Epic Birthday

    In honor of the 21st birthday of one of our own… we went to coffee.  Aaaand later, a few went out to a bar.  So it goes.  There are many ways to turn twenty-one.  I hope Mr. Drinky-pants enjoyed his special day very much.  Oh, and we did a special surrealist game for the occasion.

B.I.R.T.H.D.A.Y.
Births initiate revealing truths & hilarious details about you.
Your own utopia.
Ultimately, the orange penis is amazing.
A man always zeros in around ganga.
Gallivanting armadillos never go awry.
Alter-egos will ruin you.
You ‘orrible uggo!
Untimely gringos groan officially.
Only Flemish fuck in cheese if angry Liberians leech Yemen.
You emu may ejaculate now.
Never own wombats.
Women over marshmallow boats after the spring.
Slice purple radishes in nearby gardens.
Galvanized arotic rodents decide events never seen.

Snow job

coffee zen

I drove home from a (very) late night at work in the snow.  Something about being the first person to drive down the blank slate of a snowy road at 2 AM is just magical to me.  The radiant white, untouched by other tires and the near-perfect quiet of it all.  It may sound strange, but it’s a very zen experience – one I’ve had many times.

Going past our Coffee Night haunt, I felt a small pang of loneliness.  I shook off the urge to pull in and grab a cup of joe.  Now, I wonder – who might I have bumped into?  Who is out there, lurking in the coffee joints of the world at this hour?  Even if I’ve never met them, I can’t help but feel like a kindred spirit.  Except , of course, I drove on home.

It doesn’t matter where I go, or what becomes of me in this life – part of me will always be at coffee.  Waiting for my friends to show up.  Drawing and writing and making light, in the middle of darkness.  That’s all right with me; that’s just perfect.

Cheers.

-BRP

Cheese of the French!

Cheese was invented by the French
who worship Jerry Lewis
because he blew Mel Gibson
who is the leader of the world
– but not the free world on Earth, the other one –
that no one knew about, other than David Bowie
who told Bob Dylan to keep quiet
which explains a lot about pop music
which is considered by many as dance music of the devil
and so was banned in 47 states by the KKK
because the KKK is pumping our meat with growth hormones
so they can create incredible racist Hulks
that are skinheads by day and green, buff gladiHaters by night
and service lesbian orangutan crack slaves
in France, of course

Eyes & Throats

Hey, look!

In the interests of FUN, I’m posting these… odd Coffee Night photos. I find them to be equally fascinating and disturbing. Enjoy.

Yay! There’s that. Have fun, trying to match up those gorgeous eye to the terrible, terrible mouths. Cheers!

-BRP

A letter to Conan O’Brien

Dear Conan O’Brien,

Eat my shit. Just kidding, I actually love more than life. Your hair is wiry, like my ropey muscles. Give me your babies! It’s time, sir, for baby makin’! But, I must refrain from telling you ’bout my secret mangina.

Let’s take a walk on the beach, with your wife and my pickle, baby. My eyes are twinklin’ cuz the stars are missing the light. It’s time go down Conan – on me. So, my sugerpussy quivers with anticipation. Work with me here.

with love,
Coffee Night

Play with your food!

    I’ll be the first to admit that our Coffee Night shenanigans can get outta hand.  The near-total abandonment of civil ‘norms’ is what caused me to start calling it the Poor Man’s Algonquin Table, after all.  Besides the farting (TJ) and the inappropriate touching (TJ!) and the utterly disgusting, gut-churning things some people say (TJ– oh wait, that’s me), we also like to play with things.  Sometimes, we take pictures.  Enjoy.

mmm… how’s that smell?

finger food!

still tender

why does this one bother me so?

ahhh… foot butter…

SQUISHY! squish squish squish!

And, finally, I’d like to introduce you to…

the pickle skier!

No, I don’t really understand ‘why’ either.  That’s ok.  It’s all part of a process.  What process?  Hm, howzibout “the process of transformative context, via the mechanism of cognitive dissonance – interruption of normal, expected narratives in the actions (lives) of common objects (such as food) brings new insights and discoveries; to the meanings of the objects, the relationship with the viewer and most especially to the world around us”…

Of course, I could be talking out my ass.  Maybe we are just playing with our food.  Ya know, either way…

-BRP

Haiku, yuku, we all ku for haiku

I finally found the usb cords for my camera and my audio recorder. I plan on making use of the pics and sounds and videos soon. For the time being, though, our dreams of a Coffee Night podcast are gonna have to wait.

I thought I’d take this opportunity to post some of our S.G. haiku. Since I’m only posting the stuff I really, really like, these are all from This Is Not A Book. After this, there are only one or two example of games left to post. I think “A, B, C” and some of the old, dusty “Rhyme/Opposite” types are the only ones I have done yet.

there is no reason
only love and bad gut pain
could move me this way

 

I was on mushrooms
my mind became a pony
spur my lobes, I run

 

what the fuck bozo?
bozo the assassin clown
death in squeaky shoes

 

I need the sun’s glow
like I need a second butt
twice the shit for me!

 

all these sodomites
coming to coffee for grease
and heaven for love

 

There, that about does it. A fine selection of our most brilliant haiku. Mad skills we bring. I’d like to point out that you can subscribe to this blog, so you don’t miss any developments. Not that I’m at all ashamed of urging people to check it out – I just thought you should know. Cheers!

-BRP

The opposite of ‘I need help’

I need help.
You need a real struggle.
You need to live on easy street.
You need to be a hobo.
You need to get a job.
I want to fire you, Trump-style.
You want to verbally stomp me, Omarosa-style.
You don’t silently tip-toe me, Apprentice-style.
I raucously crush you with authority.
Let anarchy free your voice.
Chain order in silence.
Silent disorder.
Uproarious communism.
Quiet capitalists.
Outrageous transgendered whale-lovers!
Conservative post-op dolphin-haters!
Punk pre-cut sea-horse lovers?
Haters of classical water pony music.
Contemporary apathy is dry silence.

I don’t know… it seems to me that this particular piece is a call to action.  Of some kind.  Sometimes, juxtaposing the first line with the last line can give a surprising insight.

“I need help.
Contemporary apathy is dry silence.”

Perhaps just a call for someone to speak up?  Hell, I always do this – I can’t help analyzing these things.  I think I’ll try just letting the work speak for itself for awhile.

Although, I have noticed a disturbing trend, of late.  I’m usually the person to get these things started, but that’s always been the case, really.  I’ve also been very greedy (or whatever) and insist on having the last line, as well.  What’s up with that?  Why haven’t I been called on that?  C’mon, I may have started this whole thing, but that don’t mean I own it.  Or, maybe nobody really cares – that’s possible too.  I dunno.  Clearly, I have too much time on my hands.  Right.  Shutting up now.

-BRP

Madness (with video!)

    This is a perfect example of some cross-dicordianism, right here.  We made the S.G., then I recorded (crappy) audio of it being read aloud and then I made a little video out of it.  I could say that it speaks to the power of decontextualisation and… uh, how the transliterative structure of, um, poetry carries with the seeds of radicalized thought… and stuff.  I could say that, but I won’t.

thirty-four seconds
This is dedicated to Hasselhoff.  And Teal.

-BRP

Conversation(s)

Why haven’t you called?
Service is necessary.
He brought us juice that wasn’t juice.
Ya know, chit-chat.
I do have suspenders.
Spelled, like, “G”, “O”, “U”, uh, “G”, “H”…
It’s a crackberry.
I think I caught him posing in the mirror.
Let’s go get something to eat.
I’m really gassy.
If you flex, will it get bigger?
I’m doing it, as soon as I have the money.
Can I have the ear?
It’s got skulls in it.
You’re not a religious man.
I didn’t even hear her.
You’re cut off – you’re done.
People always do this to me.
You’re lucky you even got one.
I’m so glad I was blacked out.
She’s just as annoying, drunk or sober.
She stays home.
Couldn’t blame him.
She does what now?
Quit camping.

So, there’s that. Fresh off the griddle, as they say – barely an hour old! It’s almost like being there, ain’t it? Perched high atop our unassailable aerie of smugness… Yup. This is dedicated to Alexandra; she knows why… mm-hm.

-BRP