george gets a crown

George slid his eyes open and looked at the clock on the night table. He never set the alarm. Why would someone with no place to be set an alarm? It was 9:38. George went back to sleep.
After another hour and a half, George woke up again. He looked at the ceiling for a while. He liked doing this every morning, staring at the ceiling and following the white paint's drip marks over the surface. He came to recognize certain dips and swirls and hatch-marks in the dry paint, and his eyes instinctively returned to them. He sighed and stretched and slowly got out of his bed, then headed for the bathroom. It was Wednesday. After washing up, he put on his second favorite oxford shirt underneath a rather garish sweater that his mother had picked out for him. He had worn his favorite oxford shirt for the past two days, so it was quite understandably time for a switch. He also wore cotton slacks and brown loafers. He didn't like shoes with laces.
He ate a couple eggs, fried, with toast and black coffee, like he did when he woke up every day. After having placed his dishes in the sink, he was trying to figure out what to do with his day. Luckily, today he didn’t have to choose because just then the doorbell rang. Normally he would read one of his books, a western or a war novel one picks up to not become too bored on flights from the airport terminal’s newsstands, or he would watch a little afternoon television. He liked the talk shows, particularly, and the court shows, but not as much. The people on the court shows didn’t yell and make those faces as much, and the audience never raised their voices or cheered for the judges and their decisions. If fair weather prevailed he would usually walk to the nearby park and read one of his airport books, or he would just sit and watch the people or the birds or the traffic or the clouds. But, he didn’t have to do any of that today because his doorbell rang.
He went to the door and found a young man in short pants with a cardboard box under his arm. It was a package for George. He signed for it and took it back into his den. His birthday was months away, as were any major holidays, so he had no idea who would be sending him anything. He looked at the return address and saw that it was from his grandparents. How curious, he thought. He opened it immediately and pulled out an envelope addressed to him and, amid some loose packing material, a metal crown. He opened the letter and read:

Dear George,
Your grandmother and I, now well into our autumn years, were in the process of going over our will, and we decided that there’s no reason not to dispense with some of our possessions now. We thought that this heirloom would suit you best, George. It’s been in our family for centuries, although none of us can say for certain who, if anyone, ever wore it regally. We like to think, however, that some kind and noble ancestor did wear it, and that we have been blessed by their grace. It has always looked good on our mantle, so perhaps it will on yours, too.
Our Best, George

The crown itself was not particularly spectacular. In fact, save for the shape, there was nothing crown-like about it at all. It looked like it was made of bronze, but not as heavy, and there were no jewels or precious fabrics adorning the sides. It did not shimmer or shine in the light, and its surface was worn and dun. Nonetheless, George thought it was pretty neat. In fact, he tried putting it on his head. It was a little snug, but close enough to a perfect fit that it wasn’t uncomfortable. George walked over to the window of the den so he could see his reflection in the window’s pane. Now isn’t that something, he thought. He took it off again, then sat down holding it reverently in his hands. He looked over it for a few minutes, and, while he supposed it could look very smart sitting on the shelf above his fireplace, he thought he could find a better use for it. While he sat there, a thought slowly occurred to him, and his eyes widened accordingly. Maybe there’s something to it, he thought. He proudly placed the crown back on his head, and let its weight gently tilt his head back and forth. Then he stood up.

...

George had never been the brightest young man. He finished school rather unceremoniously, graduating with a standard degree in business. It was suspected by many, save for George, that his final marks had been acquired through the use of his father’s leverage down at the university. His father was a respectable businessman in the area that had contributed before to several construction projects that the university had needed. Few would have been surprised to discover that George had been passed merely out of appreciation for his father’s contributions.
Immediately following school, George tried to take part in family business affairs, but he really wasn't any good at it. He seldom knew what, exactly, was being discussed in the meetings he did attend, and he could never properly explain to anyone that would ask exactly what it was that he did when he was at work. As a result, he grew uncomfortable with his place in the office and eventually left to pursue other interests. Not that he had many other interests, but occasionally a few would emerge.
Mostly he would become rather blindly involved in whatever passing fancy happened to grab his attention. He was quite easily taken in, and he often ended up, quite unintentionally, having others take advantage of his trusting nature. He lost a fair amount of money in a pyramid scam before his father bailed him out. Several women were wooed, a few of which got diamond rings out of the courtship, only to never be heard from again. He joined up with a religious cult that promised him a splendid eternity living in a trailer near the Montana-Wyoming border, only to be kidnapped and deprogrammed a month later by his father and a team of professionals.
His tradition, as it became, of following ill-conceived notions led to him striding proudly out of his house that day, wearing the crown as if it were the most ordinary thing one could do. He had a genuine smile on his face and a dandy step to his strut. It was, in fact, a very nice day. He figured that he would walk down to his neighborhood’s park to let everyone get a good look at his new headwear. I’ll be the talk of the town, he thought. Who else has anything quite so definitive, after all?
The park was filled with the customary Wednesday-afternoon attendees. Several children, having recently gotten out of school for the day, were competing in sports matches. Cyclists and roller-bladers whizzed by on the asphalt sidewalks. Housewives briskly walked their baby’s strollers in the comfortable, September air. A handful of unassuming twenty-somethings played fetch with their dogs and ran them around within a fenced-off part of the sloping field, hoping to meet someone else that shared their interests in pets or otherwise. On the other end of the field, some people were playing with a frisbee, and a lively game was taking place on the far basketball court.
As George marched about he noticed several people taking interest in him from far away. He waved a big wave to those who were watching, and received a couple waves in return. This pleased him. He noticed a lot of other people going up to their friends and pointing George out. They would point from across the fields and seemed to be smiling about something. George liked to think that they were happy to see something like himself, which, in a way, was true. He continued smiling and walking, and he eventually came to the edge of the basketball courts. He stood, bemused, and watched the exciting game take place. After a few minutes, one of the players lost control of the ball, and it rolled over to near where George was standing.
One of the players, none of which had given any attention to George previously, called out, “Can we get a little help there, your highness?”
George blushed. This was really unexpected. He picked up the ball, and tossed it back to the players. Several of them smiled very widely, and a few players even clapped lazily when the ball bounced back into their possession. George smiled, too, and waved proudly. He was glad to have helped out, and they had responded to him surprisingly well, he thought. Yes, this exercise at the park had filled him with vigor, so he decided that he should immediately set out for a more populous area. Best to have as many people see me as possible, he thought, so he went to the corner bus stop to take a ride into the downtown area. There’s always a lot of people down there, he thought. I’ll be the talk of the town in no time.

...

The bus ride was mildly disappointing to George. He expected more of the results that he’d received in the park, but mostly people just tried to act like there was nothing special about him. A few children would look and point, but usually their mothers told them, “Don’t stare,” or, “Behave yourself.” By the time the bus reached the downtown area, he was having second thoughts about his little quest. Maybe no one would be happy to see him anymore. When he got there, however, his doubts slipped away as he was taken with a huge spectacle.
There, in the streets of the downtown area, a huge demonstration was taking place, and thousands of people were marching along the roads, completely blocking traffic for several blocks. The demonstrators were shouting loudly and waving signs that said things like, “FREE OUR PEOPLE,” or, “WE WILL HAVE JUSTICE.” They also had several effigies burning strongly, but George couldn’t tell whom they were supposed to represent. The size of the group, and all the noise, made George very excited and fidgety. He saw the large group coming forward, and he decided that, since he was watching them so closely, everyone else would be, too. He jumped up from the crowds lining the sidewalks and ran directly to the front of the large mass of protestors.
He saw how all the people around him were making faces, and he made faces like they did. He decided to try and do a good job of leading the group, so he started yelling some of the things he had seen written on their signs. Several of them were also participating in chants, but their language was one that George was unfamiliar with. He only spoke English. In all honesty, though, he probably wouldn’t have been able to tell Chinese from Pig Latin. He usually didn’t pick up on subtleties.
He led this group of demonstrators, though, with a zealous pomp, and he waved fiercely to all the people lining the streets to watch them go by. He felt, surely, that word would spread about the handsome young man leading the group, and that the clever and dignified manner with which he wore his crown would now precede him everywhere. He was really getting into the act, with all his waving and yelling, but then things started becoming troublesome. Only half a block away from where the protestors were marching, he saw lines and lines of policemen walking forward, and behind them were several police cars. The officers carried large shields and clubs, and George thought they might be getting the wrong idea about his parade.
Shortly before his crowd met the group of police, George stepped to the side and tried to run into the crowd, just at the moment that his protestors ran headlong into the advancing lines of men in blue. They started shrieking terrible sounds, and tear gas canisters started exploding on the streets all around. He tried to run into the crowds lining the sidewalks, but as he was trying to flee, with one hand carefully steadying his crown, he was pulled away by two large, uniformed men. He started to cry for help, but with the chaos that was erupting around him, no one was in a position to grant him any. The two large men brought him around the corner and threw him into the back of an unmarked, black car, which was driven by two men wearing black suits. The car sped off, and George was thrown to the back of the seat. He begged to know who the men were and where they were taking him, but the men were completely silent. They didn’t even look back.
When they arrived at their destination, a nondescript officious-looking building, they pulled George out and dragged him through the doors and down several hallways until they put George in a gray room with no windows. The room had just a table and a chair, and the men left him there, alone, and told him to wait. He wasn’t sure how long they left him waiting there, because he’d forgotten to wear his watch that day, but it seemed like a really long time. It was a couple of hours, actually, and when the door opened again two different men came in and stood across the table from George.
They started asking him a lot of questions, initially just personal things, like what his name was, how old he was, where he lived, how long he’d lived there, who his parents were, and things like that. George knew the answers to all of these questions. He was really scared earlier, but if the questions went on like this he was sure that any misunderstanding would be cleared right up. Hopefully he would get to go home very soon. However, the nameless men in the small room then started asking him a lot of tough questions.
“Have you ever been associated with any anti-American political factions?” asked one man.
“Are you a current or former member of the Java Resyndicalist Front?” asked the other man. George didn’t know the answers.
“Have you had any contact with General Abdul K’Marzid?”
“Do you have any affiliation with the Sons of the Ochre Palm terrorist organization?”
“Are you in Greenpeace? The Earth Liberation Front?”
The questioning went on like this for several hours it seemed. George hadn’t heard of any of the groups or people that they were asking him about. He hadn’t ever heard many of those words before. He didn't know why they kept asking him about these things. He kept trying to tell them that he wasn’t actually involved with the people he’d been marching with. The men left the room, and George was by himself for another few hours in that small room. He tried to rest, but he was really very upset.
Two different men came in when the door finally opened again. They asked him a lot of the same questions that he could answer, and a lot of the same questions that he couldn’t answer. George was getting very frustrated, and he asked the men if he would be allowed to go home soon. The men ignored his question. Eventually, after scores of unanswered questions, these other two men left the room also. George laid his head on the table and cried to himself. After another hour, the two men he first saw came back into the room. They told him to follow them, because his story checked out. They led him back up the hallway he had used to enter the building. They showed him out the door, and locked it behind him as he left.
He had been in their custody for several hours, and it was now very dark outside. George wouldn’t know, because he’d forgotten his watch, but it was only about an hour before dawn at this point. At least they let me keep my crown, he thought. The men in the black car had brought him into a neighborhood he didn’t know, so he decided that he should find a safe place to stay until daybreak.

...

Luckily for George, he only had to walk a few blocks to find a bar that was still open. He didn’t usually spend time in bars, but these were some inopportune circumstances. He found the bar mostly empty except for a few haggard-looking men and women, and a very unfriendly-looking bartender. He sat down on a barstool. The bartender came up to him and said, “What’ll it be, your highness?”
After the day George had had, he almost forgot that he was wearing his crown. He perked up slightly at that, and told the bartender, “Oh, I’m not drinking, I just need a place to wait out the night.”
“Suit yourself, I suppose,” replied the bartender, “but don’t cause any trouble for my paying customers, okay?”
“No, I wouldn’t do that,” said George, and he wondered if the bartender had heard about the trouble George had been in earlier with the demonstrators. He imagined that a great deal of people had probably heard about George by now. It may have broken his heart to hear the truth.
Two women sitting next to George had been chatting away for some time before one of them turned to George and said, “Nice crown, sugar. You out looking for a queen tonight?”
George hadn’t really thought about it, but he supposed that he would eventually need to marry and keep a wife. “Yes, I guess I am,” he responded.
The two women started laughing loudly at his response, but George couldn’t figure out why. After their peals of laughter subsided, they went back to conversing solely with each other and didn’t talk to George any more. This made him feel mildly uncomfortable. He hated not knowing why other people were laughing.
He realized that all the time he’d spent in that small room, he hadn’t been allowed to use the bathroom at all, and he became urgently aware of that while sitting at the bar. He stood up and walked into the bathroom at the back of the bar. Only half of the lights in the bathroom were working, and lots of trash was strewn about the stalls. He chose the middle stall, because it looked marginally less deteriorated, and sat down uneasily on the toilet.
While he sat there, he read what he could make out of the graffiti written on the inside of the stall’s plywood walls. There were a lot of dirty pictures drawn that he thought were pretty funny. He imagined he could draw similar ones just as well. He read a lot of racist slogans, and phone numbers next to poorly scribbled guarantees of times well had. He read another that said, “Don’t look up here . . . the joke’s in your hands.” Again with the jokes, he thought. He didn’t quite get this one either.
In the middle of the door, though, in bold, capital letters were the words, “JESUS SAVES.” He knew about Jesus. He had gone to church with his family every Christmas and Easter since he was a young boy. He thought it was a good thing to show everyone else that you believe like that. He was thinking about what Jesus could do for him, then, especially with his crown to take care of, and his hopes of being famous and important, and all. While he was thinking about it, the door to the bathroom opened and he heard someone wander in. He saw a pair of scruffy shoes walk up to his stall, and stop there.
Nervously, George called out, “Hello there?” No reply came back to him. Again, he asked, “Hello?”
“I am as prophesized,” answered back a disembodied voice above the shoes.
“What?”
“Look in the Book of Revelations, chapters six through eighteen. You’ll find me there, just as predicted by His prophet, John.”
George didn’t have any idea what the man was talking about. “My name’s George,” he replied, hopefully.
“When the Red Dragon’s war of Armageddon has come to the Earth, I am there with the spirit of Christ, leading the multitude out of Babylon.”
George recognized some of that, and thought, What a coincidence! Here I was just reading this bit on the stall’s door, and here comes this man. Maybe some sense can be made of this.
“When the armies of Gog and Magog rise out of the blood of the ten nations, our time will come to rise out of servitude,” the man went on, “and the seven churches will fall that do not stand behind Jesus’ love.”
George sat listening to the man go on and on about the way that things would happen, and it did not seem at all far-fetched to George. There weren’t a lot of things that he’d heard before, as he hadn’t been to church that often, but if it had to do with Jesus then he assumed it must be very important. At a pause in the conversation, George felt obliged to point out, “I have a crown.”
There was a moment of silence. Then, “the crown of Heavenly Justice will be worn by the Prince of Peace, and an eternity of prosperity will serve the faithful.” George’s heart leapt at that. He felt that he really was on the right track now, even though he’d had a lot of unfortunate setbacks, initially, in his attempt to win over the masses.
George jumped out of the stall and got a good look at the man. He was as scruffy as his shoes were. He had a shaggy beard, and his clothes were all tattered. George thought that this wasn’t quite how an appropriate follower would appear, but it would have to make do for the time being. He told the man, “My name is George, and I want to go make converts. Would you want to come with and help me?”
“I serve the only Master, and through Him all things are possible.” George took that as a yes, and he followed the man out of the bathroom.

...

The two left the bar just as the light of dawn was climbing over the edge of the horizon. George thought it was a beautiful sight. He had high hopes that today would go more smoothly than the day before. The man didn’t say anything, but he signaled that George should follow him around the corner. As soon as they were out of sight of the street, the man turned around swiftly and threw George to the ground. He then kicked George between the legs, hard, and, while George doubled over and rolled on his side, the man reached down and took George’s wallet. George winced and balled on the sidewalk while his only follower--or so he had believed the man to be--walked away with all his cash and credit cards. After several minutes of writhing about, he was able to pick himself up. He decided that he’d had enough, and he figured he should try to get home.
With a terrible ache in the pit of his stomach, he discovered that he had barely enough change for bus fare left in his pocket. He walked up the street until he saw a sign denoting a bus stop. He realized that this bus would pass by his route, so he sat down slowly and waited. While he waited, he took the crown off his head and held it in his hands. He stared at it, baffled that things could have gone so horribly while he was wearing it. Didn’t anyone respect symbols of authority, he asked himself. What would it take to develop a real following? How would I ever make an empire like this? He tried to figure out why simply having a crown didn’t make one a king, and he asked himself what, really, was wrong with people these days. He told himself that it wasn’t his fault, and, as he saw his bus driving up the crest of the next hill, another thought formed in his brain, quite complimentary to the thought that had led him out the front door of his house the preceding afternoon. I have a crown, certainly, he thought, but what if I also get myself a cape?

winner gets a kiss

But I'm not a slut, or anything, so don't get any ideas. Just take the quiz.

the tale of the mouse, the weasel, the macaw, and the dingo

"'So, she ends up at this guy's front door.'
'Which guy?'
'This guy I'm telling you about. He opens the door, but he doesn't say anything. Not one word. But, she says, he was real. . . she just had a feeling about him. Anyway, she goes in, and she gets to talkin', and it's hours later before she realizes she's been there for a couple hours, right?'
'Who's this "she"?'
'Jeez, Mickey, am I talkin' to myself here? This is Kelli. Y'know, Laurie's oldest?'
'Oh, your niece, Kelli?'
'Yeah.'
'Sweet girl.'
'Exactly. So, she makes a regualr habit of visiting this guy, but he don't say a word, right. He's like a mute, but. . . but he's not. So Kelli says he's always real polite, calm, and he makes her feel real comfortable. He makes tea, she talks, they play board games, y'know, simple stuff. She says he always looked so happy to see her, and always paid such close attention that it made her happy to spend time there.'
'What'd she talk about?'
'I don't really know. Lord knows that after everything that poor girl would've had a lot to say, so I guess goin' and seein' this guy was like a kind of therapy, right? Like, she just gets it all off her chest. So this goes on for months. She goes over, talks. . . I don't think anything ever, y'know. . . happened, but who knows? Anyway, it starts to bother her how this guy always listens, and how he knows so much about her whereas she's got no idea who this guy is.'
'I'll say.'
'Yeah, you will. So, as I hear it, she goes over one day and kinda lays into the guy; starts asking him a whole lotta questions about himself, and, of course, he don't say anything. Mute by choice. So he still won't talk, and she gets really upset, and she's about to leave, and, outta nowhere, this guy just says, "Don't go."'
'What?'
'Yeah. He says, "Don't go," just like that. He ain't said a word in months. God knows how long before that, and she just breaks down--storms out the door.'
'Son of a bitch.'
'I know. Pretty crazy, right? I mean, what the hell is goin' through someone like that's head?'
'Crazy.'
'I'll say.'
A few silent minutes later the door of the bar swings open, and a rather shaken looking young man walks in. He sits up next to the two older gentlemen and orders a beer. Eventually, one of them turns to him and says, 'Are you alright, son? You look troubled.'
'No. . . I. . . I think I just killed this guy.'
'You what!?'
'This guy in a suped-up Futura was following me up old highway 41, and . ..'
'The Executionator!'
'What?'
'The Executionator. Nobody knows who he is, but he drives around that old Toyota and chases people off the end of old highway 41 into Jagger's ravine. Word is he's killed seven people this year. Not that I believe it, but some say he's actually a ghost. Either way I don't ever go up 41 late at night.'
'Well, sir, he's no ghost. I just pulled off the road once he started chasin' me, and that was that. I waited with a tire iron in my hand, and he pulls over and gets out. Small guy, really. Tiny, little spindly fists. So, he raised 'em at me like he meant some business, so I beat him to death.'
'Whoa.'
'Yeah. Simple, really. I can't believe he's killed, what, seven people this year? Y'all can't just pull over? Kinda sad I guess.'
'Well, you know what that means,' asked Mickey, sobering.
'No, what's that?'
'Well. . the Curse. ..of the Executionator. You're the new Executionator.'
'What? Really?'
'Yeah, it's in the town charter.'
'Well, that's silly. Let me see that.'
'Here. I only wish it weren't so, son. You seem like a good kid.'
The young man, reading to himself, 'Wow. Huh. Okay, well, I guess a curse is a curse, right? Okay, then. I suppose I'll see y'all in hell, right?' and the young man stood up and walked straight back out the door.'"
"Just like that?"
"Yup. Whatcha think?"
"Well. . .hey, dig this guy."
"Ick! Has he been there long?"
"The whole time you were talking."
"And you didn't say anything?"
"Didn't want to interrupt."
"What's he doing?"
"Well, it looks like he's just sorta staring at us through the window there, doesn't it?"
"I can't eat with him there."
"Me either. This is weird."
"Do you think he knows we're talking about him?"
"No. I don't know. Do you think so?"
"Yeah."
"I don't think he can hear us through the window."
"No, he probably can't, but. . . I get the feeling that, if someone is studying something, ourselves in this case, so intently, then there's, like, I don't know, like a bond or heightened awareness or something. Furthermore, if any sane person were standing there like him and looking at us the way he is, they'd probably be surprised if we didn't take notice of them and start talking."
"I think we have an answer."
"Really?"
"Not the 'heightened awareness' bullshit, no offense, but he's not 'any sane person'."
"Still, I think he must know."
"I think I'm finished. You wanna go?"
"Yes, very much so."
"Ok. I'll get the check."
"What if he follows us?"
"He looks harmless enough."
"Still. . ."
"I'm not sitting in this cafe all afternoon."
"I know. . . it's just weird."
"Then we're in agreement. Let's go."
The young couple got up and walked away from their table, leaving their meals half eaten.
"That story about 'Kelli'?"
"Yeah, what?"
"Was that about you?"
"No."
"'Don't go.'"
"Shut up."
The old, dishevelled man that had been regarding the young couple watched them get up, leaving their half-eaten meals behind. He took that cue to leave the window and walk around to the back of the restaurant and wait patiently next to the dumpster.

"Hey, Paul. How are you?"
"Oh, I'm doing just fine."
"Good, good."
"And yourself? How's school?"
"School's going okay. Less than a month until the semester ends. I'm tired, but doing good."
"That's good to hear. How much longer are they keeping you at the hospital?"
"Well, this isn't, like, 'for sure', or anything, but, my boss told me that there has been some talk of budget cuts from the people upstairs, and that usually means that they clear out all the temps. I haven't heard anything specific, yet, but. . "
"Well, we only have eight people over there now, which isn't much at all. Two people got let go just yesterday. They came in and told them to get their time-sheets signed and not to come in today. Luckily we found them other positions real quick, but it was just good timing."
"Yeah, they probably won't keep me after Christmas, but I think I need to find something else anyway."
"Oh yeah, why's that?"
"Well, ever since classes started I had to cut back to only twenty hours a week. I'm doing alright, but it's been kinda tight. I need to get a night job--like waitering or bartending or something--so that I can work more than just twenty hours a week."
"Sounds like you need to get a sugar-daddy--take care of you."
"Uh. ."
"Or a sugar-momma, I guess."
"Heh. Green is green right? It don't matter none."
"HAHAAAhAHA!! Yes, well, you could maybe work at one of these hotels. I have a friend, who's my age, that was a night manager. He liked it alright, but sometimes the porters didn't show up and he had to, you know, one of these tour buses comes in at one a.m., and if there aren't any porters, then he has to go out and unload all the luggage himself, and then go back around the desk to check everyone in. He didn't have to do it often, but one time it was all cold and rainy and he had to unload the luggage and he caught pneumonia."
"S'that so?"
"Oh yeah. Course it didn't happen often--that the porters wouldn't show up--but every once in a while."
"Well, heh, I'm a healthy, young lad. I'm sure I could handle it. I ain't proud."
"Oh, you presume that pride increases with age?"
"Doesn't it?"
"Oh, no. Only remorse and regret."
"Oh god."
Both men laugh heartily.
"Hooo. .. well, I'll see you next week, then, Paul."
"Okay, Erik, take care."

"According to the psychological literature that Lewis-Williams surveyed, there are three stages of hallucination, each one deeper and more complex. In the first stage, the subject sees geometric forms, such as grids, zigzags, dots, spirals, and curves. These images, six forms in all, are shimmering, incandescent, mercurial--and powerful. They are called entoptic ('within vision') images, because they are produced by the basic neural architecture of the brain. 'Because they derive from the human nervous system, all people who enter certain altered states of consciousness, no matter what their cultural background, are liable to perceive them,' Lewis-Williams pointed out in a 1986 article in Current Anthropology. In the second stage of trance, people begin to see these images as real objects. Curves may be construed as hills in a landscape, chevrons as weapons, and so on. The nature of what the indidividual sees depends on the individual's cultural experience and concerns. San shamans frequently manipulate series of curves into images of honeycombs, since bees are a symbol of supernatural power that these people harness when entering a trance.
The passage from the second to the third stage of the hallucination is often accompanied by a sensation of traversing a vortex or rotating tunnel, and full-blown images--some commonplace, some extraordinary--may be seen. One type of important image during this stage is of human/animal chimera, or therianthropes, as they are called. These creatures are common in shamanistic San art. They are also an intriguing component of Upper Paleolithic art."

- from The Origin of Humankind by Richard Leakey

Here's what I hate: bathrooms with mirrors next to the toilet. I'm peeing here, man!

memo

TO: All associates and affiliates of the Campaign for the De-Betterment of Earthly Habitation
FROM: Pamela Hollister, Inhuman Resources
Subject: Weekly Catch-Up

Hey, everyone! I was so happy to see all you sick bastards with your families out for our quarterly "Un-Run". We gave out over forty door prizes, and it was a great opportunity for people who work in different departments to become acquainted less personally. Furthermore, we did well to uphold our core values: The race was unsympathetic, unfriendly, and unrelenting. I think it was our best "Un" yet! Ha Ha!
Also, I've been instructed to keep all departments on alert for our continued dedication to dishonesty and disinformation. I'd like to share a case brought to our attention by the administerial branch of our Miseducation department. Gloria works in the Louisiana State school system and was pleased to relate that, due to an intentional deception from one of our diligent correspondents, a student missed the due date for tuition fees for the current semester, and, as a result, will be forced to pay an arbitrary fee ($75!!!) in order to remove the hold on his student account. This may not seem like much, but it is precisely this kind of ne'er-do-welling that puts food on the tables of all of our evil children, and lets evil mom and evil dad sleep evilly at night on their goose-down & seething-corpuscule mattresses, with their maggot-infested, anguish-soaked pillows, underneath poly/cotton/insufferable-misery-weave comforters of deceit. Good job, Gloria! Again, staying committed to these precepts will systematically ensure the total ruination of any desirable human qualities.
And, finally, I don't mean to be a spoil sport, but just because it's Casual Friday does not mean that all semblance of respect for ourselves should be thrown out the window. You all know the dress code by now, and you know when you are breaking it. If you wear open-toed shoes I will personally ensure that the withered and unrecognizable remnants of your worthless, tattered soul are dragged heedlessly through abysmally dark and incalculably cruel caverns of unimaginable, identity-obliterating pain for a seemingly undending catalogue of miserable aeons of empty and devastatingly boundless expanses of time. I don't make the rules here, people.

All Hail the Great Satan,
Pam

senile poetry

My 3rd section German professor is Herr Bragg. He is a small, shriveled, prune-looking fellow that has got to be at least 70 years old, if not 90. All his clothes hang about him as if he were playing dress up in his father's closet if his father were a foot taller than he. He speaks in silly, exaggerated voices, most notably that of the classic "school marm", and he is incapable of directly answering any question put to him. We don't learn shit in his class, but it's not all bad. He customarily writes out several sentences in English for us to translate, many of which don't make any kind of sense, or are merely very, very creepy, or silly. I picked some of my favorites of these sentences to share them with you here:

• The can would break in their pocket if they were ashamed.
  
• A fire would break out if they telephoned us.
  
• They have had the fullest enjoyment of our more interesting beverage.
  
• I have felt something alive against my face.
  
• The member who collects children is spending the future here.
  
• Whoever has the protection of a housewife can be very proud.
  
• We have lost a part of the soup.
  
• We will celebrate with the family which has won nothing.

See what I mean? I can't wait to meet some German people so I can put these to good use!

readers love being cheated

A long while ago, when I was a very young child, my father would insist that he and I had a foot race in our back yard every weekend. I looked forward to these events, as most any child probably would. Thinking back, I assume these races were a signal of his interest in my development, but it took me a great deal of time to come to this conclusion. He always let me win, was the thing. When I was really young I thought it quite grand. He'd make sure he had a close lead on me through the whole race, as not to let me get too far behind and feel like the effort was hopeless. Then, just at the end of the race, he'd pull back and I would shoot past the garden-hose finish line claiming victory. It wasn't until my perspectives on the world and the races slightly matured that I realized he was letting me win. Surely my expressions and manner of speaking about the races changed after I realized I was being handed an empty triumph. My father is a smart, concerned man, and I could tell that he realized that I knew about the races. That's when he started putting trace amounts of arsenic in my meals. What a total cop-out.
Having your husband dragged off to serve time for attempting to kill your son was difficult, I can only assume, for my poor mother. Now I can't help but regard her in the most admirable light for her strength in continuing on, almost frighteningly at times, as though the incident had never taken place. In fact, were it not for her seamless contentment, which surely must have harbored a cataclysmic sorrow beneath the surface, I myself would probably have had a much more difficult young life than had already been read in the discouraging cards I was dealt.
My mother insisted, too, that, at the proper age, I go visit my father in the hospital in which he'd been incarcerated. At first I went as a disciple of my mother's faith, but I grew very uncomfortable with these visits. I just didn't see why I should care if this distant, troubled man knew me, or if I knew him. I didn't think he had anything to do with our life at that point. She would say, "I'm very disappointed," when I refused to go in my later teen years--those in which hearing such things could still guilt me into the desired complicity. I regarded the whole situation with contempt, but now I thank her for her perserverance.
However, the visits themselves weren't always such a big help. At first I was quite timid and distressed over such a bizarre social ordeal. The stern-faced guards, the austere bars on every window, and the security locks caused me a great amount of personal insecurity as to the nature of these dialogues. In my more rebellious days, I thought the whole thing was something of a farce, and sometimes behaved as such. I would occasionally pantomime choking to death through the plexi-glass barrier separating us, and my father would leap at the glass pounding on it until guards would escort him out of the room, still cursing and frothing. I couldn't help but laugh whenever I saw him like that, but eventually I came to see that I was doing more harm to him, and myself as well, and I resolved to take our short visits more seriously.
Thankfully, when I was behaving myself, he was just as warm to me, and fatherly, as he had been until his being sent away. His eyes would light up as I arrived, and he was always so interested in hearing about what I was studying in school, who my friends were and what they were like, what I did to pass the time, etc. Except for the occasional disruption of these conversations by my puerile theatrics, this is the way my father came to know me. Now that I am grown, the conversations are just as much about him and his past as they are about me. This is one of the most important parts of our relationship, to me, because it's allowed me to understand the man leading up to that scared and selfish indiscretion so many years ago.
I don't bear any ill will toward my father now, though it's difficult for me to say much else. Although, because of his influence, I also grew up to become a track star. No, that's stupid. Let's see here. . .ironic ending .. hm. . . I know! Let's say I grew up to become a trial lawyer who specializes in criminal poisoning cases. Yeah, that's it.

still on my list:

(ordered non-particularly)

• Creationists
  
• Donald Rumsfeld
  
• people who practice Wicca .. .um .. Wiccaneers?
  
• my ex-wife
  
• her dog
  
• "our" kid
  
• antiquated judges that uphold gender-biased, traditional views of child support that are culturally repressive and demeaning towards women in the long run (let's raise the bar, here, people!)
  
• people who say, "Lordy, lordy, feel like I'm forty!" with some conviction
  
• the rhythym guitarist from the Strokes (You know. The one always wearing that 'Velvet Underground' t-shirt? Seriously, dude. No shit. We get it)
  
• to this day, you can't prove that kid is mine
  
• the top brass at Fox, who regularly choose, on Sundays, to appease the assholes that care about football/baseball, rather than show favor to the assholes (ahem) who prefer Futurama/the Simpsons
  
• Osama Bin Laden

customer service/you jerk

fucking bus was late again this morning but I don’t give a shit so I’m just gonna walk go to cc’s and get a decent cup of fucking coffee not that work shit in the shiny plastic pouches smells like old books should I call in though? cause jim wants me in that nine o’clock meeting with the fucking marketing tools but fuck him anyway can’t stand any of those work freakshows and their stupid grazing faces fuck it I won’t call in I’ll just enjoy my fucking coffee from cc’s and not worry about shit until I show hu. . .h. . “LEARN TO DRIVE ASSHOLE!” nearly fucking hit me look at the light dumbass like you haven’t seen a goddamn pedestrian before hate this stupid city what’s with the damn clowns in front of that bank like a goddamn circus why can’t everyone not be such a fucking retard no I will not need a mortgage or checking or a loan, “NO THANKS” oh jesus what’s with people get out of my way.
holy shit that pigeon only has one foot just one foot and a stump where one was how the hell does a pigeon lose a fucking foot for christsake? disgusting damn cripple bird what the fuck makes me sick they should do something about all of them and the assholes that feed them keep them around the city just feathered trash like we need any more wish caroline would stop calling me all the fucking time just leave it for crying out loud she can’t just get along and forget she ever knew me had enough it’s not like it’s even my fault she needs to get laid and shut up christ what a fucking line I won’t even make it in by nine-thirty should I even bother? yes yes yes I’m getting my coffee now I already walked over here and came in they can fire me I don’t need that shit this is my morning to do this oh shit, duty calls fuck it’s caroline how did I fucking know?
“Hello?”
“…”
“Caroline! Good morning.”
“…”
“I’m fine. . .just standing in line here at CC’s. Gonna wake up.”
“…”
“No, sorry, didn’t get your message.”
“…”
“Yeah, I heard about that I’m really sorry.”
“…”
“Well, I mean, what the fuck are you still beating yourself up over that damn kid?”
“…”
“You know the kid who didn’t move around too much . . . the, uh . . .pair. . . uh . . ?”
"..."
"Yeah, paraplegic, that's right!"
“…”
“Well I wasn’t saying it was your fault, Caroline.”
“…”
“No I didn’t I’m just saying you’re too sensitive and he shouldn’t have been in there anyway. His damn parents fault, right?”
“…”
“I’m sorry hold on I gotta order. Sorry about that, yeah, I’ll have a Mondo-Mocha-Hazel-Medley with skim and a toscatta biscotti. Sorry, Caroline, what’d you just say?”
“…”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“…”
“I take serious offense to that that's why.”
“…”
“Oh. I’m sorry I thought you said something else.”
“…”
“Nevermind it’s nothing look I gotta get going, kid’s almost done with my coffee.”
“…”
“Yeah, I’ll call you back after work.”
“…”
“Uh huh”
jesus christ that headcase and her fucking issues gaaaahhhh get some help my god.
“What’s the total?”
“That’ll be five-sixty-seven.”
“What the fuck? Is that a large? I wanted a small coffee. I specifically said I wanted a small Mondo-Mocha-Hazel-Medley.”
“Well, you didn’t really say, sir.”
“Look, just make it a fucking small, asshole, I’m fucking late for work as it is.”
and this kid before my own eyes in disbelief this fucking kid takes this little like dicta-phone little tape recorder thing out of his pocket and I’m standing right there staring at him and he still pushes the button and speaks into it evenly, ”asshole,” and he cuts it off and shoves it back in his pocket.
“What the fuck is that all about?” and he just looks at me dead on gets this really cold look in his eyes and doesn’t say so I ask him again and he rolls his eyes a little and pulls the fucking tape thing back out of his pocket and holds it up between us without looking and hits rewind for a couple seconds and then hits play and it’s just the kid’s fucking voice calm and even saying, “ cocksucker. . . asshole. . . you jerk. . . shithead. . . asshole . . .

My, what a great news day it's been. Read up, kids:
Didn't I tell you about this guy?
What ever happened to, "There's no such thing as bad publicity"?
A little off subject towards the end, but overall a good speech, or Sounds like loser talk to me!

vindication is spelled "l-i-n-k"

Hey ya'll. This is a poor excuse for a post, as i don't really have anything to contribute to my increasingly senseless collection of cerebral ordure, and because I'm really just writing to gloat. But don't let that stop you from reading on, okay?
So, many of you reading this are friends of mine, and you read this page because you're a) bored, b) obliged to do so, or c) because you actually have a place in your heart for, and truly miss, my misguided attempts at being funny/cute/thoughtful/sexysexysexy. I don't really care why you read the page. I don't care why you're my friends, only that you remain to act as such. I can't thank all of you enough, and I thank you fully for anyone with their own page that has linked to this one. That you would share this poppycock with others means a lot. But all of you also know me. I'm not saying this decreases the amount of gratitude I feel for your favor, but, it is less surprising than, say, if someone who does not know me at all, and has never met me in the flesh, were to link to my page.
Well, lo and behold, after months of leaving my name and URL in comment boxes on blogs far superior to mine, one fella has put a link to our very own Insufferablastarditis. This is Aaron's page, and he has included my page with some other quite reputable pages. Hopefully no one will correct him on his error anytime soon, but until they do I'm .. just so. . wow! His page is really good, too. I've been reading it for a while, and I lament I don't live in Boston so I can't go see his band. He is dreadfully funny, and his favorite Pokemon is Snorlaxx, which is perfectly admirable, though I usually prefer the cantankerously enigmatic garbling of Bellsprout (remember? the one that goes, "bellsprout. .. bellsprout .. "?). Anyways, I'm touched, and in the good kinda way for once. I'll try not to let it go to my head.

the nemeses

It was so dark out. I went to the K to get some liquige. As I stretched out of my car I saw him pushing out through the plexi doors. So we would meet again, then, would we?
Wtih razor-wire inflection,"Is it scap YU la, or is it SCAP yu la?"
"You're absolutely right," I replied,"you know."
"Huh? Tell me, which is it?"
"You're thinking of 'scalpel'."
"Oh! You're absolutely right, you know."
"What business have you here?"
"The usual, cat food, slurpee, .. an' dyou?"
"Y'know. . uh, beer. . .uh. . salties. "
"..."
"..."
"Think about this: I'd a'been your father if I'd beaten the nineteen seventy-nine Duluth Cormorants over the kennel's fence."
"Are you. . . just who are you insulting by that? My parents?"
"Who's bedroom was that?"
"Funny, jaspertwill, real funny."
He just looked me down and took a real long sip.
"Why don't you draw a picture? It'll take longer."
"We're not so different, you and I."
"Thanks, shoeshine. Save the fanny talk for your mum." It looked like another draw. Was that to throw me off? Could it have been pity? I lurched forward to enter the store, and he vanished until I saw him again.

the title, maybe?

Please recall that the Careers in Research lecture series kicks off tomorrow with Dr. Carol Gelderman speaking on "Choosing a Life." The lecture will be in LIB 407 from 12:30-1:20. I hope some of you will be able to attend.

WORSHIP THIS FISH!!!

The days are getting shorter, but you wouldn't know it from the heat. It's so damn hot and my sleeves have always been inappropriately lengthed for this climate. Roll 'em up and keep 'em there. I tried to find new t-shirts, but the ones I found were dumb. Not good for wearing, just good for nothing. Not even two dollars if you ask me. We went to this store with the used wares, St. Vincent de Paul, as named. I found a good coat that was only six dollars. London Fog. Dark blue with black, furry lining. I can't wait to wear the sum'bitch, but it won't be soon, no. Went to this vintage shop a few weeks back and they had this lustrous poly long-sleeve with a kinda drab, kinda busy print. Real ugly flowers. Of course I liked it a lot, but thirty-five (somehow made me want it all the more) dollars? For a used shirt? No thanks, bub. Can I use that word here? Bub? Am I too young to say things like that? Too old? Are there age restrictions on certain words? Well, bub bless me. Bury my head in bub. Hope I topple into a tumbler spang full of bub and drown in't.
So, yeah, shorter days are on their ways. Getting harder now to find and kill the new evenings just right. How did you spend your's shorter? I found a really perfect square of blue sky and just stared straight ahead. I do that sometimes. I relax my eyes so my vision goes soft, and I can see all these little squiggley blurries go racing across my viewfinder. Do you see those, too? Am I just going blind? Maybe it's microbes swimming over my lenses. Never have gotten a straight answer. Me, I loafed. I lay under the covers with dreamy all day, and I pretended to be asleep. He knew I wasn't. He rolled over and told me that I gave him a hard-on. I didn't know whether to be flattered or ashamed. Maybe not ashamed. Offended is right. But, he's such a sweet kid, really. I'll give him the doubt's benefit. I tell people that I think he meant well when I tell 'em. What people do you tell? Well, you for one. Just for startsies, okay?
Less and less, yup. Same old stink, though. Same dumb looks and aching legs. Lower back and what's left of the ticker tape. How can I feel any different if I keep seeing you like this? How can anything change if my clothes won't? Regularity isn't to be attempted with so little to go on. What would help, not just what would bring a full circle. Like the cat. With all his lunatic frazzlin' he serves a constant reminder to me that not only is there still blood flowing beneath this skin, but those claws need some major trimming, too. You old fool. You're forgetting the things that you knew were true when you were fifteen years old. You were right, then, too. You haven't been right in a long time. What would you like to see, in the end? Whatever? I guess it can wait until next year. This one's neatly wasted. It's autumn again. Now go fuck yourselves, like you do this time every year.

We saw this guy while we were out walking around the Quarter the other night. I think he's cool. His father's name is Pud.

I don't know. . . you guys think this might have anything to do with it? I can't decide.

Readers Do So At Their Own Risk:

So professor Rees is professing from the head of the class, and he says,"F prime of a is equivalent to the limit of the function of x minus the function of y over x minus a as x approaches a," and I call out,"Limn it? I don't understand a fucking word you just said!?!"

It is ill-advised to approach a fellow commuter on the city bus and ask him/her if he/she would like to become a member of the "Four-Foot-High Club."

I just got an email from a "Denise Blake" Re: the mortgage saver we discussed NTGDL!!!
I'm pretty sure it stands for "not two . ..GOD DAMMIT LOOK!!!"

Go Greyhound

This past weekend I had to return to Tallahassee to attend my step-sister Bonnie's wedding. Actually, the wedding was on the beach on St. George Island, and I was only in Tallahassee for a few hours before getting off and then getting back on the Greyhound bus. That's why I didn't/couldn't get in touch with any of you. I'm pretty sure I didn't tell anyone I was coming anyway, as not to get any hopes up, because this was a weekend I had to dedicate solely to my (birth) family. I think next time I come over I'll just crash on one a' you guys' couches and not even tell my parents that I'm there. That'll balance it out, right?
So. Anyway. This story isn't about the wedding, or the beach, or my family, but it is about my bus trip over from New Orleans. My ride back was pretty tame, but goddamn if the trip over wasn't worth writing home (page) about. The first bus was from New Orleans to Mobile, AL, and, since all the seats up front were taken as I was boarding, I sat towards the back of the bus where the "trouble-makers" usually fare. And make they did. Oh my the cast of characters sitting to the side and behind me. Many of them were very sloshed in the gourdy as they climbed aboard. One only barely got on under the provision of the bus driver man that if he were to cause any further trouble he would be dismissed wherever the hell we were. So, as we got rolling they're all faking sneezes to cover the sounds of Busch cans being opened. Cute. Truthfully I coulda used a beer or something to take the edge off. If alcohol is the 'social lubricant' what's the 'social de-lubricant'? Incest? Baby-fucking? Whatever. No big deal. They were having some brews. S'cool, bro. So then this giant red-neck oil-rigger starts talking music. "Ya heard that Limp Bizkit song? The one he says,'It's just one a' those days, thatcha don't wanna wake up?" He went on to sing the verse to himself over and over. "I feel like that sometimes. Those days you just don't wanna wake up." We all do, friend. And have you ever heard someone with a thick Southern accent make fun of Southern accents? This was a first for me. "Hey, girl, where you from?" "I'm from M'issippi." "HAR HAW HAR! 'M'ISSIPPI'!" Fucking choice. Maybe you had to be there. So then they broke out the coke and started passing it around. I think I pretended to be asleep. It's not that I don't like a little bump 'n snizzle now and again, but I'm fairly discerning about the company I keep in such situations. Especially with the Great White Sketch. So, the bus driver never got hip to their grind, even though I'm pretty sure I smelled someone smoking a bowl also, and I fell asleep with my backpack's straps wound tightly around my arm.
Okay. Mobile, AL. Bus number two. Boy was it ever. This time the only available spaces were towards the front of the bus. I had to sit next to this 60-or-so-year-old man. This was at about three a.m., mind you, and I'm looking forward to just passing out. But no. Mr. Talks-and-Talks-and-Talks-But-Never-Listens had been riding the bus since sunny L.A., and his sleep cycle was all outta whack. He'd just woken up, he confided, and it just didn't stop. He was out in L.A. visiting his 34 year-old daughter, a lawyer, that was under a great deal of stress because she's apparently involved in one of the CEO got sold down the river cases so popular a few months ago. Her new husband is a musician, so he takes all of Mr.TaTaTBNL's blame, and he also accused the musician mari of getting her hooked on drugs. "She's a good girl. She would never do anything like that." I wondered how well Mr. TaTaTBNL could really know his daughter. If he was with her anything like he was with me, then I imagine he actually knew very little about her life. But, hey, not my deal. He told me a story about his going to a dentist and how after he flashed his Mason ring he got the price dropped from 2800 dollars to 750. "It sucks for the poor people, but, hey, that's the game, right?" This brought to mind one of my chief, uh, qualms with a lot of rap lyrics, too, in that, well, anyone who says to me,"Don't hate the player, hate the Game," has obviously missed the next, perfectly obvious, logical bit of insight in that, if there were no 'players' there would be no 'game'. Don't get me wrong, I still listen to a lot of rappers that espouse this "philosophy". Cool Keith comes to mind. I just wish they'd see how played out it is. It must be, like, a clause in their contract like the pro-misogyny one. You know that, right? They have pro-misogyny clauses in their contracts. Furthermore, if there were no soldiers there would be no war, but I digress. He asked me what I do, and I work and go to school. I told him I might be an English major. This was the wrong thing to tell an aspiring poet (god, I hate poetry) and he took the opportunity to share some of his 'work' with me. I wish I could remember some of them to share with you, but you would probably be thankful that I can't. Then he tells me I should check out some Christian sci-fi writer ("He's really good!") by the name of Frank Peretti, and he also recited a Christian poem. Something about a member of the carpenter's guild making a cross for Hay Zeus. Very ironic, no? You ever talk to someone that seems to have figured out that if they keep changing the subject then they can keep saying the most ridiculous and offensive things with little chance of someone actually trying to dissuade or disagree with them? That was this guy's style. Kinda like verbal rape, I suppose. So he starts this lesson on blind faith, and how he hopes that all atheists/agnostics go blind and lose their sense of hearing, cause apparently that would show them the proper way to live. Huh? I didn't quite get it either, and my chief complaint with organized religion has always been the stupidity and complacency of faith, but whatever. He's old. It would also turn out that he's an ex-marine. He joined during the Bay of Pigs scandal, and he still calls JFK "[his] Commander -in-Chief". Sheesh. Then he started complaining about all the holocaust museums sprouting up all around the country and how he had it shoved down his throat all growing up and how, "that's Europe's shame, not ours. We shouldn't have to hear about it all the time." Against better judgement, I made a comparison to all the 9/11 shit that kids will have to hear about from now on. Why are 'patriots' always the last people you want on your side? He shares with me a piece of thought(lessness) that he must've found brilliant. Here's his plan: on 9/11 this year, we (the US of A) should plant nuclear devices in all major Arab cities and detonate them to "show them who's boss!" I wonder, sometimes, why they hate us. But not tonight. I was trying not to be rude, but at that point I couldn't take it anymore and I grabbed my cd player outta my bag and made quite a demonstration of putting it over my ears. That pigfucker. Then, the cocksucker tells me, as I'm finally, thankfully getting off the bus in Tallahassee,"God Bless!" As Thompson would've said,"He did me on all fronts!" These guys always seem to seek me out. Is there a sign on me that says,"Skullfuck this kid"? Oh well.
My point being, I infinitely preferred the company of the first bus.

File Under 'Shithead'

Good luck, shithead.

I was getting pretty hungry, so I thought I might eat. I'd had one of those. It was now well into the a.m. without a bite to eat all day. Our pantry was empty, just like always, so I thought of places to go. Everywhere is closed at this hour except for this greasy 24/7 diner just down the way from my apartment, and if I were any less hungry I'd have probably passed. But I wasn't, and it's such a nice night for a walk, and I'm comfortably expectant, so off I go!
So I get there and an intended-to-be-friendly sign greeted me with "PLEASE SEAT YOURSELF". But, of course. I chose a booth out of the general thoroughfare, but there was no one in the restaurant to avoid. From what I could see, I was the only customer there. It seemed I was the only person at all. I sat and waited for another ten minutes before a waitress emerged to get my drink order. To say that my server was unattractive would be a gross-i repeat, gross- understatement. A lumpy, brutal body supported an unwieldy head sporting a yellow, nicotine-stained moustache and humorless eyes. She reeked of old tobacco and an acrid blend of stale perfume and bacon grease. How long has she worked here?, I asked myself. Furthermore, how old is she? It was impossible to estimate.
"Coke, please."
A blank stare followed by lethargic check scribbling and she was gone for another twenty minutes.
She finally brought out my coke--again, I am the only patron in the diner--and took the rest of my order. I got some sort of mega-breakfast meal with lots of eggs and stuff and some kind of pork; I forget exactly because I wouldn't end up eating any of it. She wrote it down somewhat begrudgingly and slumped back into wherever it was that she kept going. The coke was no good. It was all seltzery and not enough syrupy. I wouldn't mention it except that it was another straw for the camel's back. I should have left right then and there, but. . . a reflex? An intuition? I thought something was about to happen. Something to see. So I stayed and waited.
During my wait, I saw a man, that I can only assume was the cook from his dress and the door from which he made an urgent egress, bolt from around the counter and burst out the exit. From my seat next to the window I could easily regard him as he proceeded to vomit forcefully on the curb in front of the diner. After he finished he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and returned inside. He walked directly back to the kitchen. Tremors. Klaxons. The Fear. Kept me glued to my seat.
I'd been in the diner for about an hour, listening to the tiresome muzak woodwinds fill in for the vocal melodies of dumb songs when my food finally came. The haggard graveyard veteran slid the plate in front of me and turned around without a word. Thanks. A brief inspection of my plate: the eggs were speckled with little pearly bits of egg shell, the pork product was burnt and indeterminable, the toast quite simply was not. I could see nothing wrong with the grits save for the bodily hair. I eyed my coke with a new mistrust and grew very queasy.
I am not generally one to complain about things like service, quality, hygiene, etc., but this was. . . I picked myself up and marched directly for the counter so I could throw a little tantrum. I knew it wouldn't change anything, but I didn't care about change. I just wanted them to listen. I found myself striding towards the waitress to part with my two cents, all the while cursing my rotten luck, and then a most miraculous thing occured. Time began to slow as the cook came bursting out of the kitchen doors again, only this time he's completely engulfed in flames. He's flailing aimlessly, as I imagine the engulfed are entitled to do, and in his limbic carousing he crashed into the ogrely waitress and set her ablaze, too. I jumped back to narrowly avoid a similar fate, and I ran straight out the doors. I could see the fire starting to spread as the two of them went dashing about, fumbling with and fighting over a fire exstinguisher, so I called the fire department from the nearest payphone before I started walking back home.
After all I'd been through that evening, I felt sort of lucky to have witnessed such an incongruous chain of events come to such a delightful conclusion, but then I remembered how hungry I still was and decided that things are not, in fact, looking up for me.

Naturally, Dr. Bill Roper, dean of UNC School of Public Health, has legitimate concerns as to where this man's hands have been.
(perhaps off the subject, but does anyone know what "Copyright 2002 Associated Press. All Rights Reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed." means?)

Yesterday James and I were cleaning up the living room, and I was about to sweep a dime into the dust pan when James reaches down and picks it up. He's putting it in his pocket as I proffer,"He who swept it, kept it." Score.
James admonishes with,"He who rhymed back, gets his dime back." Touche.

Stab That Man

Every single day at four thirty-five,
I have to hear the same lame jive,
As I cross the street to catch the bus,
I become enraged and start to fuss.

There's a cop that traffics the cars across,
An intersection at which I'm instructed to pause,
And as his whistle blows to make the cars stop,
I come across the same old lame fop.

A man-child with a curt mustache,
A melon head and mammoth ass,
Says it every day to my disbelief,
To the crossing pig he quips out,"Thanks, chief!"

Stab that man,
Stab that man,
Won't somebody kill that guy?

I mean it, now, it's the same every day,
"Thanks, chief," as he plods along his regular way,
In the direction directly opposite me,
As to rub it in that his back's knife-free,

The first time I heard it I thought him retarded,
But he's asking for vengeance as I now regard it,
One day as thunder was stewing the swelter,
He said to me, thoughtlessly,"I suggest you find shelter."

No shit, Sherlock, you oaf and you bellow,
Dear God, why has nobody murdered this fellow?
Every single day I hear him summon Grim's Reap,
As we cross, and I listen, and he blurts out,"Thanks, chief!"

Stab that man,
Stab that man,
Won't somebody stab that man?

Do-It-Your-Damn-Self Dinners

Wow. You're really hungry, huh? Okay! How about we make some tasty baked bean sandwiches? Yeah?
You'll need:

• one can Bush's vegetarian baked beans
  
• two slices of whole wheat bread
  
• one slice of american cheese
  
• an iron will
  
• Zatarain's creole mustard

1. In a microwave-safe bowl, heat the beans in a microwave oven for about a minute, and put the bread in the toaster.
2. Remove the slices of bread and put the creole mustard on one slice.
3. Place the cheese slice on the mustard and spread four of five spoonfuls of beans on the cheese.
4. Give your pantry and refrigerator another "once over" to make sure that you absolutely do not have anything better to eat in the house.
5. Store the rest of the beans in the refrigerator. You'll probably have them for lunch tomorrow.
6. I never said it would be easy.
7. Put the 2nd slice of bread on top. Be sure to hold the sandwich horizontally, because beans have a tendency to drip.
8. Enjoy?!

in the highways

Q: To prove to all the terrorist threats lurking by at 70 mph on I-10 that your country is as great and absolute as they fear, where's the best place on your Jeep Cherokee to put your American Flag sticker?

A: Right on top of the gas tank cover, of course.

insanity is defined as doing the same thing over and over and over and expecting the outcome to change. -anonymous

I'm not, by nature, a squeamish person. In fact, it's becoming increasingly difficult to offend my sensibilities. But would not common courtesy suggest a simple,"Hey, Erik. Those lab charts you're gonna be working on? Yeah, those. Those have photos of the patients' colonoscopy results. . . just a head's up, there, buddy."?

My homeboy has a page, and it went and got all gussied up just for you. Ladies and gentlemen, Dave. Dave, everybody.

About a week ago I saw a spot on the local news about some affluent fuck living here in the Crescent that lost his/her very special bird. I forgot what kind of bird it was, exactly, but they were offering more than just a few pesos as a reward for its return. So, never willing to pass up a chance to be flip, my roommates and I started making plans, quite in jest, for the tracking and subsequent capture of the bird in question. This petty amusement in making such oaths passed by quickly, and within minutes I think we'd all forgotten about the stupid, missing bird.
Skip ahead a few days and you'll find me unassumingly strolling down the street on my way home from work. While my mind is a-buzz with all the obsessions and distractions that float casually in and out of my thoughts, I glance up ahead and see a strange looking bird a few trees away. As I close the distance, I can tell that this bird is not a native Louisianian. It looks like some sort of cockatiel or parrot; emerald green with a tuft of crimson just above its beak. Naturally, I believed this to be the same bird I'd heard (word) mentioned on the news program a few evenings earlier, and, as I stood there looking up into the tallest branches of this red oak tree, I couldn't have felt more impotent. How small I seemed. How the hell was I going to catch that fucker? I could only imagine making feeble attempts at scurrying up the tree's trunk while the drivers of passing cars turn to their loved ones saying,"Don't the crazies usually keep to the other side of town?" Not to mention the conversation I would be forced to participate in once the authorities arrived to investigate the "damn-fool-who-was-climbing-up-my-tree". Well. Lost cause I say. Better luck next time I say, though the little, back-of-the-mind, hurtfully ironic voice I harbor chirps in with estimates of the probabilities of ever having seen the bird at all. Some luck. I continue on my walk. I decide that I definitely need a nap.
I napped, ate, slept, woke, worked, blah'ed, and a few days still yet more later still I mention, to my roommates (who, if not plainly evident to my readership, are really the only people I come into contact with), the newscast we saw and if they remember what type of bird it was that was missing. They don't, but then I tell them about the misplaced, exotic bird I saw flitting about earlier that week. Dave tells me he's seen the same kind of bird near Carrollton, and that they are more common than I think because, while not an indigenous species, a group of them seems to have escaped from the zoo. Ahhhhahaha. Okay. That is funny. So, add to the list "escaped zoo animals" and your understanding of this silly, silly town clears up a shade. Or so you tell yourself.

My old boss is in the news! I'm sure that by,"a lot of paws to shake," she meant,"elections to mangle."

"Safe for Kids"

I thought there might be someone out there looking to re-imagine themselves. This will help you. Chris also collects books, Star Trek, Pez, and DVD's.

The Pitch

I'd like to take this opportunity to introduce the new script I just finished for a (fingers crossed) summer blockbuster called "War is Heroic, God Damn You!". It's a touching, oversimplified pants-wetter about the struggles bombs face while finding themselves some people ass. Bidding starts at four baby skulls, no questions asked.

OOOOOkaaaayy! It all makes so much sense to me now: a href

Hello?
Oh, it's you America! Of course I recognized you, but you can't come in here dressed like that. No, it's not that I don't like drag queens, America, it's just that. . . well . . . you're just the wrong kind of queen is all. Don't act like that, America. Don't act like you care. It's plain to see that you don't, America. Your sagging cheeks are covered in stubble, and you didn't even bother to shave your legs. You're letting yourself go, America. Do you own a mirror? Your make-up is smeared, America, and why would you think that you could fit into that dress? It has sequins and feathers, but glamour still eludes you. Hmmm. You call that a wig? Your build is all wrong, America.
Do you think anyone will believe this get-up, America? You've got to tape that between your legs. Even the greenest of queens know how to do that properly, America. Why don't you? You're too old for this now, and your Helen Keller act leaves much to be desired. What kind of act is that for a drag queen anyway? I thought you would have done a Bette Midler or Madonna, America. Is that vomit on your dress? I wouldn't complain, but I am part of the audience, and who are you here for, America?
I've seen you roaming around these same streets for years now, drooling and hazed, hiking up your stockings and making scenes. I've seen you run to the crowds screaming, "Call me a queer! Call me a fag!", but everyone knows better. What'll you do when someone obliges you, America? What are you gonna do? Are you gonna teach 'em a lesson, America? What could you possibly teach them? They're all laughing at you. We're all laughing, America. You look so sad. Your charade is pathetic, America. No one's buying it.
You passed out on my doorstep, again, America. You reek. Your legs are splayed all across. . for Christ's sake, America, I can see your balls! Cross your legs or something, America! Don't you have any shame? Oh yeah. . .sorry, man. Forgot who I was talking to.

Here is the dfilm version of my most recent post, Junk, for those of you that want a good story, but have less free time than I must.

Junk

While vacationing in the city I spent some afternoons wandering about and through various boutiques, bodegas, and novelty shops to while away the waking moments between my well-planned leisures. In doing so I came across one shop in particular that had a large assortment of classic toys and other child-oriented collectibles. Many of the toys were still in their manufacturers' packaging, but there was an oblong bin with many toys that were arguably also vintage but without their original packaging and somewhat less stringently cared for over the years. I set myself to rummaging.
After a scant few minutes, under what compulsion I am still uncertain, I found a very familiar little fellow that I pulled out to further inspect. I recognized the figure as being a compatriot of He-Man's, and though I do not remember his specific name or any narrative canon associating him with the other masters of the universe pantheon, I do
remember that in my own childhood I had owned a figure just like this one. Something like HammerHead or RamFace or BitchAss, or something that represented his personal modus operandi or ken. This particular little hero had obviously seen better days. He was covered wtih little scratches and his joints were compacted with grime.
Closer inspection of the figure led to a skipped heartbeat and a widening of the eyes in true disbelief. Scrawled on the underside of his foot in suspiciously bad handwriting were my very initials. How could this be? Before I let my reeling mind leave me in a stupor, I did the sensible thing and purchased the objet trouve for four ninety-nine plus tax. I left the store immediately to return to the hotel. While walking down the sidewalk I laughed at my own silliness for purchasing such a useless thing just because some bastard kid happened to have the same initials as I, but I held the toy tightly under my arm. I affirmed myself of the logical explanations that would manifest themselves to me shortly.
At the hotel I set the thing on the dresser opposite my seat on the foot of the bed. Staring at it expectantly did nothing. The toy just held my gaze with its vacant, painted-action-figure facade. Reluctantly I remembered that this was the model that I had buried deep in the backyard sandbox of the house I lived in from ages three to eight. The grime in its joints looked to be the exact same color and consistency of the clay that I dug into beneath the sand. I was never able to relocate the toy, however. I forgot all about him after we moved and assumed he was still down there between the sand and clay. This was the exact same one. There was no mistaking it.
I thought and thought and thought about how this relic could have possibly made it to that junk shoppe and what turn of events could have resulted in my discovering it. Was there any meaning to this? Eventually I let it go as just a coincidence. Improbable, startling, seemingly-telling, but in the end just a stupid coincidence. However, the miasma of this particular coincidence struck me very uncomfortably, and when it came time to leave the hotel and return home I packed everything except for the toy and left with it standing, staring just as blankly as if making a final pleading case for the normalcy of its reappearance.
After a few weeks had passed I had nearly forgotten about the old toy, but then I received a package from the hotel. I opened it while standing there on my front porch in the orange, flattened light of the afternoon sun. They had sent me the toy. This was, of course, completely impossible because I left no forwarding address with the hotel. I even registered using a false name. There was no way they could have found me. Horror- stricken. . . though, approaching a kind of reverence, I quietly turned around and went back inside the house with the package under my arm.

"Ma'am, your purse!"
"Why thank you, young man. Such gallantry. I suppose you deserve a reward."
"That's really not necessary."
"Oh, but I insist. Here, take my card. You can receive your reward at this address later this evening."
"But. . ."
"No. Shush, child. I promise you a night to remember, and just to pique your interests, here's a few hints of what lies in store: a private string quartet, a yacht in international waters, bumper cars, cheese sticks and jamocha milkshakes, genetically engineered livestock bred for organ harvesting, pruning shears, nursery rhymes, instant playback digital video, recently unearthed/anciently cursed Sumerian manuscripts, co-dependency issues, nagging, vinyl blindfolds, nickel-plated restraints, hollow apologies, a lengthy appeals process, a transparent subterfuge designed to bewilder and discredit the INS, more cheese sticks, and, finally, a byline in next week's paper reading,'Man found strangled to death by own belt'."
I stood speechlessly as she winked and disappeared around the next corner.
My mind was swimming in all the possibilities, and whilst cancelling my other plans for the next few days, I learned that, no matter how certain and unfortunate the outcome, I am inescapably transfixed by how the pages will be turned. Wish me luck!

Regardez:

I just joined a new cult. That makes an even five for this fiscal quarter. I like those odds.

Today, while absently sitting typing working I had a memory return to the top of my thoughts that I took special interest in because (a) it's been a really long time since I thought of this happening and (7) this memory had crossed an exaggeratedly long period of time to arrive back into my conscious (or the next closest thing) mind.
I was in band in the sixth grade (surprised? disappointed? couldn't care less?) and I clearly remember these kids, and there was this spray disinfectant that the instructor used to kill the bacteria and other invisible junk that young people's mouths' leave on instruments. Well, one could hardly expect a public educator to pay attention to his classroom indefinitely, so while his back was turned or whatever, these kids took this spray can, and, like four or five of them, started spraying the shit directly into their mouths. At the time it was just another one of those things about middle school that did not fucking compute, and I sat there flabbergasted (if I may be so bold) that they would spray this toxic stuff designed specifically for the purpose of KILLING ORGANISMS onto their waggling, now-burning tongues. I'm not trying to pass judgement on them or anything, cause I can't deny I did some weird shit, too, but why is it that I get the feeling that all of them are, on this present day, dead. Dead or in the army, right? Maybe not. Lord knows that what doesn't always compute with me has made cultural icons out of intellectual cripples and, conversely, heroes out of ordinary joes. There's always so much to see in the betweens.

(editor's note-uhhm. . .next time)

You scratch my back. . .

Not since Johnny Walker Lindh (yes, him) have I been so completely in awe of the size of another man's cohones; brass fucking balls; gonads of grand girth; whatever you want to call 'em.

Apparently the new capitol of Faghanistan is Eriksgotsnodicksburg. Nice one, Grandpa, really, but don't you think it's time you finally got some new material for these family get-togethers?

The real trouble with watching the movies linked from the middle of this japanese website sent to me by my friend Jason is that I don't think there is an adequate word to describe the feelings one gets from watching the movies linked from the middle of this japanese website sent to me by my friend Jason.

Okay, so maybe just one more.

dear beleaguered,
of all the fucking nerve. i can't believe the depth of a moron's soul. not you, dear. i was talking to my niece. i took your advice and walked across plain and vale until i arrived at the mountain's feet. there, atopmost the crags and peaks, i spoke with the guru, and, on your behalf, i begged him,"guru. . . what of my dreams may i keep and upon which may i loose my grasp?" the guru looked at me with aged eyes and belched,"go to the river, child, and fill your hands with the sand of the bank. then, take these handfulls-wherein each single grain shall be as a single hope spoken through your heart's own voice-and swim directly upstream against the faceless currents. once you arrive at the source look into your palms, and whatever grains of sand remain, those are the dreams that you can keep. the ones lost to the river shall remain as a tribute in the silt on the bed." i left the guru there on the mountain, and i did all that he said. and guess what? not only did i not have a single fucking grain of sand left, but i think i caught a cold and some sort of river parasite as well. that fink. seriously, guys, don't go to the guru on the mountain. i don't think he's even a foreigner. his rates suck, too. my advice to you, then, is to do the adult thing and marry the dead man.

cheers,
abby boom babby

what the hell is up with that?

okay, so follow the link, laugh at the funny jokes, but then notice the costume the robber is wearing in the god-man comic. oh my stars, is that a schwa on his chest? seriously . . what the hell is up with that?

. . .and just to show that my many years behind me have not been in vain, just click this "hypertext link" and enjoy the show!

twenty-three and in-fucking-vincible

Everyone say, "Heylena!"

those who have none are inconsolable

has this ever happened to any of you? i met a great group of new friends a while ago, and we've been hanging out regularly. they seemed so nice and eager to make me feel comfortable within their peer group, but then something changed. do you ever meet people that seem to have the same interests as yourself, but then they all go and do something totally sick-like, i don't know, uh, maybe they make their own puppy and kitten sausages-and that makes you call into question some other things that you had had in common, like an appreciation for capra films, or getting sno-cones at the stand on canal and rendon, or making children drink turpentine? i mean, does my association with them reflect on me personally?

Is this truly the only Earth I can live on?

since i gave you the last installment, i thought i'd pass this one on so you don't have to go through james' neglected page. you are welcome.

skyler jo,
as i sat there under the overpass, and happily melted under the watch of your giddy, lazy-eyed countenance, i tried to imagine the way we would have become. i waltzed down the aisles of the buttermuck-floored theater of my psyche just as the projector started rolling our feature. and there i grew mildly queasy as i envisioned our lonely, weather-beaten, upper-lower hovel. a scrappy, uneven lawn-in parts grotesquely overgrown, in other parts arid and scarred-surrounded the desperate structure where i returned home after another nine hours in faithless economic bondage. maybe it's that i can't remember our childrens' real names, or maybe it's that the names they've acquired socially are spitley, flunky, dobbins, fatty, codge, and peckerwood, but it seems that there is a distance between us that will never be crossed. and feeding their interests as well as their maws has become all the worse since you left your dancing career in lieu of the cesarian section which turned out to be a veritable bane against the crumpled, sweaty bills that once sustained us so much more comfortably. so now i must concede a surrender to us, because a never-ending horde of stranger children, joyless wife, bill collectors, bail bondsmen, land developers, crackheads, pissed-off cops, telemarketers, circus freaks, and your unrestrainable cousin delmar -who wouldn't let his torch for you drop any more than he would stop threatening my life and the lives of our heinous brood every single day of this pornographically pathetic excuse for each reveiller-is beating at our door. and now it's holes in the brain. yes, holes in the brain for daddy.

i'm sorry,
delmer

thank god for data entry

"morning, guys." click click click click click click. . .click click click click. "well, i'm going to lunch now" . . ." hey." click click click click . . . click click click click click. "see you guys tomorrow."

Watch the Shoes:

an evening with Black Mountain and Jucifer

I had the good fortune (as well as the price of admission) to attend a show at the Howlin' Wolf last night featuring the low-end promenade of Black Mountain and Jucifer. The Howlin' Wolf is a quaint, poorly-lit and gutted warehouse that evokes a nostalgia in me for the dun, cozy walls of the Cow Haus in it's pre-battlebot-arena days. Both joyfully deliver quality entertainment to those of us seeking a solid rocking, and the crowds that came through the doors of the Wolf last night were served just that. The opening band was a group currently going by the name Black Mountain. They hail from Baton Rouge, and they come swinging a fearful sound amid some very peculiar footwork. Allow me to explain. The band consists of a drummer and two, count 'em, bass players. That's it. Every band member does some vocal work to patch up some of the high end that is, unfortunately, left to be desired. They play a very riff-oriented variety of thundering doom, and, every couple songs, the lead singer lets us in on his little secret pasttime: clogging. And, man, does that guy clog. Even though parts of me are screaming out to call up Lord of the Dance references and ridicule, I have to say that I was thoroughly entertained. Live music rules, which is to say that though I probably would not buy a cd of Black Mountain's music, that was really some badass clogging. The last number, sung solely by the drummer, was called "Sexually Retarded" and I think I was not the only member of the audience to really take their message to heart. Good show, boys.
As Athens, Ga natives Jucifer set up there was an interlude that one attending the show would have thought would have been shorter considering that there are only two members in the band. The di-populist cult that is Jucifer is organised in the form of a lead singer and guitarist, Amber Valentine, and a startlingly rambunctious drummer, Ed Livengood. So after they set up what seemed like an inordinate amount of equipment for a band of two, the show began without a word or hestation as Valentine mounted the stage in her foot-high, frankenstein-monster-like platform boots. She strummed slowly what would be her only slow strumming that evening. Already there was a wall of noise coming from all the effects and processors alight behind her, and Livengood took the stage unassumingly while tying a rag around his head a la Sly Stallone in his Rambo pictures. Livengood may not be very big, but I think if I had to get punched in the face by either him or Rambo, I'd let Rambo take a shot. Livengood strikes me as the kind of drummer that breaks a lot of sticks due to his relentless barrage on the skins and cymbals, which, like Valentine's boots, seem a little oversized for the sake of the expectant audience. Valentine's voice is the song of a siren, a most delicate and sensuous lament, lost among the raging waters that make up the gurgling lead pool of Jucifer's sound, and she towers above her cauldron with the look of a Valkyrie as re-imagined by a manga artist. Indeed, the sounds emitting are the sounds of reckless destruction, not as devised by seventh-graders with fireworks, but as the result of a serious quarrel between the gods. In the tumultuos battle for a chair in Valhalla, canyons are dug, rivers reversed, and mountains upturned. The most ready comparisons would be to bands like Melt Banana or The Melvins, but neither gives a complete picture of the slag that was thrown about in the Wolf last night. She sings, screams, and howls, and he beats the shit out of his drums with a look on his face that reminds one instantly of the furious dementia of Animal, the Muppet. Their set moves seamlessly from song to song, or, more accurately, from thrash to pause and violence to cool reflection. At the end of the night I am quite thankful that there are still bands out there like Black Mountain and Jucifer, not just because I can so easily make comparisons to Norse mythologies, but because they remind me that not all rock is bullshit. Or maybe I learned that it is, but that it doesn't have to be lame, too. No. Forget that. I didn't learn anything last night, and I think that was the most important lesson of all.

the following is a letter i came across while working at the archives. if i had a scanner i could show ya'll some other real funny stuff, but this will have to suffice for now. i'm sure it's very refreshing for a representative to hear from such a concerned and involved constituency. i didn't make this up:

Rep. Richard Mitchell
House of Representatives
Tallahassee, Florida

Dear Sir:
I personally hope that you and every member of your infamous legislative investigation committee, and your staff henchman, John Evans, get just what they deserve-----to rot in hell.
How does it feel to be on the other side of the fence. . . . .to be getting a royal fucking instead of giving one?

Joyously,
A VOTER and A GOOD CITIZEN

new vocabulary to accompany the imminently disastrous fate of humankind as portrayed in film, book, novella, radio show, etc.

zombiennui
zombast
zombistro
zombulation
zombivalent
zombieef
zombooty

you see a hand writing out the name Shannon in blue ink on a pad of adhesive-backed, pink paper in the middle of a big, poorly-proportioned cartoon heart, also in blue ink. the camera pans up to see a smirk on the penman's face and follows his hand as he plants it on the wall of the building he is walking by. the camera revolves around to show that this is not the first note he has left in his wake, and other people start coming into frame showing that they too are leaving similarly culpable notes in their wakes. as the scene progresses the notes become more densely packed on buildings, telephone poles, mailboxes, store windows, etc., each note a different, vivid, day-glo color. finally, a bus is seen rounding the corner completely covered in the damn things and the effect of the multi-colored, fluttering notes looks like a bird's feathers ruffling along the aluminum hull. after following the bus for a few seconds the scene is abruptly cut.

is this :
a) a commercial for post-it notes?
b) a chilling, cautionary glimpse of young sobriety?

i was not so much afraid for the children when the robot came into our home, but that some day robot would turn in his sleep and crush the life from me with the weight of his cold, shimmering bulk.

One Night Only

your favorite insufferable bastard (perhaps i assume too much; there are so many) will be playing one measly, stinkin' show tonight at the Howlin' Wolf with local masters of pretense, DeadHandSystem. i'm not posting this because i expect any of you sparingly few devotees to attend, but merely to post an excuse as to why my attention has been temporarily diverted from this site in recent weeks.

why .. . thank you, Swee' Daddy Kathe, for being such a true player. working for you girl, is like making money for having sex. hustle, hustle, hustle; that's what you always say. i know you hit me. i know you take all my money. but i also know that it's this ass keeping you in the gold teeth and pixie stix. if that ain't love, well, then i'm actually just a lame, white dude with too much free time.

Paul is a Madman

"Conrad Consulting?"
"Hey, Paul, it's Erik."
"Erik!!"
"What's up, dude?"
"Oh not too much. Is it up with you? Or, what's up with you?"
"Uhhh, neither."
"HAHAHAHHAHAHAA!!"
"So, Paul, I was just wondering if you got the original copy of my time sheet in so I can come pick up my check."
"Why, sure I did. You can come and wrestle me for it."
"Uhhhhh, arm wrestle?"
"HAHAHHAHAAHAHAHA. Whatever."
"Well, I'll be in a little after five, then. Thanks."
"Okay, Erik. See you soon."

Paul is a Madman

is living well really the best revenge, or is the best revenge a flaming bag of dog poo? heart says poo.

i, uh, read my horoscope last week, and even though i don't really buy into astrology-for what some would consider a good reason-i am thoroughly entertained by it. to hear rob tell it i have been unimaginative lately, and to look at my page you would probably agree. since everything else i've felt like posting is really lame (e.g. did you hear the one about the dyslexic, agnostic, insomniac that wandered the halls at night wondering when people would stop ridiculing his condition?), i decided to go ahead and take part in the little exercise that the stars have suggested. it actually turned out to be fun, and i hope you would agree.
question the first: visualize yourself as a superhero. what are your powers? your costume and name?
answer: i see no reason for restraint in this daydream, so let's go ahead and give me the powers of flight, super-human strength, and, for an enhanced, fictive approach to my usual fashion of 'dealing', instant disappearability. gradual disappearability just will not suffice. another skill of mine will be uncanny pensiveness. my pensiveness will be so consuming that distracting my train of thought will send me into a blind rage of mindless destruction. in fact, tales of this pensiveness and its subsequent rage will precede me far before any word of heroic deeds will, which will be rare and curiously vague. my superhero identity will be "the erksome" (get it? cause it's like 'irksome', but like with an 'e'? pretty clever, huh? real hip-hop), and my costume will be my gun-metal blue cargo pants and a black, lycra longsleeve t to show off my bird-chested physique. on my chest will be an emblem of an upside-down, lowercase 'e', known in pronounciation guides and phonology cults everywhere as a schwa. if some villain/authority figure/ne'er do well ever says to me, "hey. .what's with that upside-down, little 'e'?" i'll thrash their ass on the spot. however, if the same person was to say to me, "hey. .cool schwa," then i'll take them out and buy 'em a drink. justice will be done.
question the 2nd: if you could summon a brilliant ally from history, who would it be? what would you want to discuss?
answer: i couldn't really tell if he was asking for a superhero sidekick or simply a kind ear. due to this ambiguity i will give two answers, one addressing my former impression, and one for the latter. the name of my superhero sidekick will be "the orator", also known as the greek, 4th century b.c.e. public speaker Demosthenes. he and i will discuss the role of the citizen in a democracy, the pros and cons of plato's republic, and the villainy of macedonian imperialism in the hands of philip the II and his son, alexander. when it comes time to ass-thrash, though, i will shout my catchphrase (hopefully to become as reknowned as the holmesian platitude,"elementary, watson"), "shut the fuck up, Demosthenes!", and we will explode onto the streets to think, talk, and, above all, thrash asses. another 'ally' (he must've meant sidekick) that i'd like to talk up would be catherine the great, the powerful, enlightment-era russian leader. i'd love to discuss the state of her nation, their customs, and her interests in equestrianism (also, from what i understand, she was something of a slut. bong).
q3: (not really a question, so much as an imperative) dream up three stories you'd love to read in the newspaper.
a3: natch. dick cheney chokes on weather balloon-the perpetually elusive vice president died yesterday afternoon during his 10 country trip to the mideast. as a guest of the qatar government, he was splashing playfully in the surf of one of qatar's gold-paved beach resorts when he choked to death on a weather balloon that became lodged in his windpipe during an imitation of a whale, witnesses said. after being dragged to shore by the sheik's slave children the balloon was discovered. however, it was too late to resuscitate mr. cheney. the balloon in question seems to have originated from an elementary school project in tallahassee, fl in 1987. the nametag, still miraculously attached to the balloon, bears the name of Sealey elementary school, however, the name of the student seems to have faded and the blank cryptically reads "e-i- -ry--". upon having the incident very carefully explained, several times, slowly, to the president, george ''double u" bush made a speech formally indicting all weather balloons as potential nuclear targets and members of the ever-expanding, "axis of evil." "we will not rest, tonight, or any other night, until we can all forget that this ever happened," president bush said, adding,"the iron of our resolve is steely tungsten."
zydeco kills-in a study published by the national institute of health, the rollicking, flamboyant, cajun music form known as zydeco has been linked with numerous serious neurological dysfunctions ranging from instant death to getting really fucking annoyed.
and last, simply, photographer ann gedes mauled by humiliated toddlers
question the last: a skilled tapestry weaver offers to create a masterpiece featuring scenes from the great turning points in your life. which events will you choose?
ansa: 1) my mother gives me a self-help picturebook on my third birthday called "God Doesn't Want You to Play with Yourself". "That's not why He gave you that, erik."
2) age 6~9: i eventually realize that there are worse things, thankfully, to call someone other than "stupid", "jerk", or "you stupid jerk". this powerful gift of logos has strings attached, i discover, when i try to use these new words on friends, teachers, and family members. those donkey-hustling fuck smokers.
3) in the 6th grade i enter into a game called truth-or-dare. what i first thought to be a blessing, turns sour when the girl that has just been dared to kiss me says,"this is sooo gross!" the word bubble coming out of my mouth on the tapestry shall read,"you're no prize pig yourself, bitch!"
4) my parents are murdered by a young hood named jack napier, and i begin my life anew in the shadowy corridors of ruthless vigilantiism.
5) they were talking about breakfast cereal and you're hiding under the bed.
6) i play Bust-A-Move 2 for fifteen consecutive hours. things will never be the same.
7) late last year, as i lay restlessly in bed, a blinding light burned through the windows, and in a vividly lucid vision, God descends, surrounded by the heavenly host, and says to me, "That's not why I gave you that, erik."

this concludes the exercise. it felt good to get all that off my chest. hopefully i won't need astrology as a crutch for such a shitty post in the future. i hope i can post just as shitty all by myself.