Almost complete Tyrannosaur fossil discovered in southern Utah

This particular tyrannosaur (if it is a tyrannosaur, paleontologists still haven’t confirmed) lived 76 million years ago. Jurassic Park, the Steven Spielberg-helmed blockbuster, was released 24 years ago.

On the movie poster, it said: An adventure 65 million years in the making.

There was a big killer T-Rex in it. It was genetically cloned and brought back to life, but it was still a tyrannosaur so it quickly destroyed everything we humans built to protect us.

If my math is right (and taking a movie poster at its word) that means that tyrannosaurs were around for at least 11 million years.

I can’t imagine humanity lasting that long. I can’t even fathom a million years. But I can imagine the movie poster for some movie 65 million years from now (if they’ll even have ‘movies’).

Quaternary Park. It’s not going to end well.

This Brand is Your Brand

Brand names. Company names. The names we come up with and choose to screenprint our corporate flags with. Laser cut plastic letters installed over a backlit display waiting for the timer to go off—open for business into the late evening. A clever name can mean the difference between business immortality and strip mall roadkill in three months.

You walk around a strip mall, past a pet store: Pet Agree. That’s good. It’s obvious, but not too obvious. The kind of brand/store name that when you hear/read it, you think, of course. And if you’ve said the word ‘pedigree’ aloud you may have even made that mental connection, but you failed to capitalize on it. You never registered it in your mental Rolodex of million-dollar ideas just waiting to be executed. So you appreciate seeing it in use in the world. It offers validation to your own fleeting hunch and you’re reassured that you have what it takes in case you ever decide to drop everything and become an entrepreneur or launch a branding consultancy.

You come across a nail salon, Coconails. That’s less good, if not on its face bad. You assume that it’s referring to coconuts. You stare at the letters high above and repeat the name like a mantra. Coconails. Coconails. Coconails. Nope, nothing. There’s no clear connection between nails and nuts. Maybe if it were a hardware store. Nuts and bolts. Nails and hammers. Hammers. Hammertoes. Toe nails. Nails. Coconails. Too tenuous. You delete your brain’s thought process and hit refresh. It must have to do with the coconut fruit in its entirety. Maybe they only use products, polishes, waxes, etc. derived from the coconut. Then it would be on theme. But it doesn’t reverberate in the mind. Throw it against the wall, it slides down like wet spaghetti.

I had an idea for a store name. A place where men/women/whoever could come and take care of their bodies. Too often we humans revert into our primitive primate states. The ear hair sprouting weed-like. The nose hair slinking out of nostrils like a well-executed fire drill. Always the hairs. And scaly skin. Rough hewed callused nubs that need paring and scrubbing, clean, flash-burned removal.

Human Groomin’, that’s the name. The apostrophe delivers an added oomph, a non-exclamatory exclamation that communicates a casual, yet professional sense of trust. At Human Groomin’ your grooming needs are attended to with care and consideration. The name relaxes the ivory tower, ivory skinned, ivory-walled/clinical edge and allows its patrons to shed their steel-stiff anxieties about the process. It meets you at your level, crouched and hunched on the ground avoiding detection and the all too caustic collective judgment. Human Groomin’ offers a loyalty card, too – ten treatments, one free!

There are natural brand spinoffs in play, too. Human Groovin’  a nightclub. Human Truman, an interactive experience where you walk through the childhood home of President Harry S. Truman in visually vibrant virtual reality.

Human Shroomin’ is a decent name for a head shop in Amsterdam or Denver.

Human Boomin’ offers wearable audio products to turn your fashion into a fully transportable aural experience. For example, footwear outfitted with speakers, zip-up hoodie sweatshirts with headphone pockets and pouches to thread wire invisibly across the body, where the earbuds spill out through the hood string rivets. Then again, everything’s moving wireless. But you still need the feet speakers. Maybe put the bass in the seats of pants so that when Meghan Trainor sings ‘I’m all about that bass,’ it will have a literal meaning, too. ‘We’re all about that bass,” is a good slogan.

The logos will be distinctive, connecting the Human brands together the way Apple latched onto the ‘i’ nomenclature. A whole umbrella empire ready to wage war and dominate the commercial, capitalist landscape.

Also, Human Consumin’, a Chipotle style, assembly line concept for cannibals. Chicken-fried human, buckets of breasts and thighs with cole slaw on the side, but with only a minimal amount of mayo, for health reasons. Just enough fat to transport the fat-soluble vitamins through the intestines undisturbed and deposit them in the vital organs at optimum potency. When it comes to the Human brand, the possibilities are endless*.


*Not really, there are only so many viable commercial concepts that rhyme with human.

Palm Frights

My facial hair is three to four days long, just beginning to soften after its rough brillo phase. Stray cat hairs and random dust cluster in the velcro hooks puncturing my epidermis like a cheaply constructed lint roller. I keep picking at my face, pulling away nothing, still feeling begrimed. A phantom feeling like a cellphone buzz signaling nothing. I palm my face. If your hand is bigger than your face then you’re going to get cancer. It’s not true, but kids would tell that to each other so when the other one, confused and fearful, attempts to discover if he/she is doomed to be a cancer victim, the other one, waiting for the perfect moment, pushes the kid’s hand full into their face smashing them in the nose, bewildering them. And laughing.

It’s all a big joke. Like unbreakable watches, unbreakable hearts and Unbreakable*, the movie starring Bruce Willis and Samuel L. Jackson.

*Actually, that one was good.

Sunday night musings

A wasted Sunday gets in your brain. You question the point of existence and the imminently liberal use of 2nd person. You recline in your bed with plans to go to sleep early, but you tire yourself awake. You read a paperback, web surf, play with your pubes at length, feeling the coarseness, pulling at tufts like weeds, trying to discern if this one is longer than that one, checking your junk for oddities, taking in pleasure in the meditative act of blind, platonic fondling. No boners (or female equivalents) here. It’s your body, your mind. You lay so long you feel as if your limbs are frozen and movement of any sudden sort, while inevitable, will inevitably cause some tendon to snap. Visions of surgery, traction, sweaty-browed rehab. You remember shaking a leg out hokey-pokey style earlier in the day, wondering whether the unexpected noise that sprouted from the joint was the sound of severe ligament damage or a nearby car crash. You shook it again to be sure, it was seemingly intact, no harm done, but you know that’s false certainty. The damage is done indeed, like listening to music at rock concert levels as a kid, the hidden debilitation is biding its time to go into effect. Like dementia or impotence. You think humans should probably only have a 50-year lifespan, but what about all that’s been achieved by people after age 50. Maybe your best is yet to come. Selfish. Pathetic. Just another excuse to be lazy, waiting for the gravy train. Enough indulging. You move. It hurts, like hell for a long second, but nothing breaks, nothing’s broken. The subtle tears can heal. You’re not done, you’ve got more left in the tank, which reminds you, the car needs gas, and you’re out of eggs, people are dying, Wednesday’s going to be nice, a friend left a random voicemail, you pet a dog’s soft fur, you wipe your ass, you tire yourself asleep. You wake up.

God made dirt

I’m from the north. Years ago during lunchtime, a colleague (he was from the south) dropped some food on the floor. He picked it back up. He held it to his mouth, preparing to eat it. I asked if he was going to eat it. He said, “God made dirt, it won’t hurt,” and ate it.

I laughed hard. Excessively so. I laughed like this guy I used to work with at Blockbuster Video. He laughed really hard. The dumbest, lamest jokes had him doubled over, splitting a gut. If he laughed at your joke you earned nothing. You had no idea if you were being funny. And when he inevitably laughed at someone else’s pathetic offering, you hated him.

I laughed like that. First, it was the rhyme. I appreciate a good rhyme. Second, it was the simplicity of it all. Third, I’d never heard that expression before, and I laughed at how sheltered I apparently was in my northeastern enclave.

That colleague also said stuff like, “He was on her like a duck on a June bug.”

We never said such fun things in my home, growing up.

Last night I went to brush my teeth. There was an inch-long hair poking out from the bristles. It wasn’t mine. It was too short to be my wife’s. There’s something inherently disgusting about any thing being attached to your toothbrush. It’s holy ground. The hair was too straight to be a pube. It was probably the cat’s hair.

I pulled it out, flicked it away and brushed my teeth.

God made dirt.

I can see its skin through its shirt

I like clothes with holes in them. Moths or well-worn are both fine. But never for fashion’s sake. A pair of pre-torn jeans is pretentious. A faux pas. You have to earn your disheveledness through extensive living, washers and clothes dryers, or feed a family of lepidopterans. Now put the fuckin’ lotion in the fuckin’ basket.

Love in the time of the singularity

Maybe in the future we won’t fuck anymore. Just touch our heads together. Our heads growing bigger and more powerful. Everything tied up in those neurons, all sensory perception barricaded there. All nerve endings migrating to our temples. And when two heads, propped up on mechanical, android bodies because our hollow skeletal bones are insufficient for the task, touch, those ‘beings’ will orgasm simultaneously. Feel united, complete. That will be love. No heartache no despair no cock thrusting and depositing semen. No quivering vaginal walls. Just skin, two patches of skin, residing directly external to the prefrontal cortex, connecting at an atomic level, conducting electrical impulses, messages, communicating infinite adoration.

Batman Stamps

I’d like to talk about my Batman stamps. Literally. Stamps, featuring Batman, that I got at the post office weeks (i.e., months) ago. Let’s return to that fateful day. It was cold, chilly even. I remember it like it was being made up right now. Misshapen snowflakes melted on my fleece zip-up while I waited in the molasses-moving line. Could I have just walked up to the lonely, electronic kiosk and purchased a book of stamps (i.e., a set of 20 stamps) in a fraction of the time? Sure, but where’s the human-touch in that? Like all babies, I crave intimacy. I wanted to stand before the postal worker, request a book of stamps and make her day because I was asking for something simple that she could produce without even lifting a butt cheek. No need to search the back for a package or have to explain the process for procuring a passport. Just the stamps, ma’am (or mister).

When it was my turn, I approached the counter apprehensively. This was a big deal.

“A book of stamps, please.”

The attendant reached down into a folder/drawer/something and pulled out a flat sheet, and pushed it towards me. It was Batman, all Batman.

I was expecting flowers or flags.

“Cool, Batman,” I said.

The attendant cackled like the Joker, pulled out a machine gun umbrella and ignored my comment.

I paid the price, took my stamps and went off.

In the privacy of my car, I perused the stamps. The post office went all out. There were four different Batmen; Batman throughout history. The Golden Age, the Silver Age, the Modern Age, The Post-Modern (?) Age. Four of each. And four bat emblems in four different incarnations. For a total of 20. All laid out on a specially branded Batman background with a story of Batman’s creation on the back. Real collector’s stuff.

When I peeled my first Batman off the sheet and affixed it to a boring envelope, my inner child shuddered. Sacrilege. But it had to be done. The stamps had a job to do, and my sentimentality had withered with age. What else was I supposed to do? Save them, lock them in a safe and hope they’d grow in value over time? Not my style.

I’m down to nine stamps now. Five Batmen and all four emblems. One day in the future, even in today’s age of emails and text messages and dick pics, I’ll use my final stamp. And I’ll walk over to the trash can, discard the empty sheet and say, KA-POW!

Stream of Conscious-piss

First things first, in the morning, stand up, Achilles pain, should stretch my calf while I graze grass and suck at the power teat of my milk-producing moo mom, my moomy,  Mumm-Ra was the bad guy on Thundercats which surprisingly hasn’t been made into a movie, they’re remaking The Mummy, the Brendan Fraser one, now with Tom Cruise, but no Thundercats, no Voltron, no by the power of grayskull I have the gray matter remember that from Breaking Bad, Walter White and the other guy’s last name was Black, combined it was gray, which reminds me of Clear & Present Danger, not black or white, right or wrong, and I told about equality and it’s true either you’re wrong or you’re right, Bob Barker spinning the big wheel, sexually harassing chicks, but he’s old and white and privileged, what do you expect, I like the spinning tea cup ride at Disney or maybe I don’t, maybe it’s too spinny, from parade pinwheels to kids doing cartwheels, fart-meals fart-meals fart-meals, breathe in the sulfurous eggs, my soul-Fast-and-Furious, along with my tinkles in the toilet like a porcelain piccolo staccato Chicken Piccata topped with the Great Muppet capers and some Lemony Snicket, that’s another book/movie I don’t care about like oxygen and air and breathing and flush it all down, flush away the toxins, flush away the memories, flush away the flesh, the weak flesh soft and pliant and compliant and giant too many giants, Andre, the Iron, the BFG, that James Dean movie from the 50s, he’s dead, I haven’t seen it, anyone want a peanut?

Just another message in a broken bottle…

Dear Non-Reader,

It has come to our attention that your complete abstention from our rehashed pretension has created tension, mild apprehension, and dissension (see e.g., this recent invention from another dimension) among a particular faction of R#P bloggers, all of whom, it goes without mention, work without pension or, frankly, comprehension.


R#P Executive Board

A spoonful of sugar

“Pass the piss stash,” he said.

“The what?” She asked, while he laughed at his own immaturity. His laughter annoyed her, it was too late for such a high-pitched squeal.

“The pistachio gelato.” She looked at him with reproach. “Pleaseeeee.”

She opened the freezer and pulled out a clear plastic container made mint-green from the dessert inside. The label on the container read Sicilian Pistachio. She passed it to him.

Holding the container in one hand, he turned and grabbed a teaspoon from the drawer with the other. He leaned against the counter and twisted the cap off.

“I wonder if the pistachios are from Sicily or if Sicilian refers to the style of the preparation,” he said.

She left the kitchen without comment.

5 ways to describe leafless trees

The leafless trees looked like matchsticks stuck standing up waiting to be struck.

The leafless trees looked like boar bristles in a lady’s bone-handled brush.

The leafless trees looked like elongated Tootsie Rolls stolen from their wrappers and piled across in a line.

The leafless trees looked like E.T.’s fingers multiplied by 10,000, not calling for home, but content to be lost in a faraway land because the possibilities were worth the fear of not belonging or never being found, and they would caress every second that time, or whatever entity invented time, allowed them to exist and simply be.

The leafless trees looked liked dozens of dicks with bushes like pubes.

Decaying Matters

Walking a trail in the woods, stuff’s dying and growing in tandem. It smells sickly sweet, but that’s not it. Fragrant isn’t it either. It’s the woodsy mixture of decomposition and dirt. Pine needles by the millions pave a lush cushion you can feel through sole and sock and skin. We walk along talking of politics, climate change, dinner options. A woman walks in front of us barefoot. Dusk settles in behind us.

Fade, Memory

If someone asked me to write a story about something that happened to me one month ago, I’d stare at the blank page and come up with nothing. If they said, how about last week? I’d look at the page and write: ate food, went to bathroom (probably). If they said, how about yesterday? I’d go back and write: ate food, went to bathroom (definitely). If they said, how about one minute ago? I’d turn to the page and wipe away the drool.

A.M. Prose

The moon’s risen up there hidden behind opaque sheaths, halfway towards disappearing for good. The bed calls, unmade, creased sheets and a folded over comforter. I fight back sleep, eyes open, replaying a fever dream, awake, rummaging through cabinets and cupboards, searching for something to consume. An undisturbed glass of water is visible on the kitchen table, left behind, lukewarm. I chug it to 1/8th full. Leave the rest, ever the optimist. Blurry vision. Reminder to make an appointment with an optometrist. But I have eye drops in my backpack, top pocket. Screwcap, plastic wrapper. Sanitary. Skip the doctor’s appointment, health insurance won’t kick in 80% until I hit my deductible, anyway. Another hour begins. Water down to 1/16. Halving it over and over until math becomes a flat line. The cat plays with a toy in the background.

It’s like

Brushing your teeth is like a shower for your mouth.

Watching TV is like radio for your eyes.

Grapefruits are like the obese love-child of an orange and a lemon.

Mirrors are like windows you can’t see through.

Maple syrup is like boiled down tree piss.

Circus peanuts are like orange death.

Greeting cards are like letters you were too lazy to write.

Musical greeting cards are like letters you were too lazy to write (with music).

Dinosaurs are like big chickens.

Chickens are like tiny dinosaurs.

Forests are like nature’s lungs (so are large bodies of water).

Die Hard is like the best 80s action movie.




I ordered flan in Milan from a waiter named Jean. He hailed from France, and was snowed in by chance so he decided to remain in the Italian city most renowned for its pants. When the snow melted, he felt it was time to return to his land but first wanted his velvet pants to be dealt with, or belted, just as long as they stayed by his waist when he tilted. So he went to the tailor to submit to a fitting, the old man’s fingers were flitting, and without any warning a pin pricked his skin while he was sitting. He bled through the fabric, a dramatic stain appearing seemingly as if by magic. Not even a napkin pressed firmly against the waiter’s apparently, easily, puncturable flesh could stem the intense seepage, dispensing from his appendage. The waiter expired (his pants hemmed, but not finished with all that was required) and the flan in his thoughts till the end.

The Night Owl Dozeth, Eventually

It’s always after midnight when the first thought of sleep even creeps into my mind. The previous day’s hours had appeared and disappeared steadily like passing streetlights on a drive towards darkness. When it arrives, I cast it aside and face the fullness of night, wondering, thoughts wandering, guilty of squandering, not ready to give up.

Narcotic Harmonic

Nothing goes together better than Vicodin and a Starbucks Holiday Spice Flat White. Except maybe Vicodin and a fifth of Jameson. Or Vicodin and road head. Vicodin and the original Die Hard trilogy. Vicodin and Eggo Waffles. Vicodin and butterflies. Vicodin and puppy pictures. Vicodin and a full-body Swedish massage. Vicodin and Reese’s peanut butter cups. Vicodin and a nap. Vicodin vicodin vicodin. Vi-coding. Vic Odin. Vic O-D in. Vic-accordion. Violin dandelion. Valid orderly. Viking a ding a ling a ding dong.

Buster bypassing blocks

I moved from New York City four months ago. I’ve been back a few times since. A week here. A day here. And now two nights for work. It’s no longer my city. I’ve lost all shares of ownership. Back when I lived in Queens, I was already renting it out. But it was still in my possession and whenever the mood struck I could turn off the lights, plop it in and hit play. The City did away with late fees; I could keep it as long as I wanted.

I kept it for a while.

When it was time, I slid it through the metal chute and moved on.

Now that I’m back, I’ve discovered, the store’s gone, replaced by something newer, and I can only stare at its newness through the glass. They don’t sell my film anymore. Or rent it either. But if I download the right app and install the update there’s a vine I can watch on repeat, the same 6 seconds over and over until I move on again.

saturday night bites

at some point you reach an age when your saturday night plans cease to exist, you’re home, alone, and your only hope is the chance that there’s something you haven’t seen on netflix that’s worth watching, but there’s nothing because after you’ve swallowed the thin layer of frosting at the top all that’s left is a trite, redundant, gimmicky pile of donkey turds like e.e.cummings and his fucking lowercase bullshit.