30 days of write : art thief

For Esme Barrera 1982-2012

2012-01-02T22:26:00.007-06:00

I feel a desperate immediate need to say something. To say the right words. To say the thing that will make me realize that this is all going to be alright. After all, that is what I claim to be good at. Words. I’ve used them for most of my life. Picking the right ones for this occasion should be no problem, right?
But those words... The right words... They don’t exist. They never have. Words will fail every time. And only time will make us all feel better about this. Slowly. A little bit tomorrow. A little bit next week. There will be set backs, for sure. For me it will be the start of the next Alternative Softball League season. For some it’ll be the next SXSW. Or the next Fun Fun Fun Fest. Or next New Years Eve... But everyday will make things just a little bit better.

Two nights ago, our friend Esme Barrera was taken from us in the most senseless way possible. And there really is no other word to describe it. There is no sense to be made from what happened that night. There was no reason. I really don’t want to rehash details, since they’re out there to be read on the Internet and the picture they form is so woefully incomplete that I’d hate to add any conjecture to the situation. But the blunt truth of that matter is that an unknown assailant murdered my friend in her house after she came home from a New Years Eve show only two blocks away from where she lived. Anything I might add after those facts would simply be the repetition of things heard in conversation, and I have no desire to do that.

It feels strange calling her my friend. Not because she wasn’t. She most definitely was friend to anyone who ever met her. You were powerless. Simply no choice in the matter. There was a magnetic thread to her personality that defined her and shaped everything she did. If you weren’t her friend, it’s just because you never got the chance to meet her. So, she was most definitely my friend. No, the reason it feels weird is because I wasn’t closer to her. Survivors guilt, being what it is, makes you look back on every missed opportunity or blown off party. It makes you second guess the choices you made that kept you from spending more time with people. Esme and I were never close enough to hang out together. We were in the same social circles, and saw each other often. But every time I saw her out, and every time I had a conversation with her, I always made a mental note to try and get to know her better. She made you want to be her friend.

I don’t remember the exact day I met her, but I know for goddamn sure it had to be at a softball game. As a former Waterloo Records Employee (as well as a former member of the team), I dutifully trotted out to watch the exploits of my former coworkers on a regular basis, braving the vagaries of the Texas weather and the cruelty of the morning hangover (the softball league does encourage its drinking, doesn’t it). For a while, it seemed (and sometimes actually was) that I was the only fan in attendance. But as the weeks went by, and the team slowly got its rhythm, more and more people started to come out. I started seeing old familiar faces from my days in the store, as well as a few new people who went to work at Waterloo after my time. And that’s how Esme Barrera entered my life. It’d be nice to recall what she was wearing, or the first conversation we ever had, but my memory just doesn’t work that way. As far as my Remember Machine is concerned, one day she was just there. But once she was there, she was there to stay.

She was small. Like almost CHILD small. Slight and slender enough to almost seem fragile, but just as up to the task of standing up front at a rock show. Sometimes she reminded me of a trouble making kid, hanging out behind the mall parking lot, just waiting for the security guards to leave so she could tag a wall. But instead of just throwing up a tag, she’d be more likely to spray paint a Jawbreaker lyric. At least the Esme of my imagination would. That’s how I saw her.

We bonded over both being border kids. She from El Paso. I from Del Rio. We were both Brown. It might seem superficial to some people, but in this lovely homogeneous scene of ours, people of color (no matter how light the shade) tend to look out for each other. We look for common ground, whether it be familial experiences or High School stories or fluency (or lack thereof) in a native language. In a lot of ways, I felt like I could have known her growing up. I probably did. Well, at least someone a lot like her. She felt a little like, if not a sister, at least a cousin. One that I ran into on a regular basis. A solid stand up person in every way.

As the softball season went on, she started coming out to as many games as I did. Cheering runs and screaming out admonitions at questionable calls. Usually holding a tall-boy that seemed just as big as she was. Volunteering to run the stereo that played out each batters’ intro music. Yelling out her opinion on why a certain song was all wrong for a batter and offering to bring a better selection the next time. There were a few die-hards out there with us. Sometimes the team did so badly that we felt like those lone fans in the bleachers in the movie MAJOR LEAGUE... And sometimes they made magic. David Blaine, street magic. Not David Copperfield, make a jet disappear magic. but magic nonetheless. And Esme was right there along for the ride. She could get a little annoying. Like the time during World Cup season when she started bring her Vuvuzela to the games. That got old quickly. But what I wouldn’t give to have her annoying me with that fucking thing one more time.

Eventually, the team did the statistically impossible and managed to luck it’s way into the league finals. I say this with all the love in the world, but following the Waterloo Softball team is bit like following the Bad News Bears. Some days they got it. And some days it all goes a bit pear shaped. And much like the Bears, (spoiler alert) Waterloo came up short and lost the finals. But Esme was right there with me, cheering every second.

When the league awards were given out at the end of the season, I went to the party. Esme was there too. Aside from the actual championship trophy, and the usual stat based awards (best pitcher, most home runs, etc) there were also some others given. I think Waterloo’s come from behind performance earned them the “We Can’t Believe They Made it To The Finals” Award, or something like that. And at some point in the night, they announced an award for Best League Fans. Waterloo won. I remember being pulled along toward the front to accept the award with some of the other Super Fans, but the whole time I felt like it was all Esme’s. Even when we were losing 20-5, she made every inning feel like this could be the one. This could be the start of the biggest comeback in league history. It all seemed so very possible.

The Super Fans got team jerseys at the beginning of this last season. Hers read “Esmiracle” with a number 7 emblazoned on the back. As the season went on, I didn’t see her so much. She was busy. She didn’t make it to as many games. She missed out the last game of the year where the team pretty much got beat in the first inning, but had to keep playing for another eight... I gave her a hard time about it, the next time I saw her. Questioned her loyalty to this rag tag band of lovable Waterlosers. Told her I didn’t want to hear her excuses. It was playful teasing. But sometimes I’m afraid I might have really made her feel bad. But probably not. That kind of shit just bounced off her like Nerf.

I have a few other stories about her, that mostly involve hanging out on the benches outside of the Liberty bar, but I’m certain I’m not the only one with stories like those. But being one of the Waterloo Super Fans, that’s something that I shared with only a handful of other people. And I’m glad Esme was one of them. She made every game seem like it was the only place to be at that moment in time.

In the last few days, as I’ve read recollections from other people about this amazingly beautiful soul, I’ve learned or been reminded of so many things about her. She was a teacher. The single most unappreciated profession in this country of ours. She was a mentor at Girls Rock Camp Austin, where she taught fledgling young riot grrls the merits of being more Chrissie Hynde than Courtney Love. She was one of the biggest music fans in a town bursting at the seams with music fans. She was the genuine article in a scene often accused of being loaded with artifice.

Even as I write this, it still seems so very impossible that she isn’t here anymore. That she’s been gone for almost two days. And that number will just grow. And it will never stop. But neither will the outpouring of love from everyone who knew her. I was oh, so very lucky to have never have had to deal with losing a friend in this manner until now. I’ve lost friends before. But never like this. And the sudden, gratuitous nature of the crime puts everything else in a brutal new perspective. Just like that, anything that seemed like the most pressing worry you could possibly have gets examined in a cold harsh light and you find that it really isn’t the be all end all that you made it out to be. There really are worse things in this world.

And so people are reexamining their lives. Taking stocks as we so often do in times of tragedy. Though it really is a damn shame that it takes something like this. We talk about how we want to be better people. We want to do more with our lives. We want to help others. We want to love unconditionally and be loved in return. We want to be more like Esme.

That’s not a bad goal to strive for at all...

Watch this girl do what she did best: Being a goddamn rock star.

Here's some more people who felt the same way
http://esmeandyou.tumblr.com/
http://vitagraphamerican.blogspot.com/2012/01/esme.html
http://feministmusicgeek.com/2012/01/02/a-tribute-to-esme/
http://www.cantstopthebleeding.com/you-dont-know-what-to-with-the-hurt-and-neither-do-i
http://summeranne.tumblr.com/post/15188405224/for-esme-bee

Please help her family with their upcoming expenses
http://forouresmeb.blogspot.com/2012/01/blog-post.html

Gone for good.

2009-06-03T07:44:00.010-05:00

Congratulations. You just testified in court against the biggest crime family in all of Texas. Now, to keep your ass from being dead, the FBI is putting you and your family in the Witness Protection Program. Write about the first day of your new life as Chris Farmington in Poughkeepsie, NY.

(this was the best i could do in a day. BTW, formatting on Blogger fucking sucks!!!)

Chris Farmington was a small man. A petty man. A bitter man. He hated the world with equal bile and enthusiasm. It wasn't that the world owed him anything. That would have meant that he would have had to except something from the world as payment. He simply didn't want anything to do with anyone else and went out of his way to make sure this state of affairs didn't change.

A regular Boo Radley, Chris was never seen outdoors by any of his neighbors. He had begun to acquire the sort of reputation usually reserved for the Jeffrey Dahmers and Norman Bates of the world. There were rumors. He had killed innocent civilians in the first Gulf War and was dishonorably discharged. He had once exposed himself to a passing mail carrier from his open window. He ate cat. If you snuck up to his window, you could spy him masturbating compulsively at least eight or nine times a day. Someone had once seen him standing in his backyard, naked and staring at the sky at 3 in the morning, crying like a child that had just been slapped. He lived off a settlement check that the city paid him because he had been castrated at the age of ten in a freak accident involving an off duty Utility Company employee and a defective voltage meter.

Only one of those things was completely true.

Not that anyone cared. The world needed boogeymen, and Chris Farmington was the boogeyman of 1312 Harmony Circle, Poughkeepsie, New York. Chris wasn't aware of this reputation, but it would never have surprised him. If anything, he would have considered doing more to foster it. Except that would have meant interaction, even on a basic level, for the benefit of other people. That was literally the last thing he wanted.

The 21st century was a great time to be a suburban hermit, and Chris Farmington took full advantage of the resources available to him. His high speed Internet connection insured that anything he needed for survival was a mouse click away, with only a minimum of social interaction. Groceries and assorted basic toiletries were delivered every other week. His bills were paid online. The inheritance assured that he wouldn't have to work for at least another ten years, so there was no need to deposit any checks in a bank. Even the parts for the machine that he had spent the last two years building had come to his door, courtesy of an overseas distributor and the United Parcel Service.

The only person who still had any regular contact with him was his sister. He resented even her. She knew this. Still, she did her familial duty and made sure he was looking after himself. To her credit, she never once tried to get him to change his behavior. She didn't judge his choices. Carolyn knew why he was here and why he wouldn't leave the house. She also knew that there was nothing she could say to change his mind, so there was no point in trying. Mostly, she visited for about an hour, one Saturday afternoon a month, making the drive from Long Island in her busted Hyundai. Occasionally, she had papers that needed his signature. More often, she came because she missed him. Their parents were gone, and even though she had a husband now, Carolyn knew that Chris was the last of her "real" family. Even if he wouldn't make the effort, she would never stop visiting. She felt sorry for him. She never thought he might be mentally ill. Stubborn and ill tempered, maybe, but never crazy. If She had known about the box in the basement, she might have felt differently.

Carolyn pulled into the drive way at Harmony Circle and killed the engine of her car. She sat behind the wheel for a minute, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. She did this every time she visited. It was her cleansing ritual. The Hyundai had such lousy insulation that she had to turn the radio up high to hear the radio over the noise of the I-87 pouring in through her windows for most of the two hour drive. Her ears usually rang for a while, even after she reached the 218 Hwy, but by the time she crossed the Mid Hudson Bridge the ringing was mostly gone. She sat behind the wheel of the car with her eyes closed until she could clearly hear the sound of the street outside. That's when she knew it was time to go in.

Except this time. This time, it was the quiet that was deafening. She realized that the usual sound of shouting kids was gone. No kids. No cars. No dogs. She opened her eyes and looked out of the driver's side window. The block seemed deserted. The passenger's side view was no different. Usually, on a Saturday like this, the block would be a tableau of suburban excitement. Lawns were mowed. Cars were washed. Bikes were ridden. But today, nothing. Not a soul. As she got out of her car, Carolyn was suddenly struck with the notion that she was the last person on earth. Somehow, she'd driven through some kind of reality hole and had emerged in a world where she was the only one left. Chris would have been happy here, but she was becoming a little afraid. She just starting to wrap her head around this reality when the distant sound of traffic on Rochdale Road killed this theory. She laughed at herself, closed the car door and headed up the sidewalk toward the front door of her brother's house.

Chris watched his sister approach the front porch from his upstairs bedroom window and fought back a slight surge of nausea. He had been dreading Carolyn's visit for weeks. Her visits always made him anxious, but this one more so. This one marked the deadline.

I Can't Feel My Hand Any More, It's Alright, Sleep Tight

2009-04-04T09:02:00.003-05:00

Is it true that women have a higher threshold for pain than men do? We do have to give birth, after all…Write (very graphically) about a sensation of pain that you have had or that your character is having...

Wanna know how stupid I can get?

Surgery hurts. Tumor. Gall Bladder. Wisdom Teeth. Very painful. don't let anyone tell you different. That's why they give you these little pills afterwords. They get you really high. It feels good. But really, that's only if you have insurance, or are brave and foolhardy enough to mortgage your future by having the nerve to demand medical care even when you don't have insurance. the nerve of some people. Without insurance, there's no limit to the amount of pain you're willing to live with.

It was back in my starving student days. All I wanted was a pizza. Not a real pizza mind you, but a sad , pathetic, put me in my place and remind me how poor I am, welfare Pizza. A slice of white bread, some spaghetti sauce, a few peperoni slices and cheese. Throw that beast in a toaster oven, and I was good to go.

It was an inexact science. It's not like I was reading directions out of Julia Child or anything. You just stand there and look through the glass window and hope you can tell when the damn thing is about to dry out and start burning. But, like the proverbial watched pot, that shit takes forever to feel like it's going anywhere. So I stood there bored and restless. Everyone else was watching television, but I was stuck watching the heat rod and the bottom of the toaster oven turn red.

Finally, after a few minutes, it looked about ready. I looked around, and found a battered old oven mitt that looked like it had put in a fair amount of time on the job. I guess I figured that anything that looked that old was probably still around because it worked. If it was crap at doing what it was supposed to do, then it would have been thrown away by now, right? On such unimpeachable logic, are empires built.

I put that bad boy on my right hand and opened up the little glass door. You wouldn't think that such a little box could generate such intense heat (that's what she said.) Right off, I realized that I had misjudges how how hot the oven needed to be. Even if the pizza hadn't started to burn yet, it was still gonna be crunchy. At this point, a stupid panic took over. I suppose I thought that every second was counting, as if I could pull that pizza back from the point of inedibility, if only I got there in time. What I failed to factor in was that it was only a welfare pizza, but then again, if i was eating welfare pizzas, then I probably couldn't afford to let one go to waste.

In my blind panic, I thrust my gloved right hand into the oven and grabbed the tin plate that the pizza lay on. Apparently, my battered oven mitt theory had been way off base. The heat from the plate seared through the glove. It was so damn hot, I wasn't thinking straight. It felt like a cluster on jagged needles were slowly pushing their way through the glove and into my hand. I looked around for a place to put the pan, but the kitchen was such a mess, there was no counter space. I briefly considered putting it back into the oven, but apparently my frugality would not allow the possibility that the pizza might burn and I would have to make another one. All of this, the pain, the panic, the pandemonium, happened over the course of seconds. My mind was racing with the flood of adrenalin from the burning sensation that was coming from my right hand. I just needed to put the tray down so I could get a second to breathe and consider my options. I did the thing that seemed most logical at that instant. I switched the tray over to my left hand. Again, I wasn't thinking straight.

John Hughes (yes, that John Hughes) used to be a pretty competent comedic director. I mean, aside from writing the high school pictures. He knew slapstick very well, and when he held his impulses in check, he could be very funny. When he didn't, it could be "Home Alone". Regardless, the guy knew his way around some pretty clever visual devices. Most of it was in the editing. Case in point, the inserted color card. It's a simple trick. You see it in "Uncle Buck" a couple of times. It goes like this. When Buck gets hit, the sequence is composed of four basic shots. The set up shot establishes Buck's position. The second shot is usually a first person point of view, wherein you see the object of force coming toward the camera, whether it be a fist or a bowling ball. The third shot is actually an inserted color card held for no more than two or three frames, indicating moment of impact. The third is the reaction shot, where more often than not, Buck, or the Wet Bandits or someone rolls their eyes and collapses unconscious. The idea is that the card conveys the amount of pain that the character will experience from the impact they have experienced. The more intense the shade of red, the more pain. Comedy Gold.

White. For one brief second, my entire field of perception went white. There was a very sharp ringing in my ears and everything turned to light gray shadow as the ringing increased intensity. Suddenly, I was brought back to the here and now by the sound of the tin plate hitting the ground. I remember thinking that I was now going to have to start all over, because my pizza was face down on the floor, which was what I'd been trying to avoid in the first place. That was about the last clear thought I had that night. From that point on it all just turned into "ow ow ow ow ow!!!!" and 'holy shit, holy shit, holy shit that hurts, Oh god, dear sweet baby jesus, make it stop!!!!"

Looking at the left hand, the first thing you would have noticed were the large and obvious blisters. Just like that. In an instant. They weren't there. And now they were. One fluid filled line stretching diagonally across my middle and index fingers, and one bulbous lump on the padding of my thumb. I think if the contact had been brief, it wouldn't have been so bad. but apparently, I held onto the plate for a few seconds. I don't remember that, what with the gray ghosts and high pitched tones and all. But apparently, I held onto it a full second. A full second is more than enough time for a searing piece of metal to start to cook your flesh.

You remember back when people used to say that you should put butter on a burn? That was circa right about when this story took place. The sad part was that I don't think I even had butter. Maybe I was saving up for it. I don't know. I think I used ice cubes in a fruitless attempt to get the swelling down. It didn't work. I don't remember very much else about it since it's been almost twenty years. I do remember that I didn't see a doctor because I had no insurance. I had to make do with Tylenol. Tylenol doesn't do shit. People wonder why I stockpile painkillers whenever I get a prescription. The easy, funny answer is so that I can take them later, when I can actually enjoy them. Closer to the truth might be that I never want to get caught short again if I ever need pain medication on the spot. Some of you might laugh, but some of you might have actually already taken advantage of my foresight whenever you tore a muscle or threw out you back.

I couldn't play guitar for a month or so. Oddly enough, the scar was gone after a year or so.

Múm - I Can't Feel My Hand Any More, It's Alright, Sleep Tight

3 Crucieros

2009-02-01T16:38:00.003-06:00

Fiction-good stuff). So today, research the topics below, and incorporate 5 of the 10 into a short story. -nubilous (definition) -laissez-faire -middle eastern cuisine -the commonalities of the Fireside Poets -Bossa Nova -blue-green algae -Che Guevara -gestation crates -the aye-aye -postmodernism Have fun. And please don't hate me.

Fuser sat in the darkened theater, mesmerized by the flicker, the persistence of vision searing the floating images into the back of his head. The audience sat in a nubilous haze, transfixed as Orfeu Negro played to a full house. The melody of Luiz Bonfá's "Manhã de Carnaval" lulled the crowd into a state of contentment even as the tragedy of the street car conductor and his doomed love affair played out on the screen. It had taken Fuser more than two weeks to save up the 3 Crucieros to pay for the admission price. He and his cousin, Tomfeio, had worked for Senhor Belasco, delivering groceries to some of the better off families that lived on the outskirts of Rio. The deliveries allowed him the few opportunities he ever had to actually leave the favela on Morro daProvidênci.

Even standing at the door step of some of the houses, he felt envious that there were people who lived less than a mile from his own house, that didn't worry about things like having to heat up the water they washed in, or even having to get their water from outside their house in the first place. They had proper roofs that didn't leak because theirs weren't made from scavenged road signs and sheet metal. Their electricity didn't come from an extension cord that came in through their window, stolen from a municipal power box that had to be re pried open every month or so after someone from the city would come out to do maintainance. They didn't live packed together in cramped boxes fighting for space, dying from stress and lack of proper medical care. And these weren't even the houses located in the Zona Sul, in neighborhoods like Ipanema or São Conrado. Fuser couldn't imagine what sort of royalty qualified to live in these palaces. There were even houses directly on the beach in Copacabana. Presidential housing, it must have been. Who else could live there? Maybe movie stars, even.

Fuser wondered if Breno Mello lived in the Zona Sul. Mello had been futebol player with Fluminense F.C. (Fuser and his friends called the team Fluzão and sometimes O Máquina Tricolor) and before that, he had played with Grêmio Foot-Ball Porto Alegrense. Now, there he was larger than life on the movie screen playing the title role. Tomfeio had told Fuser that he'd read that Breno Mello had been discovered by a famous director while he had been running on the beach in Porto Alegrense. Ever since, Fuser had been trying to convice Tomfeio and his sister Zélia to go with him to the Praia do Pepino in São Conrado. He imagined that he too would be noticed on the beach and given the lead role in a musical, like Breno Mello.

"You're too rechonchudo," Zélia would tease him. Looking down at his belly, Fuser knew she was probably right. Breno Mello was handsome and athletic. Fuser wasn't really gordo, but he wasn't the type to get noticed on the beach either. Firstly, the glasses he wore were had been his father's. Fuser's family couldn't afford new glasses for him, so he just wore his father's old pairs. The prescription was close enough, but as his eyed inevitably worsened, he simply traded up to the next subsequent pair that his father had discarded on his own way to eventual blindness. This trade up created the added disadvantage that Fuser's frames were always woefully outdated. Quite simply, he always wore old man glasses. He looked like an aposentado on his way to collect his retirement check.

His second problem was that his arms were too skinny for his body, but his legs were, by contrast, rather thick. This created a subtle disproportion that was difficult to put a finger on at first, but impossible to ignore later. And it was all the more obvious when he wore his swim trunks on the beach. Added to these distinctions were his flat arches that made him flap his feet like divers flippers when he ran. But still, he would always return to the fantasy, even in later years when he had grown less rechonchudo and more gordo. It helped pass the time.

Now, watching Orfeu Negro, he laughed quietly as he allowed himself one conceit. He may never be discovered by a movie producer, but if he was, he might certainly do a better job acting than Breno Mello. But at least Breno Mello could sing well.

A felicidade é como a gota
De orvalho numa pétala de flor
Brilha tranquila
Depois de leve oscila
E cai como uma lágrima de amor

Fuser had to content himself with the thought that even if he couldn't sing that well, not all leading men sang in musicals. He saw himself as more of the Romantic type. If he couldn't sing those lyrics, he could always recite them with the same sincerity as any poet.

He had recently come to fancy himself as somewhat of an expert on poetry. He had been fond of Olavo Bilac for a few years, especially his poem DELÍRIO, as well as Menotti Del Picchia, the father of Modernismo. He had also tried to expand his tastes somewhat by attempting to read a book of poetry by Federico García Lorca in the original Spanish, but he had to admit that it lost something in the translation. Pablo Neruda was also another great source of inspiration and Fuser saw in him a kindred romantic. On the insistence of one of his instructors at school, he had tried to read a translation of a book of American poetry by Henry Longfellow and some of his contemporaries. Senhor Lutz had spoken effusively about the inspirational spirit of the verses, but Fuser couldn't make sense of them. All the poems seemed so self-aggrandizing and pompous with stanzas about shipwrecks and fallen patriots and quaint families. In short, it all seemed so damn American. Fuser returned the book, half finished, convinced he'd never read anything translated from English again.

On the other hand, he had heard about a new group of American poets who were supposed to be creating exiting work. Work that was being banned by the American government. If anything could raise the hackles of a country that prided itself on it's supposed freedom of speech, Fuser wanted to read it. His classsmate Alceu had received a letter from his older brother who lived in San Francisco, California. His brother Rogério had included his translation of the first lines of a poem by Allen Ginsberg:

Eu vi as mais melhores mentes de minha geração destruída pela loucura,
morrendo de fome, histérico, despido,
arrastando-se através das ruas do negro no alvorecer que procura um reparo irritado

Rogério had promised to try to translate more of the poem but it would take a while because it was over 400 lines long. Fuser couldn't wait. The words filled him with a sense of immediacy and excitement. Even the title, "Howl", conveyed an energy that those staid austere "Caseiros" like Longfellow could never match. "Howl" meant uivo in English. A cry of pain and anger and protest. There was little of any of those things in Fuser's life. The words were like a Clarion Call to action. "Starving, hysterical, naked" these words had power. The only problem was that Fuser had no direction to take. His restlessness was aimless.

His friends had jokingly nicknamed him after after Che Guevara's nickname, on the afternoon that he had expressed interest in the subject of Fidel Castro's Cuban revolution. The name had been meant to tease and denigrate, but Fuser suprised them all by embracing it. He imagined himself in the mold of Lord Byron or Arthur Rimbaud, poets turned warriors. That Rimbaud deserted the Dutch Colonial Army soon after enlisting did not faze Fuser in the least. That Fuser himself had never written a single verse mattered even less. In his mind, both of his callings were simply waiting for the inspiration that would set them in motion. In no time, he would become a combination of Vinicius de Moraes and Simón Bolívar. Provided that no one discovered him running on the beach and put him in the movies.

.................

note:
This one took me a few days to put together. It started as a story, but in the end became more of a character sketch than anything else. Though I did manage to satisfy five of the research requirements, most of the time was consumed by additional research outside of the perameters.
The definition of NUBILOUS is utilized from the outset.
Along with providing the inspiration for the characters name, several references to Che Guevara appear throughout, along with references to some of his favorite poets.
The film Orfeu Negro (Black Orpheus) was considered a starting point for the Bossa Nova movement as it marked the first collaboration between Antonio Jobim and Vinicius de Moraes, who would go on to become to of the most renowned songwriters of the genre.
Addtionally, Vinicius de Moraes was also considered one of the founders of the Brazilian post-modern poetry movement, but this was purely coincidental and therefore not technically a fulfillment of the writing requirement.
The description of the overcrowding in the Favela was taken from the description of the gestation crates.
The reference to Longfellow was used to contrast what was considered proper poetry to some of the more romantic and radical work that was being done by other writers.
Additional research included the neighborhoods and Favelas (slums) of Rio de Janeiro, monetary conversion rates as adjusted for inflation (a very rough approximation at best as the Cruciero was replaced by the Real as the official monetary unit of Brazil a few years after the setting of the story), a biography of Breno Mello (the star of Orfeu Negro), and most importantly, translations of various words and phrases into Portuguese. The meaning of most of these words can be gleaned from context, but here is a translation of the two portions of verse included in the above piece:

Happiness is like a drop
Of dew on a flower's petal
It shines peacefully then swings lightly
And falls like a tear of love

from "A Felicidade (Happiness)" by Jobim and de Moraes

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix

from "HOWL" by Allen Ginsberg

I'm having formatting problems, but i gotta go to bed now so I'll fix em later.
g'night

Antonio Carlos Jobim - A Felicidade (Happiness)

Fancy...

2009-01-27T20:02:00.000-06:00

OK, so I really want to keep up, to some degree, with some sort of collaborative writing. I find it fun. Today, pick someone in the blog group (look in the followers section) whom you know very little about. Based solely on their blogspot pic and the name of their blog (not their writing), write a one-paragraph bio of them. The only person who is a follower who is not participating is Salena (the pic with the smiling couple). If you end up writing this late, check on other peoples' pages to see who hasn't been written about yet so that we can try to get everyone covered.

Raised in the Virginia Highlands on a rubber tree plantation, Fancy lived a life of spoiled opulence. Fast, furious and fierce, Fancy burned brightly and left her mark on the world. Whether maneuvering on the Indiana dunes in her converted Subaru ATV or hunting celebs with her trusty Helga hanging from round her neck, she grabbed the world with both hands and shook it til it puked. Known as much for her well publicized rehab for Red Bull addiction as for her short lived stint on days Of Our Lives, she was also a well traveled raconteur that was equally at home at the bar as she was in front of the television. She will be missed.

Jackie Mittoo - Fancy Pants

In the words of Twain

2009-01-27T12:24:00.003-06:00

To whom it may concern:

Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. I'll live for now. And I get to keep the leg too.

Thank you for the well wishes.

And now back to our regularly scheduled bullshit.

Bob

Dead Rising 2

2009-01-23T22:21:00.001-06:00

As a big fan of horror, particularly zombie movies, I have typically always had a plan in my head. A zombie escape plan. You know, for if the day ever comes. I had a great one for my old house with Bob that involved walking over roofs and utilizing trees, but that plan is no longer. I have no new plan.So, give us your zombie escape plan. Or your plan for when the apocalypse comes. Or your vampire/serial killer/Frankenstein's monster escape plan.

I once asked my friend Dylan why it seems that I gravitate toward post-apocalyptic entertainment. I love the Road Warrior movies, Damnation Alley, even the one two sucker punch of Kevin Costner's Waterworld and the Postman. I just finished reading "Eternity Road", about a group of survivors, centuries in the future who have lost all sense of history, except for a tattered copy of "Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court". And don't even get me started on the amount of time I've lost recently playing FallOut 3 aka, "the greatest game since GTAIV".

But I digress. i asked Dylan why i seem to gravitate toward this stuff. He looks me in the eye and replies "Because secretly, deep down inside, you want the shit to hit the fan. You want chaos, you want road warriors, you want zombies, but most importantly, you wanna survive, so you can be around to see it."

Well, those might not have been his exact words, but that was his exact sentiment. Can't say he's too off the mark. I mean, it would suck to lose the advantages of all the modern conveniences that I'm addicted to. And okay, all that destruction and loss of innocent life would be BAD. I'm not arguing in favor of Armageddon. Plus, we might lose our best chance for total annihilation after inauguration day. (Does anybody get the feeling that Bush is watching the shit hit the fan in the MidEast right now, wishing he had a chance to get in on some of THAT action)

All I'm saying is IF the Zombies come, I'm ready. At the very least, more ready that the average bear. Most people move into a place and wonder where the couch will go. I think about Zombies. Most people picture the wall fixtures, I picture Zombies. Bedroom sets. Zombies. My last apartment was absolutely Zombie proof. it had bars on the back windows and door and there was really only one weak spot in the front living room window, but upending a couch and pushing it against the window would help fortify it. It was perfect protection against Zombies, thieves, hoodlums and damn fools. Flood waters were something else altogether, but I guess when the fan is covered in shit, you can't choose how you go out. You just have to be ready.

My new apartment is flood ready. The third floor will keep the water away for a while. The Zombie proofing needs work. Not that I haven't contemplated it.

Firstly, the complex itself is fairly well suited for fortification. It's gated for one thing, and has minimal foot access. You need to type in a code to drive in or use a key to get in through a walk in gate. Now this is by no means perfect. The gate opens automatically as you drive out, thereby allowing shambling Zombies to come in as you attempt to leave, but I'm thinking in the long term. Eventually, after the panic, the runners will have fled, and those that have chosen to stay and fight can get to the business of securing the homestead.

Living on the third floor gives me the advantage of a slight head start. Zombies, or at least classic Zombies don't climb stairs too fast. If it's a plague of those new post modern running Zombies, then we probably won't make it. But, if the new dawn of the undead shuffles and crawls and shambles as God and George Romero (I know, redundant) intended them to, then I should be able to fortify my abode until such time as I am able to mount an offensive. But I can't do it alone.

The top floor of my building is arranged in such a way that there are four units per floor, with two units in symmetrical opposition to the others on each side. Each end has it's own staircase that serves the units at that end. The problem presents itself at the top floor. Rather than merely ending at a front porch landing in front of the top floor units, a common walkway extends across the front of the building and connects both sides. So, every unit above the bottom floor becomes accessible from two different entry points, making fortification more difficult.

But, this same weakness can be exploited to an advantage.

Assuming that I have enough of a head start to begin fortification, the first order of business is open my front door and push my couch onto the stairwell. Zombies tend to not be particularly coordinated and don't possess the necessary agility to easily maneuver over large obstacles. Depending on time, additional furniture can be stacked as needed. The next step is the key to the entire defense.

The walkway that extends in front of the building, and passes before the front windows of the adjoining apartments is made of good old fashioned wood. Beginning as far over on the other side as possible, I use a cordless power saw to cut the boards at each end point, enabling the removal of the board for possible alter use. As I work my way backwards toward my own apartment, the rift not only grows wider, thereby preventing zombies from walking across (they're crap at jumping) but beginning the gap as close to the other side as possible eliminates the need for my neighbor or myself to fortify the front window since they will no longer be immediately accessible.

After this, it is simply a matter of playing for time. After the first 24 hours, most of the initial panic will have begun to subside and the situation can be reappraised. At this point it becomes a matter of head counting. Since the vast majority of the legions of dead will head for areas of high population, having the University of Texas at he center of town is advantageous. Still, there should be a fair number of Zombies meandering throughout the apartment complex. These will have to be dealt with, in a series of fast hit and run attacks. The idea is to deal with them quickly, without getting bogged down with any ONE zombie. Repeat after me. ALWAYS GET 'EM IN THE HEAD!!! My biggest disadvantage is that i don't own any guns. You don't need guns to kill people and you don't need guns to kill Zombies. Bats. Hammers. Knives. Canes. Scissors. Any of these things can be used. The idea is to thin the herd as much as possible. Hopefully, by this time, other resourceful neighbors can assist. If everyone does their part, the Zombie count in the complex can be brought down to zero by the end of the third day with only a minimum of lives lost in the process.

Now this plan of action should be effective for an outbreak lasting no more than a week. Ideally, by that time, the military should be well on it's way toward dealing with this problem. Having an Army base in Kileen assures a fairly quick response time. If, however, the Army proves incapable of dealing with the situation, then this initial plan of defense becomes less than ideal. However, if that's the case, then the odds of humanity in general surviving are fairly slim, so perhaps a strong rope, a razor blade or a fistful of Vicodin and Vodka might be the way to go.

Fela Kuti - Zombie

Not dead yet...

2009-01-21T21:19:00.004-06:00

My apologies for being away. I've got some shit going on and it's been distracting me more than I want. i just want it known that i haven't given up on this blog and I'll try to catch up with the missing posts. i think i got a decent excuse though.

For those who don't/didn't know...

A little more than 15 years ago, I came home from a nice leisurely bike ride from the near the Lake outside of Del Rio. As I threw my leg off the bike to dismount, I felt a sudden painful tear in the hip of the leg that was supporting my weight. The worst part wasn't the pain, but the sound. I heard the muscle rip. I collapsed to the ground and pulled the bike down on top of me. I floundered under the weight of the bicycle for a few minutes before I was able to crawl out from beneath it and attempt to stand up. I'm sure it wasn't nearly as dramatic as I make it out to be, but I pretty much felt like the only person on earth at that moment.

I limped inside and called my mommy. There was a doctor. There was an XRay. Diagnosis: A torn muscle, the result of strenuous exercise. I was told that it would heal in a short time and that I shouldn't worry too much about it. My limp would recede as the leg got better.

More than a year and a half later, I still had the limp. What's worse was that the tears continued. Never as drastic as the first one, they happened anytime that I experienced any unexpected weight shift that I wasn't braced for. Even something as seemingly harmless as not realizing that there was one more step left on the stairs was enough to pull muscle. Of course, I didn't realize what was happening at the time. I knew I was broken but, initially, lack of health insurance kept me in the dark about my condition. Eventually, you just learn to live with pain and discomfort. It was never severe enough to worry me. I just had a slight pimp limp. That suited me just fine. During Thanksgiving, my Grandfather commented that even HE didn't limp that badly and he was over 70. I laughed.

The final straw came on a Saturday in late '94. I went bowling for the first time. You can already see where this is going. It's basic physics, really. Tork. Redistribution of weight. A weak stress point. Another loud tear. First frame. First ball. Down I went again. I soldiered on in spite of the pain and managed to lead for the first five frames and even managed a couple of awkwardly rolled strikes. I went home, mindful that I had the following day off to rest my leg. By the following Monday, I still had great difficulty putting weight on my leg. I bit the bullet and went to the emergency room.

I was there for hours. Since I wasn't leaking any fluids, I wasn't high on the triage list. (As an aside, I do have to say that the people at South Austin Hospital run a decent ship. I would return there in 2000 for what would turn out to be emergency gall bladder removal. A nice man stuck his finger in my anal cavity while I was there. they run a decent ship.) Eventually I was admitted and X-Rayed. Reviewing the photo, the doctor used words like tumor and bone loss. I don't recall if he ever used the "C" word, but he may as well have. He did, however, admit that it was all beyond his expertise and said he would call for a consultation. He left me alone with my paranoia and made some calls. He returned in minutes and said that I needed to go immediately to the medical mall located across the street. There was a specialist there that needed to see me right away. He handed me the X-Ray, gave me a pair of crutches and told me I had to go see the specialist NOW.

This was the moment that stayed with me. This was when I knew I had Cancer and that I was going to die. I had the entire duration of the walk across the parking lot and the drive next door to contemplate my finite mortality and I came to the conclusion that I had lived a good life. I'd made some mistakes and failed to live up to certain expectations that I'd had for myself, but otherwise, I was happy. I could accept whatever came next.

I worry too much.

The reason the time rush was much simpler than a terminal diagnosis. As soon as I arrived, they rushed me to an exam room and told me to wait. The doctor came in almost immediately and apologized for the rush. He was actually in town from San Marcos and was late getting back. He agreed to see me on no notice because otherwise, I wouldn't be able to see him for another week. that was the good news. The bad news was that even he didn't really have a grasp on what the hell was wrong with me. He knew I had a tumor. But he didn't know what flavor. There's actually a variety. Time for another specialist.

This one was in San Antonio. Dr. Ronald Williams at the UTSA medical center. I've since been informed that if you have to get a tumor removed by anyone in Texas, he's the one to do it. Lucky me. I was diagnosed with a giant cell tumor. Not as scary as it sounds, but a pain in the ass nonetheless.

January 10th 1995 I was admitted into the UTSA medical center. 24 hours later, I had a 20 inch scar and a metal plate in my leg. They initially underestimated the area believed to be affected by the tumor. The projected incision of 10 inches was revised once the surgery was underway and they realized that the tumor was bigger than they thought. They hollowed out the femur, hence the metal plate.

I was off my feet for a month and used a crutch or cane for another two months. It was a fairly dark period. There was much brooding and introspection. Mostly, I just stayed on the couch and watched life pass me by. And eventually, I healed.

Late last year, I began feeling a slight discomfort in the hip socket of the same leg that was affected by the tumor. I was given a fistful of vicodin and a referal to a new specialist. A new set of X-rays showed slight abnormality that was possibly related with post operative healing, but without a set of interim X-rays to compare, it was near impossible to determine if the abnormality was recent or not. I was told to give it a week or two and if it got worse, then we would go from there. The discomfort has now meandered into the realm of pain and I'm back to using a cane for now. I look cool.

Because of the metal plate, I was told that I could have an MRI (not true according to the good people at Austin radiological), so I had a CTScan this past Tuesday. Horrible little procedure that involves the injection of contact dye into the blood stream. Stings like hell and burns your throat when it flows by there. As I walked around the exam area in my hospital pants, with an IV hanging from my arm, I suddenly had an overwhelming sense of Deja Vu. Kind of like when Jack Torrance arrives at the Overlook Hotel in The Shining.

I have a follow up on Tuesday and I suppose I find out one way or another what is to become of me.

This isn't a confessional post or even a biograpical post, really. I just wanted to explain my absence and provide some back story for when someone sees me with a cane and asks, "What'd you do to your leg?", like it's somehow my fault.

What can I say? It's complicated.

Anyway, I gotta go write about some Zombies.

Missy Elliott - Bring The Pain

Always Chasing Windmills

2009-01-13T07:34:00.002-06:00

(today's assignment is less about the 'writing' part, more about the 'creative' part)Your fictional town has just won the rights to a sports franchise. Decide on what this team will look like: what sport it is, the name/mascot, team colors, star players, etc. How does the town react to the new team? Are they elated? Is there some sort of controversy?

Sport: It's a college team, so the name carries to all sports

Team name: The Quixotics
Team macsot: A thin frail Knight in ill fitting armor...obviously. And a fat squatty sidekick.
Colors: gray and light gray
Logo: A broken windmill

The average season starts with unrealistic dreams of playoff victories that end pretty much halfway through the first game of the season. Always finishing last. There are no star players, but the games are almost always sold out. Mostly, people don't come to cheer. They come to heckle and laugh and pour scorn and abuse on our woefully inadequate team. By seasons end, everyone quits, only to start again next year.

Journey - Don't Stop Believin'

What's in a name

2009-01-13T00:24:00.004-06:00

OK, so I got chastised today for the topics being harder this round. Between that and my being so exhausted that I didn't go out tonight and am about to go to bed at 12:30, here's a doozy for you:
Write one of those dumb name poems. You know the ones, from second grade. Yeah, use your name. Let's make it challenging by making you use first and last. And while you're at it, write one about your favorite animal or what you wanted to be when you grew up.
Old school fa reals.
(p.s. I know these dumb poems have a name, but i want to go to bed. feel free to bitch or show me up in the comments section)

Actually
Remembered
That
Thoughts of

Hollywood
Indiefilm
Eventually
Failed to materialize

yeah, not as cool an anagram as Noone Ever Really Dies, but there it is.

Concrete Blonde - Still In Hollywood

Cop Out

2009-01-13T00:02:00.006-06:00

OK, so I am a little behind on my writing, so I am giving myself a freebie on this one (you should be so lucky that i would give you one-haha!) So, one thing you may not know about me is that I actually get paid to write horoscopes once a week. Sounds fun, right? It's actually a bit harder than it sounds. But why tell you that, when I can make you experience it? Write a horoscope for 3-5 zodiac signs for this weekend. Check out cafeastrology.com (or find something on your own) to learn more about signs and monthly horoscopes for each one. I often consider what is going on in my life and my interactions with my friends when I am writing (Cancers and Pisces are the easiest, lol), so that might be a place to start.

Hey Leo, stop being such a jerk.

Cancer, get over yourself you big pussy!

Pisces...You're Dead Sexy. Don't change.

Leon Russell - Pisces Apple Lady

Like Bookends...

2009-01-09T23:54:00.002-06:00

Today, I am inspired by Susanna and the clever title of her blog. So tell me, what exactly would happen if a squid and a monkey walked into a store? Or what would happen if a bull and a flamingo skip into a china shop? Or maybe a turtle and a gorilla mosey into a saloon? Go ape shit :)

Phillip scanned the menu. Burgers, salads, steaks, vegetable platter...
- How bout a Turkey O'Toole?

Barry stared back across the table at him. This was one of the reasons they rarely hung out anymore.
- Phillip...Look at me! I'm a friggin' Penguin. Do I look like a bloody cannibal. Seriously?
- Well, I dunno. I mean, it's Turkey. Turkey O'Toole. Not Penguin O'Toole. Fer fuck sake.
- You don't see me asking you if you wanna try the monkey bread.
- How is that even a comeback? First of all, it's not like monkey bread is even made out of monkeys. And B, it's not even that same animal. Apes and monkeys are about as different as whales and fish.
- Well, seeing as how I occupy the slot right between them on the food chain, I concede that point. But, I won't eat anything else on the same rung.
- Hawks and eagles do it all the time.
- Well, hawks and eagles can just go fuck themselves, can't they.

They sat in silence for a while. It always went back to this. Ever since Barry started seeing Valerie. Phillip could be civil for the first hour or two, but eventually, the frost settled in and the bickering started. But, they'd known each other for too long to just walk away. They were the bad habit they couldn't break.

- What are you thinking of getting, Barry asked.
- Veg plate. Maybe the fruit platter. I can't decide.
- Yeah. Me neither. I could go with the shrimp cocktail, but I sick of shrimp. I'm sick of fish.
- I guess the chicken's out as well, Phillip said with a crooked smile.

Barry chuckled.

-Yeah. No chicken...Sorry I got upset.
-No. My fault. I don't think sometimes. You know something funny though. You know how you said about monkeybread?
- Yeah.
- I heard somewhere, that Chimps'll eat monkeys.
- What?
- Yeah. Snatch 'em out of the trees and just club 'em or rip them apart with their hands and just eat them right there.

Barry sat open beaked.

- Why the hell do you wanna say something like that before we eat?
- I just though it was funny, how you make a monkeybread comment since I'm an ape and everything, but it turns out that there really is another ape that WOULD eat monkeybread. I mean if it were made with real monkeys...
- What the hell is the matter with you?
- Everyone assumes that we're vegetarians. I mean, gorillas don't really hunt or anything, but we do eat bugs sometimes.
- Do I know you?
- What?
- Phillips! Why can't we have a normal conversation anymore? Did you see that movie? have you heard that song? How's Valerie? You know. Normal shit.
- I don't go to the movies. I don't own a radio. And frankly, I could give a shit about Valerie.
- Here we go.
- No. Yeah. Here we go. You don't wanna hear it, but it's gotta be said.
- You should stop before you even start.
- You're no fun anymore.
- STOP
-She dresses you like an asshole now.
- TALKING
- She's the reason why Justin stopped hanging out with us.
- NOW!
- If you want to settle for for less that's your business, but someone has to say it to you.
- I'm going.
- No one says you have to marry the first girl you lay.
- Phillip. Since you're in the mood for honesty, let me fill you in on something. The reason Justin stopped hanging out with us, is that he couldn't take your incessant complaining. Having a sad gorilla face is no excuse. You bitch all the time and it was bumming him out. It bums me out too, frankly, but I just felt too sorry for you to walk away. I dreaded the thought of leaving you alone in the world, but at this point, I just don't bloody care anymore. You've alienated every friend you have in the world and if you don't do something about it, you. will. die. ALONE!

Barry shuddered with nervous energy. He'd held that rant in reserve for months and had practiced every word in his head. He never thought he'd ever have occasion to wield it, but now that it was out there, he felt a great pressure off his chest. It needed to be said.

Phillip just sat there with his sad gorilla face.

- Aren't you going to say anything?

Phillips was silent. Barry stared back at him and for a moment felt like he'd just made a mistake. For a moment he felt like he'd like to take back every word he'd just said. But he knew that not only was it far too late for that, but it really should have been done sooner. He knew that his life with Valerie was the most important thing he's ever had in his life and that he would do everything in his power to insure that it stayed that way. If that meant severing ties with his oldest friend, then he was okay with that. Phillip would never learn.

- I'm going, Barry said.

Phillip was silent. Barry hopped down off the booth seat and shuffled across the dining area of the Bennigan's. About half way across, he turned and looked back. Phillip still hadn't moved. He just sat there with his sad gorilla face. Barry turned away and shuffled out the front door. Eventually, a waitress came to his table.

- How's it goin'? May name's Brianna. I'll be your server. Can I start you off with a drink order?

Bill Withers - For My Friend

Rinse. Repeat

2009-01-08T11:35:00.003-06:00

Routines are a part of our daily lives, something that many of us cannot live without. They can be monotonous or comforting, but without routines, most of us will never get our teeth brushed. Write a descriptive about one of your daily routines.

I don't know that I have any routines. I have habits, which aren't really the same. Odd shit. Like the fact that I always eat the outside of a sandwich first, andslowly make my way to the delicious middle. But I suppose that falls more in the category of neurosis or eating disorder. Along with my habit of eating my least favorite thing on a plate first.

At work, the first thing I try to do is check the stacks of paperbacks to make sure that nothing needs to go out on the floor immediately. But even that gets stymied by the fact that our schedules are fluid and I'm just as likely to start the day on register. Hell, I'm also just as likely to go in at 2:30 or 3:00. It varies from week to week. As does my lunch hour.

I sometimes wake up and turn on my computer first thing in the morning. After that, all bets are off. I might check my mail first. or I might check MySpace or Facebook. Or Digg.com. Or Goodreads. Or I might troll the music blogs for any thing I didn't know I needed more than anything in the world until I saw it for the first time today.

I say I sometimes wake up and do that, because lately, I wake up and switch the XBOX on. Playing a new game will do that to you.

I used to have a routine for making mixtapes that involved sitting in the middle of a room with large piles of CD's surrounding me as I sat there and made it up on the fly, letting the tape form as my mood suited me. It the mixTAPE era, you had the duration of the current song being recorded to decide what would come next. CD burners and itunes kinda killed that.

About the only routine I have is stopping at the Texan Mart before work and buying an RC Cola. Sometimes I get String Cheese. Sometimes a cookie or a handful of Jolly Ranchers. Green Apple.

Oh well. Consistency and Hobgoblins and all.

The Staple Singers - Lets Do It Again

I got a propostion for you.

2009-01-08T11:34:00.002-06:00

Anthony Bourdain gets to gallivant around the world indulging in a culinary map of marvels as we suckers sit home, salivating over some rare delicacy, or dry heaving over an even rarer delicacy. If you could go anywhere in the world with Mr. Bourdain, chef and booze-hound extraordinaire, where would you go, and which foods would you absolutely have to try? Pretend that this is a pitch to get him to pick you out of thousands of people, and really sell your idea. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, get out from under your rock, and go to travelchannel.com.

Alright dude. Here's the deal. You have been quite vociferous in your opinion of vegetarians. And that's cool. I don't begrudge you. You coast by on a seemingly endless bank of cool points that others with similar opinions (Nugent, Leary, et. al.) simply don't have. And frankly, after reading over some of the comments on the matter, I find most of my fellow vegetarians to be reactionary humorless morons who simply cannot take a joke. Well, actually, I feel that way about the majority of my fellow Liberals. Sometimes, I'm embarrassed to be in their company. I'd switch parties, but I'm not a racist homophobic mysoginist. Mostly.

But I digress.

My point is, it may seem that we have a great chasm between us, but that's what they said about Anwar Sadat and Menachem Begin. And if those dudes could bring peace to the Mid East, than anything is possible. Here is my proposal.

Quid Pro Quo. Tit for Tat. Something for something else. Catch my drift? I've been a vegetarian for almost ten years. But I will put it on pause, if only to let you see that we are not the enemy (well, most of us. I can't speak for the crazy ones, but then again, you can't speak for the nuts on your side either.)

Now, I know this seems a bit one sided. After all, on a hypothetical level, you don't limit yourself to a purely carniverous diet, while I though not vegan, subsist other wise. You always have the vegetarian option, you simply choose to not exercise it. But, have you ever really surrendered to a true vegetarian meal. I don't mean something that has no meat, but rather, something that was prepared with just as much culinary care and consideration for pallette any of your items on the menu at Le Halles. Your fondness for Indian cuisine has been noted, so I know you're willing.

It would make for brilliant television. Each episode, we would stop in an exotic city and you would sample the local vegetarian cuisine. And in exchange, for the duration of the season, I would forego my diet and subject myself to whatever you placed in front of me. Anything. The meaties would tune in to watch me squirm and the vegg's would get a laugh out of watching you grumble and bitch about the food you're missing out on. And maybe, when it's all said and done, you might be willing to admit that there are Vegg items that can stand firmly with some of the other recipes in your life. Sure, it's not marrow on toast with sea salt, but I suppose few things are. I just want this acrimony to stop. I'll take one for the team as it were. Then you can stop baiting Vegg's and they can stop bitching. And honestly, it's not so much your baiting as their bitching that gets under my skin.

But, before we go forward, I do have to admit something in the intrest of full disclosure. I'm Mexican. While this my seem to be a matter of little importance, I should point out that I grew up eating the parts of animals that most people throw away. Stomach. Cheek. Tongue. Tripe. Pancreas. All par for the course. Additionally, I'm one of the few vegetarians that will admit that yes, meat DOES taste good. I just choose to not eat it.

And as to the general image of vegetarians as 90 pound weaklings, I stand testament to the contrary. I've gained 20 pounds since I STOPPED eating meat.

C'mon. It'll be fun. And when we're not filming, we can go drink each other under the table at the hotel bar. We'll be the two coolest guys in the room. The Frenchman and the Mexican. It even sounds like a cool movie. Like a Spaghetti Western that takes place in Texas after the Civil War. We can even stay in touch afterwards. Exchange Christmas cards. Message each other on Facebook. Totally BFF's

Uh, did I mention that I developed a man crush on you last year? Yeah. After I read Kitchen Confidential. Even went out and bought my first heavy Chef's knife like you suggested in the book. Best purchase I ever made. Granted, I use it to slice peppers and onions instead of shanks and loins, but you get the idea. Anyway, think it over.

Seriously.

The Swallows - It Ain't The Meat

Man Crush Material!!!

Hello, it's me.

2009-01-08T09:04:00.002-06:00

So it's 1:20am on Sunday, and I was just pondering which topic to do for tomorrow when I got this email from Carol, one of our 30dow compadres. It was effin' perfect:(Carol's note): This blog called "Dear Old Love" is a really fun way to waste a few hours. Similar to postsecret- people mail in their notes anonymously to their exes. The blog owner comes up with the title.Some are sweet, some are sad and some are..vengeful. Write a note to an ex. And don't be shy.

We have to stop running into each other like this. Seriously. I have best friends that I don't randomly bump into as often as I see you. Mind you, it's only been , what five times, in the last twenty years, but still. Considering we started out at opposite ends of the state, the mind boggles. But, this is the biggest small town in the world.

I thought that last goodbye was the last goodbye back in '89. Odd that I should run into you on a school shuttle bus two years later. I left town for a year or two and returned in '93. How was I suppose to know that you were working in the kiosk at the mall directly in front of my store. Or that you would be working at that coffee shop I walked into a few years later. I wasn't dating at the time and actually thought about asking you out again, when you threw me for a loop and showed me the ring on your finger. Boy, that was awkward.

It was the last time that really caught me off gaurd. Last I heard, you were moving out of state, your future husband being a big attourney and all. Your dad told me when he came to my grandfather's funeral. That meant a lot. So, imagine. The last place I expected to see you at was Target. Cute kid. Although I imagine he looks more like his dad. I wonder how old he'll be when I run into you again.

Anyway, i just wanted to say hi. And I wanted you to know that we did good. Sure, we said a lot of things. And I imagine we meant them at the time, too. But, they did just seem like the things you're supposed to say. When you're young and in love as the cliche goes. Or what passes for love at that age. I have nothing but great memories. You hold the distinction of being the only person that I never broke up with and who never broke up with me. Like I said, we just lived at the opposite ends of the biggest state in the world. if this had been Rhode Island, maybe the story would have ended differently. I'm not saying we'd still be together, I just think it'd made for an uglier conclusion. But as it was, shit just ended. And we are the better for it.

Any way, I just wanted to say hi. That's all. I hope all is well. I'm great. I hope you are too. I'll see you when I see you.

The Incredible String Band - First Girl I Loved

Eaten out of house and home

2009-01-08T00:02:00.003-06:00

When studying a foreign language, one of the most perplexing, yet amusing forms of speech to master is the idiom. It's one of those things where the literal interpretation usually ends up to be hilarious, offensive, or outright jibberish. Choose an American idiom and use its literal meaning as the basis for a story.

First course, the carpet. With firm fiber and course filament it nourishes the belly and pleases the tongue. Then the walls. Or rather, the wall paper. It tastes not of marigolds and orchids, but sour paste. It is remarkably hard to wash down as it sticks to the roof of the pallet. And when the last panel is stripped bare, the light fixtures go next. The crush of each bulb between my teeth is satisfying. My jaws grind away until I'm left with a fine powder like a bland spoonful of saccharine.

I do this alone. The wife has left. Took the furniture. The children have moved on. There is no one to disturb me today or tomorrow, however long this takes. Looking at the empty remains of what used to be my life, I know this is right.

Feeling brave, I move on to the porcelain. I use a hammer to smash it down to managable bits. I lack confidence in the strength of my teeth, so I avoid mishap by swallowing each piece whole like a bitter pill. I suppose most would have left this unpleasantness to the last, but I prefer to save the good stuff for the end. Best to just get the shit out of the way, up front. The cast iron tub and the fixtures present their own problem, so I decide to declare the victory symbolic and move to the kitchen.

Off come the cabinets. I whittle away slivers at first, but decide that this slows my progress, so I bear down and gnaw away with enthusiasm. For the first time in days, I can feel my face flush with enjoyment. I allow myself a smile and a small laugh before continuing. I don't know how long this has taken, but the sky tells me that it's been the better part of a day. Without interior light, I blindly grasp at chucks of wood. I'm lost in the delerium of deliberate action. I almost don't hear the knock at the door.

Brushing myself off, I answer with the chain on the hook.
- Sylvia. Good to see you.
- Mr. Barley. Is everything alright?
- Yes. Fine. And you?
- Mr. Barley, could you open the door?
- No, I'm afraid I don't want to spread what I've caught. I was trying to sleep. Doctor's orders.
- Mr. Barley, we can hear noises from in there. Is that blood in your mouth?
- Must be the next house. Sorry, can't talk.
- Mr. Barley, if this keeps up we'll have to...
I shut the door.

My eyes are adjusted to the lack of light and I make my way back to the tool box. I use a box cutter to dig a hole in the sheet rock just large enough to fit the point of a small hand saw. As quietly as I can, I start cutting away. If Sylvia Goode has a mind to call the authorities, I know I won't have much time left. Still, the slow mindful sawing keeps me from getting so determined that I don't watch the wiring. The last thing I need is to die of electrocution.

At last, I lay out stacks of square chalk cakes before me and return to my task. By the time I've finished the last one, I've almost run out of bottled water. I have to conserve what remains. Surveying the house from room to room, I grab whatever small objects I'd missed earlier and toss them in my mouth like candy store treasures. A stray drawer knob and the occaisional loose screw. There was even a set of keys that I'd though lost long ago. And as I walked around, I remembered the other things I'd lost and never see again. Mostly days and events and memories. A wife. Children. Parents. It was good, what I was doing. It was the only way.

As dawn broke, I knew that I had come to the last. I would not be able to avoid Sylvia Goode much longer. She would have the police here in no time once I started. I knew that this is how it would end, but I didn't mean I looked forward to it. And by this, I mean the Authorities. No, as to the house, this was the part that I'd been saving room for all along. this would be the dessert.

Walking into what used to be my living room, I stood before the picture window and watched the street outside come to life. The first if the neighborhood children had begun to play in the neat well manicured lawns up and down the block. The last of the sprinklers were shutting off. Across the street, Sylvia Goode watched me from her front porch. She had the face of woman who had met dissapointment at every turn in her life. She didn't know what real dissappointment was.

I cocked back my arm and punched through the glass. A jagged shard tore open a gaping lacertion in my forearm. It was worth it just to see her expression. I could see her run inside, surely on her way to a phone. There was a madman across the street, and goddamn it if she wasn't going to see that something was done about it.

As the blood began to pour from my arm, I picked up glass panel from the floor and put it to my mouth. I wept with anticipation of the taste.

Sparks - Eaten By The Monster Of Love

In A Paper Cup

2009-01-04T23:41:00.006-06:00

So, I was going to do something else today, but since I was so drunk last night (and my computer shut down), I didn't get it in.
This morning (noon counts as morning, right?), I woke up from a dream about being in a town where a small volcano exploded. My brain took lots of strange things and put them together to create the reality of this experience, which ended up involving dinosaurs, antique stores, and banana cream pie milkshakes.
Natural disasters are something that almost all of us will deal with in our lifetime. Earthquakes, hurricanes, fires, tornadoes, tsunamis. They are also great elements in literature, for if it there were no tornadoes, how would Dorothy have made it to Oz?
Today, write about a natural disaster. Either write about your experience with one, or write about a fictional event from a character's first person point of view.

Looking out across the rushing water, a judgement come from on high, I held back the weeping that threatened to suffocate me. Bottlenecked at my throat like some grand crush of sorrow, the cry that had built up all day would hold for now, lest I be the first broken straw in what would surely be the beginning of the collapse of my family. I would remain stoic. For my dear Rosette. and for Emily. Like stone figures, we sat perched upon the roof and watched as God cleaned the slate once again. Reaching down with the hand of flood, He wiped away this minor abhorance. My Father believed this valley was cursed. But you cannot curse what is already damned.

My child can never unsee the the things that have happened today, and for that more than anything, I suspect the permanence of my piety. For if days like this shape us, they can also misshape us. Leave us broken. Leave us unwhole. Gazing down at Rosette, I wonder what part of her will be missing after today.

It started with rain. We awoke to flat loveless thunderclaps. Short sharp bursts that resembled the sound of magnificent boards slapping together. There was no rolling echo, just lightning making its firm declaration of intent. Through the window, the pregnant sky extended beyond the visible horizon, a thick violaceous blanket readying to smother all that lay before it. The first drops hit with weight and authority, slapping against the shingled roof like a swarm of locust. Emily rose from the bed and gathered her robe about her, lured away by the sound of Rosette stirring in the room across the hall.

I stood ground at the glass pane, the opacity of the sky growing more inpenetrable with each passing minute. Across the street, I made out the thin frail shape of Miguel Sanchez. It was the first time in ten years that I'd seen him without his Mahogany cane. He resembled nothing less than a shadow in search of a body as he tried in vain to maneuver a wheelchair across his rain slick sidewalk. Without purchase, the tires slid in haphazardly with each thrust until a slight nudge to the right forced him over and left him rutted in the muddy grass. I watched him struggle for a while, then went to the closet and dressed for the rain.

Bob Dylan & The Band - Crash On The Levee (Down In The Flood)

The Ox and the Lady

2009-01-04T22:58:00.003-06:00

2009 is the Year of the Ox, a beast of burden that occupies very little space in our literary history. Babe the blue ox has pretty much had to hold it down in that world, so help keep him company by writing an ode to the ox. A poem is probably the most fun way to go, but feel free to write in any style you want. Read more about the year of the ox on Wikipedia.

Ox was starting to sweat again. His hands were clammy and he was having a hard time steering in the rain as it was, but now it was getting worse. Each gust of wind made the car shake a bit more and he thought about slowing down before he reminded himself that it wasn't really an option. He was in this far and getting out was still a long way off. Now there was only Sweetness to deal with and then, he could leave town. At least then, he could feel like some progress had been made.

The next turn was a little too tight for the car to take peacefully and he skidded just enough to bring his stomach up to the bottom of his throat, before the wheels caught and he got the car back. He had just enough of a second to look down at the passenger seat and make sure that the kid was okay. She seemed scared, but even that much wasn't obvious. She should be scared even if she didn't have the sack over her head. And since she couldn't see what was happening, Ox was afraid she'd be nauseous as well. But she never complained. She just sat there in her green overalls and red sneakers with her hands folded on her lap. Her silence was made all the more obvious by the fact that the radio was off. It was starting to get to Ox, just a little bit.

This had been Leroy's play. It'd been his idea to do the kiddie snatch. It was his marker that this was going toward paying off. It was his girlfriends step kid that was getting taken. But somehow, it was Ox sitting here in the driver's seat of a stolen Aerostar van with a mute five year old on his right and Leroy was nowhere. The last Ox had heard from him was about five minutes before the snatch. Up until then, Ox couldn't avoid Leroy if he tried. He'd called every other hour for the past five days, ironing out every last detail. And now, there was nothing. Leroy wasn't picking up the phone. Ox was just short of scared, but not enough to blow the plan. The plan was bible. As long as he stuck to it, he'd be golden. Leroy or no, Ox was getting paid today.

Lee hazlewood - Stone Lost Child

fashionably late

2009-01-01T09:58:00.002-06:00

1/1: It’s the first of the year and you have a blank canvas in front of you. On that glaringly white piece of paper, set your intention for the year. Fill that page with five words that reflect your goals for your life as a writer. Expand upon them if you want, or let them be powerful enough to speak for themselves.

My initial post was going to be awsomely pretentious. It was gonna encompass all my desires in terms of where I would like to get with my writing...

Saramago
Rushdie
Cormac
Irving (John, not Cifford)
Gaiman

And it's still a fair declaration. At least in terms of aspirtion. Great heights, sure, but who aims for the middle? Actually, I suppose plenty of people aim for the middle. But really, What band doesn't want to be bigger and better than the Beatles. Sure, most end up being Creed and Dishwalla, but sometimes you get lucky and end up in Big Star. The point is that without expectations and aspirations, you might as well leave the bat and glove at home, because you're never gonna get a turn at bat.

but that was what i had wanted to say at first. That was my initial pretentious post.

Today, I have to subscribe to these five words.

STOP. FUCKING. AROUND. WRITE. ALREADY.

All I'm saying is that it's a good thing for us all that F Scott Fitzgerald never had an XBOX 360.
That's all I'm saying. He'd have spent all weekend hanging out with these guys instead of getting drunk and writing.

Gotta finish up, so I can get back to killin' mutants...

Dolly Parton - Put It Off Until Tomorrow

WRITER'S TOOLBOX: 35 Best Tools for Writing Online

2008-12-15T13:11:00.001-06:00

Just in case you hadn't seen this...
WRITER'S TOOLBOX: 35 Best Tools for Writing Online

finishing up

2008-12-02T13:22:00.002-06:00

Thank You. See you in January.

Til the end of the road...

2008-11-30T01:52:00.017-06:00

Today's assignment is a simple one. Go back and review your own writing. Have you developed a style? Choose 3 words that describe your writing style, providing at least one example from your posts for each word.

Nostalgic:

The mid 90's were when I hit my stride, picking up new music the way a two year old picks up a language.

So much of the music I've come to take for granted came out of that period. The minimalism of Phillip Glass, Steve Reich and John Adams (not the president). The impressionism of Ravel and Debussy. The modernism of Arvo Part and Henri Gorecki. The fantastic film scores of Nino Rota and my all time favorite composer Ennio Morricone. But most importantly, there was Jazz.
Duke Ellington And John Coltrane - Sentimental Mood

This was the point in my life when I had around two friends and didn't really do anything with them outside of school, so I spent a lot of quality me time. This would become something that I came to find desirous in my adult life, but it was also something that puzzled the shit out of my parents. Typical of the parents of bookish nerds, they really wanted a more outgoing, socially acclimated child, but that one really wasn't going to work out for them. I remember one birthday in particular (and it might very well and most likely could have been the one that followed this particular day) when, in lieu of presents,I was given by various relatives and family friends a princely sum of money to spend as I saw fit. It was about $120, which in the halcyon dawn of the Reagan administration was equal to about $300 in today's economy. My mom had only one directive as I took off the mall to spend my ill gotten booty. "Don't spend it on books!" Seriously? They had no clue how easy they had it. Less fortunate mothers would have directed their child to avoid spending money on Meth or hookers. I spent it on books anyway, and it was well spent, as I still own a few of the books I bought that day. Books about Ninjas! It was a good time to be a boy in 1982.
This Boy's Life

Sesquipedalian (unnecessarily wordy):

The Nurse comes at noon with her poisons. She has philtres and tonics and tablets of hallucination. She says she means to help me. She means to make me well. But I know she lies as well. They all lie. Her capsules weaken my body and force sleep upon me. When I have drifted into the arena of the unwell, she will prepare me for Jacob and the knives that await me. I lie still with more than mild dread. With ratched, clang, sturm und drang she lords upon her wards, with the confidence and authority of one who knows how it will end. There are no surprises for her. She holds all the cards. The Hermit, The Hierophant, and The Fool. The Emperor and The Tower. She wields the cards of Judgement and Death. The Hanged Man and the Wheel of Fortune. Even the Devil himself resides in her deck. Only the lone card of Justice remains omitted from her hand. The Nurse has no interest in such things. Only Alchemy and Castigation hold sway with her.
Une Décharge

She imagined herself as Abraham on Moriah. She imagined herself as Isaac, walking alongside his father, carrying his wooden pallet up the very same hill. They were one and the same, in her, playing out the storied drama of sacrifice and supplication. The father, prepared to sacrifice the thing he valued above all else. The son, willingly acquiescing to his father's decision. All in the name of faith. Til the very last, she truly believed that if her actions were sincere, if her fealty was true and she went forward with his command, an angel would appear. The Angel of God would stay her hand at the very last moment and she would be rewarded for her actions. This was the thought that gave her strength as she took the pot of water from the stove and put the rim to her lips. The roiling water and thick steam was almost too much to bear. Her hands was firm and resolute as the voice whispered in her ear about holiness and purification. The voice told her it was time to drink. She opened her mouth and tilted back the pot. The Angel of God never arrived.
Touched By The Hand Of God

Referential:

At this point, I was still throwing pots in craft class, but one day I would be the Henry Moore of the flesh medium.
(British artist and sculptor)

I broke my forward stare long enough to check my reflection in the rear view mirror. If today was my day to become famous, I needed my hair to look good.
(Kit's last action before he confronts the police in the film Badlands)
Alice4

Surveying the architectural model in the executive conference room at the Nakatomi Tower, he says "...and Alexander wept he saw the breadth of his kingdom, for he knew there were no more worlds left to conquer." The benefits of a classical education.
(from the film Die Hard)
Where cheap plastic disposable crap still matters...

So I took advantage. I took advantage of their disadvantage.
(Reference to Humbert's letter to Quilty in Lolita by Vladimir Nabakov)

But, taste is subjective and by no means definitive. One man's Aria is another man's Metal Machine Music.
(Lou Reed album characterized by "instrumentals" composed of squealing and feedback. Largely regarded as nearly unlistenable.)

Until, as James Brown said, "I cain't do no more!". And when the day comes that I've done my last encore, Danny Ray has thrown the cape over my shoulders and like James, I'm quietly escorted off the stage of life, I only ask one thing.
(The end of every JB concert was marked by this ritual)
Duke Ellington And John Coltrane - Sentimental Mood

I was only along to observe, mindful that any drastic behavior or sudden movements could leave me mauled, eaten and partially digested like Timothy Treadwell.
(Animal advocate killed by a bear as featured in the film Grizzly Man)

And after the apocalypse, the roaches will gather beneath their sturdy roofs and raise a toast, glasses high, to the long gone daddy/man cub that was Homo Sapien.
(Dual reference to a Hank Williams song, and Mowgli from the Jungle Book)

We were in a random bar along with about ten other thick skinned jaded thrill seekers.
(reference to an A. Whitney Brown monologue on SNL from 1987.)

Alongside the wall between our table and the bar was a potted plant of some sort. A fake plastic rubber tree plant, perhaps.
(Lyric from Fake Plastic Trees by Radiohead)

He pulled her toward him and gave her what Kevin Costner described as a long, slow, deep, soft, wet kiss that lasts for three days.
(line from Bull Durham)

Pass judgement if you like, you won't be the first, but any Star Trek nerd worth his phaser knows that it's a violation of the Prime Directive to interfere in anyway that shapes or otherwise alters the course of a subjects life.
(Standard Star Trek reference)

I am Uatu. I am the watcher.
(Marvel Comics character. He is the personifiaction of the reading audience acting as witness, unable to affect outcome or change history.)
I am Uatu. I am "The Watcher"

No Virgil, he will see me through the gate, without ceremony, my soul borne away to the place of its eternal display.
(In the Inferno, Virgil is Dante's escort through Hell)

But the everlasting, loving arms of God and Beatrice shall be eternally denied to me if the Jacob the Lurker has his way.
(Dante's escort through The Paradise)

When I have drifted into the arena of the unwell, she will prepare me for Jacob and the knives that await me. (Line from the film Withnail & I)(Allusion to a line from "Theme of the Traitor and the Hero" by Jorge Luis Borges)

With ratched, clang, sturm und drang she lords upon her wards.
(The most ham fisted sentence this month, this one I'm embarassed of. A simultaneous allusion to Nurse Ratched from One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest and Ratchet and Clank, a PS2 game.)

The boy in the chair is my betrayer, my brother and my killer.
(Line from "Famous Blue Raincoat" by Leonard Cohen)

As for the man inside my mouth…
(Title of a song by The Cure, also a reference the The Shining)

I have always been here before.
(Rocky Erickson song)

And until the last night comes I shall be here in the morning, noon and evening, each day collecting and gathering as a durden of living days, until the great Fangorn that is my life stands eternal and evermore.
(Forest in Lord Of The Rings)

I have always been the caretaker and sleep will not rob me of my duty.
(Another reference to The Shining)
Une Décharge

Like the Maid Of Orleans, she would believe, for the remainder of her life, that she had been touched by the Divine hand. And like the French peasant girl, she was given purpose and meaning. She was given instructions. She was given orders. But, this was not the voice of Saint Michael inspiring a girl to reclaim a kingdom for Charles VII.
(Standard Joan Of Arc reference)

She imagined herself as Abraham on Moriah. She imagined herself as Isaac, walking alongside his father, carrying his wooden pallet up the very same hill. They were one and the same, in her, playing out the storied drama of sacrifice and supplication. The father, prepared to sacrifice the thing he valued above all else. The son, willingly acquiescing to his father's decision. All in the name of faith. Til the very last, she truly believed that if her actions were sincere, if her fealty was true and she went forward with his command, an angel would appear. The Angel of God would stay her hand at the very last moment and she would be rewarded for her actions.
(Genesis 22:1-19)
Touched By The Hand Of God
_______________________________________________

I suppose that answers the "How full of shit are you?" question you've been asking yourself.

I'm spent...

2008-11-29T01:52:00.000-06:00

I was going to just do today's topic about personification, another form of figurative language, but as I read the definition of it, I thought it would be more fun to create a new type of writing style. Let's call it 'dynamism' for now. Let me know if you think of a better word. Anyway, for your assignment, combine the use of both personification (give human qualities to a nonhuman item) and objectification (present a human or animal as an object). See where that takes you...

The box sat open mawed like a great yawning beast. It's hum, once muffled had become a dreadful voice, and it sang threnody for a future memory. The box and all it held bound were unloosed and the irrevocable had come to pass. In slow exhalation, fine ochre mist seeped from the vessel and began to imbue the interior of the car with a mossy stench. With it's rictus of sadistic glee, the box, free of it's burden, became innocuous. It was a simple mahogany box once more.

The mist, now unrestrained, hovered along the floorboard and surveyed the thing behind the drivers seat. With cold appraisal, it judged. And when the thing turned down to face it, the mist moved before the thing had a chance to react. Slipping in through the mouth, the mist entered the lungs and took firm hold.

Punishment

2008-11-28T13:18:00.000-06:00

Today is the third to last day. So, do i little puntificating and make us all laugh/moan/groan in whatever format you see fit. Puns are considered the lowest form of wit, which i think is awesome because I love them so much. I don't need fancy in my humor. Just fucking funny.

What's music does Ann Coulter like?

Country-Western, Contemporary Jazz and continuous Pop.

Mr. Massengil bids his wife goodnight,

"I do sure love you..."

The turd just floated there, without the energy to swim...he was pooped.

---------------------------------------

Thank you.
I'll be here all week.
Tip your waitresses

Little Girl Blue

2008-11-27T13:16:00.000-06:00

Thanksgiving seems like the perfect day to take on that all-mighty figurative language beast, the hyperbole. So, get to exaggerating. Write us a little something about this year's, or any other year's Thanksgiving celebration.

Belly was the worlds saddest kitten. When she was a month and a half old, her mother turned her out on the street. "You're too old to nurse, so either pull your own weight or get out," she said. Belly opted to leave. She wasn't really sure how she would make her way in the world, but it was better than living with an emotionally abusive mother that belittled her every achievement. Besides, now that the milk had dried up, she knew she would be in competition with four other kids for whatever resources they could find. It was five other kids, but Bosley hopped a bus and left. Well, it was actually the back of a truck, and he hadn't meant to leave, but he didn't jump off in time and the truck took off with him in back. They hadn't seen him since. And now, with Paul, Walla, Gert and Samantha all trying to compete for the same bits of scrap, it didn't take Belly long to make her decision.

"Smell you later, losers" she meowed as she walked away from her family for the last time. Her family pretty much ignored her since they were well and truly preoccupied with the dead grackle that Mother had brought for them. Gert did manage something that sounded like "hrmph habr hree shmo", but Belly knew an insult when she heard one, even if she couldn't understand it.

Her only regret was that she would miss Mr. Jump. Mr. Jump was an old stray Collie that occasionally came around for social visits. He was amiable enough to the rest of the family, but he really seemed to dote on Belly. He was the closest thing to a father that she had ever known. Sometimes he brought along a bit of a Hamburger that he had dug out of the trash and set it down for Belly when no one else was watching. If any of the other kids got wise to the extra grub, Mr. Jump would stand in front of her while she finished her share. Otherwise, she was likely to get shoved aside, especially by Walla. Walla was second smallest to Belly and she seemed to resent her all the more for it. Belly was the only one that she had any power over and so Walla always went out of her way to be particularly mean to her. Mr. Jump could see that, so instinctively looked out for her. But now, even Mr. Jump wouldn't be able to help her.

Belly stared at the open parking lot before her and was struck by a shot of apprehension. She started to order things around in her head. Little Pro and Con columns formed, enumerating the variables that would shape whatever life she could look forward to.

Firstly, there the was the matter of independence. Along with that, there was the increased mobility. She could do whatever she wanted and she could go anywhere she wanted. If she wanted to she could nest in one place for a while or she could just wander. Both options were tantalizing if only because the decision would be hers and hers alone. There was also the matter of people. Belly was genuinely curious about the big ones that she saw everywhere, but Mama T tried to instill her kids with a natural fear of the two legged walkers. She told them stories about how the big ones would snatch kittens in the night and take them away from their families. Mama T once told them about a friend of hers whose kids were stolen and tied up in a sack and thrown in a big water puddle. She said she could hear them crying for a little while and then she didn't hear anything again. Belly didn't think anyone would ever be that mean, but if someone could, she thought it was more likely to be her mom than any of the people.

But, as much as she tried to gird her confidence about her decision, there was still one nagging little problem that superseded every other consideration. She could barely hunt. She was still in the early stages of her training and it hadn't been going very well. As it was, she was a barely competent forager, but hunting was something that she still had a lot to learn about. Her natural feline grace had yet to develop and she still had a slight wobble in her walk. Her tiny paws sank like little lead weights whenever she walked. Even her head was still slightly over sized and it threw her balance off at the most inconvenient times. She was a very long way from the pounce and still even further from the kill. Foraging would have to do, but she had no confidence that it would be enough.

She took a few tentative steps into the parking lot and stopped. It still wasn't too late to turn around. It hadn't all been turmoil and tragedy. Her mother had been quite capable of great affection. Once, just after they had all been born, Mama T had stayed awake for almost three days cleaning her children and keeping them warm. A few days after that, a stray Tom had wandered near their nest and Mama T had lost part of the tip of her ear in the fight for territory. The Tom left in slightly worse shape, with a limp that would bother him for more than a month. Afterwards, she gathered her kids next to her and nursed them without complaint. Only later did Belly realize that her mother had a deep gash that cut across two of her nipples and was probably in some pain, but Mama T never let on.

In the end, it was simple stress that drove the wedge between them. Unbeknownst to Belly, she was a part of her mother's third litter. Mama T had spent the better part of two years nursing and raising children from three different fathers, each one full of the same promises and lies as the last. In time, each previous litter had grown up and left Mama T behind and she had taken the departure of each child badly. One by one, each child took a small fragment of their mother's affection, and now Mama T simply seemed to be running out. To minimize her emotional vulnerability, Mama T had become armored. The more her new children needed from her, the more distant and bitter she became to them. Knowing that they would just leave in time, she began to dole out affection based on codependency. Belly, being the most likely to show her independence, got the coldest shoulder.

Not that Belly was privy to any of this. She just knew that she was treated differently.

Belly began putting one paw in front of the other, heading out toward the rest of her life. Her face flushed with nervous excitement. Her heart beat faster in anticipation. Her breath quickened. With each step, she went further and further away from the known and one step closer to the Great Whatever. But the more she walked, the less steady her legs became. Her nervousness had begun to congeal into cold fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of starvation. Fear of injury. But above all, fear of isolation. As much as she felt pushed out at home, it was the only home she had. And very suddenly, she wanted nothing else in the world, but to be in the arms of the only mother she would ever had. Regret had proved stronger than longing. And so, very slowly, she turned back to face what she thought she had been ready to leave behind.

With tentative hesitation, she walked back to the end of the parking lot and took her place at the end of the line.

Ass onance

2008-11-26T01:18:00.001-06:00

If alliteration is the elephant in the room at the figurative language zoo, then assonance is the tiny mouse that frightens me and the elephant. Create a paragraph, poem, or piece of dialog, this time using assonance twice. Good luck.

The Fact of the matter is, that asshole Alan Appleton was asked to answers to the accusation that he manhandled Anna in a crass manner. He called it all a bunch of falderal and would not apologize for what he though was a blot upon his honor. Whether or not he ever intends to make amends to every other friend that ended up an enemy...well, he contends that he never owed them anything.

What a dick.

Alliterate that!

2008-11-26T01:17:00.003-06:00

Ah, alliteration. It's the biggest elephant in the room at the figurative language zoo. It's hard to miss, and not so hard to write. Today, write a paragraph, poem, or piece of dialogue using alliteration at least three different times, with three different letters.

Particularly pesky, parasites pose a peculiar problem for pandas. Early evaluation evidences an evolving variation of very virulent and sometimes venomous strains of several species of Pseudophyllid cestodes (order pseudophyllidea), frequently referred to as the flatworm.

Word.

A long set up searching for a bad punchline...

2008-11-26T01:16:00.001-06:00

Synecdoche. It's not just a new Charlie Kaufman movie. Or a hard to spell word.It is, in fact:a term denoting a part of something is used to refer to the whole thing, or a term denoting a thing (a "whole") is used to refer to part of it, or a term denoting a specific class of thing is used to refer to a larger, more general class, or a term denoting a general class of thing is used to refer to a smaller, more specific class, or a term denoting a material is used to refer to an object composed of that material.The use of synecdoche is a common way to emphasize an important aspect of a fictional character; for example, a character might be consistently described by a single body part, such as the eyes, which come to represent the character. This is often used when the main character does not know or care about the names of the characters that he/she is referring to. (for more info on the term and some examples, click here)Your turn. Write a short piece of fiction using synecdoche as a major component.

The Eye watched traffic pass as he stood on the curb waiting for The Car. Always late, The Car was never dependable enough to be counted on, but sometimes, rides were needed so he would have to do. Time passed and The Eye acknowledged him. Typical of Time, he was on the move and couldn't be stopped. It was no good calling him once he'd passed because nothing could turn him back. It's not like he stood still or waited for anyone. Once was Time was out, that was it. only The Mind knew how to occupy him long enough to get anything done. As for The Eye, he just took it all in as it happened around him.

The Car finally arrived, fifteen minutes late.
-No problem, he said. I'll get us there.

The Eye didn't believe it. Suddenly The Car tore off and bolted down the street. He was speeding to make up for being late, so it wasn't much of a problem, they'd never been to this place before and The Eye was having a hard time reading the signs. It was time for small talk.

-What'd you do today?
-Drove around...and you?
-Watched a movie.
-All day?
-No. Then we went to eat.
-We? Who'd you go with?
-The Mouth.
-Should've known.

And on it went. Sometimes The Eye couldn't see the point in all this. It seems trivial. But The Car, once he got going, he kept on and on. The Car could veer from one topic to another, turning on a dime. Road trips were the worst with him. He'd just run and run until he had to make a pit stop. Then, at the drop of a hat, he was off again. Tonight, The Eye tried to make a go of being engaging, but he was distracted and had trouble focusing.

It wasn't always like this. Before he came to depend on The Car so much, he and Legs, his roommate from Corpus, used to walk all over town. It was nicer then, 'cos Legs was much slower. The Eye could take everything in as they strolled through the city. He felt more in charge of his life because Legs invariably went wherever The Eye led. This pace suited The Eye just fine. And one thing they could both agree on was they hated trying to keep up with their other roommate, Hands. He was quicker than both of them when he wasn't busy being idle. He was so obnoxious that they thought about cutting him off, but that would have been as stupid as when they cut off The Nose, just to spite what's-his-face. What's-his-face didn't care since he spent more time in a mirror than showing up outside.

The were close now and The Eye suddenly realized he might run into someone he didn't want to see.
-Dick's not gonna be there is he?
-Probably not.
-I hope not. The last time we were there, it was a regular Dick-fest.
-It was his birthday. I wouldn't worry about it. He doesn't come too often. He and Hands usually stay home and play.
-Play?
-XBox.
-Oh.

The Car turned into the lot and drove around looking for a space. He was anxious to meet The Girl. The Eye wasn't looking forward to all the bright lights and the cigarette smoke, but he did like standing by the dance floor and passing judgement. But he wasn't off the hook.
-I told The Girl to bring a friend.

The Eye could suddenly see that this was a set up. Far from being irritated, he was open to the idea.
-Good. The last thing I wanted was for The Girl to take off with you and leave me stranded. She cute?
-Of course. She's in entertainment.
-What's she do?
-She works for a music video channel...She's a V.J.
-Nice.

Not a drop to drink

2008-11-26T01:15:00.003-06:00

Oh my gosh, I totally suck. Write whatever you want today. I promise I will have my head in the game for the last week...

I have no water. Again. Everyday this week, at midday, the water has gone off as men in machines dig a hole in the parking lot of my apartment complex. Yesterday the power went out as well, so I guess I should count myself as lucky today. Today I just can't wash dishes. Or shower. Or boil noodles. Or clean produce. I'm hungry and I smell a little bit, so I'm cranky.

If this lasts more than another hour, I'll have to leave the airlock and venture outside. I've already left once today and I don't like to make a habit of it on the weekend. Especially since I have to leave later to take Mandy to the airport.

Cest La Vie

Labi Siffre - I Got The...

Touched By The Hand Of God

2008-11-26T01:14:00.005-06:00

So, last night, 3 members of this group went to a little bar that used to be known as the Crazy Lady. Needless to say, there were plenty of crazy ladies in the room, most of whom were at our table.

Write a short bio about a crazy lady you know.

She walked around in bare feet. All year long, regardless of the weather. Palms up. Head tilted slightly upward. Eyes closed except when she needed them to navigate her way. She went around in constant communication with her Lord above. She murmured in earnest communion with an unseen presence that comforted her and charmed her and beguiled her. But mostly, it made her do things.

I was told she had been beautiful once. That must have been long before even my parents' day. No one could confuse her for beautiful anymore. Her hair was a tangle of knots. There were traces of burn scars on her lower face. She cared little for her actual appearance and often took to walking around town in a house dress, even in the rain. I can remember on several occasions, driving past as the cops had pulled up and were trying desperately to convince her to put on the coat they had brought for her. She just stood there with her serene smile in mute incomprehension. Mostly, it always ended with someone being called to claim responsibility for her.

The voice came to her when she was younger. I don't know when, but onset for this type of thing occurs in early adulthood. She was probably in her early twenties and the latest. Like the Maid Of Orleans, she would believe, for the remainder of her life, that she had been touched by the Divine hand. And like the French peasant girl, she was given purpose and meaning. She was given instructions. She was given orders. But, this was not the voice of Saint Michael inspiring a girl to reclaim a kingdom for Charles VII. This disembodiment had much more modest objectives.

She resisted at first. Anyone would have, even someone in such a compromised mental state. The voice was calm and reasoning. He explained his motives. He was sincere. At first, her sense of self preservation was too strong. But he was persistent and persuasive. She became more resolute. He became louder. In the end, she gave in.

She imagined herself as Abraham on Moriah. She imagined herself as Isaac, walking alongside his father, carrying his wooden pallet up the very same hill. They were one and the same, in her, playing out the storied drama of sacrifice and supplication. The father, prepared to sacrifice the thing he valued above all else. The son, willingly acquiescing to his father's decision. All in the name of faith. Til the very last, she truly believed that if her actions were sincere, if her fealty was true and she went forward with his command, an angel would appear. The Angel of God would stay her hand at the very last moment and she would be rewarded for her actions. This was the thought that gave her strength as she took the pot of water from the stove and put the rim to her lips. The roiling water and thick steam was almost too much to bear. Her hands was firm and resolute as the voice whispered in her ear about holiness and purification. The voice told her it was time to drink. She opened her mouth and tilted back the pot. The Angel of God never arrived.

When the end came, the real end, she had made the transformation from tragic figure to Bruja Morena. She was our Lechusa. Our Baba Yaga. She was La Llorona. She was the thing that children dreaded in the night as they lay in the comfort and safety of their beds. The figure that would drive them screaming back to their homes. With false courage they would mock her as they rode by in the security of a passing car, only to regret it should they ever encounter her walking down the street alone. She was the personification of our nightmares. She was a sadly ill woman. To my knowledge, she never harmed anyone other than herself.

Conjecture can only fill in so much blank space so her ultimate motives will forever be in question. Perhaps she grew tired of the voice. Or perhaps the voice simply had one last request for one more show of faith. Maybe she was simply called home.

On a Friday in mid Autumn, she left the house where she lived with an extended family member and went for her walk. The air was still cool and humid from a rainstorm in the early morning and the day was quite pleasant. She made her way through town, taking her usual route past the County Courthouse and the Library and walked up the overpass located near the center of town. This was the path she walked everyday, but this time she stopped at the top. Passing traffic ignored her. Witnesses say she took her shoes off and laid them on the ground where she stood. She extended her arms, skyward, and stood up along the railing. By now, traffic had come to a stop and people left their cars to try to stop her. A few left their cars for a better look. Before anyone could pull her back, she simply let herself fall forward and dropped to the railroad tracks below. She landed on her head and died on impact.

I don't use her real name because this is a true story.

George Harrison - Beware Of Darkness

Between the devil...

2008-11-25T22:41:00.010-06:00

Sorry guys, but this is what happens when a drunken party girl tries to run a writer's workshop. Ah, beans. Such lovely legumes. The more you eat, the more you make fumes.In the tradition of raunchy child rhymes and fairy tales about giants, write a piece (poem, song, story, whatever) with the bean as your central focus.

Maggie Bean Weasley tore through town in a candy apple red Mustang. And a devil would follow. And by Mustang, I mean Mustang. A real one. '69. Not one of those steroid excuse for a cars that pass for Detroit engineering nowadays. This one had torque, it drank lots of gasoline and it went real fast. Not fast enough to outrun Penn, aka the Devil, but any distance she could put between him and her soul was at least a good head start. And she was gonna need at least that to get some thinking time in. By the time he started after her, she'd have at least four hours on him. That gave her about ten hours total before he found her again.

As she kept her foot on the pedal and one eye on the road, she kept stealing quick glances at the box on the passenger seat. Beautiful dark Mahogany with an ornate carving on the face. A Berbalang. A type of Filipino vampire. The relief on the face showed a Berbalang feasting on the entrails of a dead child. The detail on the box was fine enough that you could make out the ghoul's cat eyes and bird wings. You could also make out the smile on it's face. As Maggie Bean contemplated the box, she could feel the warm pulse and hear the quiet hum that came from inside it. She could also make out the fetid smell that it emitted. The devil on her shoulder tried it's best to convince her to open it, but she was too aware of the other devil, the one she left behind, to give in.

Not "The" Devil. "A" Devil. There were more than one. Oh, there was the big one. The Morning Star. The one who led in the war against creation. This wasn't him. This one was one of the others. That didn't make him any less...devilish. He called himself Penn. Maggie Bean knew that much. By now, she also knew that he wasn't a writer. Or rather, he didn't write for Scenic Review. He lied about that. He lied about having a son. He lied about working the program and having one dry year under his belt. God knows where he got the chip, but Maggie Bean suspected he probably stole that along with everything else from some bastard. Probably the one that rightfully owned the name Penn as well. She tried not to think about him, but kept remembering his smell. A faint trace of mothball and body odor. His sausage fingers always yellow from eating Cheetos and mustard. A perpetual stain on his shirt or trousers. He had the leer of an alligator floating in brackish water, contemplating an antelope. He'd just as soon eat you as let you pass if the mood suited him.

As Maggie Bean drove on, she was quite unaware of her speed. She knew she was hauling ass, but she just hadn't noticed how many horses she was using to haul the ass in question. Not that that would have slowed her down. It's always best to err on the side of caution when trying to outrun and 6000 year old Nabassu demon. The important thing was to keep moving. When this started, it had been about the box. As far as Maggie Bean was concerned, it was still about the box. That was what started this and if she was lucky, that would end it. But she also knew that Penn felt otherwise. She had pissed him off. For Penn, it was now about her. He could not keep going with his plan without the box, but he could always find the box later. He'd already waited 300 years, so patience was an attribute that had honed to a needle point. The box could wait. She would be the first item on his list. And when he found her, he would put his needle point patience to work and take his time with her.

She had almost made to the end of town and was coming up on the last light before the highway opened up again. She had managed to snake her way through most of lights without running a red, but her luck was about to run out. Up ahead, waiting on a light change, there were two cars, each taking up one of the two West bound lanes. She contemplated running the light by swerving into the turn lane when she noticed that the car in the outside lane was a powder blue Crown Victoria, the tell tale sign of an unmarked police car. The light turned green, but it was too late. Maggie Bean tried to reduce speed, but she was going far too fast. As the two cars ahead started to move forward, Maggie Bean's brakes locked and her car started to pivot left. The fact that the Crown Victoria and the Bonneville had started to move forward probably saved more than one life. If either car had been at a full stop when she hit, the impact alone would have killed her. She would have killed the cop as well. The driver of the Bonneville would have been fine. Instead, they had already started to move forward.

There was an instantly familiar high pitched squeal as the Mustang fishtailed and slammed into the back of both cars on it's passenger side. The sound of the crash was tremendous and brief. The force of impact was dissipated between the two forward moving cars, but it was an impact nonetheless. Maggie Bean was driven to her right, toward a wall of steel and a mangle of broken glass, but her seat belt mostly kept her in place. She stopped her trajectory with a snap and briefly had time to wonder if Penn would still follow her if she were dead.

The cop in the Crown Victoria was either unconscious or still stunned from the collision because he was not moving. The driver of the Bonneville staggered out of the car and fell to his hands and knees in the middle of the road. He coughed a few times and looked like he was trying to catch his breath. With slight difficulty, he straightened up and got on one knee. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Slowly, he placed his hands on his raised knee and pushed himself up on two unsteady legs. He opened his eyes and had started to shuffle toward Maggie Bean's car when he noticed that his trunk had been jarred open in the crash. He suddenly lunged forward, throwing all of his weight on the trunk and slammed it shut. He looked over at the still unmoving policeman, and then turned toward the Mustang. As he came around to the driver side door, Maggie noticed that he was quite handsome. Disarmingly so. As leaned in through the window, he smiled and Maggie Bean suddenly felt comforted in spite of the taste of blood in her mouth and the rancid smell in the air.

"You're going to be okay, Alice..." he said.

Maggie was about to correct him, to tell him that her name wasn't Alice, when she noticed something on the floorboard of the passenger side.

The Mahogany Box had broken open.

U.N.K.L.E. - Rabbit In Your Headlights

The bubblies, yo! The bubblies!

2008-11-21T00:04:00.000-06:00

Words can be just as powerful at evoking strong physical reactions as images or smells. Use your words to truly gross out a reader. You can write about an experience from your past or just create something. It just needs to be really, really disgusting.

1.
His soft piglet flesh smelled like softness and flowers. Just like babies are supposed to. That part never changed. The taste, however, was different every time. It always depended on the age. A newborn was always the most tender and was also the sweetest. Like honey glazed ham. With every month that passed though, the meat got less and less tender. By the time they were toddlers, it almost wasn't worth the time it took to snatch them. But if they were fresh, like this one, well...his stomach was rumbling just thinking about the first bite.

2.
The open sore on Colin's heel was giving off a strange odor. Maybe wearing his shoes without socks was a bad idea. At first he thought someone had left a jar of pickled eggs out, but the there was an added spice of bologna to the smell that made him investigate. As it was, he didn't really think to check himself until he realized the cat had been following him and nipping at his ankle, trying to lick at his foot.

3.
I knew this one was gonna be an epic shit. I'd been fighting a case of the bubblies all day and I'd come close to unloading in my pants twice already. As it was, I'd accidentally sharted on the way in to the toilet and had to peel the drawers out of my ass crack. All was going well, until I reached up to scratch my nose and noticed the brown stain on my fingertip...

yeah, that's all I got right now.

Cypress Hill - When The Shit Goes Down

Evolution Revolution

2008-11-19T22:20:00.001-06:00

Ever been to a burlesque show? A little strip tease, a little dancing, a little entertainment…Actually, burlesque shows are classically more about comedy and parody than they are about the jiggling, but who’s counting?Burlesque literature, however, contains no boobs. From answers.com: Burlesque: A literary or dramatic work that ridicules a subject either by presenting a solemn subject in an undignified style or an inconsequential subject in a dignified style.Typically written in poem form, burlesque is a classic literary tradition often used in Spain and Italy, with Cervantes one of the most prolific writers in this style.

Yeah, I gotta say this one kicked my ass more than the 1000 word challenge. I couldn't write a true burlesque in the confines of a sonnet, as hard as I tried. This was the best I could do in the 24 hours i gave myself to write this...

While walking home along the Quai d'orsay
Recalling days at school. I reminisced
Of evolutionary naturalist,
One Jean Baptiste Pierre Antoine de Monet

Contemporary of Lavoisier
He criticised his view on chemistry
Disdainful to a tolerable degree
Of theories set forth by Georges Cuvier

Was also known as Jean-Baptiste Lamarck
His theory was the topic of his day
Much like Charles Darwin and Pangenesis

He said paternal aspects were the spark
That carried over through our DNA
Lamarckism’s not easily dismissed

Folk Implosion - Natural One

You're the best! Nothing's ever gonna keep you down!

2008-11-18T22:21:00.000-06:00

It's National _____ Day! Yay! These days, there's a National Day for most things, but surely there are a few, lonely spots on the calendar that need filling. Create your own National Day (make sure it doesn't already exist, first). Be sure to pick a date for it, and give it a happy name. Let the world know about your day by writing a short press release with all of the vital information.

American Society for the Supreme Appreciation of Ralph Macchio

Contact: Mel Melman
Tel: 555/432-1111
Cell: 555/678-9999
Email: melman@assarm.com

A.S.S.A.R.M. Announces the official adoption of Macchio Day

Tomorrow, the favorite son of Huntington, Long Island finally gets his due when President George W. Bush formally signs a bill declaring the first Monday in November a national holiday honoring the work of American icon, Ralph Macchio.

Born November 4, 1961, Macchio first came to prominence in the early 1980’s as a feature player on the television series Eight Is Enough. His breakthrough role came as the troubled youth Johnny Cade in the film adaptation of S.E. Hinton’s classic novel, The Outsiders in 1983.

The following year, Macchio appeared in the title role of a little movie called the Karate Fucking Kid. He was off the hook. He was so off the hook that he made the movie again two more times. Proof of his talent came when they tried to make the movie a fourth time, only this time with some horse-faced girl. They did not think anyone would notice, but the movie tanked. Seriously.

In signing the bill, President Bush praised Macchio’s performance as a model of perseverance. He said, "Daniel San is an inspiration to all Americans. When Johnny swept his leg on the orders of evil Chuck Norris, Daniel San could have stayed down. He could have listened to the crowd and obeyed the timetables and left the field. But that would have meant leaving as a loser. Just showing up and making it through the first fight should have made him the winner. His mission was accomplished. But instead, he had to stay and fight for longer than he expected. That’s cool. He stayed and fought as long as he had to and he beat the terrorists…9/11!"

Observation will begin in 2009.

Helen Love - Beat Him Up

Take that, Hummel!

2008-11-18T22:20:00.001-06:00

Ah, Craigslist. You can do just about anything there, from selling a couch to picking up a date, to buying sold out concert tickets, to finding a job. Pick a category on Craigslist where you might not normally find yourself. Create an ad that really stands out to a potential customer/date/job prospect. Remember, pictures always help get your ad looked at more often.

I am selling 2 brand new Nightshade brand collectible figurines, "MUFFET" and "BUTTERCUP". They are brand new and still in the box. Nightshade brand hand-carved sculptures by Hervil LeBarron whisper to the soul in unsettling ways, disturbing, discomforting, and inspiring dread. They identify emotions and fears so private that we only speak of them in the daylight and then render them in simple gestures of pure evil. They are 9" tall. Priced at $15.....call 555/432-1111

(Actual sculptures by http://www.sharyboyle.com/)

Spoon - Figures Of Art

(ps: to download songs, highlight and click divshare logo on the player bar, then follow the links)

Accidents Happen

2008-11-18T22:19:00.001-06:00

Time, so often, is not actually on our side. Pick a day from your past week, and recreate the day as it went along, in a time-stamp format (see below). Make your day as interesting as possible to a reader.

My day is boring. Even my work day goes something like
2:30 Run Paperbacks
4:00 Work on Sports section
5:00 Lunch
6:00 Buy counter
8:00 Register
etc.

not glamorous. So instead, I'll give you a taste of the level of ridiculousness involved in the damned video game I'm currently involved in.

Day in the life of Bubs the Assassin. (For some reason, anytime I have the option to name a character, he's always named Bubs.)

8:00 Awake from deep slumber and uneasy dreams with a fierce hunger and a throbbing headache.

8:05 Step outside of my cabin and immediately take damage from the sunlight outside. (This is the part where I explain that my character has been turned into a Vampire and until he finds a cure, he's moderately vulnerable to sunlight. Feeding off another character temporarily alleviates this problem, allowing him to walk in the daylight, but sleeping starts the cycle over again. It's a pain in the ass.)

8:06 Haul ass across town to the alley where Fralav the Faker sleeps. If I move fast enough, I can catch this homeless beggar still sleeping on his bedroll. As I run, I start to smoke and lose life points because of the sun damage.

8:10 Arrive in the alley and feed off a still sleeping Fralav. The smoking stops and I cast a healing spell to repair the damage I've taken. I'm spotted by a city guard who thinks I'm trying to rob the sleeping beggar. I haul ass again.

8:15 Exit the Imperial City gates and travel by horse to the nearby city of Cheydinhal to meet with my superior at the Assassins guild.

10:15 Receive assignment to kill a man named Baenlin from the nearby town of Bruma in a very specific manner. Since it has to look like an accident, I'm given a detailed set of instructions to follow.

10:20 Leave for Bruma

12:30 Arrive at the Bruma city gates and proceed to Baenlin's house.

12:35 Pick the lock on the basement entrance and enter the house. Once inside, sneak through the basement and up to the main house. Carefully avoiding detection by Baenlin's manservant Gromm, make my way to the second floor. This is especially important since killing anyone aside from the intended victim will void the bonus that I earn for a clean kill.

12:38 Once on the second floor, move to the master bedroom and find the hidden passage behind the bed. Once inside, move to far end of the wall and find the bolts on the wall. The bolts hold up a stuffed Minotaur head that's mounted on the wall above Baenlin's chair in the living room. The idea is to wait for Baenlin to sit down for his evening reading session and then loosen the bolt, bringing the Minotaur head crashing down on him. He sits down to read every evening between 8 and 11.

1:00 Wait

2:00 Wait

3:00 Wait

4:00 Wait

5:00 Wait
(it should be noted that though the game clock does move at an accelerated pace, this mission still required some realtime waiting until the dude got home. I left the game running with my character crouching in a dark closet, while I walked away and did dishes and made a burger.)

6:00 Wait

7:00 Wait

8:03 Hearing voices on the other side of the wall, I listen until I'm sure Baenlin is sitting down where he should be. I loosen the bolt and the stuffed head falls off the wall, instantly killing the mark. In the ensuing chaos, I easily sneak through the house, back through the basement and out into the night.

10:20 Arrive back in Cheydinhal and report to my guild superior.

10:25 Receive payment for the kill and a bonus for following the assignment to the letter.

10:30 Find random sleeping beggar named Luckless Lucina in an alley and feed just for shits and giggles. This isn't necessary, but hey I'm a Vampire.

10:35 Being away from home, I find a bed at the Newlands Lodge.

10:36 Sleep and start this dirty business all over again tomorrow.

This is my life...

Gnarls Barkley - Would Be Killer

This Boy's Life

2008-11-16T11:17:00.000-06:00

Today is America Recycles Day. Think of something in your past: an item, a person, an event, a feeling, that you wish you could recycle and write about it.

This one provides a bit of a conundrum. It comes down to the interpretation of recycle. Do again, or do over. Not sure. Definitely not a do-over, I don't think. Do-overs are for the regretful and there's no regrets for those who are happy with who they are. This has nothing to do with being happy where you are. For that, you need lots and lots of money...

But, a do-again...That, I can get behind.

But what day? I could get maudlin and say I want to relive something standard like the day I got married or the day my child was born, but since I'm neither married, nor a parent, that would just be silly. I could relive the day I was born, but that would just be creepy. But, somewhere in between those two days, there is one in particular that I seem to remember being the finest, purest most enjoyable I've ever had, and oddly enough, it just occurred to me as I say here bullshitting about what to write.

June 12, 1982:

If this were a movie, "Come On Eileen" by Dexy's Midnight Runners would be playing over the credit sequence. (BTW, am I the only one who watches movies set in the 80's and thinks shit like, "no way that song would be playing. it wasn't released until the Christmas of that year and that scene is so obviously taking place in June!" Am I the only one?)

This was the point in my life when I had around two friends and didn't really do anything with them outside of school, so I spent a lot of quality me time. This would become something that I came to find desirous in my adult life, but it was also something that puzzled the shit out of my parents. Typical of the parents of bookish nerds, they really wanted a more outgoing, socially acclimated child, but that one really wasn't going to work out for them. I remember one birthday in particular (and it might very well and most likely could have been the one that followed this particular day) when, in lieu of presents,I was given by various relatives and family friends a princely sum of money to spend as I saw fit. It was about $120, which in the halcyon dawn of the Reagan administration was equal to about $300 in today's economy. My mom had only one directive as I took off the mall to spend my ill gotten booty. "Don't spend it on books!" Seriously? They had no clue how easy they had it. Less fortunate mothers would have directed their child to avoid spending money on Meth or hookers. I spent it on books anyway, and it was well spent, as I still own a few of the books I bought that day. Books about Ninjas! It was a good time to be a boy in 1982.

It it was a good day to be alive on June 12. Having few (no) friends and needing, apparently, to spend time outside of the house, I would often convince my mom to let me spend a Saturday at the mall. Sure, lots of kids did this, but not many actually had to tell their parents that they were actually meeting other people there, so they wouldn't be alone all day. Spending the day alone was as bad as spending the day in my room as far as my parents were concerned. So, I would tell them that I was meeting Mark or Bobby at the mall later, so they just had to drop me off out front and wait for my call five or six hours later, letting them know that I was ready to be picked up. They usually gave me about ten bucks to spend, and I was off.

Sitting here recalling the details of that time, I'm at an utter loss at trying to figure out just what the hell I managed to do for more than three hours let alone five or six. I was still at that age where a trip to the toy store wasn't totally out of the question, but I was venturing towards other new areas of the store and starting to avoid the more traditional aisles I used to haunt. Star Wars action figures no longer held sway with me and the following year, when Return of The Jedi was released, would mark the first time I made no effort to acquire the new Star Wars merchandise. I was starting to spend more time spying at the mysterious books and boxes of D&D related materials that they kept behind the glass case, but I think the side of the game recommended it for ages 12 and up, and guidelines like that held a powerful grip on my mother. It would be another year before that particular obsession was unloosed up the world.

There was also the bookstore of course. I could burn more than an hour in there. Again, it was a very transitional time in my life and my tastes were slowly taking shape. I had fairly typical interests for a kid my age and my purchases had reflected that. I was really into books about monster movies for a time. Anything that had any information about monster movies, especially Universal Studios classic line up (Dracula/Frankenstein/Wolfman) was right up my alley. It was also the tail end of the Silver Age for "Famous Monsters of Filmland" magazine and I snatched those up at the bookstore whenever I could. There were also a few video game guides that I had picked up along the way to help me beat Pacman, but those were mostly wasted, since I got really tired of that game long before it reached pop culture overload. By the time Buckner and Garcia released the song "Pacman Fever", I had moved on to "Frogger". I had yet to get into Fantasy fiction, but I did still have Ninjas going for me, so that was cool.

With the toy store done, and the bookstore browsed, that left the movie theater. That's why I wonder what the hell I did with myself for all that time. Circus World, B. Dalton's and The Cinema 3. That was it. That's like three hours max. Maybe, if I was hungry, I could kill another half hour at Giovanni's Pizza where you could get a slice and a Coke for $1.50. I had not yet become the stylish fashion plate that I would be, so Chess King was not on my agenda. Thriller was still five months away so pop music was not on my radar at all. There was no reason to go to Music Express. That left the pet store and K-Mart. Who knows what I did with myself.

But I have digressed. Cue Music.

June 12 1982:
Standard weekend operating procedure. My mom dropped me off at the back entrance of Plaza Del Sol Mall with ten bucks in my hand and an entire afternoon to blow. It was just past noon and I had one thing in mind. Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan had opened last week and this was my first chance to see it. In the decades that followed, anthropologists would come to refer to 1982 as the greatest year ever for Sci-Fi cinema. (A few even say that it was the greatest year ever for cinema in general) Tron, The Thing, The Dark Crystal, Conan The Barbarian, Blade Runner and Poltergeist were only six of the all time classics that would open that year. Wrath of Khan was another. I'd never been a fan of the original show (still not) and I only had a vague recollection of the first film, but for some reason, I was super stoked to see the sequel. Maybe it was the presence of sex god Ricardo Montalban. He was Mr. Roark after all. Or maybe the power of the Shatner really does conquer all. That white hot quasar of manliness can quite convincing, or at least he used to be until he got all homophobic AND bitchy (figure that one out).

It was sublime. Any Trekker in the know will tell you that Wrath Of Khan is without qualification, the greatest movie in the series, by leaps and bounds. This was as good as it was gonna get. Earwigs, Evil Chekhov, hot Kirstie Alley (?!?!?), dead Spock. And the greatest dying villain soliloquy since Richard III.

(at about the 5:00 mark)
"For hate's sake, I spit my last breath at thee!"
-Khan Noonien Singh

Before I knew anything could be the shit, THIS WAS THE SHIT! I remember watching the closing credits all the way through, just trying to soak in as much of the movie that I could. I was the last one left in the theatre when the lights came up and the kid with the broom came in. I was a little wobble legged and night blind (not much has changed) and I started to stagger out of the room.

The Cinema3 in the mall had three screens. (I know this sounds paltry, but until it opened Del Rio had an old style movie palace, a discount run theatre and a drive in. The Cinema3 doubled the number of movies that could play in town, at least for a few years. Eventually, lack of business killed the other three, and Del Rio was back to square one. ) Wrath of Khan wasn't the most recent movie, but it was the more profitable so it was playing on the biggest screen at the furthest end of the place. When I walked out, I was dazzled by the light and noise and was not in my right mind. I was sure I wasn't ready to go home, but I didn't know what to do next. I passed the middle screen door and was more than halfway to the exit when I suddenly decided that I wasn't done yet. Sensing a rare moment of unobserved privacy, I hung a quick right and walked into the smallest screen, which ironically was screening the most recent release:

GREASE 2!

Yeah, I know. But buzz off! I was 11. And Michelle Pfeiffer was hot. Because of the end time of the last movie, I came in about 20 minutes late. Having missed some very important expository information, I was so confused that it took me almost 2 minutes to figure out what the hell was going on. Who's the new kid? What's with Zmed's hair? Isn't that the same villain from the first movie? What the fuck is Frenchy doing here? Is this for real? I'm so confused!!!

I was spent. And hungry. When Grease 2 was over, I went to the pizza joint and got a slice and a Coke and I was pondering my options. I could probably go home now and consider this a day well spent, but that would run counter to the instincts of any adolescent boy. Why be happy when you can be overloaded. Is there time for more, then have too much. I checked my watch and walked back toward the theatre. I checked the marquee and confirmed that I still had time to get into the next showing of the only movie I hadn't seen yet. I had to walk all the way back to the center of the mall to use the payphone. There was one in the cinema, but I couldn't get in without buying a ticket and I wanted to be sure that my parents were cool with what I wanted to do. If they said no, I'd have had to leave and would have wasted the ticket. Back then, the $2.50 matinee admission was a lot of money to me. The parents were cool with it and I raced back to the movies to get there on time. I gave the girl my money for the second time that day and ran through the doors for screen 2 just as the lights were going down. I found a free seat during the previews and waited for the movie to start.

Cue music again:

Risin' up, back on the street
Did my time, took my chances
Went the distance, now I'm back on my feet
Just a man and his will to survive

Arguably the second best film in the Rocky franchise (this is an accurate statement since most people tend to forget that not only did the first film win an Oscar for best picture, it really was a fantastic film), Rocky III took what brains I had left that weren't scrambled from Star Trek, and put them in the blender, pureed them and served them back to my in a tall iced glass with a pineapple umbrella garnish. Stallone was in genuine (non-grotesque) fighting shape and Mr.T was batshit scary. It may seem ridiculous today, but contrary to his post A Team media friendly persona, Mr T was once a bad mother fucker. I actually remember seeing him win the title of "World's Toughest Bouncer" in 1980 during a televised competition, and as Eddie Murphy so eloquently put it, "he don't look like he can't fight." Between fighting Mr T, and Hulk Hogan playing an over the top wrestler named "Thunder Lips", Stallone took a hell of an ass whuppin in the movie. And I was in heaven. Another unexpected death during the movie brought the day full circle back to the surprise death in Star Trek. The day was complete.

Now, I want to go on record and say that by this point in the day, I was not thinking too clearly and can't be held responsible for my actions. In the cold harsh light of today, I realize that mistakes were made, but there can be no going back. But I did what I did and I can't change that. Furthermore, I'm not sorry.

Remember when I said that for an adolescent boy enough isn't enough if too much is an option? Here's too much.

Walking out of the theatre, I glanced back at the marquee, checked my watch and then checked my pocket. I had five minutes and $2.50 to spare. Just enough time and money to catch one more. And which one did I choose? The one whose opening I'd missed. Yes my friends, i turned around, got back in line and payed my cash money to watch Grease f'ing 2 one more time, all because didn't see the beginning the first time. LOSER!

By the time I got out, it was dark and I was hungry again. I finally called home and asked them to pick me up. As I sat outside on the benches, I was tingling with the kind of giddy nervous energy that comes from lack of sleep. That third wind that hits you at about 8 the following morning when you're trying to decide whether it's worth trying to catch some sleep or whether you should say "fuck it" and stay up through work later that afternoon since any sleep you do get will only make you feel worse. It may seem totally "Stand By Me" to say it, but I think that even then I was aware that I would never have a day quite like that again. First there was the logistical matter of bringing three movie of such magnificent quality together again. It was the Great Conjunction, a once in a century occurrence that you never recognize until you see it in the rear view mirror of your past. Secondly, I knew that in spite of my too much is never enough attitude, I knew that if I did this all the time, it would cease to become that cool thing I did and become that thing I do all the time. You know, like masturbation.

My mom pulled up and I got in the car. She asked me if I had fun with my friends. I said yes. As we drove home, I still couldn't stop thinking about Wrath Of Khan. It was one of the best movies I'd ever seen, and I didn't think that I would see another movie that good all year. A week later, E.T. would open its local run. I had the whole world ahead of me and it was a good time to be a dork.

write!

2008-11-15T09:07:00.000-06:00

In Lectures on Literature (1980), Vladimir Nabokov writes that "the good reader is one who has imagination, memory, a dictionary, and some artistic sense - which sense I propose to develop in myself and in others whenever I have the chance." Of those listed, which do you think is most important to being a good reader? How does that translate to writing? Is a good reader the same as being a good writer?

"Description begins in the writer’s imagination, but should finish in the reader’s."
-Stephen King "On Writing"

Reading and writing come down to the same thing, imagination. Without that, you can go no further. Or rather, you could, but what would be the point. From a reading perspective, imagination is the key to the door. From a writing perspective, imagination is the door.

Who hasn't, as a child, sat with eyes closed trying to "see" action as it is described in a story. From the earliest age, its imagination that makes the journey worth taking. Retention, vocabulary and aesthetic, those things come later. They serve to decorate they scene and enhance the experience, but without the primary component of imagination, there seems to be little point.

That the same goes for writing would seem to be self evident, but it bear noting that it is possible to be a writer, and a successful one at that, with a very limited imagination. A good writer diversifies. A great writer utilizes an additional, or even all four of Nabokov's tools and does so in a skillful manner. Whether it's Neil Gaiman's aesthetic, Stephen King's epic recollection of his own work and or Cormac McCarthy's shame inducing vocabulary, these qualities are used in conjunction with boundless imagination. And it's usually these qualities that the readers of these particular authors share with them. Though not necessary, enjoyment of Stephen King's Dark Tower series is enhanced if you've read and recall details from the almost 40 years his fiction that get referenced throughout. And try reading ANY Cormac McCarthy novel without a vocabulary, or at the very least a comprehensive dictionary.

Does being a good reader translate to being a good writer? No more than being a baseball fan makes you a good player. But above all, being a good writer means being a good reader. Without a love and appreciation of the medium, well, what's the point? Again, King provides the definitive opinion on the subject.

"If you don't have time to read, you don't have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that."
-Stephen King

Morrissey - Reader Meet Author

Old Kid On The Block

2008-11-13T10:12:00.000-06:00

11/13: From cooking breakfast to creating a blog, most of the things we do in our day-to-day lives involve a process. In a process analysis essay, you write to explain how to do something or how something works. Pick anything that you do in your daily life and write an interesting process analysis of it.

Good Process Analysis:
• Either helps readers perform the steps themselves or helps them understand how something works
• Presents the essential steps in a process
• Explains steps in detail
• Presents steps in logical order (usually time order - chronological)

Life, like anything else, is a process. All things can be reduced to a series of actions that lead to equal and complimentary opposing reactions. Like The Fixx sang, "One thing leads to another". This is especially true in the matter of love and most true in matters of seduction. Dale Carnegie, author of the best selling advice tome "How To Win Friends and Influence People" has much to say relating to matters of the life. Many are equally applicable to matters of the bedroom. They say that fortune favors the bold and chance favors the prepared. But Love, or at the very least Lust...Lust requires a list. A list that lays out your every move, step by step.

Step 1:
Have lots of fun.
Enjoy yourself. Never forget that you and your partner are there for the primary purpose of pleasure. Mutual and personal. Otherwise there is no point whatsoever. This is the key to success in everything. Remember the words of Dale Carnegie who said "People rarely succeed unless they have fun in what they're doing".

Step 2:
There's so much we can do.
Part of having fun is actually doing something stimulating. Fun rarely happens when you're home doing nothing. Be active. This doesn't necessarily mean that you must leave the house, but those activities are addressed in a later step. For now, concentrate on spending time in active pursuit with the partner of your choice in a public forum. Dinner, movies and dancing are all valid options, but more opened minded people may consider art openings and poetry readings. Just do something. Again, Carnegie delivers the authoritative opinion on the matter. He says, "Inaction breeds doubt and fear. Action breeds confidence and courage. If you want to conquer fear, do not sit home and think about it. Go out and get busy."

Step 3:
It's just you and me.
Now comes the time for privacy as a couple. Though either of the above steps can and initially should be performed in a social environment, the time will inevitably come when separation must occur. This may be the most important step of all. Without privacy, there is little chance of things progressing any further. Remember, public displays of affection are for perverts and deviants. God fearing people keep their business to themselves. And if you partner isn't willing? Carnegie reminds us that "there is only one way...to get anybody to do anything. And that is by making the other person want to do it." Be firm, but not forceful. Insist.

Step 4:
I can give you more.
This is the time for true seduction. Once you and your partner are alone together, the sales pitch begins. Emphasize you strong points. Hide your weaknesses. Pretend to be something you are not, if only for one night. Carnegie says "there are four ways, and only four ways, in which we have contact with the world. We are evaluated and classified by these four contacts: what we do, how we look, what we say, ans how we say it" Consider these points at shape yourself appropriately for the matter at hand. Be bright. Be funny. Be Smart. Be caring. Be attentive. Even if you're not.

Step 5:
Don't you know that the time has arrived.
Time for doing it. If you've followed steps 1 through 4, this last step should take care of itself. Even then, there are several Carnegie aphorisms that are quite applicable to the situation. This process as a whole can be accurately summed up when Carnegie says "Don't be afraid to give your best to what seemingly are small jobs. every time you conquer one, it makes you that much stronger. You do the little jobs well, the big ones will tend to take care of themselves." Though most people would interpret that statement as a reference to foreplay, it can be applied to the to the list of seduction in general. Performance anxiety is assuaged with Carnegie's reminder that "fear doesn't exist anywhere except the mind," and that "most of us have more courage than we ever dreamed possible." If in the midst of the action, you feel your faculties begin to fail, he admonishes that "our fatigue is often caused not by work, but by worry, frustration and resentment." Relax. You'll do just fine.

All quotes from Dale Carnegie.
All steps by Maurice Starr.

Do what, now?

2008-11-12T21:20:00.000-06:00

Think back to a word or phrase that you may have misheard as a child. Either write a story (memoir-style) about your misuse of the word OR write a story using the word in the context in which you originally understood it.

Out in the streets
The dogs are on the run
The cats are all in heat
Out in the streets
Snakes are all around you
Dirty rats are on their way
They control you and they'll make you pay

(written by Rudolf Schenker, Klaus Meine & Herman Rarebell AKA The SCORPIONS)

Anyone familiar with 80's power metal, knows the Scorpions, or The Mother F'ing Scorps in metal talk. Along with AC/DC, these guys are one of the most stereotypically metal bands in all of creation. They are the bands that Spinal Tap aspires to be. Just look at the lyrics. You get dogs. You get cats. No surprises there. They kinda go hand in hand in the animal world. Then come the snakes. Snakes are pretty metal, what with Satan disguising himself as one in the Garden. And Rats. Well, there was a HairMetal (a completely different sub section of the tree) band called Ratt that would one day tour with the Scorpions, or at least they should have if they didn't actually. All in all, this opening line from the song "Bad Boys Running Wild" (as bad boys are wont to do) is pretty balls heavy. It's no "knocking you out with those American thighs", but it'll do in a pinch.

And then we get to the last line. The last word really. And it all comes down, as it usually does, to pronunciation. You see lead singer Klaus Meine, German Gelfling Metal God that he is, cannot for the life of him manage to lose his German accent when he sings. It's one of the reasons he's so Metal. A song like "Still Loving You" comes out as "Steel Lahffing Yuuuu" with Umlauts over the u's. Hot, right? Anyway.

So back to those Bad Boys with their dogs and cats and snakes and rats. There they are, on the run, in heat, on the street, all around you, on their way, controlling you. And then they make you...

PEE!

That's what I heard and that's what I thought. Those Goddam Bad Boys with their wild running were planning on making me urinate in my pants. I'm mean, I suppose that's possible. What would YOU do if you were walking down the street and saw a crazed vicious menagerie storming toward you. Oh, maybe the dogs and cats are okay, but any gang that accepts both snakes and rats is a gang you don't want to fuck with. You might do your best to just avoid them altogether. In fact, the Scorpions themselves suggest as much later on in the song.

Bad boys running wild
If you don't play along with their games
Bad boys running wild
And you better get out of their way

Fucking Bad Boys. They would be a continued bane to my existence, what with staying out of their way, and then being asked a few years later what I was gonna do when they came for me (this, being the result of another misunderstanding. I didn't realize that the latter song in question was addressed to the Bad Boys themselves, rather than being a warning to ME). Incidentally, the true iconic representation of Bad Boys, has nothing to do with Will Smith and Martin Lawrence. Everyone knows that the real Bad Boys in question, and that's who the Scorpions sing about, are Sean Penn and Esai Morales.
Now I gotta go urinate in my pants.
Later

The Scorpions - Bad Boys Running Wild

Une Décharge

2008-11-12T13:13:00.000-06:00

It’s said that a picture is worth a thousand words. Upload a pic to your blog and write Exactly 1,000 words about it.

He skulks in the corner like Horwendill’s ghost, appraising my every action and judging me with the eye of the unavenged. I wear the mark of Feng and Gerutha, of incest and murder, with neither Amleth, nor Hamnet to speak council for me with wild, raging fury. And as the actor moves forth and back upon the trod and worn planks, I am captive to his whim. The ghost is hungry.

Faceless, nameless, without form, he speaks at dawn with the voice of kindness, but in the dark, the kindness turns to tremor and squall. I shudder in my bedclothes, throwing up useless defense as I scramble under the hospital linen and recite private catechism to the Lord in Heaven. If I should die before I wake, the slow torture of one thousand cuts awaits me on the other side. So, I sleep when no one watches. Someone always watches.

The man in the corner, the Nurse, the boy in the chair and the man inside my mouth. They all watch. They leer and smirk, taking small joy in my excruciation. They have been here from the beginning. They have always been. They know not of Before. They simply Are. And Will Be. Eternals of the Begotten. The Antecedents. Of a time before the Old Ones. The stuff of nightmares. And none more, than the Lurker.

In my time of dying, he means to hold me in bloody embrace and carry me away, yaup and wail echoing through the caverns of Charon. No Virgil, he will see me through the gate, without ceremony, my soul borne away to the place of its eternal display. I will be a trophy on a pedestal of humiliation and grief. Deuteronomy says that “the eternal God is thy refuge and underneath are the everlasting arms”, but I know that the arms that await me are not those of Jehovah. They are claw and talon and wing and scale and mouth and tongue and fang and appendage. But the everlasting, loving arms of God and Beatrice shall be eternally denied to me if the Jacob the Lurker has his way.

The Lurker. The Watcher. He spies upon me and remembers. A wicked vengeful grimace on his face betrays his intention. He whispers in the darkness and seduces. I hear, but I do not listen. When I turn away, I feel his foul sour breath upon the nape of my neck and feel his spider leg’s touch along my side. He strokes my arm and calls my name. It is better to turn and face him, for then he retreats, hidden by shadow. He will not face me. He bides his time.

The Nurse comes at noon with her poisons. She has philtres and tonics and tablets of hallucination. She says she means to help me. She means to make me well. But I know she lies as well. They all lie. Her capsules weaken my body and force sleep upon me. When I have drifted into the arena of the unwell, she will prepare me for Jacob and the knives that await me. I lie still with more than mild dread. With ratched, clang, sturm und drang she lords upon her wards, with the confidence and authority of one who knows how it will end. There are no surprises for her. She holds all the cards. The Hermit, The Hierophant, and The Fool. The Emperor and The Tower. She wields the cards of Judgement and Death. The Hanged Man and the Wheel of Fortune. Even the Devil himself resides in her deck. Only the lone card of Justice remains omitted from her hand. The Nurse has no interest in such things. Only Alchemy and Castigation hold sway with her.

The boy in the chair is my betrayer, my brother and my killer. If the Nurse prepares me and the Lurker attends me, then the boy shall be the one to take my life. He is the one I fear the most, this assassin of Perdition. My vigil stays his hand and makes his charade promulgate, but he continues. Facing the window, he sits as mute as desperation. He pretends. He attempts to purchase my confidence with his silence, but I know his mind. I see upon his eyes, the reflection of suffering and fire. He is a beast, adrift in an age of men, beyond the knowledge of the mortal. He has cut and bitten and skinned and flayed and burned and bludgeoned and drowned and whipped and mauled and mutilated. He has taken more lives than there are breaths in the life on a man. To know him is to meet the Black Angel. I must take action against him first.

As for the man inside my mouth…

He tells me of another life. Another where and when. A life more ordinary. He tells me of the Hospital (the Grand Hall) and of the outside (the Circle) and of a mother and father I don’t remember (never had). His stories carry the ring of truth, but I can still feel the thorns of deceit in his words. Words that collect in my throat like cancerous bile eating away at the source of my aenima. There is no outside. There are no mothers and fathers in this world. If the hospital exists, it is a prison. I did not arrive. I have always been here before. And until the last night comes I shall be here in the morning, noon and evening, each day collecting and gathering as a durden of living days, until the great Fangorn that is my life stands eternal and evermore. And I will swallow the man inside my mouth and he will speak no more. I have always been the caretaker and sleep will not rob me of my duty. Though he means to assist the Nurse in her pursuit, they will never lull me to slumber. Instead I keep them awake at night with my screams.

And Jacob awaits.

------------------------------------------

The accompanying photo is from Jean-Philippe Charbonnier's 1954 exhibition of photos of French psychiatric hospitals.

The Geto Boys - Mind Playin' Tricks On Me

The Departed

2008-11-12T11:38:00.000-06:00

Color is a powerful tool that can brighten up a room as well as give life to a piece of writing. Pick an unusual color from your Crayola box and bring it to life.

Where have you gone?

Blue Gray, Lemon Yellow, Orange Red, Orange-Yellow, Violet Blue, Green Blue, Magic Mint, Teal Blue, Blizzard Blue, Mulberry, Maize and Raw Umber.

Where do the colors go after they have ceased to exist in the official canon of spectral variety. After the Lords of Crayola have decreed that they are Chomata Non Grata. Is there an iridescent afterlife to which they can aspire? And if a color is discontinued from the Crayola spectrum, does it vanish from the rainbow?

Such would seem to be the case for the aforementioned colors. Who but the most eidetically gifted among us can even recall the relative hue of Raw Umber. Brownish? Kinda. And Mulberry could fall anywhere in a range from ROY to BIV, though I know it's probably not a green. Though, it's no wonder that five of the fallen twelve are shades of blue, as there are more shades of blue than any other in the line, four of the retired shades were sent packing all in the same year, 2003. The horror.

But the remaining five...These are the colors of my childhood, or a fair representation, thereof. Lemon Yellow and Magic Mint are practically the official colors of the 1970's, and Orange Red was always the shortest crayon in the box, 'cos it was used on such a regular basis. But Maize...Oh, Maize. What your people call corn, my people call a wondrous color that nourishes and heals. But alas, thanks to Crayola, generations of children will grow up, drawing unnaturally bright stalks of irradiated corn that bears little resemblance to real life. Must be all those GMO's.

Oh, colors, how I miss you so...

R.I.P.
Ice T - Colors

For Ernest Gary Gygax 1938-2008

2008-11-12T09:40:00.000-06:00

So you just got a job writing for Trivial Pursuit. They are branching out from their general trivia games and creating more niche brands. Create a niche and create a six-question card for your game. Your niche should be a little odd-so no movies, music, etc.

First as a means of explanation for this post, I have to confess to an addiction. At this point, I'm almost 50 hours (though not consecutive, thank jeebus) into "Elder Scrolls VI: Oblivion" for the XBOX 360. And I'm friggin loving this game. It's pretty much exactly as dorky as it sounds, but as much as I love it now, I can only imagine how much better this would have been when I was 12, and waist deep in my Dungeons & Dragons phase. 25 years later, and I'm right back to that special place, in the darkest recesses of my forgotten past. No more need for imagination, when it's blown up onto an HD monitor with surround sound. The kids today don't know how leisurely they have it.

This alone would be cause for nostalgic recollection, but two books I'm currently reading are doing a fair bit of mining inside of my memory caverns. The first, "Everything Bad Is Good For You : How Today's Pop Culture Is Actually Making Us Smarter" by Steven Johnson, opens with a summary of the process for creating a character in Dungeons & Dragons (D&D for those on the inside), as an example of extreme and obsessive number crunching in the pursuit of attempting to have fun. The other book is even more accommodating to my present state of mind. "The Elfish Gene" by Mark Barrowcliffe is a memoir about a young man in Coventry, England who, in 1976 in introduced to a new American game, and how it proceeds to destroy his life in all the best ways that can only be appreciated in the forgiving light of adulthood.

None of this is by design, but rather the byproduct of one of those serendipitous moments that often results in things like two comet or volcano movies or two Steve Prefontaine movies being released at the same time. Just the stars, I guess. And so, this rambling preamble brings me to the actual theme at hand.

Trivial Pursuit :

Edition

Geography:
Parent company Tactical Studies Rules (or T.S.R.) was located at P.O. Box 756 in which northern American city?

Entertainment:
Almost universally reviled as an absolute flop, Dungeons & Dragons (2000) was a live action adventure film starring which of the once ubiquitous Wayans brothers?

History:
D&D, first published in 1974, was largely based on another wargame system published in 1971 by E. Gary Gygax, one of the games original creators. What was the name of the original game system?

Art & Literature:
There have been several D&D related novel series, such as "Forgotten Realms" and "Gourd the Rogue". The most successful line was launched in 1984 and stills continues publication today. What is the series title?

Science and Nature:
Turns of action and events of random probability are governed by mathematical calculations of numbers generated by the iconic d20. What is a d20?

Sport & Leisure:
Which power forward/center, four-time NBA champion, a three-time NBA MVP, and current captain of the San Antonio Spurs confessed in 1997 to a love of renaissance fairs and Dungeons & Dragons?

Answers:
Geography: Lake Geneva, Wisconsin
Entertainment: Marlon Wayans
History: "Chainmail"
Arts & Literature: Dragonlance
Science & Nature: A twenty sided die
Sports & Leisure: Tim Duncan

Weezer - In The Garage

Fame, its not your brain, its just the flame

2008-11-10T11:41:00.000-06:00

John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt is not my name. Robert Paulson is not my name. My name is Laurie. What's your name? Tell the story of how you got your first, middle, or last name.

In the original proto-German (yes apparently I'm a Mexican with a Germanic name, go figure), hrôdberxtas was derived from the roots, Rhod meaning "fame" and Berht meaning "bright".

jealous?

Eh, don't be. It's not easy saddled with the fame and attention that the name implies. Anonymity is an underrated state. It goes to your head and just plain fucks you up. Strangers walk up to you on the street and greet you like they've known you for years and you don't have a clue who they are. People try to give you things just for being who you are. It's true. Not huge things like cars or anything. But, sometimes, meals are free. Seriously. Especially at sandwich places. You never have to pay for weed. Swear to God. And members of the opposite sex (or even the same sex) that never would have given you the time of day before, suddenly want to get to know you better. There's no guarantee of actual intercourse or anything, but the odds go waaaaay up. Going to the movies is free, too, sometimes. And more than occasionally, someone else buys your drinks. Free invitations to awards shows also seems to be part of the package, if you're into that kind of thing.

J.D. Salinger had the right idea. Just hole yourself up and avoid the public as much as possible. That's the life.

Not even joking.

Is it any wonder I reject you first?
Fame
-David Bowie

David Bowie - Fame

I am Uatu. I am "The Watcher"

2008-11-08T07:54:00.000-06:00

It's the weekend! Time to celebrate and spend time with the ones you love (like Jack Daniels). Write a description of your favorite bar or hangout from an unusual perspective. Maybe you're a fly on the wall or the bathroom attendant.

It's funny that so far, two of the assignments seem tailor made for two significantly longer pieces that I'd written previously. There's a short story I wrote once, set in an airport lounge and based on the Radiohead song "Let Down" that could have been written with the previous assignment in mind had it not been written ten years ago. And this one reminds me of a story I wrote around that same time that starts in "Lovejoy's" and references the Electric Lounge. I'll save you the time by telling you that in retrospect, one is much better than I remember and still not terribly good, and the other is probably nowhere near as good as I seem to think it is.

As for the assignment before me today, I'm bending the rules and going only slightly off topic. It's a bar story. But not a bar I have fond memories of. Hell, it's not really even a bar I remember very well. But, the fact that the story isn't even really about me does make me a fly on the wall, so I guess that does satisfy at least part of the requirements. It's not pretty, and a little gross. Here goes.

Back around '97, my roommate and I were on Sixth Street in the middle of the work week. He was a waiter, and when you live with waiters you come to realize that the concept of a weekend is nonexistent. When you work til 1 o'clock on Saturdays, a Tuesday becomes as good a night as any to go out. The only difference is slightly better parking and an entirely different experience in people watching. The overwhelming crowds are gone. In their place, a different breed of barfly appears. A heartier strain. No tourist, these warriors, they operate on another plane of existence. Male and Female alike, their morality bears little resemblance to the social mores that the everyday man has chosen to live by. They are far more serious in their pursuit of the frivolous. I never felt a part of them. I was only along to observe, mindful that any drastic behavior or sudden movements could leave me mauled, eaten and partially digested like Timothy Treadwell.

And so again, I found myself out on Sixth Street in the middle of the week. Pick a bar. Any bar. Any random nameless, faceless, characterless bar that usually exists for the sole purpose of providing legit coverage for nefarious profit. Not mob money, per sae, but meth money wouldn't be out of the question. These places come and go and comeback under new ownership, with new names, but the interior never manages to change. The history of Sixth Street is writ large upon the bricks of these establishments. And after the apocalypse, the roaches will gather beneath their sturdy roofs and raise a toast, glasses high, to the long gone daddy man cub that was Homo Sapien. And they'll cue the DJ. To the beat of Rob Base and DJ Easy Rock's "It takes Two", the roaches will dance till dawn. Just keepin' it weird.

but I digress.

Tuesday night barhopping was a weekly occurrence. As was Wednesday night bar hopping. Since this shit gets hard on the wallet, we stopped being as discerning as we once were and started stumbling into any place that screamed "Drink Special" These places were easily found via a simple mathematical theorem known as the "Crew Neck Principle" which dictates that the cost of a drink in a bar is inversely proportional to the size of the doorman's t-shirt. The tighter the shirt, the cheaper the drinks. In the past five years, this theorem has been adjusted for fashion and is now known as the "V-Neck Principle". But remember, this only holds for the majority of the bars found in the Sixth Street area only. Any detour onto Red River, and a more complex mathematical equation involving the application of the "Wifebeater Law" and a Lone Star tattoo adjustment must be invoked. The math is too hard. Don't do it.

Where was I? Oh yeah...

Wednesday. Or Tuesday? It doesn't really matter. We were in a random bar along with about ten other thick skinned jaded thrill seekers. There's music. Maybe. And my roommate and I are at a corner table by the window. One of those really tall tables with bar stools instead of chairs, so your legs just dangle over the edge like a five year old. A drunken belligerent five year old. Alongside the wall between our table and the bar was a potted plant of some sort. A fake plastic rubber tree plant, perhaps. I highly hope it was. And next to that plant was another table from the Billy's Big Boy line. The details of the rest of the bar are, for the purposes of this recollection, unimportant.

Now, I don't remember if they were there already when we arrived, or if we were there first, but at the next table, were two couples. Young. Happy. Shitfaced. The usual. And, I want to state right off the bat and for the record, that we weren't staring, leering or stalking. There was just nowhere else to look. Or rather, nowhere nearly as interesting. Beers in hand, my roommate and I watched the show unfold.

There was flirting. A bit of drinking. Some polite conversation with a healthy dose of innuendo. Some more drinking. Deals were being negotiated at the next table. Boundaries were established and permissibly ignored. Matters of transportation and immediate housing were brought forth and decided upon. They may have started the night as individuals, but these strangers had managed to pair up and were on the verge of going home to respective houses and closing the deal. But first, there was the time out. Sex was in escrow as it were.

The girls got up from the table, or rather jumped down from the stools and walked away to the bathroom, leaving the two guys behind to talk about whatever guys talk about when they'd rather be on their way somewhere else, to get laid, than make small talk. They sit there for a few minutes, when all of a sudden, the guy closest to us starts up, off of his seat, and puts the back of his hand to his mouth. A look of utter horror appears on the face of the other guy. A quickly in one swift movement, the guy on his feet pivots right, faces the potted plant holder and unleashes a righteous Technicolor Yawn. He yakked harder and longer than a victim of a Sarin gas attack. It was like "Stand By Me". And the truly fucked up thing was that no one else noticed. With the exception of him, his friend, my roommate and myself, the rest of the bar was blissfully unaware that anything was happening. And the two guys had had even less idea that my roommate and I had watched the whole thing. They were just as ignorant of us as the rest of the bar was of them.

And then the girls came back. Single file, they marched back from the bathroom, ready to go. By this point, the guy standing next to the table again and had only just managed to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. (You do realize where this is going, right?) Using his clean hand, he reached over and grabbed the girl he was going home with by the belt. He pulled her toward him and gave her what Kevin Costner described as a long, slow, deep, soft, wet kiss that lasts for three days. And his friend said nothing. He just watched with the same mixture of revulsion, horror and absolute fascination that we did.

As for us, we were powerless to stop it. Pass judgement if you like, you won't be the first, but any Star Trek nerd worth his phaser knows that it's a violation of the Prime Directive to interfere in anyway that shapes or otherwise alters the course of a subjects life. I didn't make these rules up. I just choose to occasionally live by them when it's convenient. I am Uatu. I am the watcher.

Like Rakim Says:
I've seen enough shit to leave your frame of mind broken
I'm still alive and scopin
Be another hundred years 'til my skies close in
And I'ma die with my eyes open. The Watcher

Anyway, that's my story.

Dr. Dre - The Watcher
Jay-Z - The Watcher 2

Duke Ellington And John Coltrane - Sentimental Mood

2008-11-08T01:59:00.000-06:00

“If a composer could say what he had to say in words he would not bother trying to say it in music.” ~Gustav Mahler As writers, we are trying to say what we have to say in words. However, music is a very important part of most of our lives. Pick a song from your myspace or ipod playlist and write about why that song is important to you. Feel free to add video to your post.

Do me a favor, please? You who know me. If you're still around at the end. The very end. When coils, mortal and otherwise have been shuffled off.

I'm not a sentimental man. I don't want for much. I've often said that a burlap sack and a six foot hole will suffice as a final resting place. The last thing I want is for those I leave behind to have to shoulder the financial burden of a costly funeral. But I also know that no matter what I say, funerals are for the living. You'll do whatever you want. Hell, in my case, you probably will just put be in a burlap sack and throw me in a hole in the ground. That's cool. I just ask one thing. Please play Duke Ellington and John Coltrane's rendition of Sentimental Mood at my funeral. That's all I want. The rest is up to you.

-----------------------------------------------------------

The mid 90's were when I hit my stride, picking up new music the way a two year old picks up a language. I was working at Camelot Records at Barton Creek Mall in a very unique situation. In the early 90's, the Camelot Corp. purchased every mall standing Hastings Records in Texas, increasing their standing in the state by dozens of units. And in the entire state of Texas, only Barton Creek Mall had a Hastings and a Camelot, resulting in two Camelots, not only in the same mall, but in the same wing, spitting distance from each other. Rather than shut one of the stores down, Le Grande Experiment was born. The inventory was re appropriated between the two stores, so that one unit sold Rock, Hip Hop, Country and everything else that actually sold. The other became known as the Classical Easy/Listening Store, an unfair sobriquet, as the store also stocked Jazz and Film Scores. Added to this, the store also had the distinction of being the only unit in the chain with a preview policy. Which meant that although the Pop store was constricted in the scope of what was allowable as in store play, the sky was the limit at the other store, provided you actually liked Jazz and Classical.

A difference of opinion over managerial style (my supervisor's, not mine) led me to seek a transfer to the No Man's Land across the courtyard. Settling in with a new manager, I slowly began to take advantage of my new surroundings. For starters, there were no customers. Seriously. The 'burbs just weren't ready for it. Occasionally the random University type would wander in , browse, realize that the selection was still better at Tower Records and leave. The store was not long for this world. So I took advantage. I took advantage of their disadvantage. With no customers, the pressure was off. I sat on a stool at the counter and I read. I wrote. And I listened. So much of the music I've come to take for granted came out of that period. The minimalism of Phillip Glass, Steve Reich and John Adams (not the president). The impressionism of Ravel and Debussy. The modernism of Arvo Part and Henri Gorecki. The fantastic film scores of Nino Rota and my all time favorite composer Ennio Morricone. But most importantly, there was Jazz.

It was during this period that I first heard Miles Davis, Charles Mingus, Thelonious Monk and Ornette Coleman. I discovered that Herbie Hancock didn't just "Rock It", he was a "Chameleon" who could funk as well as George Clinton when he wasn't taking it easy on "Cantaloupe Island". Art Blakey. Billy Holiday. Charley Parker. Ella Fitzgerald. Jimmy Smith. Oscar Peterson. "Kind Of Blue". "Time Out". "Chet Baker Sings". "The Black Saint and The Sinner Lady". "Saxophone Colossus". Classics, every one.

But above them all, the twin saints of John Coltrane and Duke Ellington. "A Love Supreme", "Black and Tan Fantasy", "Blue Trane", "Live at Newport", Giant Steps", "Far East Suite"...these were the records that really hit me in the gut. Coltrane would die in his early forties, pioneering Free Jazz, a style of playing that fifteen years later, I'm still trying to get my head around. Ellington would die at the age of 75, almost ten years after being absolutely screwed out of a Pulitzer Prize For Music that he had more than earned. Between them, they composed some of the most enduring music of the American Jazz idiom. And together they collaborated exactly one time, in a session that yielded only seven songs. Six of those songs were terrific. Exceptional, even. One was transcendent. It was a moment in time, captured on the first take and not repeated again. And it's the one song I want, to play me home.

By the time they recorded Duke Ellington's composition "In A Sentimental Mood", it was already regarded as a standard. Ella Fitzgerald, Sarah Vaughan and Django Reinhardt, among others had all had a turn at it. This recording session for the album that would come to be simply titled "Duke Ellington & John Coltrane" was largely seen as a friendly experiment, with muted expectations. Coming from two very different generations and styles of Jazz, there was some reservation about whether their dissimilar playing styles would prove cohesive. The end results, however, were absolute genius. Both men proved equally capable of give and take. Coltrane's saxophone provided a perfect compliment to Ellington's piano, and nowhere more so than on the album's opening track.

The piece opens with Ellington repeating a gentle six note melody, as the drum provides a quiet accent between measures. In the second bar, Coltrane's horn delicately floats into the room and establishes the theme as Ellington continues to play variations of his almost tiny six note melody. The effect is hypnotic. For the first full minute, the contrapuntal progression lulls the listener into an absolute state of bliss. By the second minute, the players ease into a more traditional arrangement, with Coltrane carrying on the second theme of the piece and Ellington staying in the background in the role of sideman, before returning to the initial theme and arrangement after half a minute. And then come the solos. A striking chord from Ellington announces his presence with authority as the tempo changes to a swing rhythm, in acknowledgement of the Jazz style that he pioneered almost half a century before. He seems to tip toe around the melody, playing phrasing that only bears a slight resemblance to the main theme. Coltrane picks up the ball and runs with it, continuing the side story that Ellington began during his solo, and brings it to a satisfying conclusion. And then it's back to the beginning with a restatement of the main theme, ending with Ellington returning to his initial six note melody.

And that's it. 4 minutes and 16 seconds, give or take. But I would venture to say that they may be the most perfect 4 minutes and 16 seconds that I've ever heard. I've sat with eyes closed and been in the room with the ghosts of two men who changed American music, Ellington sitting right/center and Coltrane standing over on the left. It's one of the few pieces of music that I know by heart, not as a player but as a listener. If I try hard enough, I can play the entire thing back in my head, capturing every slight nuance and every percussive accent. At it's heart, it's a love song, the main melody composed on the spot as Ellington, the Original Player, tried to impress two girls that were standing on either side of his piano. In the film "Love Jones", when Larenz Tate tries to seduce Nia Long, he knows exactly what record to play. "Sentimental Mood". And it works. And I'd be a liar if I say that I haven't put it on more than a few mix tapes, myself.

I can give no satisfactory reason for why this particular composition resonates so powerfully for me. It simply does. It is as much a part of who I am now as Wim Wenders' film "Wings Of Desire" and Vladamir Nabokov's "Lolita". But, taste is subjective and by no means definitive. One man's Aria is another man's Metal Machine Music. However, the personal choices we make, aesthetic or otherwise, are a reflection of us. The books we read. The films we watch. The music we buy. They may not be who we are, but they are what the world outside perceives us to be. The secret of life is to stop caring about how others see you and just do for you. And so I do. And I will hopefully continue to do so for years to come. Until, as James Brown said, "I cain't do no more!". And when the day comes that I've done my last encore, Danny Ray has thrown the cape over my shoulders and like James, I'm quietly escorted off the stage of life, I only ask one thing. Hold the after party anyway you want, just be sure that you play "In A Sentimental Mood" for me, just once.

In A Sentimental Mood: Duke Ellington, John Coltrane
Uploaded by MoonSymphonie

Where cheap plastic disposable crap still matters...

2008-11-07T23:22:00.000-06:00

Remember, remember the 5th of November: Today is a brand new day for our country. It is also Guy Fawkes Day (if you don’t know who he is or have not read/watched V for Vendetta, please do some googling/ netflixing/ trekking to Austin Books some time today). Today you get a break from my fascist regime to bask in the joy and glory. Write whatever you want.

The great raconteur, Corbin Harwell, when asked why he owned so many albums, responded in the most logical manner possible.
-Because I'm not always gonna work in a record store.

I'm reminded of the scene in Die Hard when German terrorist/exceptional thief Hans Grueber paraphrases Plutarch's Life of Alexander. Surveying the architectural model in the executive conference room at the Nakatomi Tower, he says "...and Alexander wept he saw the breadth of his kingdom, for he knew there were no more worlds left to conquer." The benefits of a classical education. I have to make due with the internet.

I bring this point up because I fear that I have come to a crucial crossraods in my life. Nothing earth shaking, at least for the less obsessive of mortals, but life defining nonetheless. I fear that I may have reached my saturation point for new music. And frankly, that just bums me the frak out. Since 1987, I have prided myself on being three steps or more ahead of the game, throwing off the musical bell curve of the general populace and changing directions faster than Beck (he really only has two directions: Sometimes he's somber and sometimes he makes fun of Black people. and that's it. He just spends his career going back and forth.) Almost fifteen years in music retail has given me the opportunity to indulge my every musical whim, enabling me to become exceedingly well versed in topics as diverse as Brazilian Tropicalia, pre-Punk American Garage Rock, Grime, Memphis Soul, Memphis Power Pop, American Power Pop, Gulf Coast Swamp Pop and dozens of other specific musical distinctions that most everyone else on the face of the planet could give two shits about. To most everyone else, including Billy Joel, it's still just Rock And Roll. And that's just peachy. It's all just noise. Joyous beautiful noise.

But my brain is full. Or maybe I just have plenty of toys to play with and I don't like what's being sold to the kids nowadays. The epiphany of sorts came during a Mountain Goats show last week (nothing drives home the reality of no longer working at a record store like hearing the reaction, "who are the Mountain Goats?") It wasn't the Mountain Goats. They were excellent. It was the opener, Kaki King. I'm not sure at what point the internal monologue machine went into overdrive, spouting off lines like "Are you fucking serious?" and "You're shitting me" and "Where's Ashton?" It was like being in the middle of an Andy Kaufman performance, minus the funny part.

If you aren't familiar with Kaki King, she's an acoustic guitar instrumentalist, with a virtuosic finger tapping technique. She also happens to be an exceptionally cute and exceptionally tiny girl. Which I suspect goes a fair way toward making up for the fact that she can't sing in key to save her life. And while this has never been a handicap for anyone in the angry punk/metal/rock school of music, Kaki King is decidedly narry of those. Oh, she may shake her tiny fists in rage and say "Fuck" on stage a lot, but I'm not buying it. No, Kaki King is far less Amphetamine Reptile Records, or even SubPop (classic OR current). Ms. King is decidedly more of the Windham Hill Records variety. At a certain point in American music, Windham Hill was the premier New Age record label, home to the definitive New Age group Mannheim Steamroller (The fact that the record label was originally funded by the profits from the 70's novelty song "Convoy" is another story for another day). Also on the label was an acoustic instrumentalist, with a virtuosic finger tapping technique named Michael Hedges. He played the exact type of slap tappy plink plunky hippy dippy guitar that you expact from someone on a new age label. Which is pretty much the same type of music that Kaki King plays. The only difference is that after eight albums, Hedges died in a car wreck and is thus far only remembered by aging guitar nerds (right here) and New Age fans. Meanwhile from the moment she debuted in 2003, Kaki King was annointed as the new sound of guitar. Sorry, ain't buying it.

And here's why. I could seriously give a shit that Kaki King plays Hedges style New Age guitar. It's just that hipsters aren't supposed to like this shit. And if you ask them, they'll probably tell you that they would never listen hippy New Age guitar instrumentals. But that's exactly what Kaki King plays. At one point, she tried to ROCK. And rock she did. She rocked exactly like Eric Johnson, another hippy dippy guitar rock instrumentalist. And hipsters, most definitely don't listen to Eric Johnson. Especially Austin hipsters, since he happens to be from here, and there's nothing Austin hipsters hate more than successful local musicians that don't play indie rock. As to the singing, when there was any, it was flat. Not terrible. Just flat.

Which brings me to my real point. I want out. I know too much. Literally. Not in the sense that the knowledge in my head has become a liability (though I suspect it has), but in the sense that there is simply too much useless information taking up space in my brain. During the above rant, I consulted the internet for reference exactly once. To look up the correct spelling of Mannheim Steamroller. The rest off it came pouring directly out of my fevered ego. Kaki King. Michael Hedges. Eric Johnson. Convoy. Tropicalia. This is the shit that I rant about, I realize that even I don't care about my opinions. Nor should anybody. If you wanna like Kaki King, then Bully for you. Ain't nothing gonna break my stride. Nobody gonna slow me down, oh no. I got to keep on moving. And so should everybody else. You like Medesky Martin and Wood? Awesome. Can't stand them myself, but I can just go fuck myself. Wanna know a secret? I can't stand Pavement. Or Yo La Tengo. Or the any Wilco album after Summer Teeth. So what?

I'm throwing in the towel. I'm done trying to keep up with the kids. I'll only get more frustrated. I'm just going to move into my cave with my Al Green records and be better off for it.

No seriously.

When Coccinellids Attack Pt. 6

2008-11-07T01:36:00.000-06:00

From Peter Benchley’s Jaws to Stephen King’s Cujo, one of the most frightening things to many people is our absolute inability to control nature, specifically animals. I hate that. Instead of making people afraid to go into the water, write a satirical piece (poem, paragraph, short story, whatever) about an unusual animal going crazy and killing people.

Scientist at the American Ontomological Institute are still at a loss to explain the sudden occurence of viscious swarms of Coccinellids, more commonly known as Ladybugs, at the Mall Of America in Bloomington, Minnesota. With at least four attacks in the last week, swarms of Coccinellids have managed to annoy dozens of shoppers and disrupt business at Ruby Tuesdays, Bubba Gump Shrimp Company and Nordstroms. In addition, the SpongeBob SquarePants Rock Bottom Plunge at Nickelodeon Universe was shut down for fifteen minutes and six ceremonies at the Chapel Of Love were postponed until next week.

The Mall of America originally introduced thousands of ladybugs into its indoor park as a natural means of pest control for its gardens, and mall owners were at a loss to explain the seemingly overnight transformation of the previously docile insects into frenzied annoyances. A Simon Properties spokesperson spoke on condition of anonimity, "Yeah, it's just fucking weird. One minute we were at the weekly mall board meeting at Rainforest Cafee, and suddenly a Biblical swarm of Ladybugs engulfed the entire restaurant." He goes on, "No one was hurt or anything. And to tell you the truth, they are really cute when they're angry...It's just really fucking weird"

He went on to urge patrons to not let this interfere with their Holiday shopping plans and to remind parents that the LEGO imagination center was still open.

I will eat all the leaves on this tree...

2008-11-04T22:45:00.000-06:00

Alice4

2008-11-03T22:54:00.000-06:00

Today you snapped. It’s been building up, sure, but today you just couldn’t take it anymore. So far you’ve gone after your mother and your ex. Finish out your day as a serial killer. Your focus can either be on deep character development or on moving a plot forward.

Maybe it was the car? It wasn't exactly late model. Then again, this wasn't exactly Los Angeles. Hell, it wasn't even Dallas. This part of the state was filthy with shitty guzzlers like the one I was driving, so it didn't really stick out like a turd in a punchbowl. Hell, I'd just passed a pick up truck with out a passenger side door, so that ruled the car itself out. I could make a race case out of it, but what would it matter. Nothing would change the fucking fact that there was a City Police Cruiser in the next lane, slowly creeping his way back, angling his play. I was about to get pulled over, and I still had some unfinished business in the trunk.

I'd spotted him as I was ahead of me as I was driving across the city line. He was less than a quarter mile ahead, but I could still make out the rear tail lights of the Crown Victoria. That never made sense to me. The whole point of the unmarked cars is seamless anonymity, a quality that is blown all to hell when every unmarked car comes in the same make and model, in unvarrying shades of white and powdered blue. He was like a shark riding the current, biding his time, looking for a quick and easy meal. I could have turned right and made the block, but this wasn't my town, and need to get through it as quickly as possible. Leaving the highway was a bad idea. The last thing I needed was to get lost because the city fathers of Bracketburg or where ever the fuck I was had some Masonic aversion to the grid system.

Since I was running unavoidably parallel to him, I'd have to watch my shit. I spotted a speed limit sign out of the corner of my eye, and adjusted the cruise control accordingly. All I had to do
was keep my nose clean and my eyes on the road in front of me. I reached out and tapped the CD player up to track fourteen. The jangle of the acoustic guitar broke the silence and a quarter of a bar later, the electric guitar brought in a downward cascading riff that made it sound like the song was a Slinky, slowly tumbling down a staircase, only to be picked back up at the end of the riff and placed at the top again. Then the slinky was knocked over again and goddamn it, you got a hit fucking song. God love the Beatles.

Well you know that I'm a wicked guy
And I was born with a jealous mind
And I can't spend my whole life
Trying just to make you tow the line

Alice 3 didn't really appreciate the song very much. She just kept screaming. Even with the wash cloth jammed in her mouth and the packing tape strapped across it, she was so loud, that it almost drowned out the music. I thought about trying to figure out some way of putting her to sleep first, but that almost seemed like I was treating her like some kind of fucking dog. I loved her and respected her too much to make her miss out on her special day. Still though, the screaming really did put a damper on the song. She just wasn't paying attention to the words like I wanted her too. She had to realize how important this was to me. To the both of us. I'd have to think of someway to make the song work before I started looking for Alice 4. But, it was still early. This was a learning experience after all.

In the mean time, there was still Roscoe P. Coltrane up ahead of me, and I realized he'd gotten closer. The cruise control was still locked at a highway friendly 60 MPH, so I knew I hadn't been speeding. If anything, he was slowing down. Not good. Not the end of the world, but it would be far from ideal. He was still about two block ahead of me and he could still turn off at any point, so I wasn't too worried yet. I had time to get my shit together. I picked up my drink cup sucked up the last of my Dr. Pepper until that satisfying hollow slurp rang out. There was still ice in the bottom of the cup, but I didn't want to do anything stupid like throwing it out the window, so I placed it in trash bag behind the passenger's seat and made a mental note to deal with the melted ice if I had a chance to later. Just because the trunk was going to need a good scrubbing later didn't mean that I wanted the interior to look terrible. While I reached back to toss the cup, I glanced at the back seat and found it satisfactory. Nothing attracts attention like a messy back seat. Statistically, I cop is more likely to give you a ticket rather than a warning if the car is a mess. They've lost respect for you before you've even opened your mouth. Can't say I blame them.

I've gone through great pains to minimize the amount of mess and clutter that I generate. I could be glib and make a joke about how Alice has too, but not right now. Maybe later. Mostly, I was impressed at my own progress. I was getting better, much faster than I anticipated. Compared to the work I'd done with Alice1, Alice3 was I work of art. I'd gone from simple meat cutter to sculptor in only three easy lessons. If things went my way, by the time I got to Alice13, I was going to produce a masterpiece. At this point, I was still throwing pots in craft class, but one day I would be the Henry Moore of the flesh medium. If I put the work in and I learned from my mistakes. But most importantly for right now, if that cop didn't do what I knew, in my fucking heart, he was about to.

He had now pulled even with my car as we approached the last traffic light in town. One more mile and he would be out of his jurisdiction. That was cold comfort, because one mile was more than enough distance for him to pull me over. I mulled over my options. Speeding away was not an option. Not if I wanted sleep in my own bed tonight. I halfway considered matching his speed and boxing him in between my car and the car behind him. I thought that if he couldn't get behind me, he couldn't pull me over. I quickly recognized the flaw in this logic. Much like the myth of the Rio Grande, the county line wasn't an invisible forcefield. Desperados and fugitives were often pulled back across the river, protesting the entire time in utter disbelief. If I gave him provocation, there was nothing to stop him from stepping just out of his municipal zone and fixing the peperwork later. There was no way around it. The only scenarios that ended with me walking out of this all involved pulling over when his lights flashed. I broke my forward stare long enough to check my reflection in the rear view mirror. If today was my day to become famous, I needed my hair to look good.

The light turned green.

The Beatles - Run For Your Life

For Michael and the boys

2008-11-02T01:21:00.000-06:00

Write a haiku or 10 about your favorite monsters. Use Little Dead Riding Hood for inspiration :)Haiku: Remember it is a metric 5, 7, 5.P.S. as Halloween just passed and considering the reference for the title of this challenge, the next couple of challenges will probably be inspired by my favorite movie genre

Shatner mask vinyl
Adds to my hot sour breath
This year, I've come home.

Crystal Lake is clear
Like always, this one's for Mom
It's machete time!

Out of gas again
Gotta get a new method
Chainsaws really suck

Mountain Goats - The Best Ever Death Metal Band Out Of Denton

Armando Prieto

2008-11-01T20:57:00.000-05:00

Topic 1: Today is Dia de los Muertos, a day to celebrate and honor loved ones who are no longer with us. Think about someone who has passed and write about a memory of them that focuses on one of your five senses. Obviously, be very descriptive and use this as an opportunity to celebrate this person rather than mourning them.

One more Pall Mall. The hot rich smoke burning its way down into the center of my chest, making me dizzy, first thing in the morning. One more plate of Huevos Rancheros. The salsa isn't hot enough, goddam it. It's never hot enough. it's not tomato sauce for Christ's sake. It has to burn going down, otherwise, what's the point. One more shot of Seagram's VO. That stings just fine going down, don't you well know it. The bitter after taste on the lips, easily wiped away with the back of a hand. One more game of pool. I'm good too. I've made money. Lots of it. I've lost it too, but I don't care. Just the sound of the break. I wanna hear the sound of a clean break. One more song with my brother. He can play and I can't sing and neither of us holds it against me. I just want to hear hing sing El Rey one more time. One more trip across West Texas, from Sonora to San Angelo and maybe over to Ozona. And not on the clock. You know more than any one how that drive kills me when I have to watch my clock. On my own time, with the road turning as it rises over those molehills we call mountains around here. Trees and green you wouldn't think possible if you'd only driven on the other side of the state. One more order of Caldo De Res. I know it's bad for me, but it's too late now anyway. One more Corrido by Los Tigres Del Norte. One about a man and a girl and how she treats him like shit but he doesn't care because she's his last chance to be in love. One more game of cards. Five card draw. I'll play honest. From the top of the deck, I swear. I don't have much on me right now anyway. Win or lose, it'll be a quick game. One more Pall Mall. I still have half a pack. It'd be a shame to let it go to waste. One more hug from my sister. I know she's gonna miss me. If no one else, I know she will. This is gonna kill her, I think. One more drive around San Felipe. I want to stop at Virgen De Guadalupe. Maybe they're taking confession today. One more bowl of Menudo from Amezcua's. It's not like that's gonna be the thing that kills me. Well, not the only thing. One more chance to talk about my time in Korea. I know everyone wonders what the Army was like for me, but I just never wanted to talk about it until now. Someone's gotta want to hear about it. One more game of craps out behind Tiny's Bar. Maybe I do gamble too much? I don't know. But man, that feeling, when you number hits, and you reach down and mop up that pile of money on the floor...that's as good as a cigarette. Speaking of which, do I have time for one more Pall Mall? One more kiss from my wife. Can I at least have that? One last day with my little girl. Please, sweet Jesus. Can I at least have that?...let me have one more...FUCK IT! I'm ready. Lets go.

Same Shit, Different Sandwich

2008-11-01T15:42:00.000-05:00

So, somehow someone somewhere flagged this blog address as a spam blog, despite the fact that I haven't posted a SINGLE FUCKING THING to this god damned page. Now I have to submit a formal request to blogspot to have this page cleared by the PTB. I suppose this somehow involves having a human someone check this page and verifying that I'm not a bot controlled spam machine. As the man said...YOU'RE a bot controlled spam machine. So, if anyone gets to read this today, great. If not, then FUCK blogspot, or rather the asshole that reported me as spam.
Studs Terkel R.I.P.
From Sinking - Inept, Mechanically