I’m phone poeming after a really great day. After Sir Mixalot (who was astounding), we got up early and drove here, to central Idaho, to see USC best the cougars in the freezing cold. I was very cold. I had to go back to the car at halftime and put on more layers. One of the layers was my friend Brian Hartman’s long underwear. I’m pretty sure that’s why they won. That, and the fact that my HP wanted them to so very much.
I don’t really like phone poeming, because I am so slow, so I’m just going to get to it and have more of the fun:

Moscow, ID, in first November.

The differentness between art and war is the losers. There are no losers in art. The difference between war and art, out games and shows, is money. Capital makes the difference, because each gave its different, not like a dance or show rehearsed but predictable in lines and missteps and lungs. The rituals of art and war are the save, just the simple rituals of man. What is performed, and what is rehearsed? What are the signs of your day in the fog, bring two fingers in the victory symbol, bounding in the air. These are the chants and seatings of a cordial rivalry. We can sit and talk game, if we are all objective. But still, given marriage, I will throw two fingers in a V for victory and I will not be scared or ashamed to wear the colors in this beaten town.
Phone poeming is hard. Night, poem friends. Fight on!