his basic look: drippy forms

A remarkable essay on the curious cultural history of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah." (Via Design Observer via Kottke)

http://www.clapcl ap.org/2007/04/hallelujah.html

I was waiting for a friend last week at a bar. (A ridiculous sentence, but one must begin somewhere.)

I was waiting for a friend last week at a bar and there was only one stool available...next to a large drunk man who had his over stuffed, rubberbanded wallet next to his smudged wine glass. He gives me the one over and says, "You can sit here, this stool's open." I tell him it's okay, I'm waiting for a friend. He says, "I'm not trying to pick you up...Although that would be nice."

Hilarious.

Last week, at a bar, I was waiting for a friend. At a bar last week I was waiting for a friend. I was waiting, last week, for a friend at a bar. I was waiting for a friend at a bar last week.

It sounds so much better when you type it, Mr. C.

I was sitting at the bar, last night, and overheard a woman declare "This is the best brandy I've ever had." But she wasn't talking about a drink, she was talking about whipped potatoes and salt cod, i.e.: brandade.

I was at Rite Aid today and they were playing Wilco. I shed a little tear for Mr. Tweedy.

I was at the gym today and spent over an hour walking on the treadmill. I had no idea I had been on it that long, but suddenly the thing slowed waaaaaay down and stopped being at an incline and I almost fell over and landed on my ass. I guess 65 minutes is the limit.

Where did the time go?

I was doing some, what do you call it--creative visualization. I was pretending I was running (which I am never allowed to do again). Whoosh, I was going so fast.

I have friends with more (----?----) lives then mine.

For example:

An email today described a "love affair with a gorgeous thug" who travels "on fake passports to launder money for the IRA," arranges "shakedowns," deals street drugs, and abuses "alcohol, valium and women."

Despite the fact that he is "an extremely talented painter and a romantic fool who had a deluded extended moment that he might turn his shit around," they broke up. It was all a "phony dream."

Okay. Write that screenplay.

I think lives like number eight make for a good story but a sorrowful existence. And also, I'd know it if I was on the treadmill for an hour. I do it for ten minutes, exactly, and I count each second until it's over. And then I found out about inclines, exclamation mark.