combustive motor corporation ledger of affairs


caleb:: WHAT: St. Patrick wasn't even Irish. He was Roman. A bunch of pirates from Norway or wherever kidnapped him and made him work the donkey-pit in the hills of Wales until he turned sweet 16 and had a dream about a man with a curly mustache driving a yacht around the Bay of Biscay. That was enough for him. He escaped slavery by hiding himself in the piglet hutch of a butcher ship on its way to unload savory filets and such for the bistros of gay old France. Where he later became a chef. Then a monk. Then a traveling road-show man with a voice like a trumpet and a huge utility belt. He went back to the British Isles later to face his demons and make his Catholic peace with slavery. That sounds fun. And leprechauns are real.
WHEN: In like two days it's going to be SATURDAY and you're going to have lots of stuff to do like wash your sticky clothes and look at a 2-bedroom apartment in Greenpoint that no one else wants because it smells like mustard-dipped athletic socks on a bacon sandwich. So you should probably forget about all that home-maker crap and come over to our house and drink liquors until Soren drops a beer-bottle in your lap but you don't notice because someone took their shirts off and the couch is all wet. So come over around 9. If you want some corned-beef and cabbage that mawn's been stewing for six days. And REAL Irish champ. You can ask Rob Bannerman about that.
WHERE: In an old Italian Knights of Columbus social club and eatery. Which shouldn't repel you even if you're an American Indian. Because Oh the times are a' changin' and isn't it just fancy and cool to live in a "loft-like apartment" in Williamsburg and drive a scooter to work? So COME ON OVER to 608 Lorimer Street and check out our place before we get kicked out next month and move in with Bill Cosby in Ft. Greene. Who was it that told me he lived in Brooklyn Heights? That's just a lie. A lie!
HOW: Take the BRAND NEW robot-driven L train to Lorimer Street. Climb out of the station and walk two lousy blocks to our house. If you can't find it, hang out with Omar at Hana Food instead. He makes a mean Ruben sandwich. And, come to think of it, the L train's probably not running or something (robots have lots of problems) in which case you should take a CAR or a CAB depending on your taste. From Manhattan where Osama's hot half-cousin lives, drive over the Williamsburg bridge and tell the driver to get off at the South 5 exit. Then take the first left at the first light. Then drive straight past a bunch of votive candle stores and a hipster Apple G4 cafe. Then take a right on Metropolitan and drive 4 or 5 blocks until you hit Lorimer. And guess what? If you're coming from Astoria Queens or the Cosby House, you know how to get here.
WHY: What? Go back and re-read the What section.
RECAP: St. Paddy was a slave. Leprechauns are real. Saturday. 9pm. Drunk. 608 Lorimer, Hipsterburg Brooklyn. Robots have problems. Or take a car.

caleb:: hello all my friends.
after six years on Lorimer street (and after stuffing piles of $$$ up the hole that is Williamsburg) we are joining the ranks of Mustard Factory hippies and all those painters from DUMBO and are being evicted. [our landlord "needs" the premises vacant so that he can sell it to Allstate Realty Associates for $950,000 or tear it down to build a six-story cinder-block box full of "loft-like" apartments for
professionals.] we have to turn in our keys by May 15.
any ideas anybody?
anyone have an apartment they want to sell me for $100,000? anyone have some strange two-story raw space in an old pierogi factory they want to rent for $1600? i've done some of you favors before. i've probably tried to stick my hands up all of your shirts. which wasn't that bad, was it? how about it? can anyone lend me like 10 grand? mawn would really appreciate it.
i love you all.

alex:: Hello. . . Ready, set, go. . .

Renouncing Your Citizenship

Here's the procedure:
(1) Leave the country. There is no procedure for renouncing your citizenship while still physically present in the U.S. The government has the idea that if you're mad enough to renounce your citizenship you probably don't want to keep living here (although most militia types seem to want to stick around, presumably to keep their disgust fresh). Also, frankly, most of the 800 or so people who renounce their U.S. citizenship each year aren't protesters but rather are cases of "dual citizenship" who haven't lived in the U.S. for a long time. What typically happens is that someone is born in the U.S. to non-U.S. parents, who later return to their native land. Such a person is automatically a U.S. citizen but has a claim to his parents' nationality also. While dual citizenship is usually not illegal--the U.S. "tolerates" it--it can complicate your life, notably in connection with taxes. So many people choose one or the other on reaching adulthood.
(2) Apply for citizenship somewhere else. Strictly speaking this is optional, in the sense that it's optional to put on the parachute before you jump out of the plane. But if you're a stateless person living abroad and you get in a jam with the local authorities, or you want to get a passport to travel to yet another country (or back to this one), you're up fecal matter creek.
(3) Go to a U.S. embassy or consulate and tell them you want to renounce your citizenship. Often they'll try to talk you out of it, tell you to come back after you've slept it off, etc. Persist. Eventually they'll have you sign an oath of renunciation, an affidavit affirming the oath, and a "statement of understanding," which basically asks you if you're sure you know what you're doing. You also have to supply certain tax-related info and turn in your passport. The consular officer overseeing the proceedings must sign an attestation saying that in his opinion you're not off your nut. The papers will then be forwarded to the U.S. state department, which in the fullness of time will issue you a Certificate of Loss of Nationality. You're officially un-American. See you in hell!

all:: we got mail!!

From: Sco <dome99@ulster.net>
Date: Wed Oct 15, 2003 10:00:14 PM
To: list@combustivemotorcorp.com
Subject: Re: movies, beer, and dirty pictures

unsubscribe me commie fucking fucks.
Please.
Find somewhere else to suck cock Kike bitch Homo1
To ashes wit' ya.
Burn in fucking hell slimedog!

wow.
someone's mobile home fell in a ditch and gravy fell out.

alex:: en route to grand central intending to catch the 12:53 metro north to beacon, ny. have in mind seeing the dia art foundation's new museum. warm cubano sandwiches possessed, drinks acquired, and companions arranged. enter the L train through a wide open, unobstructed, and ambiguous subway gate and end up in handcuffs within four minutes. after six holding cells, two sets of mug shots (they would not give me copies), full laser-guided fingerprints, the entire cast of HBO's the wire, one open toilet, and twenty three hours, i learned three things.
1) the fashion in jail seems to be to sleep with your clothes turned inside out. i never saw anyone switch them in the evening from right side in and turn them inside out, but i did see the reverse happen in the morning when prisoners snuck into the interrogation rooms before seeing the state appointed lawyers. it may be a bedtime fashion code similar to the colored handkerchief system circulating san francisco when i left. there may be a far grander explanation i hope to never fully understand. or it may simply be a method to keep the outside of your clothes clean of the processed cheese, skunk weed, and abandoned rotting shoelaces coating the floor. either way, if you end up arrested in brooklyn, consider it before going to bed.
2) after hours of watching cops watch baseball players on the police issue widescreen television, one understands that cops are genetically identical to baseball players. both begin their careers with lofty intentions nailing high flyers and bringing happiness to children, but both eventually degrade to spending most of their time sitting down only to get up once an hour or so to swing a club at something and only being able to move as quickly as their reclining-chair castors will spin. i wondered if baseball players sit hold over hostages while watching cops on television, but i got sleepy thinking about the tangential relationships of them all being the same beings in different uniforms on different screens and laid down with a cheese and mustard sandwich as a pillow to have a nap.
3) the holding cells at the criminal courthouse are about 300 square feet and have wide expanses of wallspace with LES inscriptions and a bloodstain while the dia:beacon, so i've heard, is 300,000 square feet with rooms built entirely around richard serra's huge sculptures, a gallery specifically renovated to display gerhard richter, and an entire basement of bruce nauman installations. while i never saw the basement of the holding cells, i'm thinking that i prefer the museum. and next time, i'm taking my own sidecar.

caleb:: anyone like new orleans style baked/stuffed potatoes? give dale a call: 334-756-3336. seriously.