one is depressed about ones inability to refill ones anti-depressants?

(sound of car starting. in closed garage.)

 

(in other news)

 

the glowing pig birthed glowing piglets. this would surely save sandy skoglund much time.

 

brickwallboyout.

patrick henry bruce, painting (1922)

the loved ones

phily's kissy-huggy p'rockers the loved ones new full length drops (are the kids still saying that) on feb 5 2008.

here's a taste courtesy of fat wreck.

the loved ones (2007)

 

 

AND YES I FOUND MY BOX OF JOURNALS!

 

 

like you care. fuckers.

 

just completed paul auster's oracle night and am going to settle in a warm bed and start his the book of illusions tonight.

he write real good like.

 

brickwallboyout.

where oh where

i know i have this box. i packed it when leaving my prior job in the summer. it has a host of little journals inside. i have decided that if i am to get serious with any sort of writing i need to carry a wee journal so as not to lose the rare good idea, line, etc... but i can't locate that damned box! i swore i last saw it in the attic, the entry closest to our closet. damn! i have pledged to myself and mrs brickwall to do NO UNNECESSARY SPENDING! so buying a new writing journal when i know a damn well have a box full is out

 

of

 

the

 

 

question!

i shall dig yet again.

 

*arsenal 1 - 1 tottenham hotspur

leg 2 shall be interesting indeed

brickwallfellaout.

jean michel basquiat, tabac (1984)

 

*it is worth noting the gunners basically played their reserves and spurs fielded their 1st eleven.

(perhaps not) just another day

it was yesterday in fact.

birthday.

usually i allow birthdays to pass more or less unnoticed in any real way. any meaningful way. but the ones that include zeros seem to rattle around a bit.

forty. 40. 4-t. fourtee. for tea. fore tee.

forty ounces. forty acres. forty years.

it was nice in all the familiar ways. hugs and kisses. a homemade card and goodie bag from my daughter.

back patting and aging banter.

i think i will dye my hair gray like warhol. my pops was totally gray headed by 45. why wait 5 years.

i think i may get a tat on my ass that says, "i have underwear older than you".

or i may just carry on and start preparing for jan 6 2018.

 

arsenal advanced in the fa cup with a 2 - nil win on sunday morning. hurrah!

they have spurs in leg 1 of a carling cup semi on wednesday. should be spirited.

 

read paul auster's new york trilogy. no really.

 

off to complete my AARP application then.

 

brickwallboy (boy?) out.

piet mondrian, new york city (1942)