this week i

caught birthday bouquet.  8:45pm 12 hour phone off, i missed borboleta, save your tears, moonlight, flamingos.  that's amora?  no, ah blackberry 🤌



tried on some did i say that out loud faces.  right now it's crude / maybe one day / it'll be / graffiti / dick of pompeii

wrote maybe for national crime victimization survey?  or is it an elevator?  saint peter's sports bar / evil deed instant replay / sinful thought jukebox


read visualize this: the flowingdata guide to design, visualization, and statistics by nathan yau.  i'd attended both conferences, visited wu wien solo

 snails moved fastest on glass

clearly, concisely, and ever so nicely

label your axes so that readers know what scale points are plotted on.  is it logarithmic, incremental, exponential, or per 100 flushing toilets?  personally, i always assume it's that last one when i don't see labels

most languages use 0-based arrays or vectors where the first item is referenced with a 0-index.  r, however, uses 1-based vectors

loess, or locally weighted scatterplot smoothing

the default pie chart appears with eight a grayscale lollipop

bubbles should be sized by area.  they should not be sized by radius, diameter, or circumference

get ready to make some maps



this week i

find stone paths btw lunch salad, dinner date:  latte at, mercado bambina replenish fizzy drinks, subway disembarkers quinze minutinhos


wish merry prankster van showed up at trump rally, squared with hell's angels after all.  no bookmarks?  i'll remember place first four pages ft at least

drew dragon shadows, do they fly in a v?  reality a mystery.  writing about survey methodology like the third or fourth most fun thing i've ever done


read murder on the orient express by agatha christie, those stabby italians.  spoiler: everyone killed him

 the train, it is as dangerous as a sea voyage!

hercule poirot addressed himself to the task of keeping his moustaches out of the soup

if you will forgive me for being personal - i do not like your face

ce n'est rien.  je me suis trompe

 that implies a detached attitude.  i think my attitude is more selfish.  i have learned to save myself useless emotion

"it is a woman," said the chef de train, speaking for the first time.  "depend upon it, it was a woman.  only a woman would stab like that"

he chews the gum, which i believe is not done in good circles

remember an italian's weapon is the knife, and he stabs not once but several times

"i belong to the world, madame," said poirot dramatically

it is an exercise, this, of the brain

"i like to see an angry englishman," said poirot.  "they are very amusing.  the more emotional they feel, the less command they have of language"

they were all in it.  for so many people connected with the armstrong case to be travelling by the same train through coincidence was not only unlikely: it was impossible.  it must be not chance, but design.  i remembered a remark of colonel arbuthnot's about trial by jury.  a jury is composed of twelve people - there were twelve passengers - ratchett was stabbed twelve times.  and the thing that had worried me all along - the extraordinary crowd travelling in the stamboul-calais coach at a slack time of year - this was explained




this week i

updated statistics on health spending burden of the elderly, the medicare part d market enrollment and costs, ma enrollment, premiums, bonuses

live early emoji era: pre-seahorse.  0 arrependimentos ✨  dhaka is picasso today.  every night, i see her groove, to a russian lullaby, lullaby, lullaby

feel good about progress, guilherme up till now refuses to be my svygini (i drew some ideas (buddha not far from alexander in both time and space))

agree with rosemarie jeopardy a perfect game.  exhibition between amodio, schneider, roach just a little slice of heaven.  "you might have missed your chance to write for conan, but the simpsons and jeopardy are going to run until the heat death of the universe" -ken jennings 2022 11 25

drew other shit  🖕  phones are brain leashes kinda.  for you and me, and a russian lullaby, lullaby, lullaby.  my first noticed overlap btw ella and jerry


medusa hair extensions

49 views of mt fuji and friends

empire bitches


read the electric kool-aid acid test by tom wolfe [kairos].  sgt pepper's acid rock beatles' best music, tho all the lonely people most important song

custer died for your sins

he was in jail down in santa cruz trying to fight a marijuana charge on the grounds that marijuana was a religious sacrament for him.  i didn't figure out exactly why she was up here in the san mateo jail waiting room instead except that it was like a stage door, as i said, with kesey as the star who was still inside

as if somebody had given hieronymous bosch fifty buckets of day-glo paint and a 1939 international harvester school bus and told him to go to it.  on the floor by the bus is a 15-foot banner reading acid test graduation

the credit card elite are tanking up and stretching their legs and tweezing their undershorts out of the aging waxy folds of their scrota, and i am out there carrying a shell oil can in both hands like a bladder totem, around the corner, to the toilet

occasionally somebody would suggest an orgy or a three-day wine binge, but the model was always that old zorba the greek romanticism of sandals and simplicity and back to first principles

some experiments the veterans hospital in menlo park was running with "psychomimetic" drugs, drugs that brought on temporary states resembling psychoses.  they were paying volunteers $75 a day.  kesey volunteered.  it was all nicely calcimined and clinical.  they would put him on a bed in a white room and give him a series of capsules without saying what they were.  one would be nothing, a placebo.  one would be ditran, which always brought on a terrible experience.  kesey could always tell that one coming on, because the hairs on the blanket he was under would suddenly look like a field of hideously diseased thorns and he would put his finger down his throat and retch.  but one of them - the first thing he knew about it was a squirrel dropped an acorn from a tree outside, only it was tremendously loud and sounded like it was not outside but right in the room with him and not actually a sound, either, but a great suffusing presence, visual, almost tactile, a great impacting of . . .

 aldous huxley, who had taken mescaline and written about it in the doors of perception.  he compared the brain to a "reducing valve."  in ordinary perception, the senses send an overwhelming flood of information to the brain, which the brain then filters down to a trickle it can manage for the purpose of survival in a highly competitive world.  man has become so rational, so utilitarian, that the trickle becomes most pale and thin.  it is efficient, for mere survival, but it screens out the most wondrous part of man's potential experience without his even knowing it. we're shut off from our own world.  primitive man once experienced the rich and sparkling flood of the senses fully.  children experience it for a few months - until "normal" training, conditioning, close the doors on this world, usually for good.  somehow, huxley had said, the drugs opened these ancient doors.  and through them modern man may at last go, and rediscover his divine birthright

the local beats - that term was still used - a bunch of kids from a pad called the chateau, a wild-haired kid named jerry garcia and the cadaverous cowboy, page browning.  everybody was attracted by the strange high times they had heard about . . . the lane's fabled venison chili, a kesey dish made of venison stew laced with lsd, which you could consume and then go sprawl on the mattress in the fork of the great oak in the middle of the lane at night and play pinball with the light show in the sky . . . perry lane

you wouldn't believe a girl with electric eel tits, would you, king?

everybody on the bus had taken acid and they were zonked.  the acid was in some orange juice in the refrigerator and you drank a paper cup full of it and you were zonked.  cassady was driving and barreling through the burning woods wrenching the steering wheel this way and that way to his innerwired beat, with a siren wailing and sailing through the rhythm

in the contagion of the moment..slipped to the refrigerator and taken some acid, now she is outside the bus on the desert sand wearing a black snakeskin blouse and a black mantle, with her long black hair coming down over it like in a pre-raphaelite painting and a cosmic grin

 paleopsychic mystery

boise brought in a sculpture of a hanged man, so they ran it up a tree limb with a hangman's noose.  he also built a great thunderbird, a great thor-and-wotan beaked monster with an amber dome on its back and you could get inside of it.  inside were some mighty wire strings, which you could pull, which they did, and the thunderbird twanged out across the gorge like the mightiest vibrating bass beast in the history of the world.  then he brought in a kama sutra sculpture, a huge sheetmetal man with his face in the sheetmetal groin of a big sheetmetal babe.  she had her left leg sticking up in the air.  it was hollow and babbs ran a hose up it and turned the water on and it spurted out, so they left it running, eternally spurting.  it looked like she was having an eternal orgasm out of her left foot

straight people were always trying to figure out what is wrong here - never having had this feeling themselves.  straight people called them beatniks.  i suppose the beautiful people identified with the beat generation excitement of the late 1950s, but in fact there was a whole new motif in their particular bohemian status sphere: namely, psychedelic drugs

mothproof your brain

why the consternation?
arise ye antediluvians,
groove on
the pranksters and hell's angels . . .
noah's destination

a trip more vital than all the kantian prattle in the world


art is not eternal, friends

whereupon he reaches into his great glowing day-glow coat and produces a harmonica and starts playing it right into the microphone, home, home on the range, hawonking away on the goddamn thing - home . . . home . . . on the ra-a-a-a-ange hawonkawonk . . .

the rolling stones, england's second hottest pop group

"if society wants me to be an outlaw," said kesey, "then i'll be an outlaw, and a damned good one.  that's something people need.  people at all times need outlaws"

he took the pictures in strobe, and this would make cassady look like he had multi-arms, like the great god shiva

if you were watching all this on a movie screen you know what your reaction would be through a mouthful of popcorn from the third row: "what more do you need, you dolt!  scram outta there . . ."

bunch of kids with the jesuschrist hair, the temple bells and donkey beads, serape vests, mandalas

nietzsche is up in heaven now

a girl named jeannie got bit by a scorpion one night.  everybody woke up, and what to do.  they pondered awhile and decided to go with the flow and they all went back to sleep.  she survived

cassady comes across the road, flipping his sledge hammer, singles, doubles, triples, way up in the air looping it, catching it behind his back, and so on, but not looking at them for a second

"why did you come to casablanca?" he says.
"for the waters," says bogart.
"there is no water here," says the cop heavy.  "we are in the middle of the desert."
"oh?" says bogart.  "i was misinformed"

honesty's the best disguise

an apartment with india-print spreads lining the walls and couches on the floor and handmade indian teapots and cups and three small crystals suspended from the ceiling by almost invisible threads and picking up lights like jewels in the air, a place devoid of all the shit and gadgetry of the modern american plasic life, for, as leary has said, a home should be a place of purity that the gautama buddha himself could walk into from 485 b.c. and feel at home

they all have these shiny black shoes on.  then one of them goes back to the sedan and comes back with a flare gun and stands over him with that.  hassler wonders if he intends to shoot him with a flare.  a very day-glo death

all us reporters are scribbling away

the heads don't know whether kesey is selling them out or shoving a big roman candle up the universal arse

kesey is off to one side in a flag people coverall, looking around, not saying much, listening to a big angel from oakland who has on a polka-dot shirt and a polka-dot tie under his angels' jacket - "i wore a shirt and tie, ken, on account of it's halloween"

in february, neal cassady's body was found beside a railroad track outside the town of san miguel de allende, in mexico.  some local americans said he had been going at top speed for two weeks and had headed off down the railroad track one night and his heart just gave out



this week i

'm just trying to piece together my corner of the universe.  tinder: i'm funny // cute // i love food // love to talk // personality breaks the scale

listen to jerry garcia, mais ou menos one song per week.  louis collins makes me wonder whether humans possess biological audiosensory pleasure maximum, perfection, and, in fact, it's not so deep.  maybe we mastered music early last century, shortly after the invention of sound recording, and have been cyclically re-hashing themes like a catwalk milanese or a comic universe.  mozart's, mississippi john hurt's continued relevance confirms

oh, kind friends, oh, ain't it hard?
to see poor louis in a new graveyard
angels laid him away

angels laid him away
laid him six feet under the clay
angels laid him away

read lord of the flies by nobel laureate william golding (won for universality of myth).  set in ww3, first book many read that meant something unsaid

there aren't any grownups anywhere

sucks to your ass-mar!

he still says he saw the beastie.  it came and went away again an' came back and wanted to eat him-

the martyred expression of a parent who has to keep up with the senseless ebullience of the children

roger gathered a handful of stones and began to throw them.  yet there was a space round henry, perhaps six yards in diameter, into which he dare not throw.  here, invisible yet strong, was the taboo of the old life.  round the squatting child was the protection of parents and school and policemen and the law.  roger's arm was conditioned by a civilization that knew nothing of him and was in ruins

so remember.  the rocks for a lavatory.  keep the fire going and smoke showing as a signal.  don't take fire from the mountain.  take your food up there

daddy said they haven't found all the animals in the sea yet

the darkness and desperate enterprise gave the night a kind of dentist's chair unreality

the head grinning amusedly in the strange daylight, ignoring the flies, the spilled guts, even ignoring the indignity of being spiked on a stick

he examined the white nasal bones, the teeth, the colors of corruption.  he saw how pitilessly the layers of rubber and canvas held together the poor body that should be rotting away.  then the wind blew again and the figure lifted, bowed, and breathed foully at him.  simon knelt on all fours and was sick till his stomach was empty.  then he took the lines in his hands; he freed them from the rocks and the figure from the wind's indignity

the rock struck piggy a glancing blow from chin to knee; the conch exploded into a thousand white fragments and ceased to exist.  piggy, saying nothing, with no time for even a grunt, traveled through the air sideways from the rock, turning over as he went.  the rock bounded twice and was lost in the forest.  piggy fell forty feet and landed on his back across the square red rock in the sea.  his head and legs twitched a bit, like a pig's after it has been killed.  then the sea breathed again in a long, slow sigh, the water boiled white and pink over the rock; and when it went, sucking back again, the body of piggy was gone

couldn't a fire outrun a galloping horse?

"fun and games," said the officer