secret blog of mystery

The Infertile Brother

2009-09-22T18:03:00.001-07:00

Hubert met his sister, Jackie, for lunch the other day. It was going fine: a fancy restaurant, a bottle of wine, a bowl of spaghetti, a rack of lamb, an Italian singer regaling them with songs of the old country, and the feeling of filial love unique to all siblings.

Hubert drew deep from the air in which he breathed. Something was troubling him, which was immediately evident to his dear sister. He took a long sip of wine and then began: "Jackie, as you know, I'm your only brother and, as such, am the only person that can thusly sow seeds of familial lineage. Without offspring to my name, we are but a period, ending the sentence of our generational name; it is only if I have children of my own that this won't be a death sentence, but a never-ending one of life"

Jackie patted Hubert lightly on the arm and gazed deep into her brother's eyes. "Hubert, this is true. It is a burden of brothers throughout the land. The pressure: high. The stress: immense. Those fears of our glorious family name being blown out like an eternal candle," she then blows out a table candle for dramatic effect, "make me shiver in the wind, the same wind that blows out another candle," she blows out another candle, "and creates discord through bringing this ancient tremor to the forefront where all we want is to banish this exigence to the other nightmares of old: snakes, goblins, dragons, vampires, but instead it comes crawling back like the aforementioned snake on its belly crawling through fertile grass, or what we hope to be fertile, but instead perhaps a barren wasteland where snake flops like worm and burns out our family name like the Sun extinguishing its eternal flame," she blows out yet another candle, "thereby creating a black hole where we once burned brightly, like butterflies in the terribly lonesome night sky with no stars to light the paths to the North, the eternal North, now dead and gone like the candles of our dreams," she blows the last candle out.

Hubert grasps in the darkness. "I can't see you anymore. I feel like the first caveman in his first night in eternal darkness! Will the Sun ever rise again! Will I have a son to raise ever! Ah, my sister, I am barren as the wasteland you so poetically described with your beautiful words in the deadest of air, or shall I say dead heirs, for we will have none to carry the light of our name into perdition. I'm infertile and an ill-planter of seeds of creation. Forgive me!"

The singer finishes her song, gives them a frightened look and runs away to get away from this carrier of blackness. Her brother is fertile as the great plains, so she cannot emphasize with this sibling dust bowl.

The Death of Air

2009-09-06T18:32:00.000-07:00

Rolando Martinez piloted the plane like a banshee out of a sticky Tijuana swamp. He was the first Mexican to ever fly a plane, and was given the Martin Luther King Jr. certificate of Justice for Trailblazing! (MLK was the closest thing to a trailblazing Mexican, it seems). Martinez wore this certificate proudly on his sombrero to show his joy at being so honored. Unfortunately, the sombrero fell over his eyes and stuck to his face. "Argh! Mi sombrero es stucko on mi cabeza!" Old Richard Lexington chuckled from the copilot seat. "Got you good, amigo! I superglued it, so it would stay on your head the whole journey."

Martinez gaped in horror: "You didn't need to do that. I would have kept it on anyway. I was to wear it to show my joy of being the first Mexican trailblazer ever, but now I can't see. You will have to fly the plane!"

Lexington's jaws dropped in fear. "I'm blind! I can't fly planes anymore."

"Then why are you my copilot?"

Lexington beamed in pride. "Do you see this shirt I'm wearing?"

"No. My sombrero is over my head. Do you see it?"

"No. I'm blind. But I know what it says."

"What does it say?"

"It says that I'm a trailblazer for being the oldest person to be copilot...and there's a picture of Martin Luther King, who is the closest us old people have to being a trailblazer."

"That's really great. Congratulations!"

"Gracias, Amigo!"

They shared a look of friendship, albeit blind friendship, and waited for the northerly winds and the puffy clouds to provide the plane a blanket forged from the whispers of eternity, for all was dark but the light of their trailblazing friendship: the first old person and Mexican to ever be friends.

Cue trophy of Martin Luther King Jr. hugging a mirror.

The Cat Hunter's Dilemma

2009-06-25T13:41:00.001-07:00

Please, gather round, my jury, my judges, my lawyers, and, especially, my bloodthirsty press. Listen to the words that will spout out of my deliciously round mouth, as I try to prove the innocence of a man who's only guilty of loving too much too fast. A man with a dilemma, or, if you prefer, a mission. A man who knew not what you know now today, this gravest day, my interrogators. But enough poetry: I will now lapse back into the plain-spoken dialect that us Cat Hunter's must use to stalk our prey.

Meow. Scratch. Rarararow. Scat.

Ah, I see that I have aroused the furrowing of brows with my speech. Allow me to translate, my friends--if you allow me to call you friends in a touch of pathos to make a tenuous connections that hopefully my story will solidify or fossilize into something more permanent; I'm dropping this anchor of friendship now and hope that the chain is deep enough to plunge into your sea floor, marrying me to your habitat and thereby proving my innocence!

I will say it again:

Meow. Scratch. Rarararow. Scat.

This is my story, but here is the translation in flowery and borderline pedantic prose. No, you say? You instead you want me to tell it plain-spoken without the incessant hissing? Your wish shall be granted by yours truly: me. That's still a little foppy for you? Foppy is too foppy for you? Well, then I won't tell my story. Hang me from that tree over there. No. That one; not that one. That one. Meow.

Us Flies

2009-06-25T13:39:00.001-07:00

Ah, what loving scene do us flies on such sticky walls have the joy of seeing on this hot, firewood-burning night in December. Hot it is, but only due to the aforementioned firewood, you see we are in Alaska, but it is ever-so comfortable and we are presently watching George Larkin read his two young ones, Sara and Jake, A Christmas Carol, while they sip on hot chocolate and snuggle in a bear-skin blanket...a bear that George killed himself that very day with a hatchet; after which he skinned the bear, sowed a blanket, fried its innards for dinner stew, and also clubbed its orphaned kids to death for the pure sadistic joy of it all. Ah, but perhaps I shouldn't have said 'orphaned' so fast, for what do we, us flies on sticky wall, see through the window, but mangy bear, a late bear, coming back to his lair, his den, expecting a dinner of antelope stew (similar to bear stew, but without the cannibalism, or cannibearism in this sordid case). Instead, he finds his two bear children clubbed like measly seal (which ironically is what Bear was bringing back to his den...perhaps for tomorrow brekkies), he saw a menstrual blood (bearstrual?) trail leading to the comfortable cabin of the Larkins. Do bears howl at the moon in anger after their life is torn from them? All us flies on sticky walls know is this: 1. Bear howls at moon 2. Bear is howling at moon 3. Bear is howling at Larkins. We watch through glass window from sticky walls as Bear prowls to door. Will Bear be polite, we think amongst ourselves giddily...will Bear knock on the door? Bear on hind-legs: knocks on door: knock knock.

Dead as a doornail. Wait, Father. A screaming from the door. That is a knock, Sara, not a screaming. It is both, Father. It is both.

Ah, my sticky brethren, now is the time to swarm the warm cider, the juicy crumbs of pudding pie, the stuffed goose, for soon Bear will howl, disembowel George (but not kill him, oh no, just tear out his intestines so he can watch Bear take his wife Brenda to wall, to our sticky wall, and eviscerate the skin, to wear her skin until it pops, for wife will not fit over Bear, is she on her period, will it be tit-for-tat? will she have any tits or tats after Bear is through?) the kids will run screaming, hot chocolate overflowing, Tiny Timmy was a lucky SOB, as the Bear preys on these seals, these demonic eskimo children, George pushes in his lower intestine to no avail, but struggles to get up, oh how he struggles, a shotgun in the next room, as us flies on our sticky walls watch, while we engorge ourselves on fallen entrails of George, and soon the rest of the family, flies and bears unite soon! but first open the door, George.

George getting so close to the door, Bear on hind-legs. George pauses. Why? What's in his hand? Flyswatter! Fly, my brethren, fly into the cold night, fly until you see light, fly until you...SWAT! And all is dark on this wall, our wall, our sticky wall...

lala

2009-02-22T15:03:00.000-08:00

We now are on the eve of Oscar night...but really, who cares? Slumdog and Mickey's redemption. Bleh. I am more excited about my netflix que and the movies I will be attending in the near future at revival theaters. Hell, there are even a few interesting movies at the regular theater (by regular I, of course, mean arthouse fop theater). I now am fully submerged in film. My pores are sweating out theories, plots, narrative arc, dialogue in strangely satisfying ways. I know about comic timing, about dramatic pauses, beats, rhythms, algorithms etc. This applies to tv, as well. I can watch any episode of any dramatic show and tell the one sitting close to me who will be the killer, whom not to trust, who will be the love interest, when the narrative will go off-track, on track, etc etc etc. Poor people who sit by me!

Season 1 in Dexter. There is one shot of a seemingly neutral character, a handsome doctor, and immediately pegged Mr. Man (Dr. Man) as the serial killer. How did I do this? Well, the serial killer can't be just some random person who pops out of nowhere in the last episode. The serial killer has to be an established character, so we can have that wow effect. Up to that episode, there were no characters that were viable suspects; the one person we thought to be a killer was too obvious. But this doctor--handsome, charming, non-threatening--was so obviously not obvious that my obvious bells started obviously ringing. Oh sure, the writers threw him at Dexter's sister, but, again, this was a tad too obvious. So without a doubt, I made the prediction that the shit-balls insane suspect is innocent and Dr. is the killer, even though there was absolutely no evidence to prove it! Boy, how that thrilled the people watching the show with me after I ruined the suspense.

Also, I can tell, by the way the camera lingers for perhaps a millisecond too long, whether a character (or dog) will live or die. Especially dogs. It will always be a neutral scene and the character might refer to the dog, whom will run happily into the owners arms. If this has no narrative function then the dog will meet a terrible end; well-structured screenplays have no fat on them, every single moment in every single scene is there for a reason, so if you ask yourself "why is the writer wasting fifteen seconds with a dog", you know that the payoff will be coming shortly--see Audition or Damages for examples of this.

I'm not saying I'm a genius or even an autistic weirdo; all this proves is I am fluent in this language.

The Class

2009-02-11T15:55:00.000-08:00

The Class

The class was finally in session. Our favorite teacher, Mr. Belfry, loped to the front of the room (he was hunch-backed, you see). Well, favorite is a rather cunning choice of a word—Mr. Belfry was our only teacher; as such, we could also denote him as: our worst teacher, our sexiest teacher, our teacher most resembling a pedophile etc.

Anyway, Mr. Belfry stationed himself behind his powerful, wooden podium and surveyed his class: fifty rows of students, from A to XX, all riveted and staring at his Kurtzy bald head, so shiny, as the spotlights accentuated the luminescent powers of his brain heat radiating from a vigorous cerebral workout. His gaze of us students lasted for about fifteen spellbinding seconds. We could hear the beats of our neighbors’ hearts as we fixated on his aforementioned head; his eyes were much too visionary (scary) for us to linger on for longer than a furtive glance—even that glance felt impure, as his red eyes (lack of sleep? Demonic powers) would find us and transmit insecurities to the brave souls that ventured close to this oracle. He created the illusion (so prevalent in 19th century portraits) of looking at each and every one of us. Quite impressive when you do some simple math: 50 rows multiplied by 20 columns equals a hell of a lot of students to be keeping an eye on (or two in this case). After we were thoroughly spooked and chastened, he opened his cavernous (or cadaverous) mouth and began his lecture:

‘Children of the new God, listen close. Our world is spinning out of primal orbit and will soon be floating in unchartered ether. We have no anchor to plunge into the Sun, nor have we a compass to map our progress. This is of our own doing and will soon create our own undoing—our demise, my children, my pets. Individual choice has proved a flawed idol that we can throw on the fires, forever burning, of our previous smashed Gods made of stone. This new idol cannot even be considered stone; straw being a substance more comparable to this: individual choice that we’ve held above all else. Now that we have purged our souls of a false daemon and float with no destination, we must decide where to go. Yes, we are passengers to an unholy eternity. Yes, we are destined to be destitute. Yes, things will never be the same. But all the same, can we not still define what we hold sacred?

‘You smart students will undoubtedly think to yourselves: how can we choose when individual choice is a fantasy, a falsehood, a lie? And yes, you are correct in this line of thought; individual choice died a false death as soon as that first caveman evolved a cerebrum. But what didn’t die and what shall rise from the ashes of false idols like a phoenix in the night sky is collective will. This is real; the collective movements that swing through history like a pendulum cutting across time itself. This urge to submit yourself into universal memory and destroy the individual, this will be our new God, our new mandate, Goddate. This is how we begin: renounce the individual and drop the anchor together, polarize the compass with our blood united and our will eviscerated into puzzle pieces that will fit together when we come together for the reign of harmony soon to be upon us. We are nothing alone, but everything together; a syllogism to lead us into our new orbit with enough gravity to outweigh the Sun and pull it into our orbit. This is how mythology is created. This is how constellations are made. This is how idols apotheosize.'

The Glamorous World of Young Professionals Dating

2008-12-01T00:31:00.000-08:00

The Glamorous World of Young Professionals Dating

To be a young professional on the dating scene. Ah, what images spring into our head as we picture glamorous twenty and thirty somethings meeting at a dimly lit fancy hotel bar in the artist quarter of the downtown (which is obviously where they work). The girl orders a Chardonnay and the fella gets Chianti (thanks to the plug from Hannibal the Cannibal which has survived these fifteen years and engendered a love of Chianti to last his lifetime! How debonair). The conversation spills out like the ever-fleeting wine and the witticisms roll off loose tongues like a Howard Hawk’s screwball comedy circa 1938. After the quick-witted patter, they decide to grab a bite to eat at an unpretentious Italian place (in the style of a small kitchen) across the street. They can tell its cool, because they only accept cash. The unfortunate souls that come in with an American Express card are branded as out-of-town hicks. Luckily, our heroes have the cash on hand for a fine evening: nary an awkward moment. The pauses: natural. The conversation: polite, but mixed with bold comic timing. Afterwards, they make their way back to the lady's house and have very tasteful (yet adventurous and safe) intercourse with no condom related conundrums. Cigarettes are rolled and the night ends with what ostensibly is a hip, ironic detachment, but what really, beneath the surface, is the joyful feeling of connecting with another soul in this lonely and fragmented world, if only for this night. This beautiful night. May it never end. A once in a lifetime occasion…until the next hookup.

That's the way young professionals date. Right?

No. Not at all. Not ever. Here's the truth. The ugly, deplorable, odious truth:
We will give our professional couples names: how about Chad and Sylvia? That works. Well, "The Chadder" (as his friends call him) is a young up-and-comer in selling airplane parts for a supplier. Sylvia? She is in consulting for management strategies pertaining to maximizing efficiency and streamlining data. They obviously will have a lot to talk about, right?

The date starts off with Chad eying Sylvia in the green skirt she said she'd be wearing over the emails they exchanged from the “Young Professional” dating website. She sees him coming and her heart has an initial quickening impulse, but her training as a professional kicks in and her autonomic system is subdued. They shake hands and talk at the same time.

"Hi, nice to finally..." "Hi, it's great to.."

They laugh. He blushes, she smiles weakly and they decide to order drinks. He thinks about buying this first round, but she can tell by the glint in his eye his intention. She decides to surprise him and pay for the both of them. Well, they both have their wallets out at the same time, which confuses the poor bartender. They both put their wallets back in respective pockets and then notice that nobody has paid until they get them back out and meekly pay for their own drinks. Chad: A gin and tonic. Sylvia: a coffee. Both of them are embarrassed by their choices and also curious about the choices of their counterpart.

They stretch their lips at each other in a simulacrum of a smile and hold it for one second, two seconds, three seconds...hmmm, when will they connect. The Chadder takes the initiative.

"I sell Airplane parts to companies."

An answer from Sylvia:

"I'm in consulting. Maximizing efficiency."

That is when it dawns on them. They have absolutely nothing else to say to one another. These fifteen hour days of excel charts and power point presentations have made them wonderfully articulate and engaging speakers of the fascinating subjects of airplanes parts (“Modern commercial jets use a 50/50 mix of outside air with recirculated cabin air to produce greater fuel optimization”) and of efficiency (“Have an area of your office that is dedicated to housing your marketing materials. Even in this age of web sites and synergy, prospective clients still want to see your marketing materials in person. You need to have your promo sheets ready to go, with envelopes, shipping labels and any other materials you will send out. You should try a shelf organizer or some other sorting device from your local office supply store”), but after this innovative look at their industry...what can they say?

Chad compensates with a sip too many of his gin and Sylvia nervously fills up her coffee which makes her even more nervous. Oh, how she could use a drink. Chad boldly proposes that they get some dinner at that cool Italian restaurant next door. Sylvia doesn't want to go to Buca di Beppos, but acquiesces to Chad's will. When they are finally seated in a family booth, they come up against a conundrum: where do they sit? It's a vast, huge booth, as the restaurant is a vast, empty restaurant (hit hard by the evil monster of the recession). They could sit across from each other but then five feet would separate each other. If they sit too close, it will be awkward too. By now, her coffee has worn off and left her tired as all hell and the Chadder is losing his buzz. The waiter takes fifteen (silent) minutes to find them and by then Sylvia has decided to fake a phone call (which she accomplished by SOS texting her bestest friend discreetly). It appears that there is an emergency in efficiency at her business and she has to leave. The Chadder understands and would love to see her again. It was a lot of fun. I'm sorry that I wasn't myself. Yeah, you know, long day. Yeah, I tell you. Well, great meeting you. Yeah, we should do this again. Yeah. .. .. ... ... Hug or handshake? Hug or handshake? Hug or handshake? Hug or handshake? Hug or handshake? Hug or handshake? Kiss? NO! He goes hug and she goes???You guessed it! Handshake! Yay for professional dating!

Rise Above

2008-11-22T16:27:00.000-08:00

Rise Above

Bring me your bewildered. Bring me your confused. Bring me your obtuse, your insecure, your plodding, your weak, your dismayed, your diffident, and your nervous: Bring me your humans.

Set a pot to boil on a circular stove of an 18 foot diameter, cut down deciduous trees from the darkest forests, clustered in the tremulous mountains where the vicious clouds behead the summit of ice and the sharp, glinty Sun gets eternally lost…unless one can break through the callous cumulous and forge a path of fire to shield from the ice clustered on this Mountain. Break free from these clouds and breathe again (but only for a transient moment, only for a fleeting second, this breath: your first above and your last below as the wind, the barren air blows you back from where you came, from where you climbed, from where you cut the trees which are now sitting in the cauldron, burning away untapped energy in this circular, cyclical stove from which a plank fifty feet up and jutting out from a slave ship, is hanging above the bubbling pot, and the humans with their weakness, their thoughts, their pains, their fears, their hate, their sorrow, their neediness, their lies, their cunning, their manipulation: the humans walk one after another into this cauldron of burning, screaming trees.)

The fifty foot drop provides them for one glorious moment where the thoughts exit and a new feeling, compassion, ever so briefly, enters into this empty vacuum. All the damages, all the burden, all the weakness is pushed away, is purged away and melted into a meta-skeleton of what we once were. This new man, this falling man, with none of the pressures, with none of the routines, with none of the thoughts (only the fall) only seeing the fall for what it is, embracing the fall and eschewing the past while bringing the future of burning trees into the forefront of consciousness. And what’s this, but people falling at the same time, all going to the same cauldron, the same shrieking cauldron, obstinate in its inevitability and secure in its promises, its burning promises, the trees wavering, vacillating back and forth, mouths gaped open, tongues out, falling man grabs falling woman and pulls her to him, pulls him in her, while falling, no ground, no foundation, they create it! They live it (they die it) they fall, they shriek, they dig their nails into each other and tear away the flesh, they engorge themselves on each other’s bodies before the cauldron can touch a fleck of skin, they dig burrows in their intestines and masticate their eyes while pulling away, while falling apart, falling down, toward the cauldron.

Before they hit hot water, before they completely melt away, a foundation of bliss, a ground, unshifting, is found in each other, on each other, through each other, for this last moment from the airs between slave ship and burning cauldron, a momentary connection, as they have rearranged identities and devoured desires through the fall, for the one moment, in the one moment, in the one person: THE TREES REACH INTO THE NIGHT AND DRAG YOU AWAY FROM HER, MOUTHS WET, MOUTHS DRY, THE TREES, BURNING, THE POT ENCAPSULATES YOU, FALLING MAN CAPITULATED ON BOILING ABYSS, SUBMERGED IN THE WATER. but what is left to burn? what is taken away? redigested food for the trees, for the pot, the cauldron, all skin torn away through the fall, nothing left, nothing there as you melt into the cauldron, which is where I find you again, swimming in the ancient water, which is where I grab in you again, reclamation, reunion, rejuvenation, which is where we evaporate into our senses and rise above this cauldron, rise above the shrieking trees, rise above the slave ship, rise above the cruel forests, rise above the menacing clouds, rise above the mountain, rise above the Sun, rise above the heavens, rise above falling man, rise above falling woman: RISE ABOVE.

2008-11-18T18:41:00.001-08:00

There has been a lot of discussion about intellectuals and genius's and where they (him and/or her (the and in the miniscule possibility that they might be a she-man, mutant with a dick the size of the North Pole, which really means no dick at all since the North Pole is slipping into the fucking ocean and us as a species are getting more extinct by the day and prouder of that fact by the night, as we have stood up to a terrible world and brought it to our levels, all the hurricanes unleashed, the comets dropped from the heavens to break down creatures and tear away feeling, send it hurtling back toward that little dot of energy, that original Atom before Eve, that potential, send us back from whence we came and will have ever come, this is proved moot by us bringing the battle to the Universe, here burning carbon is a war tactic, here greenhouse gases is torched earth warfare (we are Sherman and the Earth are inbred hicks!). we stand athwart the world, the universe and bring her to where are the decision makers, where we decide the power of the winds, where we push out all thoughts of primacy, all thoughts of us 'not mattering' in the scheme of things! Really? We brought you Katrina, we raped the eskimos, we purged the Earth of it's nutrients, we tore children from Mothers, we ran slave ships from coast to coast, we dropped bombs onto fertile earth, we burned whole continents! Don't tell me we don't fucking matter!))really get their intellect from. One school of thought thinks that 'thinkers' are created in a vacuum. No outside force teaches them, they just pick up that fiddle and start plucking away, or twist words around in ways that astound, or numbers into intricate webs of logic etc etc etc etc etc. They just 'are', there is no cruel master who forces the knowledge down the throats of the young with hairy forearms. They don't need it; it is innate smarts. It is the four year old prodigy with electricity emanating from their finger tips and setting off reactions in the physical world, the human world, by inspiring beauty and imparting knowledge on us normal folks!

The other school of thought can be defined in one terrible word: context. Oh, Benjamin Franklin was a genius, was he? Oh, so was Emerson and (pick your philosopher ((((except for the notable exception of Diogenes: see, the point I'm going to make after I tear out of these parenthetical walls (oh, another one I have to break through)is that all these 'thinkers' were very fortunate in their upbringing and levels of comfort which allowed them to sit at their mohogony desks, drinking port, reading poetry, the classics, biology, raping slaves etc...not many Oliver Twist's can become genius's when they are getting fucked by lecherous capitalists with spiny backs and cruel teeth; where are they going to learn periodic table, when they are bent over a table by the bourgois pigs with a taste for porking! How about the sailors, the soldiers, the cooks, the labor men, the fish mongers, the whore mongers? Where the fuck will they get the time to talk about transcending father time and shining an innerlight onto your knowledge throught excersiing the right to a liberal arts (well rounded) education. Hmmm, the point is that the lucky few seem to have a better chance of being intellectuals than the dirty many, which brings us back to Diogenes (now we will jump back to the earlier parentherical) Ah, here we are; Diogenes was a believer that all civilization (as in dressing in clothes, chewing with your mouth closed, fucking behind closed doors, shitting in private) was a crock of crap and would delight in rolling around in the mud and trying to bring civilization with him. Oh, he would have a nice wank with himself in public (dirty (literally) tug job), he would piss on the philosophers in the marketplace(literally), he would act like a dog without the creature comforts that money would afford him. This is why we cannot include this ruffian in our point which will be made when we BREAK THROUGH TO THE ORIGINAL CHAIN OF THOUGHT))) They were lucky enough to be born into circumstances where they could spend their whole gilded life pondering the deep questions, which really don't matter (what happens when you die? Is there free will? What is happiness? Are we just a bag of bones tied together by sinewy strings of spinal fluid with animalistic instincts and the illusion of an ego/soul/conscience/etc? Well, who cares? (Obviously, all of these rich, white planters who would pull the wank from behind the slave shed. They had a great capacity for writing and the long forgotten art of conversation.

("Ah, Reginald! How goes your life, good sir? How's your crop?"
"Ah, Thaddeus! a wonderful year! Ah, the crops! The Crops! They are being picked, just as I pluck maiden heads from the crop of 10 summers ago."
"Ah, Reginald! Sounds lovely. So, what is the meaning of life."
"I've had some down time as of late and have decided that the development of self-control and fortitude is the true means of overcoming destructive emotions. Moreover Virtue consists in a will which is in agreement with our true Nature."
"Fascinating. Ah, it's time for my 3 o'Clock wank with my bumper crop from fifteen years ago."
"Pluck while still ripe. Time, as we know, is fleeting."
"Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time, for that the stuff life is made of. Now where is slave girl?)

Ultimately, it seems that the true nature of genious is elusive. OR it is a combination of innate intelligence and context (context meaning: the unique mixture of economic freedom and slaves)

The Barrier Reef

2008-11-15T14:45:00.001-08:00

The Barrier Reef

He didn’t like to swim alone. It was just the only way he knew how. A certain trait isolated from the whims of his being. His ever-changing consciousness pulling him every which way, day to day until the autonomous nature of his being was called into question as a quotidian conundrum. Constant questioning, incessant brow beating, and perilous thoughts all lay bare to the bear minimalism stoked within his ribcage. Turn on the fluorescent black light and purge the fat, the pork, and the extras from the tiny orb lying within what he can’t see. Diving into the darkest of waters, moonlight shimmering on the surface, diffracted by fog rising from liquid memories, where the character is constituted, where beliefs, personality and feeling are engendered into what takes disparate urges, desperate inclinations, transient pleasure and all-encompassing necessities to create ONE. Deeper we go into the cleansing Ocean, away from anxiety, away from decorum, away from social grace, away from saving face, away from custom, away from care, soul laid bare, as the last barrier to selfhood is within grasp, deeper and deeper, yet clearer and clearer, the moon’s light still a beacon as it shines through dolorous water to find you, to show us, to comfort them, all in this, the moon’s path in the darkest, deepest section, can’t see anybody, but hear your reflection, taste the salt, excise your thoughts, betray your humanity and wipe away whatever tears might form, the water proves superfluous yet necessary as we drown when the moon is blocked by recalcitrant clouds forming overhead, angry clouds with deplorable thoughts and the means to wage war on our light, now disconnected and floating toward futility; there is no up, there is no down, it is space and you are filling it, until there is no you for the space to interact with, until the water has evaporated, as the clouds rain down stones of fire, as you sink deeper and deeper into yourself, time for one last stand, time for one last primal howling directed at the moon that was never there for you, just an illusion, time to lose yourself in your vocal cords, time to open up and reclaim time, reclaim purpose, incite a fight for what you truly believe in: yourself against the uncaring forces that have spun you out of your orbit and melted your gravitational pull until it’s meaningless, like an ant exerting force on a cannonball, like a grain of sand affecting an ocean, which is where the moon can’t find you, where the light is gone and all you have is your rapidly decaying strength, where all you have is your grasping hand, treading water beneath the very surface and sinking slowly, sinking to where nobody can find you, sinking from dreams, sinking from pleasure, basking in pain, sorrow and lonely…until you get deep enough into this whirlpool of chaos, this torpid uncaring chaos, and you see light from the darkness, not top-down, but bottom-up, no moon to provide comfort and ease pain and erase the grief, but here is where you create your own barrier reef. Find your blank canvass and project, no, create all your fantasies, destroy the world of old, the world of the benevolent moon shining down and showing you the light, banish the moon back to the arcane days of cowardice and pick up your easel (if you can still breathe, if you have the strength, if you are unanchored to this comfort) the nutrients are limited, but pick up your easel; the water is cold, but pick up your easel; there are no directions, but pick up your easel. The (re)generation of your reef, of your shield, of your solace: of you. Provide it with the careful attention, shine your light on it, let it grow, bottom-up, impose yourself in this deep, dark uncaring place; flaunt your values, banish others and grow, as you go deeper and deeper, keep growing, keep learning. As your kingdom from the bottom spreads out in this dark place, as your kingdom expands in infertile waters, as your kingdom fights on, as your kingdom takes everything you have, if your kingdom saps you primal strength, if your kingdom is unsustainable, maybe, just maybe you will run into another deep sea diver and the barrier reef will be breached; but what will replace the irreplaceable? Seeds of germination spread and two into one: The Great Coral Reef.

Reading

2008-11-12T19:14:00.001-08:00

Reading

The pages on the book were moist in a dry sort of way. This, seemingly, is a contradiction, yet the moistness still dried off over time, while leaving the remnants of wetness in this ghastly desiccation, as if it was eviscerating the molecules of liquid on the spot and turning this damp organism inside out and on itself, collapsing like a cruel world, like a cruel pyramid on brave grave robbers who just wanted a good old fashioned loot on the Pharaoh’s temple, who just wanted a nice wank on the austere, anthropoid coffin until the lid swung open and liquids could be sprayed on the book of the dead, limbs shattered off, dry but moist limbs after years in the sarcophagus, after all the liquids preserved the limbs, held it together, these raiders would break the Ancient God of men to paper, would shake the ink from the pages, would deconstruct and recombine, regenerate human tissue, break jars of Sodium Carbonate mixed with Sodium Bicarbonate, break the jars of the organs, suck the resin from the brain cavity, steal the amulets from the wizened body, anger QEBEHSENUEF by fingering intestines and pulling them through the tomb like slaves pulled blocks over logs to build the very pyramid that is collapsing on your séance, exhort yourself as you unwrap what lies beneath the bandages…

The Salesman

2008-11-12T18:38:00.000-08:00

The Salesman

The man strolled from shop to shop with one wish. A wish to please through the sell, to fulfill through himself, a tool for the shop keeps and a fool for their families that they lay to rest in beds made of gold that they spun from the straw that the man sold in bulk, wholesale, marked off, door to door and night by night he gained their trust, he gained their esteem, the virtues of the man, the straw speaks platitudes as soothing as the aforementioned beds that the shop keeps and the shop keeps’ wives were spread on, like old mayonnaise out in the sun on stale bread with apples’ worms peaking their heads from decaying cores as the world spun and man walked on, and man walked on, until the worms were as dried as the apples and the world spun and man walked on, and man walked on, door to door, night by night…

The Maple

2008-11-08T14:49:00.001-08:00

Remove the artifice and what do we see? We see untapped maple trees, the bark stripped, the leaves sheared off with sharp, rough scythes; we see the foliage burned, birds, squirrels and spiders purged from the ranks of the living; bee hives splattered on the ground, roots torn out and strewn on the ground like intestines, we see grass uprooted and downrooted, we see rings of the trunk torn out and spread onto the ground beneath, we have violence, we have silence, we have fear and it is not near an end, but a beginning, untapped potential, unseen renewal of resources, energy unleashed into the Auburn sky above and wrapped around the whole of the forest, as what happens to one happens to all and to all to one until we get to the potentiality, the meanings, the energy: The Maple.

Daggers at Dawn

2008-11-08T13:50:00.001-08:00

Daggers At Dawn

“Daggers at Dawn” was the cry of the hour if not the day. Nay Centuries struggle by with nobody brave enough to answer the call, swinging from the mountaintop, which shuddered over the village. A creature as black as midnight swamp and twice as damp screeching into the winds that circumbembulate down the mount and through the crevices of the village. The fires that burned in the hearths of man and family, they look out into that darkness, peril in their eyes and clenching of their loins. Who to take up this cry and rid the township of a monster, while creating a hero: whoever dared the trek up that circular hill, to brave wind, rain, sleet, snow, hail, as well as the unfortunate monster. Who lay, baring his teeth, daring, watching, threatening anybody who looked twice anybody with apples in their teeth and the wind at their feet who dare beat the Sun into submission and soar through the expectations of a village and into the Monster’s deepest, darkest nightmare, which started when he was a lad. A lad for all seasons, but not stopping at one in particular, but fighting through the ambrosiatic feeling that one gets from too much shelter and not enough entertainment, through too much faun and not enough fauna. Oh, the nights are long with the beast, the burden, the cry, the scream, the taunting, the lonely! This is where we find the beast yelling to the sky, beating his many arms against each other, tears welling up in his many eyes, Oh the glory of lonely! A young man, no wife, no kids, no family, no friends, no enemies, no contemporaries; just his two hands and his mane. His glorious mane! He had nothing to win, lose, tie, untie, beg, bag, O but his mane! He stroked it thoroughly as the screech “Daggers at Dawn” emanated down the barren hills and right into the man’s soul, which wasn’t there. A long walk, but a fruitful one. He took a bag, which had one instrument: a dagger upon his weary body. He stroked it when the Sun went down and the Moon partially veiled in a foggy solace to what he couldn’t come back to. To what he couldn’t come back to. This march, this death march, this life march, this melancholic call to strangers who knew not his name, never mind his mane! He dangled his cane over the edge of the precipice and tottle went his head. Who to find over on this laborious journey? Who to fling upon his sharp utensil? The beast lay in a prone position, eyes still moist, hands linked together covering his knees, rocking slowly back and forth. All his pupils made the slow trip from nothing to Man, who stood there, blankly, blinking, tongue licks dry lips…

Firedance

2008-11-08T13:46:00.001-08:00

Fire Dance
Far below the tall trees, rivers, hills and subsequent valleys lived a village unlike any that you may glimpse with your mind’s eye. Far below these prehistoric land marks lives a community in pain with desire and desirous for change. The ruler, the man with one eye, gathers all the founding families in the center of the vista. A circle of stakes protruding from the ground with the diameter of five meters. How to pick a new leader? How to gain the power of the all-seeing, all-feeling, all-knowing, all-hearing, all-judging ruler?

The family of the caves had never been invited to such an event. They hadn’t upgraded to grassy enclaves, which they thought better suited for ox, cows, deer, and all the rest of the herbiferous animals that they had grown so fond of, but still felt provincial in the strongest terms. They stuck to the winding road and strolled (maybe a poor word choice, as the family of caves, although a proud people, were not cocky as much as confident though a fine line delineates the two categories, it can be safely said that the family of caves were modest in mood, but in walking they strolled, so we must remove cockorious connotations from said word if we can paint a most accurate picture of how this family moved: indeed, we could compare them to a lion’s prowl—cautious, yet dangerous and ever-fleeting) through the village. The came upon the circle of stakes. They’d heard about this ‘game’ the village played and never asked to be included in such superstition; after all, the leader let them languish in their cave in languid peace and they never thought to provoke any sort of potential conflict in the man with one eye. One eye equals two fists, which in turn function as a mouth (or vice-versa) which stimulates the villagers to fury, not compassion; anger, not friendship and above all: status quo. Guess what family didn’t embody this status of quo, but a family of caves. This is why it was so curious that they invited to this solemnest of occasions. Content to sow the seeds in their caverns, they still made way out of the darkness, the dankness, of the somnubelent nights, and non-days, their skin, veiny and drained of all that Helios could shine upon the moles of the village.

The ruler steps forward, his left eye blazing, his right eye shaded by his miraculous hair, parted to one side, as was his lip. A half-grimace functioning as a gruesome smile. Blood on the teeth, more to come surely as the night drew on, painted the moon, which rose over the cliffs and shone into the circle, already ablazing, as the stakes were set afire. A wall of flames with but one entrance, a little corridor into the middle, it was shaped like a ghastly mouth, with the same dimensions (ratio-wise) as the littlest cave-dweller, mouth agape with wonder, as he watches the flames jet higher and higher with the swirling winds blowing in from the mount, circumambulating the fire as if demons were riding in from above and immersing the crowd into that surrounding feeling which can only be described as surveillance. Surroundance. Firedance.

The leader stood by the corridor of hell and beckoned to the little cave-dweller, mouth still open, eyes still wet, adjusting to the light of the white oval directly over their heads (he was accustomed to fire from an early age, no surprise here), he gestured to a girl from a village family around the same age as the wide-mouthed youth. With a flourish he motioned toward the doorway, through the mouth of hell itself, which grinned back to the villagers, the cavers, which winked back until fire filled the void, which sang songs of the ancient upon these families with their brave youth! The girl entered the circle of flames first and found a comfortable part in the middle. Then lied on the ground in a semi-fetal position, her legs parted, her mouth trembling, as well as all other pertinent features, her eyes closed, but suddenly open! The leader, the ruler, the king looked upon the boy, opened his fire-red eye, glared into the non-soul of the cave, mouth, bloody, talons, curled, poised, ready to attack, tear the boy’s limbs out, feed to the birds, the beasts, the villagers. Steps close to the boy, who is getting smaller and smaller with every coming step. Father steps in the way, pleads the virtues of letting a cave boy live. What were they thinking? They have their rites and the village has another set; no doubt, just as important as the cave-kin, but they don’t see the need for life; they don’t see the need for lack of light, just lack of life! The boy takes step toward the ruler. With every step the ruler gets bigger, one eye glistens, drool from his lips, legs quiver, fists clench, boy walks. Boy walks through the ruler, through the door of fire. The girl gets smaller and smaller with each passing step…

The Box

2008-11-08T13:44:00.001-08:00

The Box

The boy, no more than eight, waited his turn. The expression on his face was one of scholarly indifference –a blank screen where his desires were frozen deep into the projector. A box in his hands, cardboard, anonymous, wrapped, silent. A hush went over the children as the boy made his way to the front of the barren classroom. They gathered around the boy, still no words, but silence functioning like verbs never could, never would. The haggard, surly teacher motioned with a skeletal paw and the boy opened the box with his little hands, gingerly gaining momentum as the ribbons unfurled and the box began to take form. Murmurs escaped little lips as the anticipation grew and filled the room like an invisible fog, clouding their senses and dissipating emotions. Broken sneakers and unkempt collars were witnesses to the package underneath, as frail bodies and undeveloped minds wrapped their way around to gain a preferable vantage point. The bell rang. The children exited in a thoroughly controlled manner and left the boy with an unopened box. Broken sneakers and unkempt collars made their way out the door and into his dreams…

The Cry of the Rodents

2008-11-08T13:43:00.001-08:00

The Cry of the Rodents

The screen door opened with a whimper, a high screech filled with anticipation and not a little loneliness. The man busy at his table glimpsed at the perfect right angle and saw a stranger in his house. He knew why the stranger happened upon this city, the road, this house, but kept it to himself for the time being. A gentle motion to an empty chair was suffice for a greeting, for a pleasantry. A nod to the tea kettle, hot liquid in small cup, fingers inadvertently mingling over the pass, eye contact half-made and above all: clearing of throats. Let the mucous in and out, swallow the tea, grab at the meager bread on the table (crumbs really) before the rats get to it, their teeth glistening, their mammalian senses whirling in overdrive, their tails flickering like the fire the man was busy tending for this unexpected visitor who finally arrived after all these days, all these nights and was the wait worth it? The flames burnt tender wood, kindling saved up for weeks during this rainy season, saved for this. There will be no need for logs again. There will be no need for crumbs on the other hand, as the rats made their way through the dark and into the night, which is where they found the man. Mouth agape, eyes a blank canvas and skin the paint. The rats gaining in numbers, gaining in weight, as the man lost his. As the man lost an eye; as the man lost a foot; the rats gained a meal. The night’s tea overcome with rebellious warriors in fur coats of their own making. The cry of the rodents will be the last thing you hear, the only thing you hear…

The Leaf

2008-11-08T13:42:00.001-08:00

The Leaf

The leaves fell from an elder poplar tree just above the playground where the children gathered after school. One in particular (leaf not child) was swept away by a gust from the north, carrying it past the slides, past the monkey bars, over the children’s heads, but for just one fleeing moment it appeared as if the littlest one had a chance at it. Time stopped and the collective attention of the children merged into one eye, one view, one desire as the little one reached his hand to the sky and took a little eternity from the grasp of his outstretched palm, an empty eternity nonetheless, but enough for his taste buds to enflame the tongue and cool the throat. The leaf continued its first fall, its last fall, when a lucky gust sprang from beneath and the parabolic rise over the boy’s dreams, never to be realized, fluctuated into a flat-line, signifying stasis, emergency rooms, sterility, but life again as the parabolic inverse of the cousin carried in from the South and tore it away from was known, down it went, further and further into the descent measured in seconds, but felt with that piece of eternity firmly clenched in the small boy’s palms…

The Storm

2008-11-08T13:39:00.000-08:00

The Storm

He calmly steered the stern toward cruel storm, broken wind, flashing waves, as the mighty vessel galloped like a prize pony through dark night. His forearms steady as the wood was sturdy, as one thing remained on the sailor’s mind. This all-consuming, no-knowing thought process proved virtuous as the eye of the storm glanced back at the sailor, for it had passed leaving the boat flowing on the waves instead of sinking beneath the frigid waters, which is where the sailor’s mindset lurked. He had been at sea for seven years, and had seen storms as severe as this latest one, but his heart barely started on account of unfriendly skies, terrible forces from below, but only initiated frantic beating when thinking of his love, whisked away from his unguarded arms all those years ago. He was on the scent like a bloodhound and wouldn’t let pesky storm stand in his way or contaminate the trail. Through the seven seas he traveled, each as barren as the last. One thing remained the same: the cry of his love to the wind. Oh, how he would follow that beyond the gates of hell. They’d make their own heaven amidst the flames and conquer fallen ones, bring above crashing to below and create sweet harmony amongst chaotic forces.

When he was a pup he met her. The golden-hazed romance belonged to a time far different than the disease-ravaged ship of his. Gout, dysentery and the worst the Gods had to muster in warrior’s way to create obstacles unseen but ever felt. How he’d held her in safe arms, how he’d wiped away tender tears (or was it her wiping his?), how they learned of each other’s bodies in the dark and brought pleasure to light. When a random and terrible world was brought to its knees in the face of young love…

But this world struck back in a fashion he hadn’t known. He’d seen the forces of nihilism, he’d seen hate, but not like this. Torn from him, raped through him, shamed at him and spirited away from him. The tears of fury turned to icicles of hate as he began his search, as he began his revenge! Always a man to project his will, his desire, into an uncaring frontier; now he’d change the current, now he’d change the tide, now he’d change the spin of the earth, the pull of a compass in his never-ending quest to plant a stake into betrayed soil and leave nevermore, bring her to him or face the consequences. The tears then turned to flame…

He felt the cry of his love all over him, all through him and it pulled him, it carried him toward her. Damn the Ocean and damn his pain, her pain. The ship closed in on his goal, after all these years. The ship gained ground on a canoe tethered to a dock, the entrance to a hut, the entrance to his love. He pulled his vessel forth and dropped anchor, while clutching anger. His first step on land was a tentative one, but one full of purpose, mindless purpose but steadfast in implication. The dock swung as right foot passed left and so on. The hut stood on a frozen hill, a barren land, the Sun since banished (if only for a day) and the moon swallowed whole by callous clouds forming overhead.

As he reached inside trying to find anything that the seas hadn’t mercilessly stripped away from his very soul, his sanity, he tried to find an anchor in an unattached land. Hand touched varnished wood, the door, and pushed it open. Light met him, after seven years, light took him in, light attracted him like a light, like a beacon, signaling boats from afar and bringing in from the darkness. A love, his love, waiting, for she was the source of this bright, fluid energy that he had clung to in dark tunnels. His tears of fire extinguished and all was forgiven. All was new again. Revenge was his, as he looked deep into his raison, deep into his reason, deep into what had escaped him, deep into those eyes and he saw what he’d been running for, what he’d been sailing for, dying for. The reflection, those eyes, these mirrors, and memories, long forgotten, sprang back to that night, as the enemy was staring back at him from her muddy brown pools, who he’d been chasing to avenge, who had kept him hungry, the cruelty of the world was as bright as the light emanating from her warm body. Only to be eclipsed by the sight into her reflection, he, the moon, bringing darkness to her Sun. Lips trembled, hands tremored, as the storm continued unabated overhead. His heart finally felt fear…

The Canvass

2008-11-08T13:37:00.001-08:00

The Canvass

The boy lived on a white canvass. He tied paint brushes on his shoes and skied across his world, across his universe. On days when he was sad, he would use blue paint; on days when he was mad, he would use red paint. Sometimes the boy would feel creative. He would mix all the colors of his palette onto his brushes. When the day was over he would grin as broadly as his world, hands on hips, eyes gleaming, and would sleep well that night. Sometimes the boy wouldn’t put pain on his brushes at all. He would stay in his corner of the canvass and think of wild dreams, of painful futures, glorious pasts, while the day got dimmer and dimmer, his prospects turned bright. When it became too bright he decided to use black paint. He painted his whole world this non-color and sank into it, sank into the Universe and floated forever more. There was no more paint. There was no more canvass. There was only a boy…until there was no boy, but darkness, a void, never-ending, no stars lit up this desert of blackness.

The Play

2008-11-08T13:35:00.001-08:00

The bench was cold. Fortunate for myself, as it was the hottest October on record. How the bench was cold relative to the airborne temperature was a mystery that I was too bored to solve. Some questions are better left to fictitious detectives to solve. We don’t need to know why, as long as someone does. All I needed to know was how to fill my time—empty as space and twice as consuming. All I had was my cool bench and my warm imagination. Young couples with empty strollers carrying on like I knew they could. Sun from behind scorched clouds trying to shine on their happy days, but only half-succeeding as they walked by the bench from where I sat.

I unfurled my paper with the restraint of a priest, meaning a priest that had restraint, not many left I suppose, but the ones that don’t, the ones who don’t let lustful flesh impede on wild imagination. They would do well for my play. They would do well for our play. I scoped the park, the beautiful park which lied on a hill with a vantage point of my glittery city, people bustling with electricity, which also propelled cars throughout, everyone in their private lives, private mysteries, secrets, lies, lives, but still carrying on, during my scoping I saw two fabulous actors with so much inherent potential that only I could reach in, only I could bring it about, only I had the key to a life, their life and only I had the courage, dare I say compassion, to turn it just right and set one on the other with the flick of a wrist, the flip of a tongue, the gaze of two eyes and the touch of ragged flesh, aged flesh. They were very welcoming to my concerns. At my age you can never have enough and I played it just right, as I should, I’ve had enough practice after all.

Her name was Lily; his was Peter. Perfect. I rambled with the incoherence of a maniac; I brushed next to them clutching at them, tears rolling freely, hands tremoring, jaws shut to open again. Gentle hands to stop the shaking, as I fell—only to be caught by this picturesque young couple. My star actors! My love for them eclipsed by my very real intentions: to start the chain reaction. They soon learned of my ‘past’ which I told not with a little pain. An old man, barren fields, empty house, full heart, no compassion, only time, always time, but what to fill it as my lips trembled. My actors looked at one another, while true, this was a heart breaking story, but what do we do with it? A warm meal would tide me over, would mean ever so much to this broken down demon. What else could they do?
They lived even higher into my hill, up my hill. No signs of children; they were still young after all. They hadn’t heard about the war, until I brought it back with my second wine, my second bottle, their last bottle. Look at them try to get rid of an old man, and look at an old man feign ignorance. I wasn’t going anywhere; I had nowhere to go, as far as they were concerned. A warm bed would tide me over and dare they say no?

I spent the night in the comfort of child, brought in from the storm and tucked away with warm tidings, warm milk sucked from cold cup, and love wrapping up child in velvety arms, as the parents stand in the doorway exchanging warm glances, knowing glances. These parents were different. The glances were worried, and they had their first child sleeping like a king on a queen size bed.

Breakfast was made with a flourish. At the subtext of this grand meal were suggestions. Luck was wished upon me, but boundaries were outlined, borders defined and a child swept to an orphanage—my park on a hill overlooking the glittery, glamorous city, again parentless, but still excited. They had passed the first act and already their arc was apparent. The next act would have a twist, but would it be a comedy? A tragedy?

My brave actors never seemed to enter my park after that fine evening. I would have to move the stage accordingly. I lit my tobacco pipe while glaring into the city, the wondrous machine, the terrible efficiency of our world: the buses, the trains, the cars, the bikes, the shouts, the whispers, the murmurs. I needed an obstacle for my protagonists; I needed an antagonist or else the narrative would prove flat, and I started this exercise to solve my boredom, my time, my space. Or else it would be useless, I would be useless.

The next day I followed them to their work, which is where they must have met. I followed them through the glamorous city, smoke coming up from the streets and lingering at the eyes of the skyscrapers, which looked down to my city but up to my hill, sitting there like a beacon, sitting there to bring in lost sailors, gasping for breath and lost at sea, searching for something, anything (think a light house) to hold onto to calm their terrible hearts, to provide comfort to shaking knees, to drown out fears of Ocean rats eating out eyelids, to have to look at a fellow sailor, a fellow passenger, and know that he felt as you do, as you will once the food runs out and the water turns black with plague ridden lice! The sailors suffocating in the ocean, that is my city, glance up to see where the escape will be laid bare—my hill.

Time for the next plot point. Sprint at them as fast as my gnarled legs can, tears flowing like Thames, mouth shaking, blurbing, saliva on dry lips. To see their expressions, to see their horror, their contempt shining on my screen ever so briefly only to be eclipsed by hatred, fear, sorrow, and confusion. Always confusion, it will act as my antagonist in this tale. Come from behind and surprise from the front, sweep in from the side, come from above, don’t dare think about diving from below where they will stomp you, beat you, bruise you until there is nothing left but a furtive glance, a fearsome gesture, powerless in its beauty.

The Apprentice

2008-11-08T13:33:00.001-08:00

The woodcutter finally found an apprentice. Word had made its way around the village, to every nook, to every cranny, to every pub, ale house, whore house, residence, business eventually to the apprentice—who had no identity yet, just a boy who got in his share of trouble. The first day, as is the rule, was the hardest. The boy came fifteen minutes late and was treated to a knuckle blow above his eye for wasting the woodcutter’s precious, yet molasses, time.

All was forgiven when the apprentice showed himself valuable at swinging the axe to and fro. A might blow delivered to the trunks of trees, while the woodcutter nodded (out of apprentice’s eyesight for masters can’t compliment apprentices or they’ll have an inescapably big head, which a sharp tack will puncture ruining all the master’s work, as they try to tear down the children and rebuild them in their own image and you can’t repair a popped balloon or ego) in approval. This was turning out to be quite the protégé for the woodcutter. Dreams of an early retirement materialized out of dusky air. Kicking up his feet with an ale, while the boy brought in business with his stout back and robust chest, swiving trees down mightily like a young woodcutter.

Dreams turned to reality awfully quickly, as the woodcutter hung up his axe and brought down the bottle. The apprentice soon was doing all the cutting, while the cutter did all the drinking, all the whoring (he even brought the apprentice’s Mother to his minimalistic hut and had at her over the wood oven that the apprentice made), all the drinking while pocketing all the money. Now, the apprentice was very grateful for all the cruel (yet useful) tutelage the master gave him, but felt that he deserved some of the profits that labor brought in. He wasn’t asking for anything outlandish, a 85-15 split would have been for the apprentice.

One foul-smelling evening, the apprentice approached the woodcutter and made his business proposal. Blasphemy! An apprentice is not a partner, but a step up from a slave! Leathery and worn fist met fresh, young face, as the apprentice was treated to a beating of epic proportion. A youthful beauty tarnished and bruised over, while elder seed dripped from above on young hair.

The apprentice ran back to his shameful house smelling like the woodcutter. The monthly bath taken a week early, as he planned his terrible and wicked revenge. The hot water felt cool when anger was taken into formula and teeth were chattering in his vengeful tub. The apprentice took a back road to master’s house—through the woods he went, shadowed by benevolent moon smiling down on him, smiling down on imminent actions and the future that must result.

The hut stood on its lonely hill. Dark clouds swirling overhead, illuminated by ferocious lightning and the impending echo of terrible thunder. The apprentice travelled ever closer, his axe in his right hand swinging threateningly, just the way the woodcutter taught him. The wooden door creaked open upon soft touch. The hut was dark and the apprentice could see nothing—until lightning lit the room up and the woodcutter appeared in a chair not three feet away, scowling, eyes dark, waiting for the apprentice to say something, anything.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

The axe followed with a quick, albeit effective, retort that took off the left side of the woodcutter’s face. Now he wore a half frown—until it righted itself into a half grimace. The horrible laughing was cut short by a second swing which detached the rest of the woodcutter’s ample head.

The apprentice was now the woodcutter and would in turn need: an apprentice. Word had made its way around the village, to every nook, to every cranny, to every pub, ale house, whore house when he finally found one.

Black Licorice

2008-11-08T13:31:00.000-08:00

Black Licorice

The call came in on the landline. He was a little nervous every time the ring rose an octave higher than his cell—the landline was only for family and telemarketers; both made him equally flustered.

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

The voice from the other line was saccharine with the aftertaste of black licorice, kind of like absinthe, but even woozier; even more lucid of a feeling, like getting hit with a toy sledgehammer while wearing a real helmet.

He slammed the phone down. Tore the line out of the wall and defenestrated the phone. This action brought on a car alarm and then another and another, until the whole neighborhood awoke with indignation and fury.

The doorbell rang. This was even an octave higher than his landline, and accordingly, made him just as agitated—only family and strangers rang the doorbell; both made him equally flustered.

The door swung open as if pushed by a bellicose ghost.

WHOOOSH!

It was no ghost, however. It was far worse. The townspeople gathered round, the pitchforks gleaming in the sky, the moon illuminating the cold, nefarious edges of the cruel instruments and creating shadows of obscured light which reflected off his terrified face. Effigies burning, mouths chanting, imprecations hurled like javelins aimed at his very being.

And there was the voice again. The licentious voice that could intoxicate him with grenadine; the powerful hymn of not liberty but of libertines!

Eyes inundated him from all directions, as he realized his time had come. The orb of dolor was upon him and it was a transient effect of relief followed by fear and something bittersweet as the aftertaste, but it was not black licorice he tasted: it was familiar, familial, pain and sincere gratitude for sheparding him through to adulthood, incontinence and pride, long gone and forever lasting…

Awake

2008-11-08T13:28:00.000-08:00

Awake

The clock on the white wall started buzzing. It was time for Gerald to wake up already. He had just closed his eyes five seconds ago—at least that’s how it felt. The eyes wouldn’t quite open, the body wouldn’t quite initiate the energy for his arms to maneuver his hands to the cold sheets and press upon them with half his might to leverage his body into the air and let him start this day, this nightmare, this dream, this journey from bed to bed, from AM to PM from start to stop and over again until his days were over and the eternal night could engulf him, enslave him, put him in captivity of darkness and denial and no contribution to the arts and society, friends and family which kept him going, breathing, living all these years, all these decades, this quarter of a century, a blink in his eye, a bullet in his pistol: still, this wasn’t enough to get him out of bed and down the stairs, to set the table, put water in the coffee machine, open his cereal, eggs in the pan, take the coffee out, spread the jam, and so on. And this was just the first part of his day, the easiest part of his day. There were numbers to dissect, people to dissuade, persuade, manipulate, errands to be run, cows to be milked, cars to be driven, screeches to be deflected to less sensitive areas by the powers-that-be. Oh, and then his head would softly fall on his goosy pillow, his eyes would shut and then? And then his eyes would open and the same damn thing would happen again and again and again until…until the monotony of his life would turn into even more monotonous death…

Today would be different. Today would be a new life. A new death. Today Gerald would change the order of his decayed state of being. He strolled down the stairs, head high, spirit low and proceeded to take the egg carton out of his narcissistic fridge. He splattered the eggs all over his body. One at a time. The first one on his head—he used it like a styling gel. He combed his hair all the way back, even spiked, and then proceeded to bring it forward in the style that our Hollywood starts of the early millennium preferred (think Hartnett). The next one dripped all over his naked chest, those stringy hairs oozing with yolky brilliance. It travelled further down his nubile and precious skin until it proved entangled with his curly pubes from Australia. By this time, the third egg caught up to the second and quickened the pace of this methodical descent (think of a rainy day from your childhood, driving in the back seat of your comfortable car, a raindrop on your window moving methodically down the pane, until a quicker raindrop catches up and joins: now the super raindrop moves faster than either had; same case for this egg of ours!) a little gets caught in the foreskin of your euphemism, but the rest travels south to our saurian legs, and finally to your feet, so you make footprints gingerly around the kitchen of unborn, unprocessed food/babies.

Gerald knew that this would be the last of a new day or first of an old one. His account depleted, his dreams dashed; now all he had were nightmares. Nightmares of others are more empowering to create then your own. You know it’s a dream. Do others?

Let’s start off on your drive, shall we, Gerald? Let’s start off on your commute.
Gerald noticed a school bus whimpering up Flower Street. He followed it as inconspicuously as he could. Always half a turn behind this behemoth, always slow on the accelerator but quick on the brake. Oh, how he followed it to the Elementary School. He’d be late for work but early for play.

Mrs. Jenson loved her homeroom more than she fancied her life. Her life: drab, depressed, useless, pointless. Her homeroom: booming with potential, intelligence, like an oil field undrilled, like a maple tree untapped. Please tap, please drill! Well, she proved herself a regular Canadian woodsman with a degree in Exon with her homeroom. She put on her helmet and got at those national resources. Until one fateful morning when Gerald showed up…with a grin…and an idea…and other things that we shan’t mention in this sordid tale.

After this detour to faux-academia, Gerald decided to take a lavish lunch over at his mother’s house. This was the day to end days (or start?). His mother, his poor mother, his broken hunch-backed Dickensian whore of a mother! The trip was short, as his death would be long. Long and cold. We already mentioned dark, right?
His mother was taken care of (notice the lowercase ‘m’) and Gerald’s gourney gontinued. His work was the obvious choice to finish his excursion into murky, gray waters. It was the denouement of a terrible, blood-worthy story.
He went in and saw his second family, his third friends, his fourth lovers and came to realize something. Something silent or violent? Only Gerald knows (and maybe an astute reader).

On Gerald’s last day on this Earth of ours, on this life of ours, he learned a thing or two (perhaps three?):

1. Mrs. Jenson could tap/drill into these young minds/bodies with four thousand dollars in her back pocket, which she can invest in books, maps, pencils, pens, papers, desks, windows! She can now show these children what life is about!

2. Gerald’s Mother (notice the capitalization on Mother) can be paid back what is owed: love and compassion for years of caring, of being there for a young, unsure Gerald.

3. His workers can gain access to the greatest resource of all: undying support in a coffee bean grind of a life.

Unfortunately, none of them accepted his gifts and were quickly (and relatively painlessly) eliminated.

Gerald woke up with a start the very next morning. His eyes popped right open. Kinetic energy was circulating in his arms, as he exploded out of his bed like a spaceship to the moon. His moon.

The Quest

2008-11-08T13:25:00.000-08:00

In a very small village the boy lived. His Father was stout and important. The boy was frail and disinterested. Until the day, the terrible day, when his father was impaled by a spike of his own making in a ghastly accident which begged the question: why?

They said the boy wasn’t up to the challenge. They said the boy couldn’t do it. They said the boy was too weak, too sensitive, too inexperienced, too unprepared, too immature. Overall, the boy couldn’t do it—live up to his father.

The boy decided to create his own journey, his own quest, to show the villagers that he may not be his father, but he was a human: a human with ideas, with morals, with a code, with the code: to live his life justly and with not a little conviction.
The villages jeered at this seemingly vainglorious spaniel, this cocksure boy. They drove him out of this town—and the next for unknown reasons. When he landed, he was in a place with a different currency, a different tongue, a different creed even!

He strolled up and down the marketplace with a glint in his sea-weary eye (his other one gouged out by a maniacal townsmen).

Nobody noticed him. Nobody cared. He changed his name to Noughbuddy and nobody understood.

The boy threw an apple at the jester. Noughbuddy laughed.

The boy moved seven towns and three counties over. The air was warm and the competition was fierce, too fierce for the boy.

He struggled back over kind days and odious nights, nefarious winds and troublesome whims.

He made it back, but why? Back to where it all began. Back to where he remained.
The chorus sang a sad song. A family gave a warm, but unsure hug. A boy blindingly looked to his window and wondered what could have been.

Thanks John Barth!

2008-11-08T12:52:00.001-08:00

To Brom Bones: MY LOVE

Christopher Columbus railed on his nearest companion, Brom Bones, first mate, second lover, and third friend.

“Brom Bones, you son of a whore! Literally, you rapscallion! Ah, a storm’s about and we must keep ourselves warm. So bring your diseased blankets into the dirty room full of boards, wood, and pirate’s rum. We’re no pirates though. Our alliances lie elsewhere, nowhere, Spainwhere! Find the fire that will light my loins, Bones! Find the light that will fight my desire, the fire! Make it a warm one, with rufflely roars and whimsical chords. Fan the flames and call on high, let the Spanish Gods have their pie, sir. Oh, Brom Bones, ‘tis land ahead, go steady yet in due haste and don’t stop until we have the correct momentum, don’t stop until we can memorialate and consummate this party for our very Spanish souls. Did I mention we’re Spanish?”

Christopher Columbus finished his flogging and tore into the deck.

“Men! At least you call yourself men! Man the gaps and anchor the mast! Land I seek on a ship so meek to pray to lie to sit to dive into waters so pure the blue hatred of one’s eye washed away into the memories that sand encapsulates.”

The men did what they were told and Christopher Columbus was gratified. His lustful loins pressed into Brom Bone’s femur. Feeling moister by the second and drier by the minute, Christopher Columbus summoned to the sky with the fury of an angel and the cunning of a tradesman.

“What will meet us in these untamed lands? Who will seek us and in sooth, who will we seek? How will we find the strength to go beyond the floggy rails of our past months at sea. Me, my men and the old man (not the river, but the Ocean, fears the ages and fights the sages! Crack the whip and kneel there be nips! India we shall call this unsacred land).”

They slowly got off the ship and all fell at the same time. Sea legs were upon the crew and none the wiser. They all shared a polite, cordial laugh, eyes shining, and got up only to fall down again. The laughter this time was cruel, callous, empty, putrid, presumptuous, cunning, devoid of meaning and dependent of viciousness.

“Before our very sea-weary eyes! What do we have, but savages. Bearing their God-given goods for all of nature (and civilization) to take in. Damn their flesh, damn them, Bones, carve them up, tie them up, to the rails!”

They tied the enemies of their God onto a canoe that they fashioned from the alien trees upon the shores. In a symbolic gesture that would have made Homer blush, they pushed the canoe out into the sea, dragging the savage warriors out to the Clementine-inspired death, but not before setting the canoe afire!

“What element will do our work, Spain’s work, first? Fight water with fire and fire with water. This is the coliseum for the Gods! This is where the Romans are in present day, past day and the future combining to watch fire take savage flesh while the cool temptations of water seduce mother breath! Oh will the flames penetrate the heart of man (do they have one?) or the intellectual power of waves!”

The answer proved moot, as a hailstorm of arrows turned the light into dark, blocking out the Sun! The cries of the noble, Godless warriors eclipsed the bright shining screams of Spaniards gone amuck! Brom Bones took one to his fibula. And a brave sailor stayed by the side of his love while the storm continued.

“Brom Bones! My love, my pet, my friend! Hang on to your dear life as Father Time is shorter, but even more valuable in these dangerous times. Hang on to my eyes and watch love flow forth and blind you in these dark tides. Feel my hand press on yours and my caressing pets will prove a torturous ally of longing into your descent up into what we can only hope, what I can only hope is a gentler world! Please smell my body next to yours, inhale deeply, my one, inhale softly, my dear, as this sense of purpose of place in an unfamiliar world will provide you guidance on your way into another unfamiliar, but not (hopefully) unfamilial world. Take this kiss, take this present, take this past and wield it into your unstoppable future, Brom Bones!”

Christopher Columbus wept as the brave Brom Bones sunk into his embrace with a deathly weight. The rain of arrows stopped and a flood of noble warriors began. They took the courageous Christopher Columbus prisoner and escorted him up to the palace. A broken down teepee the size of an average Spaniards hut. He insinuated as much and was savagely beaten with a stick by a savagely warrior who threw him down savagely, beaten, bruised (in body not spirits, except for the void in his very soul that Brom Bones plugged with his formidable wish bone).

“You savages! You Godless fiends! You have torn my heart in three! One for my country; one for Brom Bones, a love that will echo through the ages; and one for me, but don’t cry for me, else I bring death upon your township, else I bring sorrow to your mothers, your fathers, your sisters, your brothers, your nieces, your nephews, and your lovers!”

Chief Powhattan had heard enough. He motioned for his second-in-command to cut Christopher’s Bone off. The sturdy steed wound up with his eye on the soon to be worthless prize and swung down with a force that would eventually bring Custer to his knees! But a young, seven-year-old beautiful princess, Pocahontas, dove onto the skeletal strumpet and the Indian stopped his downward descent into glory!

“It appears that Brom Bone’s spirit speaks again. You, my princess, my nymphet, my love! My cipher for the Bone and of the Bone, you will be mine and our nations will merge and lead as one! We will build roads, schools, museums to commemorate this joyful occasion. Aye, I must wait a good four years to sow my demon seed into this angel, but sow I will and plant and water with my desirous nectar, let it flow from the mount of forbidden pain to the valley of sorrowful forgiveness! We are one!”

With the princess’s attention diverted, Powhattan took a mighty chop at the Bone himself and all was lost…

Election Redux

2008-11-07T21:04:00.001-08:00

The Campfire

To say it was roaring would be an attack on the English language, as well as the primordial language that the fire spoke in its crackles and snaps back and forth, swaying with the invisible wind, no, the wind that the fire made visible with the flames shooting with the whims of Zeus blowing from afar. But this was well before Zeus's invention; it predated Gods. It even predates Prometheus, the maker of the fires. These are how stories float across generations to create the Gods that ensue to create the fires, our one passion, our one desire. Who does not desire the warm eminence of the hot arid breath and comfort that springs like a reverse liquid shiver into your very being. A man, his son and the original giver: the fire. All sitting, this three way conversation. Warm tones all around, stories told, marshmallows roasted and platitudes confided. The fire answers every query with: "crackle, snap," and oozes of warm blankets and hot cocoa, of an anchor on a tumultuous night at sea; the original white knight, red sight, orange blaze.

A stranger limps to the father and son. Please, have a seat. Plenty of room by the fire. Please grab a spot and let's swap stories, let's gaze into the light show, let's gaze so intensely that we see more than orange, and red and yellow, but see a rainbow (water can't have all the fun) let's make eye contact through this gentle beast and keep our voices low and intimate, as we gather close to keep the demons at bay, as the ghosts sway and live through our words that the fire will coax out, in time. And the fire knows time; the fire transcends time; the fire is time. And soon we will be too. Burning brightly, if as short as the narrowest campground, transient in our lives, but timeless in our deaths. The only thing keeping our memories, our livelihoods, in the present time of our shared loves is this time machine, this time beast, this crackling womb, this hole of death, which rips a hole through our mortality and strangely brings us closer to immortality, hear it crackle, hear it crackle, hear it whisper, feel our spines, feel our goose bumps, imagine our legends, breathe out our shared myths and let's collect a big death as a substitute for our small life. From insubstantial to immortal; from beggar to God, from poor to rich and all inbetween….crackle, pop.

Some more election musings...

2008-11-02T18:09:00.000-08:00

Hold it in, thought the brain to the mouth, hold that breath for just a little longer. The mouth acquiesced to the brain’s whims and Carter held his breath for 47 seconds longer than his competitor, Niles.

On the walk back from the contest, Carter saw an opening in the conversation, as big as a five yard hole that two 350 pound meat grinders carve for an African American running back (at the writing of this story there were no European American running backs on any team, be it college, high school, European, NFL etc, that had two 350 pound meat grinders carving holes like a young Jack the Ripper working on a fetal pig in science class (full disclosure: Jack the Ripper didn’t have science class and never practiced on fetal pigs. He preferred whores. He would seduce them with a whistle that started at a b flat and worked it’s way up the scale, this would tickle the Ivory scented throats of these robust young demons swaying back and forth on the cold streets of London. They would approach a striking young man, deep set eyes (why do killers always have peculiar eyes?) his mouth still pursed from the whistle and anticipating a kiss. Oh, they would feel anticipation to as the cleaver swung forth. Oh, the brain, the monitor of the five senses we live by! How that brain wishes it could turn off the sense of feeling. A little morbidly curious to keep the eyes open, the smell of decaying (already?) human flesh, the sound of one’s alien voice, the vision of one’s loved parts scattered across non-sterile floor (but who cares?) and the feeling! Oh, the feeling of leaving this world with a crescendo, like the operas of old, the symphonies of our past where conductors would fire cannons at the end to wake the audience from their stupor, now the mundane pleasures of whoredom were escorted out like they used to escort Johns to their non-marital bed! Oh, there were rapes, beatings, thievery and everything else you could imagine, but never a knife piercing flesh, never the primal howlings from the human animal (well, to be fair, there was some of that, but it was an act then! Here is life and it is coming to a close!

Syndechoe, Go Lucky

2008-10-28T22:48:00.000-07:00

Hello Dear Reader,

I want to compare two films I viewed recently--Syndechoe New York (SNY) and Happy Go Lucky (HGL).

I'm not going to spend anytime explaining the plot of the movies, for sake of brevity. I will just jump in with the assumption that my fictitious readers of my blog have seen the movies.

On the surface, these films have very little in common. One is a romp about an extremely jubilant personality who lifts herself and others out of the humdrum routine of life and treats every moment as one of adventure, whereas the other is about a man who wallows in self-misery and spends his life analyzing every inch of his being and his existensial suffering over mortality, loneliness, and the whole range of human emotions and cruel randomness of life.

The Universe's also seem different, as HGL is shot in a realistic way with a realistic backdrop, where SNY is as surreal as Bunuel with many elements (the house on fire, the diary etc.)

One film you leave with a smile on your face, the other you leave with a hole in your soul.

Strangely enough, I feel that the two films are of the same coin. I think they are, in fact, grounded in the same universe and are living in the same narrative. This is a cold and uncaring world with no discernible meaning. There is no abstract 'good' to help people through their daily struggles. Instead, randomness and loneliness are the true engines of this world. It is up to individual people to deal with the heart ache and the day-to-day grind of living the same monotonous routine until you die.

In HGL, the protagonist's quest is to bring happiness or laughter to everybody she meets. Sure, it's still a world where child abuse, racism and violence is lurking, but she stands up to this Universe with a smile and fights it. She fights by listening to the homeless, by being light with her friends, by making a broken down clerk smile, by being warm in a frigid, arbitrary world.

In SNY, there is still this world of cancer, loneliness, death, abuse, but here we have a protagonist that doesn't have the strength or know how to stand up to it. Smiling and laughing are not options for Hayden. Instead, he takes his pain, his lonely, his sickly health and puts it on a pedestal. He creates an identity through his loss and through the cruelty of the world around him, and still this isn't enough. He fervently analyzes his life and transfers his pain into art. The only problem is how this does not help him cope. If anything it exasperates his situation, as he has to live his painful moments over and over as his actor makes the same mistakes he just did. Is there any redemption? Not really. The speech by the priest which ends with "Fuck everybody" is as close to catharsis as we get, but there are little moments in the film where we see Hayden in quiet moments where he actually connects with somebody. These are very few, but they show glimpses of hope that life can be more than a soul tearing, quotidian routine of life. And it also examines the pain artists must go through to create something real.

The similarities are evident--both worlds are arbitrary, cold and meaningless; humans ultimately ascribe meaning to the life they are born into. This fundamental choice is what shapes the living narrative and experiences of all our individual worlds. It really is the only choice we have control over: how to act in an unkind world. Crucially, the scenes of joy in these films are ones where in understanding between people is reached and islands unite to form a continent of human warmth that is as important as it is ultimately fleeting.

politico mystico

2008-10-22T18:59:00.000-07:00

Let's take another look at that cloudy orb that you call my ball and I call my invisible third eye, but that would insinuate that you couldn't see me conjure to life my unconscious thoughts, which are actually conscious and about to be hurled at you, like Kane hurled his snow globe on his death bed (floor) before his most famous and fictional death which brought us the best movie of the 20th century, which was the only full century of cinema, even though it wasn't really full since the first narrative full length film was shot after 1900. Without further ado, let's look into my glassy ball and see what the future will look like in less than two weeks!

Here goes: the polling will tighten a little bit. How much? I'd say Obama will enter the 4th with a 3-4% lead in terms of the poll of polls. What does this mean? Well, it means that McCain will need to get out the vote and suppress the vote (Diebold and old-fashioned racism at the polls, which we would like to think are anachronistic, but are timeless--instead of gold hazed days of the poll test, we have the house test, the ID test, the "Oh, I'm sorry you're house was foreclosed, but your ID still doesn't match the registration and where you are living now, negro). It is very possible that McCain and Diebold and the crazy people have enough power to tilt the scales in 2-3 states. This is why Gore and Kerry lost: there paths to the nomination lied in 3 states. These were Penn, Ohio and Florida. Nothing else was really contested. All Diebold had to do was cheat there way through Florida in 2000 and Ohio in 2004.

Obama, due to trends in demographics, Republican unpopularity, inept McCainian campaiging, and his political brilliance (calmness) has been able to broaden the battlegrounds to include: CO, Nevada, NM, Iowa, NC, VA, WVA, as well as OH and FL. These are all tilting toward Mr. Black Guy (save WVA). We've seen how incompetently Palin (retarded) this campaign has been thus far. For them to steal 6-7 states through Dieboldian means would be brilliant. Unfortunately, there campaign is only smart in a rain man sort of way. They may be really good at one thing--scare tactics--but this Autistic intelligence is weakened in core things like strategy and coherence.

This is comparable to what my thoughts are of all the 9/11 conspiracy theorists who write about how our government may have been responsible. Really? The incompetents behind Katrina and Iraq couldn't mastermind shit. They are lacking in the coordination needed to organize that sort of terrible act, just like McCain couldn't rig an election for Trig's run for student council at his special school in 10 years.

I, like others, think that Ohio, FL and NC are not locks for Obama. That said, McCain will need to spend up many resources to win these three states, but will also need to defend MO, VA, CO, NV and pick up PA. There are too many leaks to plug up for this to work. I think a bad day for Obama will be 274 electoral votes and a good day will be 350 electoral votes. If he loses, it will be unprecedented. The only way for him to lose is if he eats Palin's baby on French television whilst praying toward Mecca.

Itinerant Walkers of the Night

2008-10-04T14:11:00.001-07:00

I had a delightful evening yesterday that I want to share with you wonderful people. I was relaxing at the Hollywood metro stop after a wonderful evening with my friend, Andrew. I was by myself, underground, and waiting for Godot (the train). Suddenly a vaguely threatening black man came and sat next to me. I immersed myself in my Dickens (a book) and listened to the man talk to himself. I remember wishing that there were more people at the stop, so somebody could hear me scream (we weren't in outer space and I'm no Sigourney Weaver). Well, my prayers were answered when two young hipsters strolled down the stairs. I gave a glance of appreciation to my saviors, but saw that they could barely see. They were goosestepping around on some sort of drug and pretending they were in the military. Hmmmm. Another crazy guy came down the stairs and started up a conversation with me. He had unfortunately fallen victim to four strokes and his birthday was on Sunday. Afterwards, he unties his strikingly brand new shoes and starts screaming “WHOO!” That’s about the time I stop answering his probing questions. For half an hour these four characters and I circumambulate around each other, furtive glances, periphery imagery and head-on scent. And the only noise comes from conversations to one’s self, which sounds like somebody is listening to a walkmen with the volume to high, but you look close and see now walkmen, just lips barely moving, while teeth remain bared. When would the train come?

The train finally came and my Camusesque crisis was averted! Or was it?? I sat in the train next to a kindly old gentleman. The smiling type, looked almost like Joe Biden come to think of it. I settled down with my book and the knowledge that my strange night was over. Well, the train lurched to a start which catalyzed a reaction in this frail old man. He stood up and looked at me and all his other fellow passengers. Then, and I swear to you, he started laughing in the most demonic and frightening way I have ever heard. It was so terribly creepy. It was out of an old horror film, his smile stretched across his flexible face as the laughter continued until....WHAM. He started punching himself whilst laughing. WHAM! Still laughing, now watch him do an impromtu pole dance as he continues to punch himself. WHAM! Suddenly, the ghost of Jerry Garcia is spirited inside this old demon:"DRIVING THIS TRAIN, HIGH ON COCAINE!!" He bellows out at the top of his lungs. More punches and more terrible, odious laughter coming from his mouth, more crazy joyless grins, more dancing, more insanity. He stood tall, vacillating from side to side with the lurches of the train, on his self-made stage as he swung toward me with his crooked, huge grin and snapped back toward a passenger to my left who feigned sleep to keep him at bay, as if she could conjure up a nightmare to defeat this real mare, who was gaining momentum in his dances, in his laughter; I wondered when the chthonic energy would dissipate and end this madness. At the next stop, I ran off my car and into another compartment away from this strange Minotaur of the train. As soon, as I step into this car, I am greeted by a wild-eyed weirdo about my shirt.

"Are you from Wisconsin?"

Oh, God! I hear that he's from Madison and am asked about my partying and banal shit. Then he inexplicably brings up the steam tunnels in Madison.

"These tunnels run from Bascom Hill all the way to the girl's dorm. You can see their bathroom from there,” He winked, “I know. You can see everything from the tunnels. You enter near the Abraham Lincoln statue and exit in the ladies dorm." A giggle ejaculated from his very core, as a shudder simultaneously rose from mine.

I gulp. I want to be off this ride to perdition. He also informs me that he was able to find a man who lived in the tunnels. The infamous 'Tunnel Bob.' That's when I stop talking to him. Luckily, he gets off in the next stop. Finally a normal ride...

...until a crazy, drugged up woman starts screaming for the doors to open and pounding to get outside the fast-moving train. Shrieks of horror emanating from her very being, as she hits the door as hard as the monster hit his face; for five minutes, I watch this scantily clad broad pounding the glass as the train went further and further into the bowels of LA. Finally, the train stops and she tears off into the night screaming as the doors fly open, pushed by their invisible master.

Luckily, this is my transfer point: Union Station. I just have to walk to the Gold Line and all we be well. I'll be home and able to get a good 6 hours of sleep for work. I find the platform strangely empty with a cold breeze whisping through and gently carrying old papers in a circular motion. I sit down on a bench and start reading my book. I notice that there is a bag of clothes on the other side of the bench and although I can’t smell it yet, I can still somehow detect its highly noisome qualities, scent unsmelled—urine and other fluids having played an atmospheric role in my journey thus far; and this soiled bag added to the mise-en-scene in my production. Piss at the Hollywood stop, piss on the train, piss at Union Station! I had heard the virtues of getting out in the city and seeing your fellow man on his quotidian routine, but here I could see no man. I could hear no voice. I could feel no touch. I could grasp no community nor sense any humanity. I could, however, smell piss. This scent wafting around in my cortex, functioning as a byproduct of the breathing, living and now dying night with only myself now for company. My book and I; me and the night, constant companions until the unsightly elements strike from above and attack from below. The feeling of fear, distaste, but never loneliness. Only while around the zombies of the night does that come into an unbalanced equation. Now, smell withstanding, I am good, I am fine, I am comfortable. Until a burly cop comes onto the platform and informs me that the last train just left and hurls me back to humans, back to the train station, back to the smell, the waste, the excrement, the drunkedness, the drugs, the incoherent babblings of the creatures in the city.

So now I'm stranded at 1 in the morning in a downtown train station. All the drunks and degenerates in LA are also here. Including a drunken drifter who looks strikingly similar to the late Patrick Schwayze (I know he's not dead; just dead to me). This man, strangely joyful, walks light as a nymph all around the sleeping room. Coos of an infant squirting out from behind his coiffed hair, as I try to sleep in the chairs, but the phrase "to sleep with one eye open" doesn't have much relevance. I felt uncomfortable with one eye open. I needed both, therefore no sleep for our lovely protagonist.

At 4 o'clock, a cold, nefarious replicant of the first cop informs me that the Gold Line is running. I, the itinerant walker of the night, am finally on my way home. I get into my car with two other misfits, both muttering to themselves, both pacing, both sweating, while I try to read. After four long stops I finally reach my friendly destination. And by friendly, I mean mildly terrifying. I had never walked back to my apartment this late (early?) and had to go through an abandoned playground to find my way back home. The road I took was winding as I glanced at the empty outdoor auditorium, which functions as the desiccated heart in this wizened body of a park. I got closer and closer to my destination, and could feel that everything would be alright. I would find my way home and this would all be some lovely story, some strange real life tale about my peripatetic wanderings. As I was thinking these thoughts, a strange color struck me from my periphery. A lonesome coyote that had wondered in from the desert was pattering across the field, right at me, fur so silver, tongue hanging out, trotting in that strange canine way where one foot out of four hits the ground, followed by another foot, and another and another until we repeat the process and create movement in a joyful yet careful way. The smile stretched on the creature's face reminded me of the Greek monster on the train, but also reminded me of a mirror. I knew that everything would be alright, as me and the coyote were just coming in from the bareness of the desert and although the night was long, it was also tender, yearning for contact of any kind, even a hand striking my face to feel numbness, at last.

The coyote was the fulcrum of my night and as we passed without exchanging words, I felt a surge of gratitude from my heart of hearts for this city I find myself so immersed in. Again, this decaying yet vibrant and mad city that is seeping through my pores after this mud bath of a night. I entered my sanctuary of a house with one ambivalent desire: to take a shower and wash the city off of me.

Debate Musings

2008-09-27T12:55:00.000-07:00

I went to the debate at the Red Lion, which is a German bar in Silver Lake. Very bizarre and fun experience. The place was packed with liberal hipsters and preboomers, but was very quiet as everybody was following the debate. As the showdown reached it's first hour, the crowd got looser, as the bar was still a bar and people started bonding over their man: Obama.

The debate itself was a very entertaining and I thought both candidates did a good job and feel that Obama won through his temperment and intelligence. His insults to McCain also came off better than his opponent's, which were mostly recycled talking points. Overall, not a game changer, but a good debate to keep Obama's move up.

The focus now goes to the bailout and the debate with Palin and Biden. The expectations are very low for Palin, so it will be a very spinny debate where what matters who contextualizes and embellishes the debate better. Judging by her interviews, she isn't up for thoughtful conversation and can't think on her feet. This very well could be a shit storm. Thursday could be decisive.

Another Day...

2008-09-25T20:56:00.000-07:00

...Another what the fuck moment in our great nation. We see, John McCain put on his fucking cape and fly off to Washington obstenisbly to save our nation by solving this financial crisis. Seems reasonable, no? I mean, the guy has us, meaning America, first and he wouldn't 'suspend' his campaign for political reasons, right? I mean this is the guy who brought us Sarah Palin for heaven sakes! He knows what we need and just how to get it.

This skipping of debates (plural on purpose as you will soon find, dear reader) is just so he can roll up his sleeves and solve the most incomprehensible and complicated financial conundrum in our history. After all, he was a POW. And even though he has no training in economics and has admitted that 'economics is not his strong point', well, who cares? He's a hero! He was shot down in a plane! Now he is going to save us by going to Washington and disrupting negotiations between congress and the Treasury. Oh wait, that isn't such a good thing, is it?

Hmmmm. He wouldn't be doing all this for nefarious means, would he? I mean it's a huge coincidence that he has proposed to make up the lost debate by pushing back Sarah Palin's debate, right? I mean, what is the plus of sequestering her away from the public/press? It's not like she just gave one of the most pathetic interviews in the history of Couric, is it? That would just be a crazy conspiracy theory!

In sooth, Palin cannot think on her feet one bit. She can read a teleprompter better than Mac Daddy, but ask her anything and she won't know how to reply unless you count her warbling in tongues about witchcraft. I've heard her interviews compared to an oral exam by a kid who crammed the night before the test. I'd equate it to a fifth grader who got lost on a field trip to Harvard and, through a series of mishaps, takes an oral exam on foreign policy. Her 'answers' (if we can categorize them as such), her intonations, her filler words illuminate her inexperience and fear of being in this strange spotlight. I could see her wanting out. Why accept this when she will be continually mocked by everyone (save her fellow parsel-tonguers).

I've also heard insidious claims that McCain actually pulled his gambit due to early news about how terrible this interview went. I'd never be one to insinuate such frivolous rumors, but still wouldn't blame the man. Watch the interview and see for yourself.

Politics of Politics!

2008-09-23T21:54:00.000-07:00

Hello dear readers (all one of you)!

Things have gone from Asperger's (high-functioning) to fucking drooling with stupidity in the last week or so. John McCain has gone from Lou Dobbs (circa 1995) to Lou Dobbs (circa 2008) in a matter of sound bites! We still have a mysterious candidate on the run from the law in the figurative (press) and literal (troopergate) way. We still have polls coming out of stupid fucking Ohioan and Pennsylvanian rednecks having reservations about Obama because he's a 'nigger.' We have Biden fucking up every syllable he enunciates for no discernible reason. We have Paulsen abdicating Bush and we have Bill Clinton plugging Palin and we have killer anaylsis from the fucking VIEW! I swear, dumbest election season ever. We have two national crises of epic proportion and we're talking about lipstick up a pig's ass being the controversy of a day. Wake me up and douse me with cocaine and hallucinogenics and breed me with eugenics! Fucking stupid election.......................................

Hellllooooooo GRE....and Good Bye!

2008-09-23T21:42:00.000-07:00

Although I'll miss you. Smoooch!

Political Junction Function

2008-09-20T23:46:00.000-07:00

This past week was a turning point in the campaign. The big issues turned from personal to economical with stunning speed. There will be no more Britney ads. There will be no more Paris ads. Now frivolous bullshit will be political suicide.

This takes away McCain's game plan, as he was hoping to run on character issues all the way until November. He had his personal story, Palin's fresh face, and Obama's perceived baggage (muslim, effete, liberal etc..) to hammer in his bold ads and carry him to victory. Unfortunately for McCain, the events on Wall Street from last week are now an impenetrable barrier to his intentions. Now, real policies and issues will have to be thrust to the center of this campaign and the old rules--his campaign manager told the press that personal narrative, instead of issues, will be the deciding factor in this election--are replaced by the reaction to the financial storm.

Here's the thing: Neither Obama or McCain have a viable plan for fixing this cluster-fuck in Wall Street. The difference is how Obama is acting cool, as opposed to McCain's bullshit populist fury. Yes, people are justifiably mad at this 850 billion dollar bailout, but they don't want their commander and chief to be spewing fire against invisible enemies: the lobbyists, the pork, the fat cats, the old boys club. That doesn't solve anything and also, McCain has been in the senate for forever. He saw this all go down and he has been an advocate for deregulation. This precipitous turn to populism just feels off, overall.

This crisis is also thrusting Palin's personality onto the backburner and her experience and intelligence (as shown from her ABC interview) into the front. This pick doesn't seem quite as exciting anymore, as much as terrifying. Her ostensible strength of energy turned out to be as inane as her foreign policy idiocy. Here's a paragraph about energy and oil. Try to figure out what the fuck she's talking about:

"Of course, it's a fungible commodity and they don't flag, you know, the molecules, where it's going and where it's not. But in the sense of the Congress today, they know that there are very, very hungry domestic markets that need that oil first. So, I believe that what Congress is going to do, also, is not to allow the export bans to such a degree that it's Americans who get stuck holding the bag without the energy source that is produced here, pumped here. It's got to flow into our domestic markets first."

What is she talking about? The more you scratch at the surface, the more you realize she's like a pretty easter egg: with runny yolk where her brain should be. McCain and his guys will have keep her sequestered until November. They also negotiated the debate to make sure that it will be a tightly controlled one with no follow-up questions or time for Biden and her to go at each other 1 on 1. If she can't go up against Biden than what will she do with Putin? With Iran? Pakistan?

Now she has effectively turned into a symbol. She galvanizes the crazy right and pisses off the left. The latest poll numbers have shown her fading with the indies, who will decide this election, so this could prove to be a terrible choice for John. But never underestimate the glorious stupidity of people in general. When 1 out of 3 democratic voters have reservations of Obama because of his race, we can't be certain about anything and Palin and McCain might still pull this stupid fucking campaign off.

My new thinking on this election/country is that if we vote for these stupid motherfuckers the same way we voted for Bush, we deserve to fucking crumble. We know all to well what the past 8 years have given us. We have seen a 3 trillion dollar wae, Katrina, torture, and now an Iraq-sized debacle in our financial markets and seen our nation tumble in every measurable way. If we are willing to hand the reins over to a senile, crazy corpse and a hockey mom then we should roll over and die. In 2000, we had no reason to believe that Bush would be a disaster. 2004 there was no reason to vote this fucker back in. In 2008, it's like the old proverb: fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me; fool me three times, poke me to make sure I'm still alive.

What a stupid fucking election...

Politics

2008-09-04T17:56:00.000-07:00

Let us do some analysis of election in terms of demographics, independents and so on.

The campaign a week ago, in a snapshot, was decisive for Obama. He had utilized the best form of defense, offense, against McCain and played to his base, independents and common sense in a rousing week that showed the Democrats unite against the GOP by bringing in many Clinton supporters (minus some fringe outliers) as well as successfully tying McCain and Bush to each other.

Snapshots are transient and McCain changed the picture by choosing Sarah Palin as V.P. This proved a peculiar and divisive choice, but did a few fundamental things:

1. Rallied and consolidated the conservative base.
2. Rallied and consolidated the liberal base after her sarcastic speech.
3. Female voters were a target, but it is not certain if this worked.
4. Regionally, does not do much, but take Alaska's 3 votes off the table. Wasn't an option anyway.
5. Doesn't do much for Michigan or Pennslyvania, might in Colorado and may hurt in Florida.

a. Michigan will see that she does not have any economy experience except for her DRILL position. No state connections, unlike Romney or Ridge, and these are the two states that McCain could change the race with. Now Ohio and Florida need to be McCain. Minnesota is also off the table unless they rally around her accent. Even though the convention is there, the polls are double digit and will require too much time and energy to flip, same goes WI and maybe even Iowa.

b. Her maverick and West Coast bit might play well on the surface, but if the drill deep into her views on abortion, censorship and foreign policy she won't seem as attractive. New Mexico won't flip, Colorado is probably 50/50 and Nevada could still go either way, but will probably be McCain.

c. Florida has an older population and a fairly big Jewish one. She has many questions about the Jews for Jesus connection, as well as possibly supporting Buchanon. This could provide a backlash and it definitely doesn't secure Florida, which Lieberman definitely would have done. Does nothing for the Hispanic population and DRILL doesn't seem to be the biggest of issues in this state.

Overall, McCain did not have a much more attractive approach to go with. Independents would have been reached by a Lieberman or Ridge, but he chose to energize the base with a candidate that legitimately excites the church crowd. Her pick will merit a look from many indies, but they will see social views that are too fringe for mainstream America, as well as age and experience issues and no foreign policy chops. McCain's age is now even more prominent, as she has a very real chance of becoming president due to his cancer history. It is yet to be seen if her experience could be a connection to Obama's and how this would help or hurt. Exciting the base will not be enough as the demographics have changed in America and now consolidating the base, while important, is less so than seeking independents. These 10-15% of swingable voters are the real deciders and if McCain and Palin can reach them it will be close election.

The Hermit

2008-08-06T15:38:00.003-07:00

The campfire roared, as the children found plenty of room to curl by the warm flames on a cool night. A crisp air bit little red noses and tickled their senses, as the excitement of the primal event shuddered at their petite feet. The leader among them implored them all to grab a seat, to let dry lips brush wet water as he had a tale to tell:

In a far away camp, not unlike this one, my loves, in a far away camp lived a hermit. He tended to his sheep with a cruel hand and kind eyes, lonely eyes. He spent his days farming and his nights weeping—so loud that the whole camp, of kids not unlike us, would shudder in their sleeps and pray they wouldn’t sleepwalk into the land of lonely, the land of the hermit, the land of the sheep. The kids made a pact that if one was to walk, the others would catch him; break his bones if they must! No blessings of companionship for the hermit, they’d rather die. At this thought, the hermit would tend to his ever-blossoming flock, his ever-shrinking thoughts of a time without lonely, with children, without pain, with love. He’d flaccidly retreat into his hut which functioned like a womb and wait for maternal hand, for paternal love to sweep him away, but the children’s laughter stung him through the night, where the air is colder, where sound travels looser and would bite him, maul him, exacerbate frozen wounds now open, still tender.

The hermit on one of these unjust nights, not unlike this one, crawled out of his bed and slithered across the floor to his moccasins. His battle shoes, his tender sheep shoes, his mourning shoes, and now his evening shoes. The shearing scythe, the mute screams of the sheep, the dried blood, the moist memories. He made his way stealthily into the camp. Not a sound, nary a whisper as he went on through the ground. He knew where the children played, he knew where the empty echoes traveled to his cottage in the night, where the caressed his infliction, where they dug nails in his stigma. The smell of a fire, not unlike this one, the sight of flames, the sound of children, evil specters all around, gathered in an embrace of what he knew not, he could not, they would not let him. The sheep knew the language of the shearing scythe and now so would the children:

As the hermit jumped athwart the fire and plunged the instrument into the leader’s heart, who had just finished his story. The screams of the children masquerading as music at a ball, a coming out party, his new birthday, their death day. The upward motion of the scythe catching moon’s reflection and hurtling the light into the blues and browns of terrified eyes, muffled screams, tender feet, shaken dreams, and mute memories plunged into darkness, plunged into tender flesh, as the sheep found a new master and the master found a cure to lonely…

My Darlings

2008-01-23T16:36:00.000-08:00

Hello My Darlings,

Plenty of room by the fire. Grab some space. I insist, I do. Now comes the death from above that was prophesied in the book of old. No, not that old. Turn your head and your expectations over this way. You've got it. Light the match, no? Ah, we finally have a roaring fire to match our desires. But soft, talk like this, see, in a sotto voice. Now you have it. Have the vibrations match the embers in quality, quantity and qualitative traits. Now close your eyes. Put your hands out. Are we comfortable? Good. Now all at the same time raise your voices with mine. There you go. Now we are one, aren't we? Come my darlings...

Bojangles Top Ten Movies

2008-01-06T22:29:00.000-08:00

This was an impossible list to make. This was, in my humble opinion, the best year of film that I've been alive for. I saw around fifty films overall and the majority were good films. There were many that were brilliant. Quite a few would have been in the top 2 most years, but due to even better films, some of these won't even make the top ten list.

This was a year of brutal endings. A year of violence and the dark side of the human psyche. A year that put a microscope up to our society in a myriad of ways, one more interesting than the next. Two films overshadowed this field and I am going back and forth on what's the better film. Today (although tomorrow may be different) I feel that the number 1 film is:

1. There Will Be Blood

This might be the most beautifully shot film that I've seen. Every single setup is perfect. Anderson has mastered the language and motion of film in an unbelievable way. I knew he had this in him, even though his previous films are very different. Daniel Day Lewis devours the movie and makes it his own. His accent and mannerisms stay with you long after the film is over. The score by Greenwood is overbearing in a 2001 (which I feel actually shares many parallels with There Will Be Blood, the first 30 minutes seem to be paying homage in some very interesting ways) sort of way, but it definitely adds to the film. Overall, this might be one of the most ambituous and unique films out there and will be talked about for years to come.

2. No Country For Old Men

This film is as ambituos as TWBB thematically, but couldn't be more different in terms of execution. Where TWBB is theatrical, bold and flamboyant, No Country is subtle, creepy and gets under your skin. Where TWBB shows us the birth of two competing impulses for America's soul, No Country shows us horrifying nihlism. This is a world where there is no meaning. Sure, there is evil incarnate in the hitman, but where is the flipside to this coin? What does his evil mean when we have no good to counter this. We only have an elderly man waxing nostologia for simpler, less primal times, while random and terrible things happen all around him. The message can be boiled down to this quote in the film.

"You Can't Stop What's Coming."

Technically the film is perfection. The Coen's make use of sound in a way not seen since Hitchcock. They use almost no music and instead push silence into the forefront of the story.

3. Sweeney Todd

Another terrifying look at human nature. The savageness of this film is quite shocking and the juxtoposition of blood, cannibalism, throat slashing and song is memorable to say the least. This is probably my favorite Tim Burton film and reminded me a lot of Sleepy Hollow--which I feel is extremely underrated. I am baffled that this film got made, but feel that film goers are lucky that it did. Not many studio films are this uncomprimising in it's bleak outlook.

4. The Assassination of Jesse James

Another staggeringly beautiful film shot by Roger Deakins. This has a leisurely pace, but an ultimately rewarding one. I'm surprised that it did so shitty at the box office, as Brad Pitt is gold as Jackson. It reminds me quite a bit of There Will Be Blood. These films together would make a hell of an interesting double feature.

5. Gone Baby Gone

I didn't really see this one coming. They always preach about how drama is all about tough choices. If this is true, then the choice that is made at the end of the movie is pure DRAMA. This is a fun film with great acting, great scenes and a fucked up 3rd act. I wish it got better box office, but I'm glad Affleck is getting props for his script and directing.

6. Michael Clayton

The script is as tight as you'll see and the acting is sublime. George Clooney has turned out to be one of the best guys working in movies. He has an eye for good scripts.

7. Into The Wild

The only life affirming movie so far. The true greatness in this movie lies in the supporting characters that Chris meets on his journey. These characters bring out a side in Chris that makes the film tragic. This film (like many on this list) has it's own pace and takes it's time. The joy of the film is in the details, the digressions, the interactions.

8. Zodiac

This film started skipping on my DVD player and I almost started to cry until it played smoothly. Watching it makes you feel as obsessive as the detective tracking the killer. Some of the scenes in this film take creepiness to a whole new level. It's a film I'll want to watch a few more times, as I don't feel I have a great grasp on it. Maybe that's the point.

9. The Living Wake

Doesn't have distrobution yet, so I got a screener of it. This film has a great time with language and doesn't take itself seriously at all. I'm not even going to try to explain it, as I'd do it terrible justice. This film feels like something that I would have written, so I can't say I really recommend it.

10. 28 Weeks Later

I've seen beginnings before, but WOW! This movie gets going in my favorite intro of the year. Zombies are my achilles heel and I found this to be a damn entertaining zombie movie.

That's the list. I feel bad about leaving off Before the Devil Knows Your Dead, Eastern Promises, Bourne Ultimatum, King of Kong, Margot at the Wedding, Once, This is England, Juno, Hot Fuzz, Diving Bell and 3:10 to Yuma, but, again, it was the best year of movies I've seen.

Bojangles Top Ten CDS!!

2007-12-30T12:31:00.000-08:00

Well friends, it has been a fine year for music. To choose the ten tops of the year seems to be an exercise in futility--but why bother then? I say we should create an exercise of fertilityand drink the drink of the Gods while compiling a list of 10 fine albums. Among the strongest in recent memory. There will be some fantastic music left off this list. This will also be the first time in Bojangles life that Animal Collective is not the number 1 CD in a year where they have an album. This is not to say that Strawberry Jam isn't brilliant. In fact, it surpassed expectations I had. I was, however, more taken with other music this year. Some would say that the old horizons have been expanded. Without further ado, I bring you my top 10:

1. Beirut. The Flying Cub Cup.

This doesn't have a weak moment in it. This prodigy made the most accessible, most impressive and most addictive album of the year. Hands down. It never slows down and has the prettiest arrangements I've ever heard. Nostologic, but also ageless.

2. Burial. Untrue.

Perfect for long drives on rainy nights, preferably while in a contemplative mood and cutting yourself. Archangel might be the best song of the year and the CD flows together seamlessly. I'm not sure what "dubstep" means, but this recluse does it well.

3. Animal Collective. Strawberry Jam.

There most satisfying CD ever, if maybe not their best. This one has no dead, ponderous moments that the other one's do. This is a different breed, it fully marries their eccentricities with their pop sensibilities in a beautiful way. 'Fireworks' is perfection, as is the CD. This CD has Aveytare dominate Panda Bear in many ways, but it fully shines when Panda Bear is let out of his cage to scream at the moon in his joyful way.

4. Panda Bear. Person Pitch.

This is what you get when the aforementioned Panda Bear is let loose. Pure bliss.

5. Frog Eyes. Tears of the Valedictorian.

I earlier talked of Burial having the best song of the year. Archangel is the first song of that CD and serves as an intro to the listening audience. "Bushels", in contrast, is the last song on this album and undoubtedly one of the strongest, strangest and most emotional things ever produced. He does wondrous things with his voice in this song and ties the whole CD together in this 9 minute long croon to youth, death, family, music and just about anything else that he can think of before smashing into an acopella climax that dizzies the mind. The song wouldn't work so well, if it wasn't for the previous songs on the cd being so strong, as well.

6. Radiohead. In Rainbows.

A purely addictive CD with some stunning songs. Just as good as the Ok Computer and Kid A if not better.

7. Sunset Rubdown. Random Spirit Lover.

One of those CDs where every song bleeds into the next for an immediate effect. Spencer Krug is one of the most experimental and best songwriters around today and he shows it here. Listening to the whole CD on one sitting makes for a fun expererience.

8. Of Montreal. Hissing Fauna, Are you the Destroyer.

Great CD, which is also anchored by a sweet song. This one is right in the middle, an 11 minute hate letter.

9. Jens Lekman. Night Falls over Kordelia.

Funniest singer around. He make Neilly giggle. Has a strange mixture of soul, Sweden, folk, humor. He funny.

10. The National. Boxer.

Solid.

Honorable mentions: Besnard Lakes. Les Saavy Five. Caribou, Dan Deacon, Deerhoof, Iron and Wine, Okkervil river, St. Vincent, Tough Alliance.

Oh No!!

2007-12-16T12:15:00.000-08:00

I forgot about Sweeney Todd!! Oh, boy....I'll never be able to make a list. Maybe I should include an honorable mention section to stretch my list...

oh No!! too many movies

2007-12-15T20:08:00.000-08:00

I just saw Juno and it might be top 10 material! Good gravy! How am I ever going to compile my top 10. And I am Legend is supposed to be good. There Will Be Blood also!! Oh brother. I won't even give Charlie Wilson's a chance. I don't want that to be good too! Oh, what's a boy to do. And there's so much music! Oh, Raspberries.

Thrills, Chills and Spills...Lance Brickland Style!!

2007-12-15T15:45:00.001-08:00

Lance Brickland doesn’t ask questions. He raises ideas about a time not so far gone. A simpler time. A land before time-- this burdensome technology. Through his pain he relates to the small man. The working man. Screwdrivers come in handy only after the time of chaos has embodied changes in gender. Lance Brickland, man of grace, man of time, travels to areas of absurdity where only he can rule the legions of microscopic alibis. Where only he can succumb to gushing aplomb that treats us all with not a little love, but a lot.
This second, in a series of 9 stories about Lance is not really a story at all. It’s a brand, it’s a question, a riddle to solve. Only Lance can solve a riddle so troublesome. How? Through asking questions, through investigating different and despondent sources, through shifting paradigms and altering world views. Only then can true knowledge rear its ugly head. Why ugly? Why anything? You can’t fix a predisposed value on an abstract entity which is time:

Lance Brickland and the Case of the Howling Mule

This story begins where the last one left off…in hell. But as we all know: “Hell is people.” Lance is no different. He is a man to and for superstition. A man that knows plenty, yet says little. Words come as spare as the change that the modernization of the Western World ushered in like a page late for the theater, but early for the movie.
Pardon that digression, but wait…here comes another. Lance had heard unsubstantiated rumors involving ‘them’. Who are ‘them’? To be grammatically correct we will now refer to ‘them’ as ‘they’. Lance didn’t have time for grammaticians. His first love labored over commas and colons too much for Lance’s taste. Lance had only to wave his wand and all was forgotten. The proctologist didn’t understand the gyst of his argument, but who really does? …

preview of review

2007-12-14T20:00:00.000-08:00

Soon the masked bojangly bastard will make top 10 lists of music and film. What will be on it. Yee Gods. After having seen more than 50 films and listening to as many albums. oooh. This will be the toughest challenge ever. CDs will come up in the 1st week of Jan and movies will come up after the bojangly bastard watches Juno, Charlie Wilson's War and There Will be Blood and maybe renting Zodiac. Oh boy! And I'll also probably download some shit from year end lists!!

The Masked Bojangly Strumpet...

2007-10-08T22:15:00.002-07:00

mehahaha. Hello my pets. Tis been too long since the time of last. Ah, the adventures I've had since we've last spoke. O the myths I've debunked, O the ladies I've deflowered. Mehahaha. Well, what better way to reimmerse ourselves in each other than a story entitled:

The Curse of the Sprinkling Geyser of Doom and Gloom: The empire of Soth--the little tailor that could! Could Die: And how he changed the 2oth Century through Ingenuity, Lust and Microscopes; But how he became a robot in the process: A Robot who loathed to love--but Stood on his Feet and Changed the World Forever: Until He died: Based on A True Story.

Ah, if robots can't influence the way we live then who can? Obviously, ourselves--mankind. The Fourth dimension. Of all the dimensions, the 4th seems to be the most mythical. This is where volume goes to die...or dine??????

The Return of the Strumpet...

2007-10-08T22:15:00.001-07:00

comes soon...

An electronic toast to an electronic wizard...

2007-07-23T23:42:00.000-07:00

Ah, Harry Potter. Now that your series has come to a conclusion (don't worry I"m not going to tell you if he dies or not...yet) I must toast your accomplishments!! YAYYY.

Ah, the days of our collective youths...

2007-07-14T13:17:00.000-07:00

...Are here and gone like the shot of an arrow of bliss and no small joy. If only we could pressure the acupuncture from within and squeeze the juice from the archetypes of our brutal and lost innocence. Where would the fun be in that? Time for a story, no?:

Captain Igor Galinsky the third had a plan. O Brad would get his comeuppance for the distasterous deed of '03. Brad could smell the whiff de diablo from miles away (when the wind is just right). Unfortunately, for our antagonist in this morbid little tale, the wind wasn't blowing, so there was no whiff to be inhaled with the nostril of justice and sensuality.

Captain Igor Galisnky the third planned it this way, as only Captains de diablo are liable to do. Ah, the grim lives of diablo workers, the work, the grit, the sweat, the pressure!!

Captain Igor Galinsky the third decided to reminince on his earlier days of glory--the men he captained, the women he loved, the children he fathered, the fish he ate.

Captain Igor Galinsky the third took a moment of bittersweet nostalogia to grieve over the portending future of fish--edible fish, that is.

Captain Igor Galinsky the third knew what we know now--seafood will be extinct in less than fifty years.

Captain Igor Galinsky the third then realized that he was 103 years old and therefore would be long dead before the demise of fish and chips.

Captain Igor Galinsky the third thought to himself:

"Captain Igor Galinsky the third, you old dog! Chips aren't going extinct."

Captain Igor Galinsky the third chuckled at his impotent mind.

Captain Igor Galinsky the third proceeded to forget about the cunning plan of sweet, sweet revenge he had concocted to abdicate Brad from his freshly made crown of pious pretension.

Captain Igor Galinsky the third celebrated with a fish and chips dinner.

Big Fish in Big Pond

2007-07-01T14:04:00.001-07:00

Yay, it's great being a big fish in a big pond. Oh, the swimming I do, Oh the gills I breathe through. It's like that great thing people say: So, you have two choices--you can be a small fish in a big pond or a big fish in a little pond, right? (Pause for dramatic effect) Wrong! At our (fill-in-blank) you'll be a big fish in a big pond!! Everyone cheers: "YAYYYYYYY."

The only problem is that if the pond's big enough it actually magically turns into an ocean. Guess what else lurks in the depths of ocean water other than big fish? Otters, Sharks, Whales and Pirates! A big fish doesn't have a chance with all these predators. Or does it?

Take the blow fish for example: the blow fish blows it's blow head all blowy and turns into a scary and blowy pumpkin type blowy blow blow. Hence, it doesn't get eaten by Long Dong Silver--the most diabolical and cunning pirate of the seven seas (and by seas I mean oceans).

Oh, how the blow fish thwarts the evil Long Dong Silver's plans, O the adventure, O the romance. Yes, you heard correctly. The great Long Dong Silver proves himself quite the lover in such situations and the tension is unbearable...such is life for the big fish in the big pond.

Another Detective's Tale of Courage and Pity

2007-06-24T13:24:00.000-07:00

Welcome, if you will, dear readers as I introduce the second installation of the world-famous Detective Lance Brickland in this scandalous mystery entitled:

Lance Brickland and the Case of the Falling Tree

O tortured babysitters souls. Cry out and find what makes life worth—O worth—living. I’m no magician, ye gods I’m no magician. Although in the 15th year of my O so dismal and distraught birth of epic and indeed atrocious proportions—Ihop size, minus the stuffed French Toast. O Devils upon the brand of safe glory and comfortable wastes of thought and taste bud. Why? O why do you tempt me with neverending stories—and coffee—to make me sing upon the cancer of the lives you bring for less than 15 dollars a date. O the blue, the white, the ambience all combining for undead tales of ribaldry and lust—O what evil babysitters lurk within eateries of all natures, stalking, legs pumping, O how the mouth works the syrup in O so many sensual and—nay, to not go on, to continue the story of the magician himself—more like the mortician. Of my very soul.

Lance Brickland, detective of detectives, a bloodhound has many enemies and Lance—O Lance—is not different. The gumshoe of our archetypal dreams, has the luxury to scheme—nay to concoct pleasantries to greet the likes of us babysitters on the street, and why not? A mind as beautiful as Lance…O, once I came upon a mind as luxurious as a Buick. Aye, the pain of my eyes upon such sumptuous brain. I fancied myself a zombie—a night walker and tore into the mind of benevolent cunning and eerie disposition. The aborigines believed to eat the grey master brought virility—and this babysitter is no different from said tribes of my own wicked imagination.

O to be a lonely babysitter. O Lance Brickland find the thing most missed in this pool of chaos and fools paradises past from the beach of contempt and the beast of pride circling in the mist of forgotten Novembers and sing the praises of the Gods of ancient lore…

Ah, a vision you say—Loki transforms himself into the golden beast of who mothered the eight-legged Sleipner. While still masquerading as a mare, he spots a young strapping Dionyssus—wine overflowing from horns of glory. Whose horns, but Pan’s—the goat, the myth, the style. O how they wander the earth looking for a sympathetic ear to express their grievances of obscurity and nihilism. Loki proved himself a tyrant and enacted “plan action,” to which Pan acted like the demonic spirit possessed yet demented and spry, but O the adventure of Loki giving them a ride as a mare. Pan on the front, Dionyssus on the back, holding on as this winged and wondrous bird of prey (really a horse) flew into the unblinking son to shake off his hooved captors. While this goes on, Odin watches with his eye in the sky whilst touching himself. O my, how goes such blasphemy in this humble babysitter’s abode.
A case worthy of Lance Brickland himself.

Sports...

2007-06-22T18:31:00.000-07:00

Hello, my pets:

Ah, sports...what makes life great, but a day of deceitful glory embodied in galavanting young bodies in conflict and desire thrusting their souls like past tales of monumental honor and curiousity. As such, who better than to write a prose for those play to win and captivate the only audience fit to behold such tasks of gallant hypnosis that can only be described as Pavlovian: O the adventure, O the passion--to be found in this narrative tale of love and contemplation entitled:

Missing an Arm is not Necessarily an Evil Trait

Little Ronnie woke up. His bright eyes took on the glories of a brand-new day. Oh, he thought with a start, it’s the big sports day. Hooray.

Ronnie was so happy he had to pinch himself to make sure he wasn’t in the land of nod. His flippers could not execute this simple act. Oh no, Ronnie thought to himself, flippers? Why, why that means I’m dreaming and it’s not morning!

The implications were immediate and severe—with no morning there is no sports to come. Ronnie knew what he had to do; he would have to battle the sandman himself, the one-armed Rick Moranis (our antagonist for this whimsical story) in a contest of wits.

He never lets me sports, thought Ronnie. I’ll have to go to his lair and slay him like the callous demon he once was.

Ronnie needed two things—a weapon and a companion—to make this a journey fit for a hero. Ronnie was deep in thought: a sling shot is too biblical, a gun is too predictable and I’ve never allowed knives in dream world. What’s a young boy to do? A boy with dreams, yes aspirations, hopes. O cruel one-armed Rick Moranis, why do you torture me with portending futures of no sports. Have you no soul?

That’s when it hit Ronnie—he would need a soul defibulator to battle this menace of the eighties. And who would help young Ronnie with the application of said defibulator, why Doogie Howzer—He’d do just fine.

Ronnie made all the right arrangements and filled up all the right paperwork. The notary tried not to laugh when Ronnie couldn’t sign the defibulator rental form with his flippers. Oh, what young boys do for sports. Doogie, alas, wasn’t available. He was much sought for in the land of dreams and used Ronnie’s offer for leverage to sign a multiyear contract to obscurity and comfort.

A call was made to Paul Reubens. Luckily, he was free. The journey began slowly but surely. Ronnie and Paul Reubens struggled to connect at first, but the possibility of a land without sports proved to be something of an aphrodisiac and magically the tension was lifted. Oh no, though Ronnie, I’ll need to change my underwear for sports in my waking life.

Paul Reubens looked deep into Ronnie’s eyes and said, “How is this dreaming life different than our waking life, youngster? Are our senses not aflame with passions in both? Are they not, but two eternal sides of the same equation?”

Ronnie noticed that Paul Reubens only had one arm. “You, oh no, you aren’t Paul Reubens at all. Nooo.”

Evil one-armed Rick Moranis cackled gleefully, “I’ve now captured your soul and sports will disappear…forever.”

Ronnie woke up, changed his underwear and played sports. One-armed Rick Moranis wasn’t invited.

A marrow-sucking tale for all you hipsters....

2007-06-17T22:06:00.000-07:00

Ah, I now begin my weekly cycle of short spooooky stories, lucky readers. Mehahahahaha. This one's entitled:
All Abdicate Eventually

Hosfad was mad. At least he thought he was furious. How could he know? Was this tied to a chemical disparity in his brain? Is fury more chemicals in the left than right hemisphere? Where does “Hosfad” come in to decide this? All he knows is what he thinks; therefore he has to grasp on to the idea that he is an autonomous individual in a world rocked by subjectivity and monstrosity. If his independence is now being undercut by chemical levels how can he act?

This is all he had. His subjectivity was an anchor in the otherwise restless seas of chaos and confusion. Now even Confucius can’t temper what lies beneath, if what lies beneath is a Dopamine deficiency in quadrant four.

Nobody can save him from terrorists if they suffer from the impulse of sexual frustration which attacks the frontal lobe with the velocity of a meteor. If all that separates Hosfad from eating his companion’s heart with a spoon is the regulated activity from the limbic system to the cerebrum, then how can he be sure he even exists as more than a slave to structure? If the desire for freedom is tied to the chain of dependence through chemicals than what can Hosfad do—or say—to contextualize the horror of day to day routine.

There is no context, we are slaves. Not only that, but there is no “we” for us to be slaves. We are worse than slaves in that we’ll have no dreams of freedom as the dreams are electric pulses connected by synaptic fluid, from which Frankenstein’s invisible hand can tamper with and force bestiality upon cats and infants from Malaysia.

What Hosfad needs is a way to break free from his brain. If the idea of Hosfad only exists from the byproducts of chemicals than what does he have to break free from? What logic is there in escaping from yourself, if you have no self to break free from? If logic is to be found then we must break the mind from the brain at all costs; a mind to act independent from the brain and one that won’t act in the interest to the brain, but instead to inflict irreparable harm to the grey master (matter). Only then can Hosfad feel what it means to be a soldier. Conquer the chemicals and he captures the concise nature of holistic being.

Hosfad grabbed the hot pants. He didn’t ask why. Wars, historically, don’t make sense; why should this one be any different? He sprinkled some glue in the crotch area. He strapped the hot pants on his head, so his nose was inhaling the liberating flow of glue directly into ancillary market of his mind. That’s right, mind! He now knew the autonomy of the Nation State from the essence of his soul. Hosfad was born anew. No, Hosfad was born for the first time.

He appointed a cabinet. A bicameral system. The opinion was unanimous; Hosfad would be dictator for life. Nobody could stand in his way. The brain provides the tools. Hosfad provides the fist. He would need to be merciless to the rogue impulses fluctuating like cruel waves. He would use violence to ensure peace. He climbed the mountain of precious piety and found himself a lover indeed. The love of one’s spleen can only have adventurous outcomes and this marriage was no different.

Foreign policy proved difficult, but precious. Sometimes the hardest decisions prove to be the most fruitful. Every cancerous canker sore was meant with contempt. Then the alliteration bug was crushed with devious deviations of a…..Well, in any case after that was obliterated, Hosfad could settle down and work on domestic policies. He enacted resolutions, made trade agreements, had State dinners, but never got drunk on wine or power. The system of checks and balances proved to be a winning combination.

A combination to the heart, but the spleen understood that a mind as powerful as Hosfad could not be happy with but one lover. The heart proved seductive, enamored with the victory over the sadistic brain. The brain proved useless in the counterattack, as Hosfad slit the throats of all the men and forced the women and children into slavery. After the brain’s last struggle, Hosfad could finally retire in the hard fought peace he so richly deserved.

He lived a long life and was remembered as a fair and just king. He built schools, churches, paved roads. He taxed, but not too much. He kept his citizens out of the dangers of war and had the Wisdom of Solomon. He never cut babies in half unless the situation was dire. He even let women vote. When Hosfad died, the schools, churches, roads and even the women died with him. All white blood cells mourned. All red blood cells bled. All kidneys let loose uric fluid. All tear ducts emptied. Half babies found their partners and all joined hands until darkness—sweet darkness—swept over Hosfad and carried them all into oblivion.

An Ode to Tim Prosser

2007-06-14T16:49:00.000-07:00

At least all you lost was your ball in this neverending struggle for dignity and fortitude. I emerged from the doldrums no less a man than a sheep in wolves wool. O the tragic nature of my life; O the everlasting days of yesteryear; O the poetry lurches from my grimace like a constipated snake late for the wedding, but early for the funeral. Lamentations upon lamentations seek sanctuary and why should I be any different. Well the proverbial city remains the beast of the east (west) in o so many ways (myriads even) ah, a diaspora from my flesh oozes across the continental--nay, the worldly--like o so many balls of menace, throbbing, hipster's court, no don't find the ball of lost years like seas that stretch upon the days of our youth and drop in a pre-columbus state of mind down, down it goes, follow it you shall perish, but leave behind memories that will last until the next drop off down into surt's sword of flames!!

So, firstly some 'thank yous' are in order, but where to even start a ledger, which will open it's gaping mouthgina to resurrect the spirit of days and nights (O the nights, breathe upon me the delectable taste of desire, O desire let me sing on to thee with thine bosom of gold and savagery. O how I've felt upon my lip of lips the true, bold, and beautiful blossom upon my childhood. Sting me, nay bring me your followers like I talk shop upon thee wounds of eventual triumph and cry upon the souls of what's lost: my dignity.

Solace to be found in our worldly ways are not necessarily a new idea, but a true ideal shines through any smog to be found in this city of fallen idols--Billy Crystal? Bob Balaban? And through the smog permeates a light that can only be described as Prosserian, yes we all shall join hands in this fog of our brilliant end until nobody, but the king of rainmakers--or the son--the earthshaker himself and his illegitmate son who he almost aborted with the thrust of his hips--the cyclops himself--the father--Poseidon bring Tim glory and safety in this, his last days of nubile youth and wash it down with nectar--drink of the Gods!!!!

A short narrative tale of deceit!

2007-05-13T12:47:00.000-07:00

Hello, my faithful audience of two. Has the masked Bojangely Bastard have a tale for you. Get ready for spills, thrills and chills in this first Lance Brickland tale of deception and greed. The mystery, the passion, the action. All this and more in:

Lance Brickland and the Case of the Missing Vowel

The night was black. Black like the great fog of 1827, which shut down the city of Hansbourough like a diseased frog sucking on his own seven legs of pain and glory. Luckily, 2007 is not 1827, so the lights sprang on like they used to—or in this case, didn’t use to. Electricity is a relatively modern invention, Lance Brickland is not. O the crimes he’s solved; o the ladies he’s wooed; o superstition he’s debunked.

Lance Brickland is to detecting what FDR (the real Truman in my opinion) is to Japan. A bomb dropping, lovemaking machine. Lance is a neo-Napoleanatic pistol with one key difference—he’s as tall as water is deep. Of course, I refer to ocean water…and not shallow ocean water. O how I detest that word: shallow. It brings back memories of the crime of the century. Shallow Throat, where have you gone to play now that father J.T has gone astray.

J.T is the Governor of this story I will unweave with the skill of a magician. A magician with not a little pain—what is pain if not knowledge; reality if one wants to go the way of many before. Reality has never been my strong point; is that why I’m a babysitter? Ah, so be it, but story must go on.

First let me introduce myself. My friends call me Greg and my enemies…also call me Greg. You can call me: NARRATOR. I won’t disappoint either. I will spin a dreamlike tale of pure (fool’s?) gold, which will dispel myths of past, present and future tense. You will experience a sense of the real that can only be described as Draconian (and not because it sucks). O how my pain springs up in my bowel of bowels, rising to meet the day with a grimace fixed on its demonic and tortured gaze with the obedience of a layman’s ghost.

Ghosts you say? For here is where this tale begins: a ghost’s wail, reminiscent of a porter’s call for chicken and rye…

I (a simple baby sitter)—is there any other kind?—no, no there isn’t. Blast, the prose must begin with the momentum of a drunkard’s howl and the bass of a…a…bass guitar. Picture this, faithful reader: Knock, knock, knock.

As is the custom in this foreboding and cruel planet, I knocked on the door of misery and miserly pain. O who should open it, but Rob: forty, suave, charming, pant less? No. O God no. I’m just keeping my little readers on their toes, am I not? Would I lie to you? Nay, nay, O God nay! Where would the lies stop, but where the last began. One lie leads to an avalanche…and that’s where I begin my story:

Rob opened the malicious door. He looked at me. O those cruel amphibious eyes. Why did he look at me? He opened his devilish mouth:

“Greg, I presume.”

O what to say to this cruel inquisition, my skin swallowed my throat and my mind raced with the fury of Thor’s still flaccid hammer. Words! They do nothing…I must find a way to… no! O muse of my soul let me stand up to this man of demonic stature. O Wormwood, I feel your PAIN! O Pain, let me sing thy virtues—without you, O woes be upon my head. Pain! Pain!

“Pain.”

“Pardon.”

“Oh, excuse me. Yes, I am Greg. And you must be…”

How could I forget? This black day has enraptured my very soul. O why must my brain be as vacant as room 1101, where my adulthood truly began. (Did it begin)? How do I know where I start and fiction (O fiction!) takes over. Someday soon I will rescind responsibility. But first…

“The name’s Rob. Please, come in.”

Such simple words. ‘Come in.’ But what do they really mean? O daggers on my enemy’s soul. Why tempt me with such impurities? If only, I hadn’t lapsed on my student loans. O dark dragon of the sea, you will get you heart of gold, but it will be a gold mined by the chef of Istanbul, nay Constantinople. Aye, my Gods will, nay yet again. I’ll take you to Greece. Mighty Poseidon! The Earthshaker! No, Zeus—all praise Zeus—the wielder of thunderbolts and lightning. He will retort with a well-placed…O Zeus, speak for me. Words! Words!! Words!!!

“Sounds good.”

I made my way through this fortress of impending doom. But first, I gazed (in the purest of sense, sight has a place unique and callous to those who wish harm upon it). What did I see? Carpet, chairs (O woeful day) and couches? The kitchen had a golden glow of mischief and mistaking identity. What would Lance Brickland say?

O Lance Brickland let me sing the virtues of your golden mane. Let me extol the pieties of lost pirates and landlords upon the Aegean Sea. Only Lance can solve a crime so dastardly—O so dangerously—then the way I stumbled upon that day, O so long ago (five days ago).

Rob opened the mouth of a snake, nay a python. His tongue flickered like a dirty candle of lost souls. Where’s mine? O down the shaft of precious purity. O gone away!

Where does this babysitter go when he dies? Eternal fire? Ye God, sir, Zeus will save me before my skin boils. Odin will gallop and thrust me upon Sleipner’s mighty back. O please, Odin with your mighty mark of Justice, save me from what lurks beneath Rob’s cool demeanor.

“Can I offer you a drink?”

Aye, the world’s oldest death trap. Poison. O why poison. The fifth worst way to die, to not speak, see, hear, and smell or—the fleshiest sense of all—feel. To touch warm flesh; to laugh; to play. O Shallow Throat, speak to me—from beyond the grave—gently. Comfort me; somebody must. Tell me—O order me—everything is going to be OK. Aye, if only Lance Brickland could solve the mystery of eternal light, nay eternal life. O Shallow Throat, take me with you, we shall ride the Valkries into the land of silk and ink and make our presence felt.

The four worst ways to die: 1. to be impaled. O no, please, mighty Heimdall! Blow your horn of passion and precedent; send me to the land of egg-nog. Aye, the land of mead (just don’t poison it). Vlad the Impaler! Don’t penetrate this heart with sordid stories of ribaldry! O!

2. O Clementine, don’t drown me! Nay, this babysitter wants anything, anything in this grey and bleak world of Dragon’s blood and ovalic—is that a word, O let this be a word—fluid then to be drowned. It’s even worse than being run through and impaled through thy rectum! O no! That would mean drowning is now the first on this unholiest of lists.

I must, I can’t, I must, I can’t, I will revise the list. Now:

The first is: O Clemintine, don’t drown me! Nay, this babysitter wants anything, anything in this grey and bleak world of Dragon’s blood and ovalic—is that a word, O let this be a word—fluid then to be drowned. It’s even worse than being run through and impaled through thy rectum! O no! That would mean drowning is now the first on this unholiest of lists.

2. To be impaled. O no, please, mighty Heimdall! Blow your horn of passion and precedent; send me to the land of egg nog. Aye, the land of mead (just don’t poison it). Vlad the Impaler! Don’t penetrate this heart with sordid stories of ribaldry! O!

What—O what!—can possibly be the third way. A gunshot? Nay! A knife wound! ‘Zounds! How can this humble babysitter speak such blasphemy! O Odysseus, you of fame and glory. Aye, you know as well as this noble squire, that the bite of a Cyclops’s tooth—O the pain, O the glory—can not be matched (but by the two aforementioned cases) by anything in (or out of this world). Fame to be had and the Earthshaker’s illegitimate son to encase thee in said glory. O but the pain! Pain! Aye, the humane experience with its flowing pain! Black pain! Red pain!

O the fourth, no, I can’t—I mustn’t—somebody stop me. Please, end my misery! O the fourth way: to fall off a bike and hit a truck. O the embarrassment! Bring me the yellow, decomposing tooth of the one-eyed monster any putrid day of the week. O God of God’s; King of King’s, what say you? Evil architect of buses and bikes (Wright Brothers?) No, no they invented the plane! O Icarus, come down from the heights! You’re flying too close—O no—too close to the sun. Aye burning! Nay falling from the sky like Lucifer! And like your namesake, the betrayal of Loki himself!

I looked into the cavernous eyes of Rob:

“Keep thy poison to yourself.”

“Pardon?”

“Oh, excuse me. A drink would be fine.”

“What can I get for you?”

What evil spirits lurk within inane questions of generations passed? What devil has got to him and his impious ways?

O Shallow Throat, give me the strength! O mighty Thor, join this noble battle of civilizations! The Hellenistic age was fought through battles of wits—this will be no different!

“Die, fallen one. The blood of the Diablo runs through the streets of deviations!”

“What the hell are—Owe, stop biting me! Ah, no!”

A case worthy of Lance Brickland himself.

TOP 10 MOVIE JUDGED BY A PRETENSIOUS ASS CLOWN!!!!

2007-01-18T12:03:00.000-08:00

Hello, whores and bores. Time for my much anticipated top 10 of 2006 in the field of visual and culinary arts. First let the Bojangley Bastard preface it by laying out movies that would have had a chance if our masked menace had more money and would have taken time to see them. "Little Children" "Notes on a Scandal" and Clint Eastwood stuff all were unfortunately not seen at time of the great blogathon of '07. Here is what I did see.

1.2.3 That's right, we have a three way tie for first. Any other year, any one of these movies would drink the menstrual blood of any movie in the field, but this year was special.

Children of Men/Pan's Labrinthe/United 93

These movies work alone and with each other. Yes, they are movies with messages, but no they don't hit you over the head like a rabid sledgehammer, drunk off the sweet aphrodesiac which is self-importance. In a perfect world, I'd watch Pan then United and then Children of Men in that order to get how these movies are connected. Unfortunatedly, we don't live in a perfect world as these films will attest to.

4. The Departed. Any other year, this would be number 1. It's also entertaining as hell. Not quite as intense as the three above it.

5. Thank You For Smoking. Do I dare put a comedy this high on the list? I just did. Shut up. That was a rhetorical question you cretin. Does it look like I care? That was also rhetorical. Define rhetorical if you're so smart, Bojangles. (Awkward Silence). 'nuff said.

6. The Science of Sleep. Almost would have been my favorite, but parts of it almost dropped it off this distinguished list. So I compromised and put it 6. EXCUUUUSE ME. Most original movie you'll see. Visuals are amazing.

7. History Boys. An enjoyable romp indeed. Warning: Some might find it rather boring, but this student of film (jackass) found it thoroughly amusing (huge jackass...I apologize for the writer)

8. Volver. You can't spell top ten without Pedro. (You can).

9. The Proposition. Leave it to a schmuck to pick an obsure Australian Western, with more blood to feed the population of Translyvania, as the number 9 pick. What a douche!!

10. Descent. Substitute the words "obscure Australian Western" with "Obscure British blood fuckathon" and number "9" with "10".

Well, you there you have it. I'm sure I left some Eastwoodian films off the list that my loyal audience of 1 will tell me about, but I'm done. I'd make an honorable mention section, but nobody really reads that. Honorable mentions are the first losers. Except for second place I guess. Or 4th place in this list, because I'm a tard and I had a three way tie instead of actually making a decision. The Masked Bojangley Bastard Strikes again!!! mehahahaha

GARRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1

2006-05-29T15:53:00.000-07:00

aight foos, first markus and my fine ass went to munich, then milan then we were like "yo, let's go to sestri levanti, then we saw a bike race, then we chilled out, then markus went to america, then i stayed in europe, then i went on a ferry to greece, then i travelled with canadian twins, then we went island hopping, then debauchery of a drunken nature, then i'm no in athens, then i met irish guys, then we had some drinks, then i'm going on an early train ride in a few hours, then i'm meeting erin in rome, then erin and i and vincenzo are going to sicily, then i'm going to berlin, then i left out the most ridiculous stories known to (wo)man ever told )involving stray dogs and weird albanians, but then i'll tell y'all later, then i hope you enjoyed this brilliant sentence, then rest your eyes, you earned it.

the ultimate insult!!!

2006-04-23T04:20:00.000-07:00

Alright, so our favorite bojangley strumpet is setting the dance floor on fire, doing his thing and whatnot, when i bump into a 350 pound gorilla who is dressed like ali fucking g. A gorilla with two friends from the streets of prague!! And as we know, prague is quite dangerous. You know, every day I survive is prague, well, i consider it a successful day. So imagine my fear when I bumped into 3 gangsters from prague, including one who if he wasn't pregnant does a hell of a job pretending. If I seem petty for making fun of how fat this waste of life is, well, I guess i'm petty. So I bump into jabba the hut and i say "prosim". Which (in hindsight) I wish meant "fuck off, tubby", but unfortunately means "excuse me". So this gangster from the whitest city in the world, who has never seen a black person, but still can relate through fashion and nelly (not furtado) slaps me in the face!! A grown man slapping bojangles in the face. What more, a 350 pound grown man slapping bojangles in the face!!! O woeful day!!! This called for measures ever so drastic!! Who slaps!! That's worse than throwing a fucking shoe!! I needed to represent mn to the fullest. I can be gangster to. I also can relate!! I'm from the streets of Eagan, son!! I go to Madison. It's only 97% white. Much better than prague. I also blast nelly from my Honda. Drawing from my vast gangster experience and superior intellect I got my revenge the only way a thug from mn knows how. To beat such a streetwise prague fatty I had to beat him at his own game. No, I had to one up him, I had to raise the stakes while displaying a debonoir wit that this gangster had only seen while watching "yo, mtv raps"! I had to show him what a coldblooded gangster i was compared to his wankster. Seeing how if I ate Joe Pesci the fat guy would still have 100 pounds on me, I decided that my best ammunition would be words and the best weapon would be the wondrous entity that is my mouth. Wielded correctly it can be devestating!! Even to a true Prague gangster. I loaded my weapon, I cocked it and I pulled the trigger!! "Well, like, at least, you know, like, I'm not, you know, fat. Right, I mean, like you're fat. Fat ass." My words struck the mark true. A young Cassuius Clay would have blushed at such bold words. An old Terrell Owens would cry at this barrage of dialogue! Bojangley wins again!! Victory was sweet and swift. That is until I got slapped again!!!!!

plans

2006-04-23T04:18:00.000-07:00

munich, milan, bike race, rest of italy, ferry, greece, back rome, plane, berlin, then home. may 18-june 14

hmmm

2006-04-04T05:51:00.000-07:00

It has been way too long since my last scandalous update. But worry not, my faithful audience of two. Times are a changing in this seemingly stable blogger's universe we find ourselves so enwrapped in. As we know all too well, things have the unfortunate habit of falling..well...i guess of falling apart. And since that slippery bitch of time is anything but a constant, it takes more than just words to get by in this life of ours. I guess I'm trying to say "more than words is all I have to give to make it real." Now, this may sound like a ripoff of a popular song from the 80's by a hair band of sorts, but for me it means a great deal more. Think of it as a..hmmm..a..how do you say...a metaphor!! A metaphor that has some sort of meaning!! Do you follow, dear readers?? In a way, this world is a stage and we are the actors!! Again, this may seem like I'm borrowing something from a certain Bill Shakes, but I can because it's a metaphor!! You can do anything you want if it's metaphorical!! You could blackmail Bob Saget if it's symbolic!! You could have an affair with Tom Delay if it's ironic!! Is this making sense?? So to justify anything in this world of many, just remind your accusers that you are reflecting art through the prism of life and therefore can justify defecating on Patrick Schwayze for aesthetic effects. And remember I'm using this blog post as a metaphor and the symbology of my syntax for the sake of art. mehahahahahahahahahahahaha

A Special Message From The Editor

2006-03-15T03:39:00.000-08:00

You know, sometimes in this kill or be killed world of blogging, the simple things in life are forgotten. It's been said by people far richer than myself that do get a little you have to give a little. And all syphylis jokes aside, I haven't been giving to my fullest potential. So now I offer you, dear reader, a gift of sorts. Consider it a present bestowed upon you by a humble servant of the allmighty blog. An early flag day stocking stuffer, if you will. Will you? I don't care!! I'm going to do it anyway. Sometimes giving presents is all we have....and i'm the kind of guy who (all pretenses aside) will give the present of the past and future combined!!! Some call me a hero, but I'm just a guy doing what I have to do to get by. The word "brilliant" gets thrown around a lot nowadays and I hate to perpetuate that downward cycle, but perpetuate I must! You see, my present is actually a "brilliant" phrase that has gotten me through these times of cowardice and confusion. A phrase that milks me like the indians milk their sacred cows. A phrase that looks deep into the abyss of my tormented soul and sweetly sucks out the sticky marrow from within. A phrase which beckons to the forests of yesteryear and doesn't ever say why. And now I shall share the phrase with the likes of you!! A phrase that will make you a true citizen of the universe! A phrase which would make zach braff gleefully yell into a cliff with simon and garfunkel by his side! mehahaha!! I have you just where I want you, dear reader!! mehahahaha.
And here reads the phrase...."man, you gotta take this life, man, and like, live it, man, you can't like look back, hells no, man, you know, man, we are all the same, we're no different, man, you know, america, man, it's like the new rome, man, and, man, rome totally, like, whoa, man rome totally collasped, whoa daddyio. man, you know, we gotta all get together, and organize, whoa. yeah daddy, whoa yeah. we must defeat the propoganda machine, whoa, i know about life, cuz i have a degree in college, whoa, yeah, bring it down!!" Well, dear reader, i hope my gift was enlightening and your mind is all the more expanded for having read it!! mehahaha

untitled

2006-03-09T00:24:00.000-08:00

ah, being a young man-about-town in the city of lost dreams pays for itself in this dog-eat-dog world of yesteryear we find ourselves deliciously entangled in (if you know what i mean). Sometimes you eat the bar and sometimes the bar of proverbialness...well, it eats you. mehahahaha. The start and end to this story of betrayal and lust takes place in a bar of absinthe and deceit. The night was young and so was I!! mehahahahaha. When lo and behold it came crashing to an end faster than keith richard's nose vacuuming down vast quantities of whatever struck his fancy during said time. Well, it's been real, but it's time for a speech in the old class of mine. I hate speeches. RARR!!!

Diary of an ex-pat

2006-02-27T01:41:00.000-08:00

Being an EXPAT is hard work!! You know what's tough??? Begin an EX-PAT!!! I'm so hardcore! Why am I hardcore?? Because I'm an EX-PAT!! I even have an EX-PAT beard!! And I talk about George W. in EXPAT cafe's. And I wear a beret!! And I talk about life and philosophy. Did I mention my...EXPAT beard!!!!! Wow, I can't believe how great it is to be an EXPAT!!! Why am I an EXPAT you ask??? Because, man, like, you know, george w. is a satan, man and , you know, like sometimes man, you gotta like, you know, just take this life, man, and you know, you gotta live...to the XTREME!!! More like the EXPATSTREME!!! Yeah, cuz we, man, are like, you know, like nazis in america, man, like, seriously, whoa, man, we gotta fight the power, man, yeah, dude, like bush is a hitler, whoa, man, whoa daddy, yeah, surf the wave of life, man, become an EXPAT!!! mehahahahaha

Austrians talk funny!!!

2006-02-21T05:14:00.000-08:00

Zey are zo funny at talking, ya? They seriously sound like those fellas from snl. good lord. But I love them anyway!!! Amsteramians also talk funny!! One bartender was like "OOh, funboy!! Your hands..zey are so small and cute, ya? can i touch zem ya?? Ya, zey are like ladies hands, ya?? Ya??" Czechs speak beautifully though!! Wow!!! Not in english, but in there native tongue!! DAMN!! I like czechs!! Austrians were nicer and amsterdams were more flamboyant, but czechs are cool dudes and duderettes!! Dublin is all charming and shit!!!! Shit!!!! mehahahaha. If I was a leprechaun I would totally get make love to all of them!!! o woeful day!!! I like watching hockey now!! the olympics are better at hockey than hockey that isn't the olympics!!!! well, it's been real.....

mehahahaha

2006-02-06T02:03:00.000-08:00

and now the vengeance of my pen of virtue runs rampant like syphylis in a bordello of ill repute. prague has been like a surrogate lady of the night to me in the best of ways, yet I still find reason to bitch. Although I've been told that I drop of the proverbial "gaydar", lo and behold a man of musky odor and cocky stride got a little too "cock(y)" with a certain bojangly strumpet. The night was young and so was I when to my heart's dismay a young drunken fool of British (aren't they always) persuasion tried to persuade (mehaha) this young protagonist that he was going to take me "there". neilly boo replied "where". This bold brit answered "You don't know man, you can't comprehend, man. I"ll take you there" Then he proceeded to grope me with the rough british touch, so prevalent in her majesty's land of deceit. Then it struck me!! This bloke had the dirtiest of intentions. O woeful day!!! Well, when god closes a door he leaves a window open and i jumped through that motherfucker like a young o.j simpson jumping over his hurdle while running from the police in his bronco. And like OJ, my sentence was one of innocence, I escaped before niles snittlebottometh the III could stick his strumpet into my proverbial tea. mehahahahha. neilly-1 brit weird guy- 0 unless groping me and passing out in a pile of cold, putrid vomit counts as a point. and by grope I mean try to grope, but fail miserably. mehahahhaha

prague life

2006-01-24T05:41:00.000-08:00

the weather in prague is cold....like my heart. and the skies are black...like my soul. the food is empty...like my values. mehahahaha. i'm kidding, but seriously prague is grrreat. it's like cooler than 10 superbowls packed into a high school stadium. mehahaha. so in conclusion, prague is time of life?? maybe?? yes?? i don't know that but i do know this, sometimes i was the coolest dancer prague has ever seen at the club. but really folks, i'm also doing pretensious artsy shit too. it's great. i saw a salvador dali exhibit, which was fresh, went to a "hamlet" that was in czech to the theater and it's been swell. i don't have pictures to show, but let me paint you a vivid picture from my beautiful words. here goes...umm let's see, well it's really pretty and like, you know, kinda old, i guess and..ummm...well, you know how st. paul is like, you know, really old..well, it's like, prague, where i am, is like even older, imagine a building in st. paul or anywhere else really, now imagine that building even older. that's what prague is like. it's really old. and imagine the st. paul building is really pretty. well, yeah, it's like, you know, that the building in prague is pretty too. see, who needs pictures when you have a wordsmith like me creating beauty through my prose. mehahaha

neil in prague????????

2006-01-19T06:01:00.000-08:00

yes. neil made it to prague. yay

cliches continue!!!

2005-12-30T23:46:00.000-08:00

now my favorite movies my whores and bores!! mehahaha. top ten of 05.
history of violence 1-the most interesting message and best made.
sin city 2- possibly best visuals ever.
broken flowers 3-most awkward dinner scene ever.
crash 4- preachy, but still good.
squid and whale 5-brutal scenes. reminded me of closer.
old boy 6- those crazy koreans
brokeback mountain 7-that heath ledger's easy on the eyes.
Capote 8- tightly put together movie.
munich 9- shows how much freedom spielberg has to make whatever he wants.
downfall 10-interesting as hell to see hitler in his last days.
pardon my lack of capitalizations. mehahaha

hahaha my top music list!!

2005-12-27T09:51:00.000-08:00

mehaha..every jerk face in the world comes up with their best cds of the year and i will too. mehahaha...i think i'll only do top 5 though. mehahaha. and in no order really. and it won't be easy to read either. the cd titles will be intermittingly put where ever i choose. mehahaha. animal collective "feels" best cd of year. yep, i started out with my favorite instead of withholding it to the end. such is life. mehahaha. antony + the johnsons was also good. mehaha. for a hermaphrodite. mehaha. which he/she is. mehaha. we'll throw the decemberists in for some reason too. how about deerhoof. yes they can join. i like sigur ros. they can also join. hmmm that only leaves 4 or so more spots. how about clap your hands....ok. they also make the list. do the white stripes?? yes, they do also. perhaps wolf parade?? indeedy, mehahaha. bright eyes still rubs me as a lil too sensitive and such, but you know... sometimes grown men cry, like that kansas city guy and i'm sure there are others too, so you know...i'll add teary bright eyes to my list. hmmm...that leaves one more. but whom...and why?? ya know, i'll take mister sam beam's woman king. yeah, and thus concludes my top ten in no particular order except for ac. i hope all you imaginary people that viewed this enjoyed it. mehahaha

mission blogatement

2005-12-13T21:13:00.000-08:00

my mission statement is as follows: this will be a blog of gossip and deceit. No one will be safe the sticky tentracles of my pen that masquarades as a keyboard, but functions as a knife. I will be brutal, yet daring. Sexy, yet effiecient. Random, yet gentle. mehahahahaha.

controvery

2005-12-13T11:45:00.000-08:00

kat just told nick a secret. Ooooh, the hits keep on coming