Tuesday, October 6, 2015

The Champions of Diversity

ever
nver admit
the distinction between truth and justice

REFLECTIONS ON THE VELVET UNDERGROUND

he says oh I wish I was born 1 thousand years ago... but that doesn't work for me... I'd be dead, actually nonexistent, since my mother would have died around age 16, since my mother was a type I diabetic and would have died without the technology/science of insulin injections to keep her alive... thus, call me biased in favor of science/civilization... how easily the sons of the rich (ha, 'Jesus's son') ignore their good fortune... how easily we ignore our good fortune... the lesson of 1968... two sides to every coin... freedom/fascism... prosperity/poverty... still that first record of theirs is so goddamn good... particularly what reminded me of it is the black angel death song... how easily the champions of diversity rush to defend their petty attributes of race, etc. the champions of diversity will come up with all kinds of fancy explanations why their attributes are not so narrow... so they will talk about a 'white guy' who is actually 'Italian' etc....

Saturday, August 8, 2015

a short time alone with the old woman

perhaps she's just a drunk

or perhaps wars unseen

she's from a foreign country
I can't imagine (it)
except as some tourist destination these days

a few bombed out buildings
the remains of a sniper's nest
and genocidal massacre
here and there

a bit of saber rattling from the last century

now she gorges herself on junk food
so much as her son will allow
and smiles


she's had a stroke you see
and he worries about her health

we don't speak a word


the unification of the My Lai massacre and the murder of the Romanov family

 a bit of fun
before we're done
a two year old
thrown on the fire
perhaps my facts
are not in perfect form
we'll hope the details are remembered right
in time, eventual

the town crier
a drunk
sensual

Tuesday, June 30, 2015

Stopped Seeing the Supreme Court of the United States as the Final Arbiter of the Meaning of the Constitution

corporate drone seeks escape from weeds

corporate drone looking for big break

wears blinders in the office like a horse


Friday, May 29, 2015

The Parent Company

The eyeless man has seen eternity. The devil is a bean counter, a placeholder for ghosts. The Yuggothian Ambassador lands at midnight. She’s dancing to the music inside her head, but no one else can hear it. People are not their shadows, not entirely. The kids gassed in the nursery of the satellite station. The molecular bond fits the flap to the envelope like a key, a signet ring left behind at the scene of the crime. There is a rumor going around that all the entities are one, but the owners are untraceable. A message to the parent company, if only you could locate the home office. An apartment in Paris. A condominium in New Jersey. A decaying manor home in Scotland. This one operates a bank out of the car trunk of an antique convertible. Mobile banking he calls it. Encrypted digital transfers through a Luna shell. Cash pouches. A bloodless secretary with track marks on her neck passed out in the front seat. When pressed he’ll admit to a mailing address somewhere in the greater Empire of Uruguay, but nothing more. “Perfect security is a pine box six feet underground,” she tells him, as she spools in to steal a few more lives, a few more hours of her fix. Her pale white skin glistens with sweat as he makes love to her slowly in the back seat, under the broken streetlights, under the stars.

Sunday, May 17, 2015

Rockets Redglare


all that nonsense
it’s inadmissible
it’s not your fault
however much you’d like to pretend


Met him at the no-tel bar
Nodding off with his teeth falling out
asked me for my credit card
but it was already maxed out




1968

it ain't so fucking great

1968

Public Intellectual

having dinner with a prominent left wing public intellectual

“Oh, I can’t stand your work, but I can respect anyone who’s managed to claw their way into the public mind.”

claw their way into the minds of other people

claw their way into other people’s minds

Kill A Cat 2


    Buddy Holly on the radio. Baby won’t you come out tonight? She’s dating some car dealer. Her pussy cracked open like a fortune cookie when he pulled up in that shiny new Audi convertible. A safe house outside of Detroit. A suitcase full of human flesh. A straight razor in the glove compartment. She laughed as he poured the drinks.
    She still occasionally did jobs on the side, even though it upset her boyfriend. She would play with her stockings mostly, and then let the john fondle the silk in his hands, hoping to get a small whiff. The most restrained form of sex play imaginable. She never let them touch her.
    At the bar later, she bumped into an old friend, from when she was a kid. He had been in college and hanging out at the party house her mom had rented out to a local pot dealer. They had become good friends. They drove to the zoo one time, and watched the Mandrill masturbate, then drove all the way to the beach that same day, until their heads exploded from sleep deprivation. They popped no-doz and watched the tide roll in. She always wondered why he never made a pass at her. She thought maybe he pictured himself as some kind of gentleman, or maybe it was that she had been underage at the time. Then she wondered if maybe he was gay.
    They had a couple drinks together and talked about old times, a few of her ex-boyfriends that he still kept in touch with. Old friends. She told him she was dating the car dealer and he laughed. He said they should get together, like go out. She looked at him with a cynical expression.
    “I don’t think it would be a good idea,” she said.
    He seemed to think about it for awhile, then finished his drink, paid his tab, and kissed her on the cheek before making for the door. She decided he wasn’t gay, just a nice guy.
    That’s when she met the Traveller. Skin like basalt, a pinstripe suit, and an old Studebaker in the gravel parking lot outside, where they’d found that guy beat to death last year. She found herself having a little too much to drink, and before she knew it, they went for a ride.
    The Traveller told her that he was from beyond space and time, and said he was preaching the transethical imperative. Kill a cat with nothing but your philosophy, to enter this room. She didn’t take it seriously. He was feeding her something with his smile, like a crooked line of white across his shadow face. She noticed that the stars were riding along with them, and found herself gasping as the universe opened like a chasm, to take her slowly into its maw.

Kill A Cat

    In an anonymous motel room, they study the transethical imperative. To enter, you must kill a cat with nothing but your philosophy. She’s crawling up the ivy with her face all a blur. The poet smiles as they lead him to the executioner. The middlemen are bleeding from the neck. Foreign exchange students, building a bomb in the basement. Little boys, screaming for their mothers. Communication and violence spread the same way, like a disease.
    His brain was a television. They flipped the channels back and forth. His brain was an ice cube, carved out of pink flesh, impaled on a toothpick and dropped in a martini glass. He wanted that drink so bad he could taste it. His arms were crossed underneath his body like dead needles under a thousand haystacks. In a dark place in the far corner of his brain he began to see the blind spot, an empty hole where his soul should be, screaming like a banshee with her lips all red and full of blood, pulsing like the tip of his finger sliced clean off with a combat knife, blood like a funnel, blood like a funnel cake at the state fair, blood caked all over his brain like barnacles on a ship, his spine sunk beneath the ocean like a coral reef, his bones a shipwreck, his brain a cloud of blood, bits and pieces cast over the side, a feeding frenzy.
    Talk show hosts for breakfast. The guy’s a maniac. You can’t reason with a maniac. Insurance company called it an accident. She’s dating some car dealer. Her pussy cracked open like a fortune cookie. A little army of kids trailing behind her. A bottle of gin to put them to bed. The hotel lobby was covered in a fine sheen of plasma, all that was left of the dinner guests. His cover story was quite simple, a business man in town looking for a piece of underage ass. No one would ever suspect. Especially if high on industrial solvents. Up through Florida and then by truck to Michigan. A safe house outside of Detroit. A suitcase full of human flesh. A straight razor in the glove compartment. She laughed as he poured the drinks.

Saturday, January 10, 2015

"In the tendency toward unity, everything ultimately leads to God." (Niklas Luhmann, Art as a Social System 253 (Eva M. Knodt trans., Stanford University Press 2000)

We all become a network
of informants based
on internal security's
new "zero tolerance"
policy for employee
dissatisfaction.
In the intelligence system
a "surprise" may be
disinformation.
Targets are identified
through redundancy.

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

Monday, November 24, 2014

Friday, November 14, 2014

Mad Heiress

He may be a fascist, but I'll take him over someone who wants to mutilate my genitals any day.

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Time to invent a robot capable of being embarrassed.

Don't know about you, but I really enjoy those Phoenix Brothers buddy movies. Though I have trouble telling Joaquin and River apart. Their last one, "Noseums and SunSqueak Visit the Diamond Mine" was especially hilarious.

youpube.com

When it comes to making bread, hippies rule

"Bucket of Sick" the exciting new Drexel Ratch Adventure Feed. Only from Toys+ "Be better. Be someone else."

Tired of living your own life? Live someone else's.

A gorgon delivers my Sunday paper. A harpy is going door to door, selling harpy scout cookies.

Nevins adjusted the intensity dial on his Toys+ Libido Intensifier. He had a long evening of high stakes revelry ahead of him. He'd had his staff program the Pleasurebots to administer near fatal autoerotic chokeholds to those partygoers who had requested such a service. He'd insisted that each bot's database be triple-checked for accuracy. He couldn't afford another incident like the one at last year's event with the late secretary of education. In a nice touch, staff member A13 had affixed satin nooses from hooks in the ceiling above each guest's feathered bed.
"Deathwing! Oh, Deathwing?" came the chipper call of Matron Masters from the grotto.
So many details to attend to.
He'd requested brain scans from each guest last year. At terminal O, "festooned" seemed to be the prevailing thought. Consulting the runes, throwing the I Ching, hiring a diviner...had taught him nothing. This year he'd have to approach his inquiry from a different angle.

Barney. It always comes back to Barney.
Why does it always come back to Barney?


Foreskin spirit walker. Ancient Native American tradition.

 

Sunday, October 19, 2014


They Shouldn't Give White Guys 4 Track Recorders

Texts with Nevins

"Facefaller: A Dirk Tangiers MetaMystery"

You won't get rich broadcasting the mating life of eels, but it sure is fun

Maderos Estates: Comfort. With a vengeance.

Last night, we dreamt we saw a plane crash

Meeting at three. With the boss machine. Stone sculptor. Your own personal Stonehenge.

He wore a face that had seen better days. Folded and crevassed. An old brown shoe.

In this district, skyscrapers come standard with antimissile defense pods.

Binky's farts smell like grass-fed geese.

Tattooed primitive art star gave the herpes player tambourines.

Parapalegiclegaleagles

2089: A blind sculptor who works with radioactive clay.

Downtown's new transgendered Virgin Mary. The immaculate self conception. Immaculate contrarian.

Lost in the Arabian Sea. Two thousand years from now, an ancient archive of text messages reveals the wisdom of a philosopher known only as Shyguy69.

Careful, his dad is that cannabilist televangelist.

Tattooed primitive art star sweats cigarettes and bleeds dollar bills.

Your mustachioed daughter.

Nine year olds firing rocket launchers.

English people encounter wildcats in the bathtub.

In terrorism, postmodernism is forced to confront its shadow, the premodern.

Bradford Mantooth and Bentley Undercarriage riding out the Novelty Express. Stanley Mantooth- opinion maker to the stars

Anxiety Momma.

Stop motion movies 30,000 leagues under the sea

A low-level museum curator, responsible for greenlighting the ebola found object installation, which killed hundreds of museum goers in last month's exhibit...has been promoted. A real downtown badboy, that guy.

Maderos is too lazy to handclap. Whatever will we do with her.

Ladies over 90 sure do know how to make much ado.

Relax. Let the happiness come to you. All flavor of oases.

In the future, each of us will become our own corporation.

Binky's inevitable revenue stream.

Shoot your wife, move to Mexico, and call it art. As if.

Who here hasn't at one point played the part
 of thuggish executioner?

Dudes who work in bike shops need to stop being so confident. It's all become too much. Urban cowboys, astride titanium steeds. Bike shop dude beat up surly record store clerk.

"Division's gotta run an ETL to squeeze it into our existing system."

Systems is in town. Do not fuck with systems. Alcor loses his skin, over there in sales. FedEx drop ships the bodies from orbit back down to earth. An assistant plugs them into the acclimation device until they are ready to activate.

Haven't you figured it out? White people feel better, more authentic, when they patronize the art of black people. Leave behind your collective guilt, descendants of slave holders. Jay Z is a mope. 99 problems. Art ain't one.

A&E Presents: Shampoos of the 70s. Pert. Prell. Head and Shoulders. A golden age.

Mad Heiress: High-rise deities. Cossacks in waiting.

Night of the Living Skeptics.
Nihilist cocktail parties sure are fun.

Band name: Candy Hank and the GayLads

The jittery dentist

Holocaust fashion week presents: Starve it, Flaunt it. Where black and white striped pajamas are always in vogue.

Mad Heiress: Bristling with cultural dissonance. Bristling with cultural dissidents. Bristling with cultural diffidence. Bristling with cultural indifference. Etc.

Ethyl Ethanol ran her fingers across the smooth metal of the shock collar around her neck. "Won't go far," she whispered.

Hobney jammed the edge of the sonic blade up against the cook's throat. Outside, the honey peddlers had set up shop right outside Boscoe's tent.

Out on Blue Six, shock drones were in full play. Protein shipments had been withheld for weeks. The streets and the arcades, a churning sea of violence. Bodies doing to metal, metal doing to bodies.

Today is "write like a syphilltic 19th-century Parisian poet" day

trailing plumes of smoke from rockets in flight resemble slender fingers, outstretched and imploring




Zelcko Zizek's brandy-soaked tongue caught fire as the flaming oyster touched his mouth. All around him, the table erupted into paroxysms of cruel laughter.

The Duchess sank her fork deep into the ambassador's hindquarters.



Tort-Knocker's capitalist impulses were rendered inert by the flatulent juggernaught of his bowels. He would forever remain a salesman manqué.

Sociotranscdental matrix swallows our hero at dawn.


From the "Aristocrats Having Epiphanies While Engaged in Acts of Unconscionable Homicide" series:

Swithens grew homicidally impatient with the cagey, sebaceous behavior of the sommelier. He found his right hand creeping toward the handle of his sonic dagger.

Later that afternoon, amidst the bodies piled around him, Werfer decided he was henceforth a dedicated psychoculturalist. Slowly, he unwound his notebook and began to write.

Botany had always been of especial interest, Lady Wayforth determined, tightening her garrote around the flower girl's throat.

Bringing the oar down upon the guide's head, Charles realized that he'd always rather loathed the sporting life. "You know I hate nature!" he bellowed at the crumpled form that lay before him in the canoe.

Esmerelda would not be deterred. Stepping across the pile of limbs in her father's gore-bespattered drawing room, she set to work on her watercolor of the water lilies.

In the memorial garden at the Dresden Atrocity Park, Patterson ran a retinal spool to narrow down his list of future victims.

Perched atop the battlement, in between sniping townsfolk with his father's crossbow, Charles continued work on the mathematical treatise that he knew to be destined to become his legacy to modern science.

Towelling off the entrails from his jewel-encrusted harm stick, Bryce thought to himself "I never could get the hang of Saturdays alone in the lodge."

That night, the rebels smeared excrement throughout the entryway of Bohampton's summer chalet. The next morning, his wrists still smarting from where the wrist ties had been, Bohampton remarked that, odor aside, he rather liked the new look. Deidre, her hands still gripping the autorifle, tutted.

Von Hindermilk slowly eased back the safety catch on the Mauser machine pistol. Drawing a bead on the unwashed curb urchin, he considered his options. Might another homicide make late for that afternoon's croquet match? And didn't he already have enough saturnine tableaux for his sketchpad?

Applications that download celebrity personalities into a user's brain, so that their personality takes on the traits of the selected celebrity. The extent to which it does this depends on what price point they go in for

Examples:

Yogs McGhee pers app. Shade: morning. Mood: satirical. Join your favorite spool stars by become them! This upgrade from ToysPlus Inc. gives you the inventive interview style of digit spool morning talkshow host Yogs McGhee. Don't be yourself! Be better!

Boss Winston pers app. Shade: night. Mood: boss. Join your favorite spool stars by becoming them! This upgrade form ToysPlus Inc. gives you the daring cool style of digit spool drama reality leading man Boss Winston. Don't be yourself! Be better!

 

 

 

 

Drexel Ratch. Shade: night. Mood: dope. Join your favorite spool stars by becoming them! This upgrade from ToysPlus Inc. gives you the subtle complex style of murderama character actor Drexel Ratch. Don't be yourself! Be better!

 

Catch Fever. Shade: day. Mood: sex. Join your favorite spool stars by becoming them! This upgrade from ToysPlus Inc. gives you the aromatic machismo style of daytime talkshow host Catch Fever. Don't be yourself! Be better!

 

Xxxxx Xxxx pers app. Join your favorite spool stars by becoming them! This upgrade from ToysPlus Inc. gives you the xxxxxxx xxxxxxx style of xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx Xxxxx Xxxx. Don't be yourself! Be better!







A man in purgatory has two apples. What is he doing wrong?
A girl on a swing remembers a nursery rhyme from her childhood. What is her sin?
A man and a woman enter a restaurant on an overcast day. What have they neglected?
A young man purchases a commercial jazz recording. What has he failed to consider?



Still waiting for a company to create a horror video game where there's a type of monster that rapes the player. Your avatar is pinned down, in 1st person POV, and can rotate the mouse to move your head to look back over your shoulder, where you see yourself taking it where you sit. Maybe Call of Duty XXII can feature an unlock weapon- the shotgun that fires a non-lethal concussion round, allowing you to rape and teabag stunned foes.



Executive Restraint: the thrilling new Jack Palmer techno thriller. Coming soon to your favorite feed.

A guitarist with broken teeth. Working as a dishwasher in New Orleans.
A jackpot barker with a blind dog. Selling tires in Akron.

Dance of the Arthritic Remission Pooves
Dance of the Apoplectic Consignment Snakes


Mad Heiress: When a failure to connect the dots becomes lethal



Today, everyone riding around in cars just looks weird. Moving around with their asses suspended a few feet off the ground. It's like I can see through all the metal and the plastic and see them seated that way.

Everettbong. A new leisure paradigm. Only from ToysPlus.

The best in off-world synthetic meat products.

Tourquay Judkins said his prayers and dusted off his forget-me-nots, then slid into the cramped cockpit of his Exocet Interceptor. This run was gonna be a bitch.
Judkins screamed into his helmet mic as the G forces sculpted out his bowels against the inner lining of his flight suit. "I'm gonna shave the coon on this one, boys!"


Futuresex drone emitter codes. Remote dronegasm strike with hellsex erotica missiles. Sexy warheads make terrorism 'rotic. Only from ToysPlus. A new way to kill.

Autoerotic asphyxiation cannons...fire! Blue faces and moist groins litter the battlefield.
Onanist dispersal bomblets drop in 3...2...1...drop! "Soon our enemy will be busying themselves with more immediate personal matters, at great sin to their strict religious customs, and their hands will be too preoccupied to handle their weapons" remarked the general, with great satisfaction. "Like ducks in shooting gallery" affirmed Nadia.
Weaponized Viagra.

We ignored the signal. Willfully misread the signs. And now, fire falls on Klimek Farms.

Car bumpster: I brake for pederasts


The cockpit of Bunkey's interceptor resembled nothing so much as a dayglo abortion.

Bosco gripped the hedge trimmers and swore an oath. Someone would pay for this.

Peaches Geldof visits PervTechLLC. "The devil's hiding amongst the bacteria," she was heard to remark.

In related news-- AIDS is just Star Trek fanficiton.

My girl works part-time at the slaughterhouse.

Celeb child names:
Search Object
Meta Data
Hit Counter
Blogosphere
Hard Coder
C++
Available Bandwidth
Zero One


When you're sick, it's like your entire being is one big mucus farm. Booger trawlers.

It's 2089, and Sting's son and Bono's daughter rule over the British Isles with practiced benelovence.


Decisions adjusts the straps on his jumpsuit. Everything was in order. Powering off his feed, he takes his first step out of the platform of his orbital balloon. Descending through upper atmosphere, he powers on the gauss rifle. Below, on terra firma, the Chinese Ambassador stands outside the ruins of the US Embassy. He addresses the assembled troops.
"Defeat shall not come to us on this day. Nor any other day!" he bellows.
Indeed, he had reason to be overconfident. Operation Skin Force had been a huge success. American troops had been caught unaware. Rendered into a state of erotic paralysis. Moist in their most tumescent defeat. The Chinese shock force had razed the embassy, and taken 6,000 hostages. A blank check for China's Pacific land grab.
The targeting site on Decision's HUD lit up the ambassador's head like a Christmas tree. Gyro stabilizers kicking in, compensating for turbulence. Slowing down now. He brought the rifle up and peered through the scope.
One mile up, a Chinese sexfeed satellite caught Decision's burn-in out of the corner of one of its many eyes. Routed the feed back to a security station on the mainland.
Shit was about to get real.


Stankbutt is angleing for promotion again. When will he learn?
The herculean task of removing Patterson's mouth from the air hose.

1969 was the year that all rock stars grew mustaches.

Mulroney's ointments were the talk of the Bowery
Mulroney applied a thick layer of the ecotoplasmic white goo to the boxer's bruised midriff.

Tenderly, he caressed her eyestalks. Driven mad by citrus.

Uli slammed the ship into reverse, caring not that he incinerated a fruit vendor who'd parked his rig too closely to the Nova Express.

"Vouchsafe for the Holidays: the latest installment in the Mastodon Skyline Adventure Feed. Brought to you by Toys+.
 
 "Hellborne Prodigy" the new line of leisure combat robotics. Only from Toys+.

Easter Egg Island

"Yuggothian Ambassador" the next generation of alien symbiotics. "One spray and she'll know the difference." Only from Toys+.

"Star+" the new pers app that lets you add your favorite star to any digit spool show you want! Customize your feed! Only from Toys+.

We've entered the duct tape phase of our lives. Rigging shit that we are incapable of fixing.

Caught! Can Bodhisattva get a witness? Black tofu in the hour of rage!

JizzJazz.  

Mr Sniffs and Cherry Justice laid waste to the casino floor.

Cast adrift on art-star island.

Free rectal exams, no questions asked.
Back alley eugenics.
Pockets Winklestein: Student Proctologist

Diarrhea on the Moon: A Jock Sturgess Deep Space Adventure.

Chapter One:
Sturgess knew he only had one shot. As he felt the intestinal cramp pushing the inevitable explosion from within his bowels, he released the air valve on his vacc suit and angled for the mother ship. "Make. It. Count. Sturgess!" he said through clenched teeth.
Tarry black feces exploded from the opening, then streamed from out of the posterior valve on Sturgess's vacc suit. And directly onto the helmet of the cosmonaut behind him. The russkie's laser shot went wide as the dank liquid froze into a solid coating. Sturgess  spun about and fired the grappling gun directly into Boris's chest.

Jock Sturgess...fecal super soldier. The product of a government initiative gone awry. They tried to cure his irritable bowel syndrome using "Serum X" and instead created a monster. But one whose power they could harness. Sturgess travels to a variety of exotic locales, and shits his way to victory. Preferred uniform: flack jacket and kilt.

"Code Brown! I repeat, Code Brown!" shouted the scientist, panic filling his eyes as Sturgess shrugged off the shackles like so much wet Ramen.
from "Deadly Milkshake in Tangiers: A Jock Sturgess Adventure"

"Operation Shitstorm: A Jock Sturgess Tale of Intrigue"
She knew Sturgess's reputation, and had worn a brown raincoat as a precaution.

Years later, after it's all over, the fictional Sturgess writes his fictional autobiography: "Shat My Way to the Top"

Operation Polished Turd: A Jock Sturgess Adventure.

Sturgess's sidekick could be a female CIA agent with no sense of smell. She divines the future by examining the shape, size, and texture and quality of people's turds. A real fecal femme fatale.

Jock Sturgess in Golm Stick Blues.
Brother Scare raises the Golm Stick above his head, advancing on Sturgess. Sturgess wheels about and lifts the back of his kilt. "40 degrees to your left!" shouts Becky from behind the wood pile. Sturgess shifts on his heel and compensates, using raw instinct to further refine the trajectory shift. Brother Scare, now only feet away. But it was too late. "Fraaaaaaaaaaaaapppppppppp!!!"

"Dammit. Sturgess has gone fecal." the General stated. A look of grim realization on his face as he surveyed the carnage through his binocs.

"She thought that the shit on the bathroom floor was the worst it could get. But she was wrong. Dead wrong." Coming this summer...Shitberg, the new Jock Sturgess thriller.

Jock Sturgess vs. The Doomsday Turd.
Jock Sturgess in "The Turd of Damocles"

Jock Sturgess in "The Brown Trouser Protocol"
From the intro:
The panicked voice came over the SAT phone line: "Trouser Brown! Trouser Brown! We have a Trouser Brown!" General Tanner grabbed the receiver. "Initiate containment procedure Rogue Brown Cow! Now!!"





(Outside Trader Joe's, a squad of gay men are selecting pupkins)

Mad Heiress: The crazy-ass process of fly-away bullshit
Mad Heiress: Last week's philosopher kings, reduced to running a game of three-card monte out in the parking lot.
Mad Heiress: Klaus, may I be so bold as to call you Jaguar Klatch?
Mad Heiress: Jocko's rocket ship.

Wonton Justice: A California Coolie Mystery.





Dumbly, like inert stars, we sputtered out.



"Quickly, to the scramjet!" shouted Dr. Go-Johnny from behind the terminal.
Urinal kid leapt up from the floor. Consignment Judy and Senor Prognosticator unclasped their safety harnesses and tumbled onto the athletic mat. The dog with no orifices tried to bark, but could not.

When Bertha turns the handle of her crank shaft, all the howdy dudelick boys come running.


 
 The Angry Mad Heiress phone app: launch them out of their dilapidated mansions and onto the heads of tax creditors and their ex-husbands.


Mad Heiress: Telling the Foghorn Leghorn Origin Story

Want Ad section for MH:

Wanted: Exp. Psychic Driver for mind control party. Must be bonded. Call Shmev Anderson. Luna 999.661.221.0344. Pay based on exp.

Dear MH: What qualities do you look for in a freelance rooftop sniper?
 
 

Friday, October 10, 2014

HEIRS OF THE BODY

   “It’s an archaic form.”
I hadn’t been paying attention, it’s true.
   “What?”
   “The fee tail. As I was saying, it’s an archaic form. Goes back to the Middle Ages, perhaps even further back than that. But for some reason, they kept it.”
   He creaked in the leather chair, the sound of well-oiled metal hinges and leather. He was one of those cosmopolitan hatchet men who made you think he either knew a great deal about a great many subjects or else had managed to hide the fact of his general ignorance with a specific line of specialization that managed to defy all inter-meddlers. A line of books against the wall for show in the digital age, uniform and perfect, a row of little soldiers, ten little Indians, Black’s Law Dictionary, a diploma from Harvard, a morning star with dull metal spikes.
    The Middle Ages, I thought.
    “It’s like something out of a Jane Austen novel,” he said.
    “But with an imperfect narrator.” I felt like giving him some shit back. I’d been to a good school too.
    “But the law has to reach conclusions,” he said, his eyebrows coming together like a couple of mating slugs. “Endless interpretation cannot forestall the transfer of property duly vested. And you are the last living descendant of the original grantor.”
    I shrugged. A country estate somewhere, I kept thinking. Someone had left me something else. I wasn’t sure why they’d called me down to the office. Usually they just handled things for me. Occasionally I had to sign for things.
    “How are you doing, Louis?” he asked me suddenly, as if we were close.
    He had worked for my mother before she died, back when she was writing books. Children’s books published by a vanity press, but she thought it was her calling.
    “Alright.”
    “Lucas tells me you’ve had some trouble.”
    They occasionally kept an eye on me, indirectly for the most part, since my mother died. But this was something else.
    “Oh nothing really. Someone fell off the roof, and someone thought he’d come to visit me, but I’d never met the man in my life. Honestly. The police wanted to ask me some questions. Lucas was kind enough to handle it for me.”
    She’d been a confirmed Marxist, my mother, and went to her grave an equally confirmed atheist. Lucky for me the church of Marx did not demand offerings, any more than the church of atheism.  Eighty or so million dollars worth of the stock market by the time mother gave up the ghost. All I needed was a crown, but those things were never done these days. Like tipping the doorman. It was gauche.
    “Definitely keep us in the loop.”
    Naturally this asshole did estate planning too. I wanted to change the subject.
    “So what’s the story then, about this vestigial tail?”
    “That’s the fee tail,” he said. “An estate in land meant to convey the inheritance to those direct descendants…of the body. A reversion remains in the original grantor, such that the estate must pass within a direct line of family descendants, else it reverts to the last descendant of the original grantor. An archaic form, as I said. Abolished everywhere, mostly, except for Massachusetts, I think. Rhode Island. And Maine of course.”
    “Maine?” I asked, half-serious, but his face remained impassive. He didn’t get the joke. Evidently he considered Maine a real place in which one might choose to spend one’s time. I’d never been to Maine. Had never even considered going to Maine.
    “The land passes only to the heirs of the body,” he continued, “Until such time at which those heirs may no longer be found, and at that point to the nearest living relative of the original grantor, no matter how far removed.”
    “How kind of those heirs, dying off like that.”
    He smiled, and for the first time, I saw him as a person, capable of evil, and not just a servant, a thing, to do my bidding. I pictured him as a knight on horseback, swinging that decorative morning star hanging on the wall behind him, splashing blood all over his pretty gray suit.
    “You should be grateful,” he said, as he pulled out a sheaf of papers and placed them on the desk in front of me. “About only having to sign paper. In the Middle Ages, they would perform a ritual, to pass property from one lord to another. It involved the passing of a symbolic object from the plot of ground to be conveyed, a piece of the earth, or a clump of dirt and twigs, and occasionally they would find the youngest boy in the village still capable of remembering and beat him bloody...”
    His voice took on a certain tone as he said the words, and he let them hang in the air such that I found myself imagining him as a regular visitor at the snuff factory uptown, where they made those movies my associate would occasionally pick up for my amusement. Suddenly I thought perhaps I could have drinks with this old man. He likely had a few war stories, a few bloody secrets of his own buried in the basement.
    I smiled back at him ferociously.
    “Well, why would they do that? Beat him bloody?”
    He bent in close and whispered into my ear, such that for a moment I almost thought he was going to kiss me.
    “Why, in order to ensure that the ritual would be remembered, of course. In case there was any confusion at a later date, as to the true ownership of the estate.”
    He pulled back, turned and walked over to the bar in front of the window, and poured himself a glass of bourbon, without offering me any.
    Out on the street, I held the sheaf of signed papers in my hand, the letterhead of that major New York firm across the top, and stared at the address of my new estate, near some little town I had never heard of, close to the coast up near Canada. The midtown Manhattan traffic scrolled past in Technicolor, SUVs, sedans and gas-electric hybrids, a river of molded plastic and metal. I figured what did I have to lose? My spot on the upper west side was a wash, what with all those cops poking around. Of course they had nothing to connect that little incident to me. I’d tossed the burner, and that little shit was pancaked thirty-four stories on the street below, his Doc Martens full of bone fragments and blood.
    Of course I had the house out in Malibu, and the other one in Connecticut. But I was renting both of them out at the moment.
    On the way to Williamsburg, I used my other phone and called that low grade agent, the hungry one who was friends with that semi-famous DJ who was past his prime. I figured I had nowhere else to go at the moment. We’d throw a party, and thoroughly trash the place, and when it was all over, I’d pay some real estate slob to get rid of it. Or burn it to the ground.
    We took the jet. I had Brandi arrange for a limousine at our destination, a private airport. She also brought the cocaine and the H, as I told her my connection was temporarily offline. The DJ had the turntables and the sound system in two crates. Anyone with any sense at all could smell blood in the water. This was going to be a party to end all.
    The airport looked like the fifties, with one of those big old fashioned hangers, with the letters falling off the side, and a couple of single engine planes rusting inside.
    The old man at the desk was a strange fish. I mean he had a bit of a fishy smell to him, and his eyes were set too far apart, like some inbred redneck from down South, or some mountain hills-have-eyes kind of creep. But he forked over the keys to the limo, and didn’t bat an eyelash when I had my driver sign all the paperwork. The limo itself was a bit musty, but we’d have to make do.
    We drove down back roads underneath a gray sky for about an hour before we became hopelessly lost. Something was interfering with the GPS. The phones as well appeared to be out of the service area, which seemed strange to me, even for such a backwater shit-hole as this. There was of course that half-pint sized town within easy driving distance, and the airport, though rustic, had appeared to have working toilets at least. Still, no service, no service. I thought about calling someone to complain. After the party of course. But would I even keep this house? I’d decide when the weekend was over, assuming we ever found the goddamn place, and assuming it was still standing by the end of our little festival.
    We came around a bend and could see some lot under construction. The workmen were putting up one of those great slabs of a granite chimney on the side. I had the driver pull over, thinking one of these rubes might know the house.
    I had a crumpled picture in my hand and the googlemaps directions in the other as I approached someone who appeared to be in charge. He wasn’t doing anything at least. Just standing off to one side with some kind of sledgehammer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. His face was like a maze of cross country terrain. I walked right up to him, but he seemed not to notice me, so I tapped him on the shoulder.
    He turned slightly to look at me, and I saw he had those inbred eyes just like the guy at the airport. I thought to myself at that point that I would probably not be keeping the house, if this was a representative sample of my future neighbors. His eyes were just too wide apart in the face, and they made him look like a goddamn backwards mutant, a step down on the evolutionary ladder, semi-human.
    “I’m looking for the old Sackett place,” I said, trying to keep a straight face.
    I held out the crumpled piece of paper with the cropped photoshop, and watched his odd fish eyes shift to look at it. Behind him, I could see several of the workers scrambling over towards us. Then the old geezer spoke.
    “You young man,” he said, in that peculiar accent, that I couldn’t quite place, but then I’d never been to Maine before. He looked back up at me with those creepy eyes. “You talk to me again, I gone ta hit you with this hammer.”
    He held up the tool, and I could see that it was a hammer, but heavier and thicker than any I had ever seen before. I started to open my mouth again, when the hands of the workmen pulled me away.
    They explained in hushed tones that the foreman never talked to anyone, and that he’d sent someone to the emergency room last year for just this sort of thing.
    I showed them the picture of the old house, and the address. When I explained to them that I was the new owner, they laughed, like this was some kind of joke. Oh they assured me that they had heard of the place. No one had been in the house for years apparently, which I thought at the time explained their laughter. They pointed over the hill, and muttered a few directions, which I relayed to my driver, and we were finally on our way.
    When we arrived, looking at the place, I couldn’t help but be reminded of all those horror movies you watch when you’re a teenager, with a desperate desire to destroy the world your parents helped make, or perhaps to destroy your parents even. The old house literally leaned over the edge of a cliff, a great white wooden whale of a place straight out of the nineteenth century, with thick wooden storm shutters and warped glass windows, overlooking the pounding surf on the rocks below.
    “Ace of spades,” said DJ has-been, looking at the new digs.
    I watched as a couple flunkies unloaded his gear.
    That Steely Dan song floated through my head, the one about the showbiz kids. They’re outrageous. Naturally, my limo was full of booze. We carried it up the wooden steps. I opened up one of the boxes and passed around a bottle of good tequila, and we drank it on the front porch, staring out across the wire metal barrier strung along the edge overlooking the wine dark Atlantic.
    There was my friend from school, who’d just got married, but for some reason his wife had decided not to come. Then some rich redneck whose family owned a string of car dealerships, and who had a taste for speedballs. His girlfriend, who was an intellectual of some sort or other and absolutely hated me. A couple more art star hangers on attached to the DJ. Two ladies identified by their gigantic fake tits as strippers, originally from Dallas, but they’d gotten stranded in New York for one reason or another. And then of course, a handful of people I didn’t know, who’d somehow managed to worm their way onto the guest list.
    It took an hour or so to set everything up. The power was totally inadequate, but they’d brought a generator which they set up in the courtyard out back, towards the ocean, next to the dry little fountain sculpture of the creepy looking kids, surrounded by all those dead rose bushes.
    I had my driver head back into town for pizza, at that little independent place I’d noticed on the way through. They made their own sauce it said on the marque over the parking lot.
    The beat started up, and I did a few lines. Things were getting off to a good start. Someone had brought some ecstasy. I really couldn’t complain about shit. The place was remarkably well kept. The furnishings were mostly some antique tables and chairs, covered in white sheets, and there was one of those old grandfather clocks in the living room, with a big window looking out across the sea.
    I can clearly remember that old clock chiming seven times, just as one of the strippers from Dallas found the door leading to the stairwell down into the basement. They were joking about it, of course. Spooky. Oooooh. Etc.
    Some asshole, a friend of a friend, called me over to inspect my domain. It was musty down there. The smell of salt. The steps were wooden, and they creaked underneath our feet as we fumbled down them. Someone had a flashlight on their keychain, at least until we found the light, near the little landing at the bottom.
    I flipped the switch, and could see the small chamber was walled off with brick, but the floor was dirt, and there was a hole in the center, with curious dark stains around the edge, like blood. It must be blood, I thought at the time. I had the asshole with the flashlight on his keychain shine it down into the hole. There were metal rungs in the sides, going down at least as far as that little flashlight would shine.
    Someone of course had brought one of those bottles of tequila. It was passed around a few times, with the steady thump thump of the DJ upstairs like a metronome hanging over our heads. People started to talk shit. A few theories were batted around. People asked who owned the place before me. Of course I had no idea. And then of course, someone suggested we go down there, and a few of us said we’d do it.
    It was a stupid idea. Anyone could have seen that. But put a few lines of high grade cocaine into anyone and they will start doing stupid things.
    My friend from school went first, the one who had just gotten married. Then one of the strippers. I was next down. I looked up and could see legs and ass over my head, writhing through a tight leather skirt. The other stripper was following me down.
    We stepped off the ladder sunk in the wall and stepped into some kind of carved rock chamber. It looked like it probably had been there long before the old house above us. Being underground like that it should have been dark, and I remember thinking it was another thing off about the place. Something along the walls was glowing slightly, casting a soft phosphorescence about the room.
    We should have gotten out of there just then, but in retrospect I wasn’t thinking clearly.
    My friend with the freshly minted wedding ring around his finger was paying no mind, and making out with the stripper who’d gone down the ladder first. The two of them were leaning against the rock wall, pulling at each other in the dim light. I noticed some strange carvings next to his head. Then the other stripper, the one wearing the leather miniskirt, grabbed me by the belt and pulled my tongue into her mouth.
    I was easing her shirt over the top of her head when I saw the thing coming out of the arch behind us. It looked like something out of a cheap horror movie. And I remember looking around in both directions, looking for the hidden cameras, thinking it was all a joke, some reality TV thing, just some guy in a suit, a fish suit, wet and smelly, with big black eyes that seemed to reflect no light.
    It grabbed the girl, and pulled her off of me. She screamed for just a moment, but no one upstairs would have heard anything over the sound of the DJ. Then those thick webbed hands were over her mouth, dragging her back. I saw my friend go down, with some kind of barbed spear through him, and a fountain of blood pouring out of his chest like a cartoon, and this shocked look on his face like he couldn’t believe it.
    For some reason that I didn’t understand until much later, they didn’t kill me. They just dragged the three of us, me and the two strippers, back through old rock walls, covered in those creepy hieroglyphs. They dragged me across some thin causeway, and threw me onto a sandy floor, in the center of an island, with some kind of monolith. I just lay there, listening to the sounds of my own ragged breathing, and the screams from those girls.
    I tried not to think about what they were doing to them. I only looked once, and saw that jagged erect protuberance from between scales, down there, before I couldn’t look anymore. I listened to them screaming for what seemed like hours.
    Then things went silent, except for the dull thud from the sound system upstairs. I could hear what sounded like water dripping. Occasionally one of the girls would moan, on the beach over there, the other side of the chamber, across the black water. I looked over, and could see the two of them lying naked, hardly moving. In the dim white light from the glowing walls I could see their bodies were smeared with some kind of thick paste.
    I remember looking up at the monolith. It looked like it was covered with rust. I reached over, and the rust came away when my fingertips made contact. The thing was some kind of thick glass underneath. I could see something inside, some kind of liquid with little bubbles floating inside it, and warm to the touch.
    I stood up slowly, glancing about to confirm that I was alone, except for the two girls, still lying over on the other side of the water. I turned to look back at the monolith. I touched it again, and confirmed that it was covered in some kind of thick dust, perhaps untouched for eons. I wiped away a large swathe with my hand, and I could see now that there was something inside, some dark shape.
    I wiped away at the outer layer of grime, until I could see it more clearly, floating in the liquid inside that glass monolith. It was some kind of half-man, half-ape thing. Covered in thick hair, but with definite human-like features about the face.
    The missing link, I remember thinking. And then all I could think about was how long the body must’ve been in there, how many thousands of years, and then it opened its eyes, and looked straight at me, reaching out with a short hairy arm as if asking for my help.
    I could hardly remember anything after that. Just fragments in my mind, like a series of flash photographs. I remember seeing the two girls on the underground beach over there as I stumbled past. I remember thinking to myself that they were beyond saving. One of them looked at me and I could see it in her eyes that she was gone. Her mind that is, was far away from that room, somewhere else entirely. Her body was covered in that sticky slime, and something was moving in her belly.
    When I got upstairs, the DJ record was skipping against the end of the groove, leaving a deathly loud heartbeat scratching in the night. There were a few bodies around the room, scattered in various stages of undress I thought at first, and then realized it was more adequately described as disembowelment. I thought at first it was those fish men from downstairs who had done this, but looking about the room, I could see knives and cleavers from the kitchen clutched in dead hands. It was clear that some madness had overtaken my guests, and walking further into the living room, I saw the cause.
    Through the open window, a prime view of the water, and I could see that some vast sunken city had risen from the depths. In the light of a gibbous moon, I could make out strange curves and twists of half-glowing stone, and I could hear it calling out to me in my mind, even before I felt those sounds through my entire body, the low hollow call of those vibrations from that deep city, risen again.
    I walked out through the screen porch, and my mind seemed to explode against it, pink cheese through the grater, past the dusty bracken along the rocks leading to the edge of the cliff. I could see a small metal fence, choked with weeds.
    And then the ship came down from the sky, down from the stars above. It appeared wider than the moon, and constructed from a series of interlocking stone rings, caught in some kind of geometric glow, like a crystal hanging in the air over the sunken city, now floating upon roiling water, alive with tentacled shapes.
    The things that came out to discuss the deal were much beyond what I could imagine, and even now, I have trouble remembering exactly any physical form, and when dwelling upon those shapes for any length of time, I am thankful for that imperfect memory. I understood, listening to those vast and deep voices, that I was hearing them with my mind, my body, my soul even, if such exists.
    I find myself praying now that it does not.
    The hands of that thing, if you could call them hands, easily pulled apart the hillside, and removed the old glass jar, with my distant relative floating undead within. Even as I felt myself being lowered into the gentle warm liquid, and the soft light as the container was sealed, I found it difficult to believe that I was the object passed in remembrance, so that future generations would know when the transaction had been completed, and would know by the terror in my mind the identity of those true owners of this planet, the heirs of the body.

Saturday, October 4, 2014

After I listen to NPR for awhile, I begin feeling as if we live in the age of the milquetoast.
Ira Glass. David Sedaris. They Might Be Giants. All that shit...it's like they've neutered the American male. Didn't Tenacious D parody this with their song "Fuck Me Gently"?

It's such a downer, sometimes, the creative class. I'll partake of the spoils (good food, some decent music) but stay well the hell away from that other nonsense. "This American Wuss."

Sunday, September 21, 2014

SHE PAINTED A BLOODY ARROW TO THE STARS

She painted a bloody arrow to the stars
So that we might see them

She drew an arrow in the sand
An arrow made of blood

She pulled an egg out of the earth
The warm earth between her legs

She buried the egg in the air
She danced into the sky

Nodding off in the concert hall
The aliens got the best of her

At the top of the stairs
She froze me there

Froze me with her eyes
I thought I'd die


Monday, September 8, 2014

Live from New York, it's Late Night with Shy Mime!


late-night talk show hosted by a shy mime. so bad it's good.

Saturday, September 6, 2014


Love is everybody's favorite sadist

the man who didn't realize...how ugly he was
I find crosswalks too pedestrian

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

the seeds of one are contained in the death of the other

 the seeds of one are contained in the death of the other

“Doctor Lector... Doctor Lector... Doctor Lector...”
    -- Clarice Starling, at the conclusion of Silence of the Lambs

“The horror... the horror...”
    Col. Kurtz, at the close of Apocalypse Now

In terrorism, postmodernism is forced to confront its own shadow, the premodern. Meanwhile, under the lights in the television studio, the modernists continue their delicate discussions about foreign policy and the ever-so-fragile law of war. Modernism, one might say, is alive and well, so long as the barbarians are kept at bay.
Still, as information proliferates, redundancy is king. Citations will soon become irrelevant, aside from the desire to establish pedigree. Art rejects notions of redundancy, as any creative act is singular, no matter its influences. Terrorism rejects redundancy out of the practical necessity of a varied response to the information security state. The information security state desperately seeks to avoid any and all surprises, or information, to sow a field of uninterrupted redundancy, to avoid any disturbance of the delicate balance of law, order, society, culture, and privilege.
Not that I'm against privilege. I take it wherever I can get it. And privilege seems to go hand in hand with civilization, or so it seems to me.
For all the brouhaha over postmodernism, the framework in which we find ourselves is still strikingly modern. It’s as if the postmodernists imagine you can just erase all the bureaucracy with wishful thinking or by holding your hands over your ears and saying ‘I can’t hear it!’ over and over again. Like the child hiding under the bedsheets who imagines that if he can’t see the monster, the monster can’t see him. Perhaps the postmodern explains a certain malaise, of realizing that one is living in “a typical instance of any modern society,” (see Moses, A. Dirk. "Structure and Agency in the Holocaust: Daniel J. Goldhagen and his critics." History and Theory 37.2 (1998): 194-219) but this hardly changes the basic structure of the modernist world. Certainly, the multi-national corporation is a development.
So whereas the modern allows for a resolution and return to the status quo, (see Isabel Pinedo, "Recreational Terror and the Postmodern Elements of the Contemporary Horror Film") a relief from horror, the postmodern lives in a constant state of horror, or terror, for there is no resolution, and the status quo does not exist. All opposites hunger for each other, in a constant carnage of bloodletting, or asymmetric warfare, or sex, as you like it, reproducing the next interpretation for us to ponder.
Information hungers to become redundancy. Redundancy hungers for information. The status quo hungers for revolution. The revolution hungers to become the status quo. The mainstream hungers for the underground. The underground hungers to become mainstream. The entertainment industrial complex hungers for the particular, authentic scene. The particular, authentic scene hungers to become the next offering from the entertainment industrial complex. 
The tyranny of Sartre gave way to the tyranny of Foucault, and these petty tyrannies give way in turn to the next redefinition of humanity, perhaps an erasure, such as the theories of the German sociologist Niklas Luhmann. The human collapses in the face of systems so complex that no particular human can possibly understand them, much less manipulate or guide them to a proper “human” conclusion. (See Hans Georg-Moeller: Niklas Luhmann the Radical and Occupy Wall Street, available at: http://www.cupblog.org/?p=4880) This perhaps moves very well in time with the coming singularity, which will give us all much more time for wordplay, while the robots pick up the garbage.

a dream

having dinner with a prominent left wing public intellectual

“Oh, I can’t stand your work, but I can respect anyone who’s managed to claw their way into the public mind.”

claw their way into the minds of other people

claw their way into other people’s minds

Tuesday, August 26, 2014


Love is your Salvation Love is your undoing love brings the fall.

Monday, August 25, 2014

Jazz Cops

Jazz cops. Heavyset men behind leathery faces. Faces that have seen better days. Skin like a worn-out brown shoe.
 
Jazz cops. Murder mystery loves company.
 
Jazz cops.  Police the roads. Banging out a heavy downbeat. Collecting in back alleys and empty parking lots. Always in twos and threes. Stocky bowling pins of pent-up rage. Violence their preferred brand of intimacy.
 
Jazz cops. Hands that've never brushed a lover's thigh, but have squeezed a call girl's throat. Improvising their vicious cabaret in  sperm-stained hotel rooms.*
 
Jazz cops. A ballet of billy clubs. A tarantella of truncheons. A rash of stabbings. A penchant for pickaxings. A symphony of sex crimes. A banquet of beheadings.
 
Jazz cops.
 
Jazz cops. Hardboiled, two-fisted tales of alleyway etiquette. Garbage bags filled with feet. Pay the kid to dump 'em in the river.
 
Jazz cops. Beat heavy time. Downbeats devoid of mercy. 
 
Jazz cops. Throw nightstick parties in the alley. And nobody walks for weeks.
 
Jazz cops. Paint in the city in phlegm and blood. 
 
Jazz cops. We get the protection we deserve.

Monday, July 28, 2014

comic book movies forever

You ever wonder if the fact that so many adults in their 30s and 40s still look to comic book content as their primary source of entertainment is going result in an ever lowering bar of entertainment fare?

Adults who never seem to tire of comic book and star wars/star trek reboots makes me wonder if the tastes of current and future generations are going to keep growing more and more juvenile. And then there's the cosplay crowd. Adults with a reverence for content that used to be the purview of ten year olds.
Are most American no longer outgrowing this sort of thing? Avatar being a perfect example of the fatuous. Unobtanium. Un. Fucking. Ob. Tanium. Spell it out a bit slower, and in bolder, harder to miss letters, Mr. Cameron. Please. No, really. Any high school writer worth his or her salt can do better than that. The Dark Knight is like 1 in 1,00 for being a pop culture comic book movie that attempted and accomplished more than that. 

Would the tastes of most of today's audience even allow for a movie like Citizen Kane, Easy Rider, The Last Picture Show, Casablanca, etc. to be made? These were not sideshow art films, but major cinematic events in this country. Sure, there's non-American Christopher Nolan (the Alfred Hitchcock of our time?) who asks more of himself and of viewers.  There used to be Joss Whedon, though he seems reluctant to move beyond his "oh, so clever and meta self aware" schtick, that's played out and now a stylistic straightjacket (can any adult sit through a full episode of Agents of Shield without grimacing?). But then there's freaking JJ Abrams, and all his variant, who embraces brainlessness like a second skin.
 
Ugh. Grow the hell up, America.
 
(I feel like freaking Ignatius J. Reilly.)

 

Sunday, July 27, 2014

The Circus Comes to Town

In a small town (say in the 1930s), a carnival comes to town. And doesn't leave. Slowly, the carnival folks insinuate themselves into the community. Getting jobs, marrying the townsfolk, serving in the local office, attending church, teaching the kids, etc. While dressed in carnival costumes. So, clowns, freaks, geeks, midgets, trapeze artists, etc. become embedded in the town's ecosystem. Soon enough, the townsfolks' own appearance and habits begin trending toward the outlandish and the grotesque. Beauty queens become chicken beheading geeks. The mayor becomes a ringmaster. The town's star QB becomes a tightrope walker, etc. Over time, the entire town becomes a carnival. Then one day, the carnival is gone. Off to turn another town.

Circus as communism.

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

. . .

The Germans have no sense of humor.

Perhaps that explains Hitler.

Thursday, July 3, 2014

Mad Heiress: A campaign of sustained indifference
Mad Heiress: Truth is such an inconvenience
Mad Heiress: Playing fast and loose with the facts
Mad Heiress: Is it true you shamed a French janglebot?
Mad Heiress: Raising the eyebrows of the highbrows since 2014
Mad Heiress: Setting the standards for man clapper research since 2022
Mad Heiress: Ground zero for your momma's apocalypse
Mad Heiress: Serving up nervous breakdowns since 2012
Mad Heiress: Accidental slavery before breakfast
Mad Heiress: The sand in your joints
Mad Heiress: Kicking you in the nuts since grade school
Mad Heiress: All tomorrow's bowdlerizations
Mad Heiress: Unpacking tropes wherever we may find them
Mad Heiress: Placating shut-ins since 1978
Mad Heiress: A gossamer for your thoughts
Mad Heiress: Annexing star fuckers from planet "Time"
Mad Heiress: Confusing Chinese gangsters since 1965
Mad Heiress: Pissing on the western canon
Mad Heiress: Masterminding Jamaican crime since 1981
Mad Heiress: Dumping and jumping like a two-pump chump
Mad Heiress: This ain't your daddy's shotgun
Mad Heiress: When only the finest European oils will do
Mad Heiress: Elbows off the table, dammit
Mad Heiress: Monogrammed hankies on parade
Mad Heiress: Chewing with our mouths open
Mad Heiress: Spitballs in your hair from the back of the class since 1973
Mad Heiress: Gilding the lily since 2008
Mad Heiress: Navigating the Amsterdam of twat
Mad Heiress: Mommy bloggers driving foreign policy since 2004
Mad Heiress: For when you feel ethereal as fuck
Mad Heiress: Bringing back the three-martini lunch
Mad Heiress: Interviews with men on fire
Mad Heiress: Contaminating the crime scene since 1955
Mad Heiress: Pissing in your Cheerios since 1968
Mad Heiress: Taking a tan shit on a tin roof
Mad Heiress: Crispus Attucks controls the Internet
Mad Heiress: Money is your yoga, baby
Mad Heiress: The ballad of Whiskey Joe and the Dudelicks

Wednesday, July 2, 2014

. . .

Notes For a Short Play About Frank Wisner

Frank Wisner, co-founder of the CIA, sits in the second floor study of his Georgetown mansion, haunted by the Cold War to the point of death. He begins the play cleaning, and then loading, a double-barreled shotgun which he then leans in a far corner of the room. In Wisner's desk drawer, he has stored a consignment of LSD, pure company grade, tested on movie stars, soon to burst upon the sixties like a raincloud of deadly lethargy. He is debating whether to take the drug throughout the first act. A close friend or two may drop by to see him. His wife brings him something to eat. Then he takes the drug. Second Act: the Trip. Wisner is haunted by the train cars full of Romanians shipped off to death camps by the Soviets. We see the Cold War from Wisner's perspective, as a true fight between good and evil, embodied in the free flowing form of liberty, a maiden of the West, clutching her sword, Excalibur, which Wisner reaches for but cannot hold. Her dark twin, the bloody lipped white figure of death, who transforms from the maiden into a crone, keeps the sword from his grasp. A motion picture projects the image of train cars against the far wall of the set, hands reaching out from the boxcars like images of the Jews taken by the Nazis, clutching at the air. Wisner writhes on the floor in agony, talking in tongues about the tortures of the Romanian people under the communist regime. His own self-torture is interrupted by a time-traveler from the future, a graduate student who has come to study a few particular sessions of late sixties jazz. They have a discussion for a few minutes about history, the Cold War perhaps, with Wisner discussing his motivations for various intelligence endeavors, before the time-traveler realizes he has arrived too early in the time stream, and the particular jazz sessions he wishes to study have not yet been recorded, and in fact will not be recorded for some time, too long to wait. The erstwhile young grad student will have to scrap the mission and return to the future. At some point in the second act, Wisner is naked. He recites the line from the Bob Dylan song: "Even the President of the United States, sometimes must have to stand naked." Third ACT: Wisner recovers from his psychedelic ordeal. He has a few discussions on the phone about the drug, which Wisner sees as a  tool to blunt the edge of the "counter culture." He makes a brief speech to the audience, escaping the fourth wall, wherein he discusses various particulars of his intelligence career, touching on the use of ex-Nazis by the Allies after the war to fight the Soviets, and perhaps touching on issues of the present day which the real Wisner would have no way of knowing, but nonetheless, we are left with an impression that perhaps this is not the first time Wisner has been contacted by visitors from the future. Then he goes to the corner of the room, picks up the double-barreled shotgun which he cleaned and loaded at the outset of the play, sits down in an easy chair, cradling the shotgun in his lap. The stage goes black.

Shit Smells Like Hamburger

He started listening to a lot of Afrocentric jazz. Archie Shepp. A few others he hardly knew the names. He would cruise iTunes late at night, looking for trouble. Just about anything he could wrap his wallet around that had long black legs and the smell of deep dark whiskey blind alley falling down in the alley heart to it. He must have spent a few thousand dollars. He would listen to the albums one at a time, but only one time. Somewhere he had seen a documentary about Attica and it stuck to his soul like butter on the knife. He had this feeling that he could reach out and touch the sixties like a pair of tits in the night. But it was all before his time, out of reach. And he had a day job. He'd wind up sitting in his cubicle early in the morning, eyes like bowls of red cherry juice dripping over the sides, thinking about human sacrifice. Sometimes Matisse would creep in there and leave something on the doorstep of his mind. Then he'd run the numbers through the database and hope that nobody would throw any fire drills at him that day. Sometimes they'd have a meeting in the afternoon and he'd sit listening to the speaker phone with his eyes half open, praying that no one in the room noticed. Then he'd go home and do it all over again, dreaming of Travis Bickle, pretending to shoot his imaginary .45 deep into the pockets of all the fat cats everywhere in the world. He tried to imagine what it would be like to live in a tent city in Haiti. Those luxury hotels like monopoly plastic all over the board. The State Department foots the bill.

Monday, June 30, 2014

Whiskey and the Dudelicks

is it true you shamed a janglebot?

Sunday, June 29, 2014

Even though I won't be alive when it comes, I look forward to the age where rock and roll is viewed as a historical curio.

Wednesday, June 25, 2014

Sniper training begins at dawn. Jody cooked him with the duster at 922 yards. A new record.

Sanderson crept to the edge of the ledge. From his vantage point above the square, he could clearly see the Viceroy, juggling eggs in the square below. It would be a clean shot, no complications.

Parallax snowstorm. Commune with your device.

Green Thumbs pegged him with an entanglement javelin at 70 yards.

Take the shot Billingsly, while you still have time. And lean into it, by god.

We clocked Jerome at 180. He hadn't even broken a sweat.

The intricacy of Django's colostomy kit left us speechless.

Grant shamefaced the panzerfaust brigade into sheepish silence.

Blue Velveeta

David Lynch is the Norman Rockwell we deserve.

You get into a joust with Donald Rumsfeld. Do not pass Go.
Donald Rumsfeld's soccer team is the Known Unknowns. They win through misinformation and doublespeak. The league's most enigmatic team.

The allure of the Lonely Hearts Club was too great for Jenkins to resist. He soon found himself overcome with the saudade of despair.

18th-century Jamaican dub beats have always left me cold.
 

Lord Byron 2089 - the third party

Corporate team-building exercises like an open mic with forced audience participation. Prizes given out in the form of self-help and leadership manuals. Byron wins the trivia contest and receives an excellent treatise on the random variability of genius. Free will exists it seems only at the quantum level, as background noise.

"There must be some mistake. I had my psych tech upgrade last month, but you have me down for a brain wipe this afternoon."

"I'm sorry, sir. Internal Security has flagged your account. Please report as scheduled."

The illusion of a stable mailbox.


Saturday, June 21, 2014

Social media is designed mostly to make you that much more of a good little branded consumer. Is that what you want, to be capitalism's bitch to an even greater degree than you already are?
"Love is the plan the plan is death" James Tiptree Jr.
I've tried to keep an open mind about it, but it's time somebody said something:

Under no circumstances should the French be allowed to play rock and roll.

Why can't Europe play rock and roll? It's been like 70 years, long enough I'd think for it to become part of the DNA of the kids. England is so good at it, why no other European country?

Friday, June 20, 2014

Fiona's right about one thing: each of us, an extraordinary machine


Oblivion wants its optimism back
We smelled the corpses burning before we saw them.

Windows down, driving at a leisurely pace, haloed by a phalanx of security drones. We may as well have been untouchable.

Radio playing or digitspool direct to our cranium, nobody in the van knew it had really begun  until Utah drove us over the crest of the hill and then all of a sudden killed it. So we looked up and saw the fires. An endless series of crucifixions alight on both sides of the highway. Hundreds, if not thousands, of us.
I think more seedy hotels should spell "Palms" "Psalms" instead, as in "Tropical Psalms Hotel"

Albums I wished existed:

CocoRosie, Live at San Quentin



I wish to see more scenes of rich men on toilets. Dear television executive, please make this happen.
Don Draper's Diapers.

"It takes a village...of pedophiles."

Corpse Fucker Monthly

Ch-ch-ch-Chocolate Crotch!

Glory! On a lark, changed my LinkedIn page to state that I am a special envoy to the United Nations

The past of yeast resistance

Superhero movie I'd like to see:

The Ombudsmen

Whenever I see a sign for martial arts, I always read it as "marital arts" (which makes the idea of kids walking in there kind of amusing)

Dear Miss Manners,

A Turkish diplomat put his hand on my knee. What should I do?

Signed,
Conflicted in Fresno

For ten points, explain the ramifications of peanut butter, spoons, and handcuffs to international diplomacy during the nascent years of the 21st century.

Adaptive Fabrics. In lieu of jetpacks and flying cars, it's high time intelligent, environmentally adaptive clothing became available. Fabric that changes in density and porousness in response to temperature. Pants that transform themselves to shorts, and then back again, depending on the ambient temperature. As it is now, most of us have decide between dressing for the interior (air-conditioned building) or the exterior (summer heat). Science needs to remove this binary dilemma. Dammit.

Your mission: offend the Swedes.

Walker Bowel Steamship: The Musical

Vitus St. Clair snuck a peek at something she shouldn't have. The digitspool is all aflutter. And Vitus, she only demanded to be ordinary. Poor girl.

Ever been shopping and realize you're in bad need of a European waxing. Me neither.

Fat guys with guns. Hitler was a Bavarian tattoo artist; Mussolini a Venetian gelato maker. James Bond tries on a girdle. Starfuckers give us the green light.

Grown Children at Play is a sign that should exist.

Gay Gargoyles on parade.




 

Saturday, June 14, 2014

With Ziggy Stardust, David Bowie singlehandedly dragged rock and roll out of the 60s. Well done, David!




Summering with Swedes, Volume Seven: The Takedown


The score so far:
Punk Rock- 0
Capitalism- 1


Maybe that's why people like Dylan become so opaque, because their work means so much (absurdly so) to so many fucking people. Must be really weird. Because for a long time, and forever for most of us, the world. Does. Not. Care. One. Iota about whatever we create. And that's fine. Why should it? Everybody has their own radar screen to monitor. But how weird would it be to have thousands or more strangers looking to your work for answers. Totally bizarre, and off putting, I bet.
Knives in Air: The Rise of the Impossible

Forward. Backward. Shoot him in the head during a botched game of William Tell. Flee to Mexico. Does wonders for your writing.

Song to a bird.

Below street level, Saint Tittie von Teasealot regards her newest client with dispassionate curiosity, coated as he is in synthetic amniotic fluid, ball gagged, weeping. This man, chauffeured through the city behind shaded, bullet-resistant glass, this man, a man who routinely condemned unpronounceable villages to death with a swipe of his tablet, this man, pleading with her to cover him in feces and attach the electrodes. She wasn't in a giving mood.