new years
resolutions

In 2004
I will:
make more money
buy organic produce
not vote
republican
don a useless
fashion accessory
eat more fish
play more stratego
rap to 50 cent
while teaching
kids the meaning
of life on a 50 ft
crater in the middle
of the pacific.

Write more sentence
fragments.

buy more toys

create my own
ideology.

put croutons
on my salad
to scare away
the terrorists.

Jam the
frequencies
with two-lined
packets
of gibberish

Good day.

It is on this 2nd to last day in the year of our lord 2003 that I present to you the new generation of content for kronski.com. No longer forced to languish through hand-generated html code, I can now publish on a whim, without the clarification of my own mental editor.

Short stories will continue to appear as normal, but more sporadically, as I will use this particular avenue to assimilate my ideas and shambolic flights of fancy.

I wish you all a happy new year.

Confessions of a Webmaster

To the fine folks at McSweeney's :

I run a small website that a narrow sampling of the American population (And sometimes the Netherlands) actually reads. It's usually my parents, their friends, and some of my friends. I have access to a device that allows me to track the rare breed of man that visits my site. I can deduce by IP address and Internet service provider, who is reading my site. So I play games with the people visit my site, I pretend I am in control of some perverse world no matter how small. Below is an example.

Appeared on www.kronski.com on a misty Portland morning, 12/21/03:

I like WordPad.


That tiny little accessory, sometimes I'll just pop it open for the thrill of watching everything come together in just a few seconds. Its white screen is warmly inviting and strangely intoxicating. I do my best work hung over, when the rain is misty outside my window. I have all of these unreleased snippets of dialogue, fragments of stories. Their relevance lost long ago, they clog up my folder on the network of the business I am writing this from. I was at a party last night, two of them actually. The second party steamed the walls and windows of the house. It was smoldering in its hip ness, its acuteness of attire. Everything oddly shaped, evenly distributed but oddly shaped. Everything broke the paradigm but fit anyway, because they were all rebelling in the same way.

When the mist enters my mind connected to the reflection of dark street signs, green on black, the drama of the whirr, the depth in the reverberations, at some ungodly hour of the morning, we live in darkness. I am beginning to ramble.

Don't you love it when you log on to this site, and can look directly into the back of my brain, and see the tired old tinkerer at play? Doesn't it give you some sort of voyeuristic thrill, just to watch me squirm, to log on to this site as a participation point in my life?

Click on it again and we'll be better friends. No, I mean it this time.

I'm not trying to put you down, I'm trying to find my way through this cosmodemonic hedge maze. I'm not patronizing you, I'm just trying to sell you this big fucking thing you don't really need. I don't have the qualifications to write a proper treatise, to construct an actual manifesto that would be printed anywhere prominent, I cant even hold the scissors straight when I call you at 3am, just to hear you breathing at the other end of the line.

I'm not even drunk when I stare at the phone swinging to and fro from the base in the booth outside the bar, crouched down on the ground. It's a heart-swelling finish to this symphony. I am the drama queen, I live for fights, for misfits, for the alienating feeling of a camera pulling back from it's subject while simultaneously moving forward.

I am not here to tell you how to live your life. I have not found religion. I am not doing this to get laid. I do this because something inside is fulfilled, or at least the image is fulfilled. I don't need to sit down, I don't need a nice cup of cocoa. What I need is understanding, the kind of understanding that WordPad gives me when I log on to the network in the morning, when I drink my conglomerate latte'. I am a new sentence-constructing machine. I am a psychopath talking wannabe. I soak up the writers then regurgitate what they took years to master. I am a charlatan, a fake, a philistine, you would turn up your waxed moustache to my very gaudy public display of affection.

Reading this will not make you politically aware, reading this will not keep your finger on the pulse of young people. I am not young people. I am not one of those giggly young people that cavort on cell phone ads that always look like they are having the time of their lives. I like the ocean. Reading this will not make the bad people go away. It will stop clowns from laughing at you. But its still you fault, its always your fault.

If this entry does not make any sense, if my ramblings continue onward, inward, then good, fine, I'm glad. May this inspire you to do nothing, I don't want the burden of inspiration. I couldn't handle it. Everything is mirrors, mirrors and notepad, sweet delicious fabricating notepad. With your simplicity I can smash the world into smithereens.

Confessions of a Webmaster

To the fine folks at McSweeney's :

I run a small website that a narrow sampling of the American population (And sometimes the Netherlands) actually reads. It's usually my parents, their friends, and some of my friends. I have access to a device that allows me to track the rare breed of man that visits my site. I can deduce by IP address and Internet service provider, who is reading my site. So I play games with the people visit my site, I pretend I am in control of some perverse world no matter how small. Below is an example.

Appeared on www.kronski.com on a misty Portland morning, 12/21/03:

I like WordPad.


That tiny little accessory, sometimes I'll just pop it open for the thrill of watching everything come together in just a few seconds. Its white screen is warmly inviting and strangely intoxicating. I do my best work hung over, when the rain is misty outside my window. I have all of these unreleased snippets of dialogue, fragments of stories. Their relevance lost long ago, they clog up my folder on the network of the business I am writing this from. I was at a party last night, two of them actually. The second party steamed the walls and windows of the house. It was smoldering in its hip ness, its acuteness of attire. Everything oddly shaped, evenly distributed but oddly shaped. Everything broke the paradigm but fit anyway, because they were all rebelling in the same way.

When the mist enters my mind connected to the reflection of dark street signs, green on black, the drama of the whirr, the depth in the reverberations, at some ungodly hour of the morning, we live in darkness. I am beginning to ramble.

Don't you love it when you log on to this site, and can look directly into the back of my brain, and see the tired old tinkerer at play? Doesn't it give you some sort of voyeuristic thrill, just to watch me squirm, to log on to this site as a participation point in my life?

Click on it again and we'll be better friends. No, I mean it this time.

I'm not trying to put you down, I'm trying to find my way through this cosmodemonic hedge maze. I'm not patronizing you, I'm just trying to sell you this big fucking thing you don't really need. I don't have the qualifications to write a proper treatise, to construct an actual manifesto that would be printed anywhere prominent, I cant even hold the scissors straight when I call you at 3am, just to hear you breathing at the other end of the line.

I'm not even drunk when I stare at the phone swinging to and fro from the base in the booth outside the bar, crouched down on the ground. It's a heart-swelling finish to this symphony. I am the drama queen, I live for fights, for misfits, for the alienating feeling of a camera pulling back from it's subject while simultaneously moving forward.

I am not here to tell you how to live your life. I have not found religion. I am not doing this to get laid. I do this because something inside is fulfilled, or at least the image is fulfilled. I don't need to sit down, I don't need a nice cup of cocoa. What I need is understanding, the kind of understanding that WordPad gives me when I log on to the network in the morning, when I drink my conglomerate latte'. I am a new sentence-constructing machine. I am a psychopath talking wannabe. I soak up the writers then regurgitate what they took years to master. I am a charlatan, a fake, a philistine, you would turn up your waxed moustache to my very gaudy public display of affection.

Reading this will not make you politically aware, reading this will not keep your finger on the pulse of young people. I am not young people. I am not one of those giggly young people that cavort on cell phone ads that always look like they are having the time of their lives. I like the ocean. Reading this will not make the bad people go away. It will stop clowns from laughing at you. But its still you fault, its always your fault.

If this entry does not make any sense, if my ramblings continue onward, inward, then good, fine, I'm glad. May this inspire you to do nothing, I don't want the burden of inspiration. I couldn't handle it. Everything is mirrors, mirrors and notepad, sweet delicious fabricating notepad. With your simplicity I can smash the world into smithereens.

On the film you haven't seen until now, or why do I use so many contractions?

It felt like letting go or refocusing the lens. A dramatic change of atmosphere, so rich you can feel the differences rushing in like a strong gust of wind that gusts across your mainsails. So acute it swoops through your hair. You try to chase it, follow it as it flies from your tongue, but it moves to fast, and your mind cant create a concept fast enough to categorize the feeling, sort it, and throw it into an old, moldy box.

It is like growing up and rediscovering how young you are again. It clears out that stagnant feeling. It bleaches the whites in creativity. It's liberating and challenging all at once, and it's never what you thought it would be. It's not always wonderful, and it's not always like in the hallmark cards. But its your life, the one thing you think of when you think of your life. Synonymous. Its worth going back to school again for, worth the life changeover. You know, at age 30, they say you go through your first midlife crisis, where you change your life dramatically, you move to Tibet, cut out dairy products, write treatises on tiny grains of white rice. Either you change at 30, or you stay the same until your 35. I remember reading about this last year. How final it all seemed, as if we were living in a "Logan's Run" environment. How I kept waiting for my palm to flash red.

There are books that will tell you about love, that thing I am talking about. Love to me is like a film you've waited all your life to see, that others prevented you from seeing. It's as good as they say it is for sure, but with it comes all of these problems. You've waited for so long to see the film that you built up all of these impressions on what it was going to be like, and now its real. It moved from from the fantastical to the actual. But it changes, it's a completely non-linear film. It morphs, accumulates in body parts. It gets its circulation cut off, like you arm after you've slept on it all night. The dialogue of this film you've wanted to see all your life and you've just seen, is continously evolving, becoming more intricate then decompressing. And once you've seen this film, you are never the same again. And that first version of the film you saw, the one with the cheap special effects and the overblown dialogue, that's the one you'll remember for the rest of your, well hell, I cant say life because I haven't lived it yet. How can people make such sweeping generalized statements that reflect lifelong situations when one hasn't lived out their entire lives yet? Ah well, something to think about on your morning commute, in between bowel movements, waiting for the ants to clear off of your heroin spoon.

On the film you haven't seen until now, or why do I use so many contractions?