Thursday, August 31, 2006

birthday we cellular

"Kids, don't try this at home," said the pretty announcer on the televison screen.
"Today, we're going to demonstrate how to pull a magician out of a rabbit," every word a sunshine smile.

Her eyes darted back and forth, the telepromter had been suddenly edited.

That bloody PA, I can't believe Johnson got me to agree to this, I. Will. Have. His. Nuts, was the thought that raced through her head faster than her conscience could follow.

The 'live television audience' watched with snickers as she blushed so fiercely it was visible under all the stage makeup she was wearing.

The phone lines, all 12 of them, started blinking. Irate busybodies and mocking single men and the poor customer service reps didn't know which was worse, the ones calling them names or the ones slurring words like 'cutie' and asking for the host's number.

If it hadn't been happening to her, she wouldn't have believed it, since the gaffe she had mechanically run through her lines, cheeks blooming, perma-smile fastened to her face as though with copper rivets.

The laughter, the cruel mocking laughter she imagined echoing through every household in television land, she would never live it down. She imagined taking the call and becoming a nun and doing terribly important missionary work in Angola like her parents had always wanted, she imagined how proud she'd make them, tending to the sick, comforting the dying, doing something with her life that was significant.

Instead of this brainless blather filling the space between ads for carbonated sugar water and kitchen gadgets that never worked.

As she read through to her last line, a sense of overwhelming determination overcame her, this dark moment would be the beginning of everything. Today a disgrace but tomorrow a saint.

"And we'll be back after a short break," she said.

When the 'on air' of the cameras flicked off, When she was no longer live on television, she knew she couldn't do it. No escape.

She let out a barking laugh, almost a sob, tore off her microphone and balled up on the linoleum floor of the studio howling with impotent grief and frustration.

Wednesday, August 30, 2006

maize imagines cables

By any estimatation. It was a disaster. Wheezle Burblebeery, the next door neighbor, couldn't really be blamed for it, but was. There wasn't a law yet that said people had to be sober in their own homes but they blamed him anyway.

So what, if Johnny Axworthy set his babysitter's car on fire. Who cares that the police and ambulance were called too late to save the toy poodle that had simply wandered into harm's way from the front yard of Mr. and Mrs. Knucklewurst. It was all just a carefully orchestrated accident and Johnny should have counted his lumps and cut his losses.

Johnny couldn't do that (Johnny and his firecrackers, I mean really, his parents ought to be charged, not poor Wheezle Burblebeery, who is after all just an innocent in all of this). When his teenage babysitter Janice Sugarbottom heard the 'whump' of her ultra-sub-compact-economy-car's fuel tank ignite and once Johnny peeled himself out of the bushes all black and blue and started laughing, well, Johnny, he shouldn't have laughed. He really shouldn't have laughed.

He certainly shouldn't have kept on with that alternatively bassy/screechy prepubescent way he did...

'ha huh huh ha hi hi ha huh uh uh.'

To cut to the punchline, Janice the babysitter let go a keening wounded animal sound of fury and jumped down on top of 9 year old Johnny just as high-as-a-kite Wheezle Burblebeery burst out of his bachlor semi-d armed with a push broom and a bucket of tripe (he loved to fish)

Well, you can imagine.

Johnny was treated for:
1. Burns 2. Strangulation related injuries 3. torn ear (she'd bitten down hard)

Janice was treated for
1. split nails 2. decontamination (tripe) 3. concussion (push broom)

And poor Wheezle Burblebeery, as the only adult on the scene, clearly out of his gourd, on several class-A narcotics, well, he was arrested and charged with everything.

Even the poodlcide.

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

laid team screwed

The cabbie turned to the fare he'd just picked up at Port Authority and asked the usual 'where to' only to have a small pocket recorder pressed against the plastic divider and hear a tinny voice from the recorder give him directions to 92nd and 2nd.

He stole a glance at his fare but the guy, if it was in fact a guy, was all wrapped up and hidden as if for a long winter storm but that didn't make any sense at all because it was August in New York and unbearably hot. The cabbie himself was as far down to his skivvies as his despatch supervisor would allow. But, a fare is a fare as they say so he dutifully drove to the destination and dutifully accepted the mouldy bills and dutifully scrambled the hell out of there.

The summer snowman looked left and right to be sure no one was following down the alley at 92nd and 2nd and for one horrendous moment imagined someone at the Victory Cafe 2 blocks down had been watching this corner with binoculars and only once the snowman was sure that no one was watching, ducked down the back alley stairs where by rights no stairs should be and through a door that by rights should have been locked and followed the din of voices that by rights should not have been there and presently met up with the rear of a pulsing beating throng of people, some in business suits, some in rags, and pushed through to the center of the mass under the weight of an abrupt and deafening silence.

They'd all come to hear the prophecies, unspeakably accurate, unspeakably taboo, coming as they did not from the prophets' mouth yet nevertheless, they came from her lips.

The summer snowman took off her disguises and drowned them in her future.

Monday, August 28, 2006

aged coverage depresses

Three little elves were trolling down the slick disco street looking for cute little female elves with whom they could play 'hide the pixie dust' when all of a sudden, a large and clearly intoxicated wolf with three heads came stumbling out of the back of one of the more infernal bars and eyed up the three little elves with 6 gimlet eyes.

'You're not going to eat us, are you?' chattered the three in that sickeningly sweet way that elves say everything.

'Argh, nah, elves give me heartburn,' mumbled the monster, but can you point me to the nearest hot dog vendor?'

Too grateful for being spared, the elves paid no notice of his excellent (not even for a monster but in general) diction and only once they were well away, all thoughts of pixie dust wiped from their minds, did they start to question what sort of a cerebus was it that passed up three tasty elves and spoke with such a clear voice, even when mumbling drunk?

They didn't have long to ponder their mysterious fortune because the skies chose that moment to open up and umbrellas began pounding down on top of them. Like everyone else caught unprepared they took refuge under the awning of a little italian restaurant on the corner famous for its galactic navigation.

'At least they open around here' muttered one elf as they witnessed the yellow and black and polka dot umbrellas tumbling over and over as they fell from the sky.
'Yeah, remember that time in Foucaultland where they just dropped down like javelins?' said the second elf.
'Too goddamn organized, that place' agreed the third.
'Like munchkin land run by the cenobites' replied the first.

Sunday, August 27, 2006

forgive bypass accidental

And on the way to the store, Bobby realized that he had forgotten his atm card. "What am I going to do at the store without my atm card?" he muttered out loud, oblivious to anyone who might hear.
So even though he was halfway there he turned around and headed back to his flat. Of course, wouldn't you know it, when he got back to his flat and his key was already in the keyhole, he discovered that he had 20 bucks in his pocket that he had forgotten there on the night of his 23rd birthday. "Ah, damn," he said to himself and headed back down the stairs but four flights down, he started to wonder whether he had locked the door this time and despite the short distance to the market he trudged back up the stairs and checked only to find that this time, in fact, he had remembered to lock it. But ever since that night that he hadn't locked it he had developed a bizarre obsessive compulsion to check and double check his door locks every time he left the flat and he only wondered how much time he had left before he was scrubbing his hands between each and every individual peanut lest he catch some horrendous infection.

Bobby shook himself out of his spiraling thoughts and concentrated on the luscious chocolate magnum bar that awaited him and shuffled off down the stairs. On the way he met Lucy who was heading down to the laundromat and following a few pleasantries he found himself agreeing to picking up a chocolate ice cream for her too. Luckily he didn't mention the specific nature of his own mission because then he'd have been obligated to get her a magnum and as things stood, he could get away with picking up a lesser quality ice cream bar for her and then sneaking casually up to his flat to eat his own.

On the return trip, she invited him in.


scattering gleans refusal

"Knowing what evil they had done to themselves, they beat their breasts crying woe! We have destroyed ourselves!
The might, the power, from the heart of stars, this flesh, this world, eternal puzzles in infinite combinations!
The Man, Jesus, into who the divine aeon Christ came.
Have you preached the gospel to those asleep?
Waiting for salvation to come?"

The cross replied.


And unto the profane, the paranoid, the drug addicted, the insane, I say unto you, there is a way out of the prison, believe in nothing, for belief is the prison, do not reject belief, for that also is the prison, reject community for that is a prison, accept community for rejection of it is a prison, fear your freedom, for freedom is the prison, fear your captivity for above all, that is the prison.

All this was said to Joan, as she suffered in her cafe torments, spun this way and that by conspiracies and gnosticism and drugs and authority.

But Joan was wise, she focused on her espresso doppio, she knew she would prevail.

She knew that there would one day come a day of rejoicing and a day of judgement.

Joan, the last of the apocalyptic university students. She alone kept the faith alive.

Saturday, August 26, 2006

develop printed boy

develop printed boy (Czyrk 2006)  Posted by Picasa

separate speculation scenario

"Thomas, why does it have to snow?"
"Terry, can you concentrate on the job?"
Thomas and Terry were deep in the drift, very allegorical, thought Thomas, very difficult, thought Terry. Their big red plastic snow shovels picked up more snow than they could possibly lift at a go so each had to gauge the amount on their shovels as they continued to pile last night's snow fall into a pig of a pile next to their house.
Terry thought their Dad would yell about the pile leaking into the foundations and Thomas admired the pile for it's crytalline beauty but both of them carried on with the work despite all distractions and the arduousness of the task itself.
You understand, they had a compulsion, they'd been hypnotized by all that deafening silence during the night as it came down and down and down on their house.
Thomas and Terry, like all internet kids, were precocious 12 year olds, familiar with the first council of Nicaea's major participants and could speak disturbingly knowledgeably about the great disagreements of the early church fathers. They had read Julius Caesar and knew the difference between a synoptic gospel and a plenoptic camera.
All this didn't stop them from indulging in childhood adventures like building up a pile of snow on their front lawn until it met the roof and then snowboarding all the way down.

Terry went first.

"Terry! Are you okay?"
"I...I think I broke my arm Thomas,"
"vos nunquam opto pondera."
"Shut up Thomas!"

Friday, August 25, 2006

retaining signature attendance

retaining signature attendance (Ilir Pristine, Rome 2006) Posted by Picasa

cunning inspiration habit

I went down to the levee
and what did I see
but three beastie boys
and they petrified me
and one said 'hey bobby'
don't 'cha recognize me?
I said I did and please
could they please just let me be

It ain't me, boys, no no no
it ain't me boys, it ain't me you're looking for

Mike D he said to me 'the sherrif's after me'
'on account of his daughter'
'who fell in love with me'

I said to MCA, don't 'cha want to be free?
He said he didn't care with a rustle of his hair
And all the drums and all the clocks and all the 808s
couldn't console the dj
he cried into his skates
I asked MCA why so far from the rink?
'with boots like this' he said
'I can scratch mix with my feet'

Oh, it ain't me boys, no no no
it ain't me boys, it ain't me you're looking for

The third one turned to me,
'I gotta ask you please
here we are just begging
just begging on our knees
give us one more line, one rhyme and we'll be
the first to let you go, the first to set you free'

Ah, boys I'm just so tired, why don't you ask Mix Master?
While you peed your diapers I was a big disaster
I caused a lot of grief and then I stole a tractor

In fact my life has been a series
of worse to worse to worst
you're really better off
if you went and drove a hearse

I'll be gone like Arlo Guthrie
one day soon I'll be free
And then you'll have to finish
The line I-

bash reminding environment

"I told you no," I said, "I came here to have fun not to listen to your whingey voice blah-blah about some vague undefined business crap," I said, "You little Canadian fuckwit-who-can't-take-no-for-an-answer better go crawl back down the fat pipe you crawled out of and while you're down there, get a shave and a haircut you nobby little troll," I said, "In fact I take that back, calling a slob like you a troll is like calling duckshit pate de foie gras."

That's not what I said, it's what I should have said. instead I gave the turd 'evils' and got back into the far better conversation happening to my right, it occured that the superior conversation was terribly literary and I actually learned something from it. Not so with Mr. Fuckwit. I felt ashamed to share a citizenship with him. I've known losers like that my whole life, I thought to myself, and to this day I wonder why they get a rise out of me.

Oh well, the crescendo to the evening was approaching, by prior arrangement our whole sick crew had purchased all the chemistry supplies from the bar to synthesize some Impolex G swing drinks (meaning: you have a drink and the room starts to swing) and the whole sick crew including our adorable little fuckwit got busy with the long molecules and correct proportions. At last, Justyna, a lusty researcher, let out a cry as a whoosh of purple flame jetted our of her 8-ball glass (meaning equal to 8 highballs) and we yelped in unison 'success!'

Then it was down to someone to take the first taste, Justyna's co-conspirator, a biometric computer scientist named Ania shot it down in 2 gulps and smacked the 8-ball glass on the counter just before her hair spontaneously turned blonde and she had to excuse herself from the rest of the experient.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

super ash traditional

'super ash traditional' (Rome 2006) at Circus Bar using PENTACON six TL f2.8 at 250/sec using 80mm/Carl Zeiss Jana on Fuji Provia 120 ASA/100
 Posted by Picasa

philosopher strive laughed

"Whazzat mean?" I said to my new Polish exchange student.
"It's what girls say in Poland when boys spill sticky drinks down their shirts."

I had been saying sorry but in the haze of smoke and the boom boom of the big disco speakers I don't think she really cared. So what could I expect but that pretty soon she'd ask me to take her home. But you know what? She surprised me. She went to the ladies' room and did something with the mess and when she came out she had on a completely different outfit!

"Wow, you look great but where did you get those clothes?"

Over the din of the disco it probably sounded like 'I know that you ate but I want to pet your toes' but she answered like she got the question.

"I'm not Ania, I'm Gosia, my sister's still in there crying her eyes out because you're a clumsy excuse for a man and she wants to find another host at the University."

What I understood her to say was something those Roman emperors of the 4th century with their impressive catalogues of sexual perversions would have smiled at in naked approval, at last, I imagined them saying, something truly obscene!

Myself, with my conservative upbringing simply vomited all over Ania's top.

Now there were two beautiful girls in the toilet mad at me and I had no one to take home.

"Qrcze," I said to myself, "I think I've got it."

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

insane evened sung

'insane evened sung' (Florence 2006) using Sony Cybershot 7.2 Posted by Picasa

normality voice terminator

Nothing but frozen meat pies for the rest of the week. This was the big idea in Edward Macko's head. Nothing but frozen meat pies and not a single way to heat them anywhere. There was no real solution as he was trapped in this ice warehouse for the next four days of the long weekend. How had it happened? What posseses a resident of the Yukon (pronounced 'Yookawn' by his neighbor over the border - an American) to take a package tour of an ice warehouse!?! And to compound his misery, he felt sure that the tour guide had left him behind on purpose.
"Just because a fella asks a question or two," he chattered under his breath in between taking half-hearted nibbles off a corner of meat pie that he had diligently worked down to the consistency of meaty toothpaste.
It was an insupportable situation. Right now, he imagined his relatives, delighted no doubt to be free of his fast talking flurries of questions and challenges. Could he fault himself for having the gift of gab? Should he not rightfully stand above his uncles and aunts and especially cousin Lucy with that awful way she had of chuckling at the most embarassing times. Well, they sure would be enjoying themselves back at the hotel with the rest of tourists; eating their way through the buffet and passing knowing smiles between each other:
'Ah, that Edward, we showed him didn't we!'
'Yessireebob'syouruncle, that Edward has needed to cool off a spell for 25 years! ho ho.

Well, if no one came soon, thought Edward...he pushed the thought away by focusing on the soppy corner of his pie.

Monday, August 21, 2006

mutters overtone filter

'mutters overtone filter' (venice 2006) PENTACON six TL f2.8 at 250/sec using 80mm/Carl Zeiss Jana on Fuji Provia 120 ASA/100

rewards box schemes

So I did what I could, too impatient to wait for the lab to open in the morning so I could get a proper scan I bravely slapped the slides still in their protective sleeves onto my screen and shot them with my point'n/shooter. Once shot and the stick in my slot I just added some film grain and sharpness (and a bit of the crop, who would know?) and there it was, up on the screen and on view to the world. Now if only they knew about the other pictures from that Italy trip, the police and the military photographs, the conspiracies uncovered! Reptilian overlords unmasked! Oh, if they only knew!

At this point in the narrative our hero's self-congratulations were interrupted when a knock came at the door.

"Plotting delivery service!," came a voice from beyond the front door.

Our hero swung out of his Captain Chair and leaped at the doorlatch.

"Yum, fresh plots!" he cried as he flung open the door and accepted his order of classic long journeys with drama and his favorite side order of bogeymen under the cellar stairs.
"Thanks! here's a twenty, keep the change!"
"Thanks mister!" screeched the teenaged boy as he raced his shadow back to his delivery scooter and left in a fierce cloud of unburnt fuel and burning rubber.

Our hero mused if the boy hadn't been shaving a few characters from his order of plots, he certainly had more than the usual teenage alottment of superheroism for a delivery boy...

Still, there was the remainder of the article to write for the Big Smoking Lighthouse News...

Sunday, August 20, 2006

charitable beauty excluded

It wasn’t going to work out, I could tell. The phone had stopped ringing almost before it began and I just didn’t care anymore. I wasn’t going to be able to sell my truck, what was worse, I wasn’t going to be able to drive it home from the tele-auction; I was out of petrol and didn’t have any money to pay my rent let alone my petrol tank.

I needed cash, I needed it like a junkie needs his fix, like the captain needs his crunch, like the Beatles needed Lennon and all I had to get the ball rolling was a hat pin stolen from an old lady and a dime of dope. What could I do?

The dope could be sold, that would be easy, I hadn’t dropped a pence on it, a buddy had left it behind having decided he couldn’t hang around me anymore, he also left behind a knapsack and a fridge full of fresh egg pasta but all that had gone out the window or down my throat weeks ago, all I had to remember him now was a blood stain on the carpet and this dime of dope. The hat pin was silver and I supposed I could hawk it but I was worried that the pin was some kind of antique and the old lady had insured it or something. Didn’t the police shop insurance photos round the pawn shops? I couldn’t take the risk, I didn’t want to live under papers again, the last time was bad and long.

I knew what I could do, melt down the pin and ahhh, forget it, I told myself, at best I’d have a silver puddle on the concrete and at worst I’d have a 3rd degree burn. Not for the first time I asked myself how I’d let myself sink so low. The rent on my flat was due and I had one week to come up with the minimum, long-overdue, payment. I’d already had my last written warning and my landlord was on a pension, he needed that rent money.

So I needed a plan.

diplomatic garage requested

It was the last day of the special summer session and Senator Big Bang had just stepped outside for a quick shopping expedition when to his surprise a little man with a moustache as wide as his face interrupted him at the door to the supermall with an irresistable offer: A holiday for two to sunny Morocco. The little man turned out to be the Moroccan Agricultural attache to the U.S. embassy in Morocco and he was in the Capital for only one day on the invitation of some horticultural collegues at the local University Botany Department. Fazid, as he turned out to be named, was a great fan of Senator Big Bang and upon spying him at the door from his vantage point at the queue for donuts and clock radios he couldn't help himself and made the offer.

Strangely, had it been any other day the Senator would have been forced to refuse but today was special and he felt sure his wife would like to visit Morocco and perhaps secure some samples of rare and exciting Moroccan flora. The Senator readily agreed and before anyone in the media knew, he and his wife were jetting towards Morocco in Fazid's embassy jet.

"This is all most unexpected," said the Senator, "On behalf of myself and my wife I thank you once again Fazid."

Fazid smiled inwardly, the Senator was still on 'Washington Time' and the stiff and cliched sentences he now used would soon melt to an easy collegiality under the hospitality of the Moroccan sun. Fazid himself had undergone a similar transformation after graduating from the Civil Service Academy.

Saturday, August 19, 2006

contained detailed scotch

On the way home from work at the slaughterhouse I couldn't help but notice how beautiful the world was in the morning. Especially given that I still couldn't smell anything as my nose had shut down after drawing offal duty towards the end of my shift. I like working the graveyard shift, I understand why ordinary folks would shudder at the thought of working from midnight to six but they don't get me, I love the mornings. The streets are virtually empty, the world is still asleep and it's easier to pretend that you own everything. As I rounded the last corner before my flat I had one of those movie moments where I'm sure that something unimaginable is going to happen right around the bend, the brick wall that made up the corner marking the start of my street looked like it was a set prop in the morning light, so clean and fresh and even as I was aware that this was all in my head with plenty of help from the angle of the sun I couldn't resist the temptation to hear strains of mounting movie music rising up with lots of brass and strings and as I turned the corner extra momentously and heard the big drums go boom boom in my head I realized how little real drama I had in my life and was I really so happy about that?

Nothing happened around the corner of course but the incident got me thinking, I led a nice quiet low maintenance low income life and didn't really feel the need for any excitement, but it got me thinking, I'd been working at the slaughterhouse for 3 years now (with two on the graveyard shift) and I realized that due to my idiosyncratic preference for anti-social working hours I had lost touch with nearly all of my so-called friends.

I also hadn't taken a vacation in over 18 months and I wondered to myself if now was the time?