A new video by Henry and Chick. Music by Henry, video by Chick. It's awesome, so you should check it out!
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Crank Dat Stereo(type) Up: an analysis of a brutally bad song
One of the more ubiquitous pop songs of the past month was Soulja Boy’s rap hit “Crank Dat Soulja Boy.” The song, heard primarily on radio and basic cable television in its edited version, is a self-aggrandizing hip-hop track that cares to offer little to the listener beyond the beguiling dance hook. It is in fact an empty song. The repeated refrain of “Superman dat hoe” (“superman dat ‘oe” in its edited version) is seemingly (if only) nonsensical. The remainder of the lyrics lack any reason beyond their rhyme. Soulja Boy does not pretend to be a rhymesmith , repeating a handful of grammatically garbled phrasings through the course of the song. But what is said is stunning in its vulgarity once the song is studied closely.
Soulja Boy typifies a stereotypical young, black archetype in his posturing as he espouses his undisguised misogyny. The popularity of the song suggests an affinity between its messages and the public’s ideological viewpoint. Soulja Boy represents the noveau riche young, black, rap superstar, particularly in the way he unironically makes his claim to fame before his fame even came. A common trope for this style of rapper is the vocal pronouncement that the he is without flaw and worthy of the listener’s full attention, respect, and jealousy. He’s “jocking on them haterz, man.” Like most unknown pre-superstar rappers, he has his share of haterz. This presumptuous swagger seems to be drawn from the urban world from which most rappers are drawn, where a man needs to puff out his chest and voice his demands if he wants to make it. It also reflects the cultural importance of money, power and respect. Interestingly, Soulja Boy doesn’t just hype chains (“they be looking at my neck”, he notes) and the like, but also his Bathing Apes, the high-end Japanese clothing and shoe brand. For this, “haterz get mad.” And that’s something the stereotypically materialistic black man can take pride in.
This openly dumb, materialistic, machismo-laden posture borders on buffoonery. Soulja Boy is non-threatening and somewhat comical. This image calls up a stereotype of the young black man as heathen fool that dates back to
The song for all of its goofiness is a shout-out to the sexual degradation of women and the treatment of the female form as a play-thing for men. The seemingly benign innuendo “superman dat hoe” refers to a very specific sexual act. The act utilizes bodily fluids to adhere a bed sheet to the back of a sleeping woman. Through the verses the line morphs into the alternate, more pointed “supersoak dat hoe” before concluding the song as “superman that bitch.” This last line is repeated five times for maximum effect. This is not the only instance of the juvenile objectification of women. In the first verse Soulja Boy threatens his hater not only with “jocking on [his] bitch ass” but later with “cocking on [his] bitch” in an apparent attempt to cuckold and emasculate his imaginary opponent.
The song, while festive and jovial in tone is drenched with self-important masculinity. The rapper plays into the minstrel stereotype of the young, virile, comically non-threatening black man while openly denigrating and objectifying women. Both black men and women become victims to an overbearing ideological worldview that presents such a song as innocent entertainment.
Crank Dat.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Because number three thinks you're a cunt!
#3 - Ghost World
I couldn't believe how well this movie replicated high school. It's funny, because I watched this movie before I even entered high school. It's so easy to hate the kids who were fond of high school. Why would you want to go through those miserable years yet again? Anyway, I'm getting off track.
I think this film had it all going on. There wasn't one thing really at fault here. The jokes were witty, it had that dude from the Red Hot Chili Peppers video, AND a joke about tight cracks and small holes! Not to mention that Enid was a role model for me during those horrible four years of my life which I don't want to speak of.
At the end of the film, you really form a bond with all the characters no matter how miserable, off-putting, or just plain crazy they are.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
And number four goes to...
#4 - Amélie
Anyone who tells me they don't like the movie Amélie obviously loves being depressed. It's a feel good movie that men, women and children can get into. Doing random acts of kindness for the lovely people in France is something that I can definitely get into. Not to mention the vivid colors and imagery in this picture uplift you. You can't escape it!
Anyway, how can you resist the sweet beauty of Audrey Tautou? Sometimes she doesn't pick the best roles in the world to play, but her presence on the screen is so electrifying that you can forgive it.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Rigid Placidity, an opening volley of grafs
There once was a land. On and of, atop and abounding, there once was a race. This race was much like ours - ape-evolved bipedal cultivators of civilization and division and such - but for one peculiarity (from our vantage at least). This race of humans (for lack of a better) fell to sleep once still. Being perfectly still, rigid, motionless was necessary and sufficient for sleep. Consider it, lying down, back, attaining stillness. The second the body is without movement, devoid of even the slightest tension of a muscle here or a reflexive wiggle of the toe there, *snap* sleepy times.
The rub? Anytime a member of this race sits perfectly still for any reason *snap* they go, and the sleep of this peoples is shamefully deep.
Oh, the race had evolved to manage. To thrive even, the teeming masses of them. The will to lie still is strong. As well the urge to keep movie, shark-like. Never sitting still. Always tapping toes, rolling quarters along the knuckles. Snapping a finger to the beat of your own heart. This was an expressive, physically fervent people.
One day a traveler appeared. She was a stranger, an astro-anthropologist. My dear aunt Susie. She had been exploring the galaxy for over a decade and was thrilled to have finally come across an honest to god civilization, even one so unnervingly familiar.
Aunt Susie explored the hell out of their land, anthopologized the hell out of the people, just got all the hell up in it until she was one of them. They didn't have much interest in strangers until she showed up. Now she was among their cultural elites, hosting coffee breakfasts and tea brunches and wine-filled lat evening dinners for the statesmen and philosophers of this people. Within ten years she was married into them.
Their first child was ...TO Be CONTINUED....
The rub? Anytime a member of this race sits perfectly still for any reason *snap* they go, and the sleep of this peoples is shamefully deep.
Oh, the race had evolved to manage. To thrive even, the teeming masses of them. The will to lie still is strong. As well the urge to keep movie, shark-like. Never sitting still. Always tapping toes, rolling quarters along the knuckles. Snapping a finger to the beat of your own heart. This was an expressive, physically fervent people.
One day a traveler appeared. She was a stranger, an astro-anthropologist. My dear aunt Susie. She had been exploring the galaxy for over a decade and was thrilled to have finally come across an honest to god civilization, even one so unnervingly familiar.
Aunt Susie explored the hell out of their land, anthopologized the hell out of the people, just got all the hell up in it until she was one of them. They didn't have much interest in strangers until she showed up. Now she was among their cultural elites, hosting coffee breakfasts and tea brunches and wine-filled lat evening dinners for the statesmen and philosophers of this people. Within ten years she was married into them.
Their first child was ...TO Be CONTINUED....
Friday, February 12, 2010
Cinq
#5 - Kill Bill Vol. 1
This was the first Quentin Tarantino film I saw, yet I probably saw an hour of it. During that time period, I had a thing with seeing blood on the screen, so I closed my eyes for a good chunk of the time. I remember being so obsessed with this film, and went back to QT's roots -- Pulp Fiction, Reservoir Dogs, Jackie Brown, and From Dusk Till Dawn (Sorry folks, but I love that film)!
I watched Vol. 2 the day it came out. It was very dialogue based, but it didn't have the same impact as Vol. 1. I began to say "I'm going to go 'Kill Bill' on yo' ass!" shortly after watching this, and to this day I still continue to say it to people who piss me off.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
A Sleep Lyrics; Crows Can Trollop
I sing songs as sung by drunk men
I carouse and I confuse,
myself
I ain't not sure I ain't not yours anymore
I ain't not sure I ain't sure
not and a more
I drink stories as drunk by strange men
cruisin' I confound.
my sloth.
Wasted my time for the last time, brain's on a third trime
ready to abort it.
Bested my time for the first time, anything less, 1.secondpointnone to the best
would be cream and all
I tranquilize while drunk men festilize
I trank and I tries.
my flies
open door clothes closet, ready up, ruddy up,
make it up, face 'rupt, ready o
knot shoes, tie tie, open door, greet sky, close door
dance floor
I'd rule everthing around me, dream
god's to wake up,
I clash, I titans
my gawd golly might
Dolemite, just because
I can found a lot of things if I've got nothing
better to do
it soon
I carousel and confuse and I myself
sleep again
I carouse and I confuse,
myself
I ain't not sure I ain't not yours anymore
I ain't not sure I ain't sure
not and a more
I drink stories as drunk by strange men
cruisin' I confound.
my sloth.
Wasted my time for the last time, brain's on a third trime
ready to abort it.
Bested my time for the first time, anything less, 1.secondpointnone to the best
would be cream and all
I tranquilize while drunk men festilize
I trank and I tries.
my flies
open door clothes closet, ready up, ruddy up,
make it up, face 'rupt, ready o
knot shoes, tie tie, open door, greet sky, close door
dance floor
I'd rule everthing around me, dream
god's to wake up,
I clash, I titans
my gawd golly might
Dolemite, just because
I can found a lot of things if I've got nothing
better to do
it soon
I carousel and confuse and I myself
sleep again
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Thoughts And Whatnots, Premiere Edition
I'm not ashamed to admit that I like Lady Gaga. I don't believe in Guilty Pleasures. I say without guilt that I like Lady Gaga. I like Rihanna too. I like that one song by Grizzly Bear but I hate that one song by Phoenix. I hate all songs by Animal Collective. Everything is Dance Pop. Indie Rock is dance pop. Lil' Wayne should have jumped on that bandwagon.Luna's Tics
Sooner later stars suns, centauris and like may might manage to mangle by force of their light,
will strangle earth terrestrial with Satan's photonic might,
will derange Gaia's children with overexposure to bright,
will suffocate our atmosphere but not without a fight, la la la
will suffocate our atmosphere but not without a fight, la la la
Somethings, ch. 1, section A
Used to play guitar to keep my head settled straight. Unkind for a kid of what, was I 12? 11? having such a need but chemicals all wrong. Percolating incorrectly, triggering the wrong sympathetics or something to that effect, like a nervous cop. Itchy triggered. Needed to keep my head straight. All better now. All the best.
My parents were in college bands vamping out Tom Petty The Cars Blondie type riffs when they made me, or so they say. Me playing the guitar was thus important to them. Or so they say. So I still play it and it's part of me and so on. I musn't belabor the point.
It's good it's great but it don't fit on a plate.
Sometimes I focus so hard, so naturally to the point where there's no intent, no focus at all really, that I get this headache. It's my teeth. I grit them and never notice until my whole head hurts. I rock back and forth and focus my totality and play my songs and think my thoughts and I feel my head hurt. My teeth hurt. Gritting idiot.
A song doesn't need much but a hook. Any kind of hook. There's technical defined things called a hook, yeah? Think so, but I'm talking metaphorical hooks. Like that in Girls' "Lust for Life" where whiny singer tauts his voice diagonal like a sneer - "...cra-zy..." - or that greased twinge George Harrison spits into that lick in "Hold Your Hand". Latter that, that's quasi perfection so if that didn't hook me in melody could, harmony could, voices could; but the Girl's song is but awful but for a hooks. So I love it so. Want to write a hook, a hanger to hang my songs upon. And then.
Living under bridges isn't easy, but it isn't either hard or rough neither. It's day by day going past every day. Keeping fed, and keeping head set, that's a responsibility but only responsibility I've got or need. It's what I've always wanted or needed. Freedom. Nothing left to lose. Kris Kristofferson is a gnarly looking dude but he is gnarly and awesome. Categorical genius type Rhodes Scholar and such and he was mopping floors at Sun Studios just because he had nothing better to do. And he loved music. Got to meet Johnny Cash that way. I wanna be an iconoclast when I grow up.
My parents were in college bands vamping out Tom Petty The Cars Blondie type riffs when they made me, or so they say. Me playing the guitar was thus important to them. Or so they say. So I still play it and it's part of me and so on. I musn't belabor the point.
It's good it's great but it don't fit on a plate.
Sometimes I focus so hard, so naturally to the point where there's no intent, no focus at all really, that I get this headache. It's my teeth. I grit them and never notice until my whole head hurts. I rock back and forth and focus my totality and play my songs and think my thoughts and I feel my head hurt. My teeth hurt. Gritting idiot.
A song doesn't need much but a hook. Any kind of hook. There's technical defined things called a hook, yeah? Think so, but I'm talking metaphorical hooks. Like that in Girls' "Lust for Life" where whiny singer tauts his voice diagonal like a sneer - "...cra-zy..." - or that greased twinge George Harrison spits into that lick in "Hold Your Hand". Latter that, that's quasi perfection so if that didn't hook me in melody could, harmony could, voices could; but the Girl's song is but awful but for a hooks. So I love it so. Want to write a hook, a hanger to hang my songs upon. And then.
Living under bridges isn't easy, but it isn't either hard or rough neither. It's day by day going past every day. Keeping fed, and keeping head set, that's a responsibility but only responsibility I've got or need. It's what I've always wanted or needed. Freedom. Nothing left to lose. Kris Kristofferson is a gnarly looking dude but he is gnarly and awesome. Categorical genius type Rhodes Scholar and such and he was mopping floors at Sun Studios just because he had nothing better to do. And he loved music. Got to meet Johnny Cash that way. I wanna be an iconoclast when I grow up.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Who has two thumbs and is awesome in bed? Your Mom!
If you give a mouse a cookie, [x], but if you teach a mouse to bake a cookie, you'll have to [y]. Please solve for y. Please solve for Y my life so lonely, Mr. Algebraic Man. If anyone knows of a good agent or a prominent publisher interested in losing a lot of money, let me know. I've got ideas. ....ten thousand mice hittin' home on their se-cond date. At this point you cannot wait to fumigate, but it's too late, mice licking clean. Wuzzy Fuzzy? A Fuzzy Wuzzy Wuzzy? Wuzzy Woozy? A Woozy Wuzzy Wuzzy? Wuzzy? Vell Wuzzy? Vell? Answer me, damn you! I'm just a ball of ball-kicking fury. In a way, if you think about, really think about it, everything you ever say or do is a goddamn, dirty lie. If you think about it. Those swirling spirals movie hypnotists use. You think any second now, any second now, you’re going to reach the black way in the back Closer and closer. Until you close your eyes, and then it's yours. And once you’ve got it, you don’t ever want to give it up. FYI, the clown is totally creepy. All clowns are. Sometimes when I look into my pants I see a clown. Sometimes, sometimes I'm creepy too. Are dogs people? That's a good question. Is it really a good question? That's a good question. Ancient Egyptians worshipped pu- I've been handed a news report memo thing. This just in, local anchorman handed paper that says This just i- New character name: Dr. Withus B. Adself, esq.
If my prose is too purple, if my steps stipstopastumble, if my throat chokes on egg yolks, if I startoamumble, then know that no I am not going mental. Know, yo, instead a thing fundamental. I'm in love again. I'm all a'rub again. I'm doing the frug again. I'm in love again. Wait, how do you pronounce frug? Another quality name for a character: Allison "Ballyhoo" Dumplins the third, of Worcester. NYer cartoon: Pig's sitting in front of doctor, waiting for his diagnosis, waiting for the waiting to end, just so he can move on with his life, if only to end it. His hooves ache, his snout drips. His eyes steadily empty when he hears the doctor say: It's your ribs. They're delicious. Poor little piggy goes no god nooo all the way to the butcher. No more markets. No more roast beef, as if he'd even enjoy it. No home. Two for the money, three for the show, I forget what eight was for, go daddy go, But don't you kiss off my blue suede shoes. Better add it u- So a man walks into a bar with his pet giraffe. Hey, you can't leave that lion there! Because the giraffe had passed out. It was drunk. Just back from the Albertsons. Someone was singing "Lost in the Supermarket." I informed her she was in aisle 5. Oh My God, none of that happened. Why did I make that up? Why would I do that? I'm, I'm sick. I'm sick. I'm sick. There isn't even an Albertsons nearby.
Ballyhoo Dumplins and the Case of the Misspelled Menaj Etwa: An Adult Adventure. Giraffes don't drink. Streets are runny like my eggs; city's mashed and seasoned like my taters. Tenements line the alleyways like the tines of my fork. Sign 'O' The Tines of My Fork. Beluga whale, buddy, yo beluga whale, call me yo beluga whale. Tell me I'm yo one and lone beluga whale, sonny, yo beluga whale, honey, yo b
Born an old man, dead at 17. Called his dad Pops and his GF his queen. Trained with a militia, owns an M-16. Runs a bakery in heaven, sells ice cream. Ranks among the best at zombie-ing for Halloween. Built a grand piano out of tusks and dental string. Surfed a volcano, owned magazines. Lived on a potato farm in old Aberdeen. Ran with the wolves for want of a dream. Broke boulders with his bare hands until the gangrene. Had sex with a thousand strangers, all at least 18. Winks at every post office man, so's they can live 4 something. Flies to Mons Olympus, keeps his shoes at full sheen. Works with autistic children, tells them his schemes. Cheats at poker, but always comes clean. If you need to know, yes, that awesome dude is me!
Space Tyger Space Tyger burning bright/ by the light of wan midnight/ if I may or if I might/ make thee dreadful Lamb symmetry. And so on. Space tigers nourish their young on cosmic octopus cooked in the cores of distant stars. Space tigers then feast on the litter. One lives. "Space tiger" refers to two distinct species: spatigris naturalet and spatigris helmetate. Natural Space Tiger can be found in the rugged terrains of low-gravity planets. It is immense, with a shaggy coat and elongated canines. Natural Space Tigers are rarely seen in empty space, preferring to roam the desolate desert landscapes of dust-ridden moons they call home. The aptly named Helmet Space Tigers (colloquially known as "Hell Beasts") are a unique case, thriving as they do in the void. Having evolved a perfect replica of a 1950s-era conception of a space helmet around their heads, these Space Tigers swim the night skies. If need be, the Natural Space Tiger will pounce app. 400 meters in chase of its prey. Its claws can disembowel a space rhino. Space lions, space tigers, space bears. Oh my. Dear. God. /space mauled
If someone gives me coffee, I'll supply the cream. That's how grateful and engorged I would be. As pink as your petals/ as purple as my prose/ as stiff as the "competition"/ as I be drilling them holes. Crumpled in the corner, crying out to all who'll listen/ isn't really drama so much as exposition. I...you...each and every one of us can legally have sex with someone who was born after Nevermind was released. Think about that, won't you? Suffering Saph[ic Erotica], exclaimed Wonder Woman [breathlessly] as above her, c[o]ckling maniacally, stood [Da]ngle Man & [C]octor Psycho...My friendly foes, please to dispose, my last remains, buried where a new me can grow. A me-tree for all my me needs. Man, I need sleep. Commencing the passing of out. Sleepy Bye Time. Good gravy is redundant. Raisins are nature's dried-up grapes. Rickety Rickety Rack/ The mouse was smoking crack/ super bottlerocket, pass it around/ Santa fell down the smoke/stack. What's the going rate on love today, honey? What the going rate on a date, these days? What's the going rate on naked fun times, slappy?
Cha! Cha! ChaChaCha-Choking on-a Cherry Wine, coughing up this blood of mine, sippin' on some syrup time, it's si-sippin' on some syrup time. What's the time?*SCRATCH* It's time to get -real-. Hi kids, I'm AdRock with MCA and Mike D and we'd like to talk to you kids about syrup. Whose House? Fun House!! Whose House? Fun House Game & Pizza Factory where you can get down your silly self! It's not that tricky! Oh No, the Gas Face! "Yo homey you stink" "But I used Quick Stick!" Narrator: You should have used Degree. Because no one wants a Gas Face. At 10:They say they came to drop bombs. Others get down - they get up. Why are these Irishmen jumping around and what does it mean for you? If space is time and time is money, then space is golden. Join a Goldenspace retirement community and count your ducats in peace.
Johnny was an appleseed/ Johnny was a soldier/ Johnny of a different breed/ Johnny born a cold year/ Johnny didn't go to school/ Johnny walk ed around it/ Come out with your hands up Johnny/ Johnny you're surrounded/ oh my da dipsy do/ oh my da dipsy day/ oh what a tragedo/ oh what a stylish comedy/ Now Johnny has a problem/ Johnny was a good man/ Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny/ Johnny Johnny catamaranned I consider myself a poet for a new age - an age unfamiliar with what most people would call poetry. It can't be bad if there is no good! Oh dear God, why am I even allowed to have a blog? Shouldn't there be someone in internetlandia who can look at what I'm doing and say NO? He-ey scorched lookin', Wha-at u got cookin'?, Hope u got meth cookin' up for me/ Lo-ove free-basin', a-and peyote tastin', a hesher re-cipe. My name is Luca/ I sleep by the corner store/ I live upwind from you/ Yes I think I've asked you for a quarter before/ before/ before... Venture deeper into the dead city of Dis/ Satan's legions follow a wet fragrance of fear/ Lesion covered bodies taste you vacate your waste/ Shrieking Blawdy Murder you sweat vomit and tears/ What if every dog was the reincarnation of someone who had a crush on you who traveled back in time to chill with you, as a pet? Wouldn't that be weird? Bollweevil up your ass. Ha! You looked.
Gonna be one of those days. Better put on my pants. The rain in Spain falls mainly on the- plain/ly all of everything comprises a totality/ confining our reality/ within the scope of sanity/ betwixt the bounds of fiction/ and of fancy which border our banality/ the order by which we relegate our dearest delirium to mere vanity/ a duality that claims the best in life to be infantile inanity/ what supremely sorry diction to submerge our own humanity/ what careless confused conviction that wreaks in us beastly banality/ this morose mundanity/ this fear of the feckless falsity that inspires in us a greater story, one of glory, of the grand and epic, of the wondrous and the thunderous rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain. That was particularly sucky. Should never have put my pants on.
In the time of Chimpanzees I was a(fraid, really. They're vicious bastards, torturing baby monkeys and whatnot. Time of Bonobos..?) Monkey. I once saw a cat that looked like a flower plucked from an endless marigold valley of an as yet undiscovered ghost planet. Nothing I've ever said has ever been true in the traditional sense. I accept that in myself and learn to grow from it. Watching an ep. of Under The Umbrella Tree on the youtubes. Best use of my time? I think that goes without saying. It's a bit affecting, watching a kid's show I loved when I was super little and recognizing everything I'd long forgotten. Picnic Time? My music box friends are having a party. You too slurms. Bug Juice! C'mon Quag, bring the peanut butter jar. I did it!
I put my hand upon your hips and/ I crip walk crip walk crip/ U put your hand upon my hips and/ U blood walk blood walk blood- Three will get you five/ sweet family will die/ Oh dollop o' sour cream/ very well with your chives/ Dull hell of butter knives/ Inhale pesticides/ something something something/ curtail of all your lives/ hail....curtain, um, survive...huh. Can you blame me preening?/ Feeling me? I'm flossin'./ 'Bout this sheen so blingin'/ See me up in Boston/ Hope you got yo shades on/ Yo vision I be 'ccostin'/ I'm the dapper don and/ You's the woodsman's rusted tin, son. BREAK! Wake up and smell the potatoes is what I say. Stately, plump Zapp Brannigan came from the space-head...and so on. I will not be writing this story as I am sure it can write itself. another good character name: Beatmaster Billy B. Finglongero. The B stands for quality. The world is a vampire de-fanged
They say the rain in Spain fell/ plain as the day we'll/ shoot on down to Cali and join up in a rally/ and marry 'til we're bored/ and find another door/ through which we'll travel time/ one second at a time/ and lose our lives in Paradise/ and cold dead hand grips a pair. Superman invents a perpetual motion device. Just as bait for Luthor. This comic was written in 1985. I'm afraid that's awesome. If an alien asked me about this thing we call televised comedy I would sit her/him/it in front of the first episode of The Young Ones. Live every moment like it was your last. If you do so, there's a better chance it'll be. Then you'll be glad you did. I'm chock full of thoughts. I find the adjective "plump" extremely erotic. When you cook 'em. Trained on gravy boats floating on cranberry/ sauce. Swimming far as I could see to sneak surreptitious peeks at the /source. Finding far too late everything I've ever known is / false. Face front, false gods, flee your throne, hide your/ balls. Bucolic is a word that doesn't mean what it should and that means what it couldn't possibly.
Michael J Rockaholic/ takes the whip 'cuz he's erotic/ spits his prick on spots bucolic/ slits the wrists of Semisonic/ helps the kids get hooked on phonics/ speaks in tongues in times demonic/ isn't that old, doesn't want a colonic. Can u guess the name of the game? The name of the game is can u guess the name of the game? The name of the game is can u guess the sizo'my- A spot of tea? That hit the spot, hmm? Spotted Dick? And 7-UP's Spot? Spot the pineapple? Inter-resting, very interesting indeed. Screw 'em. Graphical novelical/ semper fifo fanatical/ steal a token sabbatical/ vernacular-veratical/ tempero a heratical/ mad-on for Rom Vanatical... You know what really chafes my anus? You know what truly drives me mad? For the love of God, tell me! OK so in this NYer toon there's the canary in the cavern and the canary is dead. But not of inhalation. A knotted noose. "Everybody double your anti-depressants." The canary's function as an auger of the dangers ahead has been expanded to include existential nausea. What this says about how the dangers particular to active man have evolved in our post-industrial post-modern late-capitalist society is too jejune to offer profit worth the cost of analysis. No, we must dig deeper. Consider the illegible suicide note. Doesn't this mean, or rather couldn't this be read to mean, that we can communicate no more in death than we could tweet in life? That understanding never...
Red is white/ The sky is blue/ Don't kick me please I'm/ in love with you. Balky, good buddy, old pal/ my perfect stereotypical stranger/ Together we shall dance solely of joy/ Fear not, we court nothing but danger. Oh Urkel, who art but an artless, pernicious personification of all that is awful. I insist you desist from this cruise towards a bruise. I suggest you resist the urge to play the pest. Please leave to friend Carl his overdue snooze. His long and awaited long overdue snooze. Red is the wine/ that makes me blue/ Your breath is sweet/ and so. are. you. Awwww. Your handts are cold/ Your breaths are nice/ Fe're growing old/ let's thkrew like mice. I guess I must admit that what they say to us is true - The best part of me being me is me being in you. My old Cadillac don't leave room half-a-way near enough in the back for the two of us to have a whack, to light a wick, to run the track, to...The man could launch a snot-rocket clear across the room like he was Johnny Rotten on MTV. That and doing math in his head, his only skills. I think sleep is one of those bits of one's youth you just have to shed as you grow older. No one really needs sleep; it's a bad habit. Sleep is something you must shed as you grow older/ Mind if I *cue wah-wah* shred while you think it over?/ nieu wah neee, deedo ninininiini A novel written from the perspective of a dog would be incoherent. Would I be a genius to write it in spite of this or because of this?
I sing the booty electric. Because I could not stop for booty. Booty be not proud. I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by booty. She walks in, booty like the night of cloudless climes & starry skies; & all that's best in dark and bright meet in her ass (...) & her eyes. Between the idea/And the booty/Between the motion/And the act/Falls the Shadow...This is the way the world ends/ not with a bang but a booty.
If my prose is too purple, if my steps stipstopastumble, if my throat chokes on egg yolks, if I startoamumble, then know that no I am not going mental. Know, yo, instead a thing fundamental. I'm in love again. I'm all a'rub again. I'm doing the frug again. I'm in love again. Wait, how do you pronounce frug? Another quality name for a character: Allison "Ballyhoo" Dumplins the third, of Worcester. NYer cartoon: Pig's sitting in front of doctor, waiting for his diagnosis, waiting for the waiting to end, just so he can move on with his life, if only to end it. His hooves ache, his snout drips. His eyes steadily empty when he hears the doctor say: It's your ribs. They're delicious. Poor little piggy goes no god nooo all the way to the butcher. No more markets. No more roast beef, as if he'd even enjoy it. No home. Two for the money, three for the show, I forget what eight was for, go daddy go, But don't you kiss off my blue suede shoes. Better add it u- So a man walks into a bar with his pet giraffe. Hey, you can't leave that lion there! Because the giraffe had passed out. It was drunk. Just back from the Albertsons. Someone was singing "Lost in the Supermarket." I informed her she was in aisle 5. Oh My God, none of that happened. Why did I make that up? Why would I do that? I'm, I'm sick. I'm sick. I'm sick. There isn't even an Albertsons nearby.
Ballyhoo Dumplins and the Case of the Misspelled Menaj Etwa: An Adult Adventure. Giraffes don't drink. Streets are runny like my eggs; city's mashed and seasoned like my taters. Tenements line the alleyways like the tines of my fork. Sign 'O' The Tines of My Fork. Beluga whale, buddy, yo beluga whale, call me yo beluga whale. Tell me I'm yo one and lone beluga whale, sonny, yo beluga whale, honey, yo b
Born an old man, dead at 17. Called his dad Pops and his GF his queen. Trained with a militia, owns an M-16. Runs a bakery in heaven, sells ice cream. Ranks among the best at zombie-ing for Halloween. Built a grand piano out of tusks and dental string. Surfed a volcano, owned magazines. Lived on a potato farm in old Aberdeen. Ran with the wolves for want of a dream. Broke boulders with his bare hands until the gangrene. Had sex with a thousand strangers, all at least 18. Winks at every post office man, so's they can live 4 something. Flies to Mons Olympus, keeps his shoes at full sheen. Works with autistic children, tells them his schemes. Cheats at poker, but always comes clean. If you need to know, yes, that awesome dude is me!
Space Tyger Space Tyger burning bright/ by the light of wan midnight/ if I may or if I might/ make thee dreadful Lamb symmetry. And so on. Space tigers nourish their young on cosmic octopus cooked in the cores of distant stars. Space tigers then feast on the litter. One lives. "Space tiger" refers to two distinct species: spatigris naturalet and spatigris helmetate. Natural Space Tiger can be found in the rugged terrains of low-gravity planets. It is immense, with a shaggy coat and elongated canines. Natural Space Tigers are rarely seen in empty space, preferring to roam the desolate desert landscapes of dust-ridden moons they call home. The aptly named Helmet Space Tigers (colloquially known as "Hell Beasts") are a unique case, thriving as they do in the void. Having evolved a perfect replica of a 1950s-era conception of a space helmet around their heads, these Space Tigers swim the night skies. If need be, the Natural Space Tiger will pounce app. 400 meters in chase of its prey. Its claws can disembowel a space rhino. Space lions, space tigers, space bears. Oh my. Dear. God. /space mauled
If someone gives me coffee, I'll supply the cream. That's how grateful and engorged I would be. As pink as your petals/ as purple as my prose/ as stiff as the "competition"/ as I be drilling them holes. Crumpled in the corner, crying out to all who'll listen/ isn't really drama so much as exposition. I...you...each and every one of us can legally have sex with someone who was born after Nevermind was released. Think about that, won't you? Suffering Saph[ic Erotica], exclaimed Wonder Woman [breathlessly] as above her, c[o]ckling maniacally, stood [Da]ngle Man & [C]octor Psycho...My friendly foes, please to dispose, my last remains, buried where a new me can grow. A me-tree for all my me needs. Man, I need sleep. Commencing the passing of out. Sleepy Bye Time. Good gravy is redundant. Raisins are nature's dried-up grapes. Rickety Rickety Rack/ The mouse was smoking crack/ super bottlerocket, pass it around/ Santa fell down the smoke/stack. What's the going rate on love today, honey? What the going rate on a date, these days? What's the going rate on naked fun times, slappy?
Cha! Cha! ChaChaCha-Choking on-a Cherry Wine, coughing up this blood of mine, sippin' on some syrup time, it's si-sippin' on some syrup time. What's the time?*SCRATCH* It's time to get -real-. Hi kids, I'm AdRock with MCA and Mike D and we'd like to talk to you kids about syrup. Whose House? Fun House!! Whose House? Fun House Game & Pizza Factory where you can get down your silly self! It's not that tricky! Oh No, the Gas Face! "Yo homey you stink" "But I used Quick Stick!" Narrator: You should have used Degree. Because no one wants a Gas Face. At 10:They say they came to drop bombs. Others get down - they get up. Why are these Irishmen jumping around and what does it mean for you? If space is time and time is money, then space is golden. Join a Goldenspace retirement community and count your ducats in peace.
Johnny was an appleseed/ Johnny was a soldier/ Johnny of a different breed/ Johnny born a cold year/ Johnny didn't go to school/ Johnny walk ed around it/ Come out with your hands up Johnny/ Johnny you're surrounded/ oh my da dipsy do/ oh my da dipsy day/ oh what a tragedo/ oh what a stylish comedy/ Now Johnny has a problem/ Johnny was a good man/ Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny/ Johnny Johnny catamaranned I consider myself a poet for a new age - an age unfamiliar with what most people would call poetry. It can't be bad if there is no good! Oh dear God, why am I even allowed to have a blog? Shouldn't there be someone in internetlandia who can look at what I'm doing and say NO? He-ey scorched lookin', Wha-at u got cookin'?, Hope u got meth cookin' up for me/ Lo-ove free-basin', a-and peyote tastin', a hesher re-cipe. My name is Luca/ I sleep by the corner store/ I live upwind from you/ Yes I think I've asked you for a quarter before/ before/ before... Venture deeper into the dead city of Dis/ Satan's legions follow a wet fragrance of fear/ Lesion covered bodies taste you vacate your waste/ Shrieking Blawdy Murder you sweat vomit and tears/ What if every dog was the reincarnation of someone who had a crush on you who traveled back in time to chill with you, as a pet? Wouldn't that be weird? Bollweevil up your ass. Ha! You looked.
Gonna be one of those days. Better put on my pants. The rain in Spain falls mainly on the- plain/ly all of everything comprises a totality/ confining our reality/ within the scope of sanity/ betwixt the bounds of fiction/ and of fancy which border our banality/ the order by which we relegate our dearest delirium to mere vanity/ a duality that claims the best in life to be infantile inanity/ what supremely sorry diction to submerge our own humanity/ what careless confused conviction that wreaks in us beastly banality/ this morose mundanity/ this fear of the feckless falsity that inspires in us a greater story, one of glory, of the grand and epic, of the wondrous and the thunderous rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain. That was particularly sucky. Should never have put my pants on.
In the time of Chimpanzees I was a(fraid, really. They're vicious bastards, torturing baby monkeys and whatnot. Time of Bonobos..?) Monkey. I once saw a cat that looked like a flower plucked from an endless marigold valley of an as yet undiscovered ghost planet. Nothing I've ever said has ever been true in the traditional sense. I accept that in myself and learn to grow from it. Watching an ep. of Under The Umbrella Tree on the youtubes. Best use of my time? I think that goes without saying. It's a bit affecting, watching a kid's show I loved when I was super little and recognizing everything I'd long forgotten. Picnic Time? My music box friends are having a party. You too slurms. Bug Juice! C'mon Quag, bring the peanut butter jar. I did it!
I put my hand upon your hips and/ I crip walk crip walk crip/ U put your hand upon my hips and/ U blood walk blood walk blood- Three will get you five/ sweet family will die/ Oh dollop o' sour cream/ very well with your chives/ Dull hell of butter knives/ Inhale pesticides/ something something something/ curtail of all your lives/ hail....curtain, um, survive...huh. Can you blame me preening?/ Feeling me? I'm flossin'./ 'Bout this sheen so blingin'/ See me up in Boston/ Hope you got yo shades on/ Yo vision I be 'ccostin'/ I'm the dapper don and/ You's the woodsman's rusted tin, son. BREAK! Wake up and smell the potatoes is what I say. Stately, plump Zapp Brannigan came from the space-head...and so on. I will not be writing this story as I am sure it can write itself. another good character name: Beatmaster Billy B. Finglongero. The B stands for quality. The world is a vampire de-fanged
They say the rain in Spain fell/ plain as the day we'll/ shoot on down to Cali and join up in a rally/ and marry 'til we're bored/ and find another door/ through which we'll travel time/ one second at a time/ and lose our lives in Paradise/ and cold dead hand grips a pair. Superman invents a perpetual motion device. Just as bait for Luthor. This comic was written in 1985. I'm afraid that's awesome. If an alien asked me about this thing we call televised comedy I would sit her/him/it in front of the first episode of The Young Ones. Live every moment like it was your last. If you do so, there's a better chance it'll be. Then you'll be glad you did. I'm chock full of thoughts. I find the adjective "plump" extremely erotic. When you cook 'em. Trained on gravy boats floating on cranberry/ sauce. Swimming far as I could see to sneak surreptitious peeks at the /source. Finding far too late everything I've ever known is / false. Face front, false gods, flee your throne, hide your/ balls. Bucolic is a word that doesn't mean what it should and that means what it couldn't possibly.
Michael J Rockaholic/ takes the whip 'cuz he's erotic/ spits his prick on spots bucolic/ slits the wrists of Semisonic/ helps the kids get hooked on phonics/ speaks in tongues in times demonic/ isn't that old, doesn't want a colonic. Can u guess the name of the game? The name of the game is can u guess the name of the game? The name of the game is can u guess the sizo'my- A spot of tea? That hit the spot, hmm? Spotted Dick? And 7-UP's Spot? Spot the pineapple? Inter-resting, very interesting indeed. Screw 'em. Graphical novelical/ semper fifo fanatical/ steal a token sabbatical/ vernacular-veratical/ tempero a heratical/ mad-on for Rom Vanatical... You know what really chafes my anus? You know what truly drives me mad? For the love of God, tell me! OK so in this NYer toon there's the canary in the cavern and the canary is dead. But not of inhalation. A knotted noose. "Everybody double your anti-depressants." The canary's function as an auger of the dangers ahead has been expanded to include existential nausea. What this says about how the dangers particular to active man have evolved in our post-industrial post-modern late-capitalist society is too jejune to offer profit worth the cost of analysis. No, we must dig deeper. Consider the illegible suicide note. Doesn't this mean, or rather couldn't this be read to mean, that we can communicate no more in death than we could tweet in life? That understanding never...
Red is white/ The sky is blue/ Don't kick me please I'm/ in love with you. Balky, good buddy, old pal/ my perfect stereotypical stranger/ Together we shall dance solely of joy/ Fear not, we court nothing but danger. Oh Urkel, who art but an artless, pernicious personification of all that is awful. I insist you desist from this cruise towards a bruise. I suggest you resist the urge to play the pest. Please leave to friend Carl his overdue snooze. His long and awaited long overdue snooze. Red is the wine/ that makes me blue/ Your breath is sweet/ and so. are. you. Awwww. Your handts are cold/ Your breaths are nice/ Fe're growing old/ let's thkrew like mice. I guess I must admit that what they say to us is true - The best part of me being me is me being in you. My old Cadillac don't leave room half-a-way near enough in the back for the two of us to have a whack, to light a wick, to run the track, to...The man could launch a snot-rocket clear across the room like he was Johnny Rotten on MTV. That and doing math in his head, his only skills. I think sleep is one of those bits of one's youth you just have to shed as you grow older. No one really needs sleep; it's a bad habit. Sleep is something you must shed as you grow older/ Mind if I *cue wah-wah* shred while you think it over?/ nieu wah neee, deedo ninininiini A novel written from the perspective of a dog would be incoherent. Would I be a genius to write it in spite of this or because of this?
I sing the booty electric. Because I could not stop for booty. Booty be not proud. I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by booty. She walks in, booty like the night of cloudless climes & starry skies; & all that's best in dark and bright meet in her ass (...) & her eyes. Between the idea/And the booty/Between the motion/And the act/Falls the Shadow...This is the way the world ends/ not with a bang but a booty.
Monday, February 1, 2010
#6 movie of the decade
#6 - Irréversible
The plot is simple and complex. It's a movie about revenge. Like Memento, the film goes backwards. However, it makes more of an impact when the film goes backwards. The first 20 minutes of the film are nauseating, and purposely made that way to imitate vertigo. But the hardest part of the film to watch is the rape scene. The camera is static for eight minutes while Monica Bellucci's character, Alex, is brutally raped.
The acting isn't Oscar worthy, but the way this film was shot is so haunting. The film makes you think, and keeps you thinking long after the film is over with. I think part of this film was made for shock value, but it was also used to make the viewers develop their own opinions. Mainly, it was made to MAKE you think.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
#7!
#7 - Children of Men
I have to say, when it comes to films or books about a dystopia I seem to enjoy it a lot. Does that say anything about how I am? Does this list also reflect how much I love Clive Owen's acting since this is the second film I have put on this list that has him in one of the starring roles? That's for you to decide.
I have to say, Clive Owen and Alfonso Cuarón made this film extraordinary. Owen was the hero who didn't want to be a hero -- a drunkard trying to get over his son's death and dissolved marriage. Julianne Moore can't do no wrong, either, even though she's in about 10 minutes of the film. The chemistry between her and Owen is believeable, and in fact, we feel awful after she leaves the picture.
Cuarón is a director that seems to never get the credit he deserves. He has made some beautiful films, smart films -- films that keep you thinking until the very end. I wish the Academy made some kind of acknowledgemnt towards his directorial work.
Anarcho, Chapter One
The protagonist presided over the overturning of a cop car. Drinks were served. None of the crew belonged to the scene. If they were caught, if cops showed, they'd have naught to offer but him. And that was fine with him. He'd hired alley bums to guard the streets, keep their bugged eyes looking out. A homeless couple and their great dane crouched beside their grocery cart stationed at the nearest intersection arguing about the Lakers game while listening for all incoming calls. Nice change of pace, his phone's real-time scores feature offered them something new to yell about every other minute at ever increasing decibels. He'd known Ron and Rhonda for enough years to feel some comfort joshing them their predilection toward grievous volume and caustic scenery but tonight he wasn't in the mood for talking or listening or even dealing with people, homeless couples or otherwise. Ahh, but what choice did the artist have? He schmoozed with each and all from the food dude to the actress he bought off of Sunset. Ahh, but he was tense. His neck twitched ever 10 seconds or so which may or may not have had anything to do with his inability to hold his head up straight. As it was, his skull wobbled on his shoulders, dipping down into his chest. He looked like a pill popper conspiring for a scam at the corner table of a club, checking his figurative rearviews every few seconds, incapable of performing a steady nod or shake of the head at a constant pace but jittery. The consummate artist watches his breath pool in the night.
A lot of time had gone into re-painting that sedan, a lot of concentration. He'd figured it out back in college that his one gift wasn't originality or passion of metaphor or even meaningfulness. As a self-described artist he'd happily plugged all of the above into the formula of his self but times like this when disolate daydreams materialize, when all the time he'd put into collecting the cash, buying the junker, painting it, planning pre-production prep-work...he knew better. It was too cold too harsh a night to wash & wax his safe & cozy bubble to a nice and shielding sheen. He'd figured out that his gift was concentration. Like Michelangelo dissecting a stone in his mind or Milton composing complete epics in his head like tending a zen garden of synaptic activity. He didn't have their talent or vision but he had that focus. Looking in the mirror in the morning he could see himself at 40 just as easily as he could see his present self. By the time he'd hit 40 he'd have hoed deep lines into his forehead, no seeds to sew though. He'd have room for musical notation. He'd...he'd be laughing at himself all night until the high wore down and he'd worry again.
The shoot took less than 4 minutes. Within ten minutes the car was loaded up into the non-descript truck and taken far away. Clockwork doesn't run that well. Ron and Rhonda got 35 dollars, the actors and crew got their 30 each and everyone else got 12. A couple of watchouts got nothing as a couple of smartphones went missing. It was an unprofitable day aside from the culmination of a dream project. He'd forgotten three-fouths of the dream projects he'd conceived sober or otherwise. It didn't mean much but he was looking forward to presenting it.
The gallery was held underneath a metro station. Upon pillars were placed the paintings. Like fliers stapled to a telephone pole. Some of them were fliers and the they may as well have been stapled. Sculptures guarded the perimeter, clay and stone and found art barriers to the shrubbery by the off-ramp, the bushes behind which teens smoked and gangs did what they do. It was dusk. A taped recording intentionally warped and warbled trumpeted welcoming messages in a dozen languages poorly spoken on a loop. Welcome to the Anarcho Art Festival, the underground network of anarchist artists, fashionistas, critics and provacateurs. Wine was served. Brie and crackers. Salsa for the vegans.
"Pasture Output" was a popular performance piece. On a rickety stage stood a couple of women. One wore corpse paint. She hugged the other woman who proceeded to mime going to bed. The corpse tucked her in. A black and red banner was walked in front of the stage to signify a curtain. Again they stood silent. This time the corpse went to bed. While the banner passed another woman in corpse paint jumped on stage. A cycle was born. Within 5 iterations the small stage was overrun by corpses. End scene.
"Survive: Trance End" was not accorded as much buzz but was still very well recieved. The author, Will Diego, was quickly ascending the ranks of The Undergound County, a splintered offshoot of Aztlan Thundergound that formed during their last crisis in leadership. While the majority of the Aztlan artists wanted to continue the soviet council system, the Underground wished to experiment with a Bakunin styled parliament. Diego's latest work was undoubtedly a reflection of this turmoil. On a matte canvas too large to hang from any one pillar (and for this reason pinned on a long clip attached to a clay pedestal) Diego had scrawled a mispelled expletive on a background of spray-painted, multi-colored words using multiple typefaces and font settings. The juxtaposition was impressive. Our protagonist was less than impressive but he spoke only the kindest words to the artist, his arm wrapped around the artist's shoulder.
Now that we're reminded of him: next to an installation consisting of fashion magazines dunked in mud and wrapped into a full body cast for a mannequin, sat a table upon which sat a 17'' laptop running our protagonist Chris Turner's fifth short film "Short film number 7." Using a total of 1 minute 16 seconds of film and extensive techniques of visual and audio manipulation, both manual and digital, "Short film number 7" offered an 8 minute exploration of the uprooting, overturning and fire-bomb burning of an ersatz cop car by 2 poorly paid actors made up in muslum gang fashion. It didn't have the buzz of some of the other works that night but it attracted a substantial number of observers and a fine critical reception. He wasn't disappointed. He'd done what he always does in these situations, besides drinking heavily. Hope for the best. Expect the worst. No, he wasn't disappointed at all.
Around midnight MC Sugarbeat began his show with support from the local band Jerking White Tears. They did a nerdcored take on JWT's "One Ton of Sugar":
I like my tea strong, I like my cocks longer, not a damn thing wrong wanting wider, weighty, fuller, more filling than fingers, more filling to savor, fulfilling is the feel & coffee is the flavor. One ton of sugar or two, I ask you, one ton of sugar or two, I ask you. Assholes are like opinions , full of hot air, everyone's got one so no need to stare. We can each have a slice, we can each have a share, we can each overreach 'til we have a couple pairs. One ton of sugar or two, I ask you, on ton of sugar or two, I ask you....
Turner was mingling with some colleagues when a young man approached. His hair was short and spiked. On his wrists were the snapped ends of handcuffs, chains dangling. He was holding a flashlight. They'd arranged enough lamps euphemistically borrowed from a production company "to clear the air of night" but connoisseurs carried their own lights, the better to appreciate the festivities and, more importantly, the art. The young man lied and said he loved Turner's work.
A lot of time had gone into re-painting that sedan, a lot of concentration. He'd figured it out back in college that his one gift wasn't originality or passion of metaphor or even meaningfulness. As a self-described artist he'd happily plugged all of the above into the formula of his self but times like this when disolate daydreams materialize, when all the time he'd put into collecting the cash, buying the junker, painting it, planning pre-production prep-work...he knew better. It was too cold too harsh a night to wash & wax his safe & cozy bubble to a nice and shielding sheen. He'd figured out that his gift was concentration. Like Michelangelo dissecting a stone in his mind or Milton composing complete epics in his head like tending a zen garden of synaptic activity. He didn't have their talent or vision but he had that focus. Looking in the mirror in the morning he could see himself at 40 just as easily as he could see his present self. By the time he'd hit 40 he'd have hoed deep lines into his forehead, no seeds to sew though. He'd have room for musical notation. He'd...he'd be laughing at himself all night until the high wore down and he'd worry again.
The shoot took less than 4 minutes. Within ten minutes the car was loaded up into the non-descript truck and taken far away. Clockwork doesn't run that well. Ron and Rhonda got 35 dollars, the actors and crew got their 30 each and everyone else got 12. A couple of watchouts got nothing as a couple of smartphones went missing. It was an unprofitable day aside from the culmination of a dream project. He'd forgotten three-fouths of the dream projects he'd conceived sober or otherwise. It didn't mean much but he was looking forward to presenting it.
The gallery was held underneath a metro station. Upon pillars were placed the paintings. Like fliers stapled to a telephone pole. Some of them were fliers and the they may as well have been stapled. Sculptures guarded the perimeter, clay and stone and found art barriers to the shrubbery by the off-ramp, the bushes behind which teens smoked and gangs did what they do. It was dusk. A taped recording intentionally warped and warbled trumpeted welcoming messages in a dozen languages poorly spoken on a loop. Welcome to the Anarcho Art Festival, the underground network of anarchist artists, fashionistas, critics and provacateurs. Wine was served. Brie and crackers. Salsa for the vegans.
"Pasture Output" was a popular performance piece. On a rickety stage stood a couple of women. One wore corpse paint. She hugged the other woman who proceeded to mime going to bed. The corpse tucked her in. A black and red banner was walked in front of the stage to signify a curtain. Again they stood silent. This time the corpse went to bed. While the banner passed another woman in corpse paint jumped on stage. A cycle was born. Within 5 iterations the small stage was overrun by corpses. End scene.
"Survive: Trance End" was not accorded as much buzz but was still very well recieved. The author, Will Diego, was quickly ascending the ranks of The Undergound County, a splintered offshoot of Aztlan Thundergound that formed during their last crisis in leadership. While the majority of the Aztlan artists wanted to continue the soviet council system, the Underground wished to experiment with a Bakunin styled parliament. Diego's latest work was undoubtedly a reflection of this turmoil. On a matte canvas too large to hang from any one pillar (and for this reason pinned on a long clip attached to a clay pedestal) Diego had scrawled a mispelled expletive on a background of spray-painted, multi-colored words using multiple typefaces and font settings. The juxtaposition was impressive. Our protagonist was less than impressive but he spoke only the kindest words to the artist, his arm wrapped around the artist's shoulder.
Now that we're reminded of him: next to an installation consisting of fashion magazines dunked in mud and wrapped into a full body cast for a mannequin, sat a table upon which sat a 17'' laptop running our protagonist Chris Turner's fifth short film "Short film number 7." Using a total of 1 minute 16 seconds of film and extensive techniques of visual and audio manipulation, both manual and digital, "Short film number 7" offered an 8 minute exploration of the uprooting, overturning and fire-bomb burning of an ersatz cop car by 2 poorly paid actors made up in muslum gang fashion. It didn't have the buzz of some of the other works that night but it attracted a substantial number of observers and a fine critical reception. He wasn't disappointed. He'd done what he always does in these situations, besides drinking heavily. Hope for the best. Expect the worst. No, he wasn't disappointed at all.
Around midnight MC Sugarbeat began his show with support from the local band Jerking White Tears. They did a nerdcored take on JWT's "One Ton of Sugar":
I like my tea strong, I like my cocks longer, not a damn thing wrong wanting wider, weighty, fuller, more filling than fingers, more filling to savor, fulfilling is the feel & coffee is the flavor. One ton of sugar or two, I ask you, one ton of sugar or two, I ask you. Assholes are like opinions , full of hot air, everyone's got one so no need to stare. We can each have a slice, we can each have a share, we can each overreach 'til we have a couple pairs. One ton of sugar or two, I ask you, on ton of sugar or two, I ask you....
Turner was mingling with some colleagues when a young man approached. His hair was short and spiked. On his wrists were the snapped ends of handcuffs, chains dangling. He was holding a flashlight. They'd arranged enough lamps euphemistically borrowed from a production company "to clear the air of night" but connoisseurs carried their own lights, the better to appreciate the festivities and, more importantly, the art. The young man lied and said he loved Turner's work.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
The Jokes, section 7: Surprise Surprise (end of Ch. 1)
-Say A.B?
-Yes Davey?
-Wanna sing a song A.B?
-What Davey?
-I said do you wanna sing a song A.B?
-We've sung 20...25 songs today...tonight, haven't we Davey?
-I said do you wanna sing a song A.B?
-We've sung, we've sung, by golly we've sung, haven't we Davey?
-Why won't you answer my question A.B? Huh A.B? Huh?
-(exaggerated sigh)Alright, alright, we'll sing a song!
-Well what are you going on about now?
-What?
-I don't wanna sing a song but now you do so now we gotta sing a song I guess-
-What? Davey you just. asked. me. if I wanted to sing a...oh!
-Oh what?
-Oh, you don't want to sing.
-Well I just told you that.
-But you want me to sing. Well alright, how about Memories Are Made of This. (snap and-a snap and-a)-
-Whoa Whoa What? I don't want no lullaby. Cheese Whi-iz!
-Oh for the love of
-What's gotten into you?
-What's gotten into me?
-That's what I want to know! All I asked you was if you wanted to sing a song! Yes or No! Yes? No? That's it.
-I'm speechless
....
-For fucksakes, that's your guys' punchline? Did you skip a few steps, forget the funny parts?
-Yeah we slipped into some ad-libbing, hey aren't you supposed to be unconscious?
-Wait yeah, what's the big idea, bozo? Get back into your corner!
-Did you guys just make up this routine on the spot? What in the hell was that? Seriously.
-Look fella, we've been at this all night. Not everyone got naptime. Now back to the corner. You've earned a time-out.
-You fuckers, hey which one of you two kicked me. I'm having some troubling sorting everything out but I know one you geezers kicked me.
-Several times. It was him by the way →
-Oh you lousy prick.
-Oh dear God are the mics off?
-What, what did I say. Hey, engineer! Dump it!
-You are twice as stupid as you look, which is impressive, I'll admit. No one's listening. Even I don't delude myself into thinking that anyone would waste their time, illicit power use and contraband radios listening to me. Cheese whiz indeed. Harumph.
-So...
-Plus the FCC was dissolved last revolution.
-It was? Ok. But...
-So go away! It's my show again. You're both half dead, you haven't slept all night and you've gone blind. If you see Georgie in that window you are blind, sirs. My guess? He's sleeping the worst night of his life off on the floor. Good enough for me, good enough for Georgie. Now begone. I'm sick of the sight of the both of yous.
-We're grabbing our reel-to-reels before we leave.
-Fine by me, fine by me. Except the engineer's door is locked and Georgie is out for the count. So...not as fine with reality.
-(grumble grumble)
-Look guys, I like you two so I'll be sure to mail your tapes off. Just name the retirement community whose resources you're wasting and get the fuck out of here!
-(grumble grumble)
-Hi kiddies. Your trendy neighborhood clown is back. Let's get this party started! Right!
[cue theme song]
TO BE CONTINUED...
(when we return, CH.2 "Gelastics"! Wherein we encounter actual honest-to-god action!)
-Yes Davey?
-Wanna sing a song A.B?
-What Davey?
-I said do you wanna sing a song A.B?
-We've sung 20...25 songs today...tonight, haven't we Davey?
-I said do you wanna sing a song A.B?
-We've sung, we've sung, by golly we've sung, haven't we Davey?
-Why won't you answer my question A.B? Huh A.B? Huh?
-(exaggerated sigh)Alright, alright, we'll sing a song!
-Well what are you going on about now?
-What?
-I don't wanna sing a song but now you do so now we gotta sing a song I guess-
-What? Davey you just. asked. me. if I wanted to sing a...oh!
-Oh what?
-Oh, you don't want to sing.
-Well I just told you that.
-But you want me to sing. Well alright, how about Memories Are Made of This. (snap and-a snap and-a)-
-Whoa Whoa What? I don't want no lullaby. Cheese Whi-iz!
-Oh for the love of
-What's gotten into you?
-What's gotten into me?
-That's what I want to know! All I asked you was if you wanted to sing a song! Yes or No! Yes? No? That's it.
-I'm speechless
....
-For fucksakes, that's your guys' punchline? Did you skip a few steps, forget the funny parts?
-Yeah we slipped into some ad-libbing, hey aren't you supposed to be unconscious?
-Wait yeah, what's the big idea, bozo? Get back into your corner!
-Did you guys just make up this routine on the spot? What in the hell was that? Seriously.
-Look fella, we've been at this all night. Not everyone got naptime. Now back to the corner. You've earned a time-out.
-You fuckers, hey which one of you two kicked me. I'm having some troubling sorting everything out but I know one you geezers kicked me.
-Several times. It was him by the way →
-Oh you lousy prick.
-Oh dear God are the mics off?
-What, what did I say. Hey, engineer! Dump it!
-You are twice as stupid as you look, which is impressive, I'll admit. No one's listening. Even I don't delude myself into thinking that anyone would waste their time, illicit power use and contraband radios listening to me. Cheese whiz indeed. Harumph.
-So...
-Plus the FCC was dissolved last revolution.
-It was? Ok. But...
-So go away! It's my show again. You're both half dead, you haven't slept all night and you've gone blind. If you see Georgie in that window you are blind, sirs. My guess? He's sleeping the worst night of his life off on the floor. Good enough for me, good enough for Georgie. Now begone. I'm sick of the sight of the both of yous.
-We're grabbing our reel-to-reels before we leave.
-Fine by me, fine by me. Except the engineer's door is locked and Georgie is out for the count. So...not as fine with reality.
-(grumble grumble)
-Look guys, I like you two so I'll be sure to mail your tapes off. Just name the retirement community whose resources you're wasting and get the fuck out of here!
-(grumble grumble)
-Hi kiddies. Your trendy neighborhood clown is back. Let's get this party started! Right!
[cue theme song]
TO BE CONTINUED...
(when we return, CH.2 "Gelastics"! Wherein we encounter actual honest-to-god action!)
Monday, January 25, 2010
The Jokes, section 7: Subheading
Aged Man rests his head on the stoop as he's telling his jokes. Maybe the wind will pick them up, scatter them. There is no wind, but. Maybe the Dirtbags will let him in if he asks nicely. He spent the night walking around the building telling his jokes. Everything was acted out. Every emotion was realized. If anyone was close enough to make him out in the dark they'd see an old man in an ancient suit gesticulating madly, laughing to himself. If they stood at the corner by the engineer's entrance they'd see the aged man approach the cone of its light like a Cyclops groping blindly at the exit of the cave, oblivious of sheep and man. For a man his age his limbs were loose and his steps were lively but his voice a faucet dripping. More a matter of percussion than conversation. Hear the way his lips smack like a snare. And the clearing of his throat, the cymbal. The rhythm of his consonants slurred by a sibilant S. Yet the odd-metered bounce of his steps no less than the infinitely rehearsed toss of his arms serve well to punctuate his inflections, to keep the beat.
He'd lived a long time. Centuries by his own reckoning. Every man needs a gift from God. His was eternity and an audience. Around and around and around he walked. He hadn't written a new joke since his show was canceled. He'd relied on a gaggle of writers even then when he was youngish and creative to keep the show running. Not since his early days at half-filled Hoboken theaters and late night happenings with beat friends joking grass and his time with the Dirtbags simply there to make them look good, not since he was young has he felt funny. Turned out he was better suited to entertainment than to comedy. He wasn't a comic, no, he wasn't a humorist, a funnyman or a wit, not even by half. That was one he wrote but he's not telling that one. He's not telling the phantom-filled night his knock knocks or his one-liners. He made Davey laugh once with a flurry of one-liners along the lines of those old "How cold was it?" routines but his was "How bereft of sanity are you, old man?"
I'm so nutty I have to wear owl scent to fend off the squirrels.
I'm so loopy I got my foot stuck in my ear. Took three strong men to de-loop me. A loop de-looped.
I'm so screwy when I do the twist I lose my shoes.
I'm so off my rocker I .....um.....
He held tight to the building. There was warmth within. He could take some solace from the nearness of life and hearth and home as the night grew thicker, colder. Like a puppy nuzzled up against a bed he sat down by the stoop where he still remains.
Inside Dave and A.B. ran through a good 1/16 of their best routines. They'd made sure the engineer was getting it all on tape. Who cares who's listening live. If they make 'em laugh, that's great. That right there is what it is all about. But really it doesn't do a good damn thing for them. They have a legacy that is in dire need of some up-sprucing. No one is sure that things'll, how did the pundits put it when they owned the airwaves, stabilize? And Davey and A.B., they're not getting any younger. The cracks and creaky joints are showing. A.B.'s muffed his cue too goddamn many times and who knows if this schmendrik engineer knows how to splice tape.
The engineer suppresses a yawn and ingests a large volume of alcohol in one unending sip.
An Earth's diameter away a troupe of epicurean fanatics preach and practice the mutability of the flesh and the impermanence of human dignity. A preacher stands before a choir and stubs his toe on the dais and yea did the congregation laugh. Woe be unto them who cannot find the buried pleasure in mundane muck. Mere miles down the road a roving gang of fatalists mock st. solemnity and pragmatic stability. They know of no joy save in the shock that awaits all. The shock of the vulgar phallus and the rotting carcass and the dead baby. The pain. Not the pain of a stubbed toe. The pain of a stubbed soul. Frolic, they frolic and frolic. And as they frolic they hear across the Seine the amassed mumblings and shouts and muted deadpan of the third camp. The Observationalists observe.
The engineer takes another sip.
A young man and a young woman meet up once more before the war to end all wars begins. Potential jokes tussle in his head as they embrace. Every moment of every fighting day is an opportunity for a funny observation. They trained him to see everything through a veil of self-consciousness. Likewise, he knows to observe every social or psychological situation from every conceivable angle, knowing that only from the appropriate angle can the glint of a gem be seen. The trained Observationalist is a closet phenomonologist.
If everything's a blur you're going blind. Nothing is more vital than keeping your wits about you at all times. She knew this. He knew this. She wore a bit of ribbon in her hair. Not tied to anything. Just slipped underneath a lock and dangling down. She's worried that his objectivity is slipping. She cares about him, would hate to see him lose his identity. The loss of identity is like Nietzsche's loss of God. It's a frightful affair that shouldn't be blithely accepted or smugly celebrated. Idenity should be mourned. Wear black until you can transcend predicament, overcome anchoring acknowledging said anchoring. Abstracting from fixed position. Triangulating to a new location from your past locations. Humean synthesis of sorts. She's getting off on him and his neuroses. The mind is a terrible thing to misplace. A heart is a terrible thing to give away. She loves being terrible to herself. She is a teenager after all.
They embrace. The two of them look into each others eyes but maybe they only see the reflection. Who knows, it's hard to get into the heads of young lovers. He knows the jokes his friends are making. Were making, actually. If they knew he was still consorting with the enemy there would no longer be any time for jokes. The jokes would be "too soon." That's not cool, that's just wrong. That was her world where taste was not a factor. She could joke about his execution. Tragedy minus time equals raucous laughterland. They embrace and within seconds he feels shame.
They embrace. The two of them lost their childhoods, lost track, lost physically, lost as in wasted, unworn. Who knows how they've survived. Maybe with humor. Their gifts. Their superhuman ability to divorce themselves from reality. She knows how this works. She knows what it means to part with the positivist universe. It's no great skill. Even the observationalists can do it but they've never understood what it meant. To displace yourself with laughter is the greatest gift of all. She loves this man but she feels sorry for him. He's a victim of normativity. They embrace and within moments she steals a kiss.
The War is nigh upon us now. Air's oppression slows time's travails. And travels. And trivials. And so on...
TO BE CONTINUED...
He'd lived a long time. Centuries by his own reckoning. Every man needs a gift from God. His was eternity and an audience. Around and around and around he walked. He hadn't written a new joke since his show was canceled. He'd relied on a gaggle of writers even then when he was youngish and creative to keep the show running. Not since his early days at half-filled Hoboken theaters and late night happenings with beat friends joking grass and his time with the Dirtbags simply there to make them look good, not since he was young has he felt funny. Turned out he was better suited to entertainment than to comedy. He wasn't a comic, no, he wasn't a humorist, a funnyman or a wit, not even by half. That was one he wrote but he's not telling that one. He's not telling the phantom-filled night his knock knocks or his one-liners. He made Davey laugh once with a flurry of one-liners along the lines of those old "How cold was it?" routines but his was "How bereft of sanity are you, old man?"
I'm so nutty I have to wear owl scent to fend off the squirrels.
I'm so loopy I got my foot stuck in my ear. Took three strong men to de-loop me. A loop de-looped.
I'm so screwy when I do the twist I lose my shoes.
I'm so off my rocker I .....um.....
He held tight to the building. There was warmth within. He could take some solace from the nearness of life and hearth and home as the night grew thicker, colder. Like a puppy nuzzled up against a bed he sat down by the stoop where he still remains.
Inside Dave and A.B. ran through a good 1/16 of their best routines. They'd made sure the engineer was getting it all on tape. Who cares who's listening live. If they make 'em laugh, that's great. That right there is what it is all about. But really it doesn't do a good damn thing for them. They have a legacy that is in dire need of some up-sprucing. No one is sure that things'll, how did the pundits put it when they owned the airwaves, stabilize? And Davey and A.B., they're not getting any younger. The cracks and creaky joints are showing. A.B.'s muffed his cue too goddamn many times and who knows if this schmendrik engineer knows how to splice tape.
The engineer suppresses a yawn and ingests a large volume of alcohol in one unending sip.
An Earth's diameter away a troupe of epicurean fanatics preach and practice the mutability of the flesh and the impermanence of human dignity. A preacher stands before a choir and stubs his toe on the dais and yea did the congregation laugh. Woe be unto them who cannot find the buried pleasure in mundane muck. Mere miles down the road a roving gang of fatalists mock st. solemnity and pragmatic stability. They know of no joy save in the shock that awaits all. The shock of the vulgar phallus and the rotting carcass and the dead baby. The pain. Not the pain of a stubbed toe. The pain of a stubbed soul. Frolic, they frolic and frolic. And as they frolic they hear across the Seine the amassed mumblings and shouts and muted deadpan of the third camp. The Observationalists observe.
The engineer takes another sip.
A young man and a young woman meet up once more before the war to end all wars begins. Potential jokes tussle in his head as they embrace. Every moment of every fighting day is an opportunity for a funny observation. They trained him to see everything through a veil of self-consciousness. Likewise, he knows to observe every social or psychological situation from every conceivable angle, knowing that only from the appropriate angle can the glint of a gem be seen. The trained Observationalist is a closet phenomonologist.
If everything's a blur you're going blind. Nothing is more vital than keeping your wits about you at all times. She knew this. He knew this. She wore a bit of ribbon in her hair. Not tied to anything. Just slipped underneath a lock and dangling down. She's worried that his objectivity is slipping. She cares about him, would hate to see him lose his identity. The loss of identity is like Nietzsche's loss of God. It's a frightful affair that shouldn't be blithely accepted or smugly celebrated. Idenity should be mourned. Wear black until you can transcend predicament, overcome anchoring acknowledging said anchoring. Abstracting from fixed position. Triangulating to a new location from your past locations. Humean synthesis of sorts. She's getting off on him and his neuroses. The mind is a terrible thing to misplace. A heart is a terrible thing to give away. She loves being terrible to herself. She is a teenager after all.
They embrace. The two of them look into each others eyes but maybe they only see the reflection. Who knows, it's hard to get into the heads of young lovers. He knows the jokes his friends are making. Were making, actually. If they knew he was still consorting with the enemy there would no longer be any time for jokes. The jokes would be "too soon." That's not cool, that's just wrong. That was her world where taste was not a factor. She could joke about his execution. Tragedy minus time equals raucous laughterland. They embrace and within seconds he feels shame.
They embrace. The two of them lost their childhoods, lost track, lost physically, lost as in wasted, unworn. Who knows how they've survived. Maybe with humor. Their gifts. Their superhuman ability to divorce themselves from reality. She knows how this works. She knows what it means to part with the positivist universe. It's no great skill. Even the observationalists can do it but they've never understood what it meant. To displace yourself with laughter is the greatest gift of all. She loves this man but she feels sorry for him. He's a victim of normativity. They embrace and within moments she steals a kiss.
The War is nigh upon us now. Air's oppression slows time's travails. And travels. And trivials. And so on...
TO BE CONTINUED...
The Jokes, section 6: Speak to Me like Lovers Do
In the Black Forest of the Banana Peels, an army marches to their own densely-arranged and essentially stupid musical score:
Like a hammer to the skull, like a skier driven deep into the softly packed snow, We Know, We Know, Our Role, Our Role. Live a million years, conquer lands and vanquish fears, Our Tears, Our Tears, Advance our careers if we're sincere. If we're sincere, in our veneer......
[Musical Interlude: Dum dum dum dum Dum dum dum dum....]
Slipping on a slick underlit patch of ice (patch of ice), brings us closer to our paradise (paradise), and if we sound out good & extra nice (extra nice), howls of pain absolve us of all vice (of all vice), and when I 'lectrocute 'pon flawed device (flawed device), I see a lite brite imprint of wise sunrise (wise sunrise), with eyes no puppetmaster could devise (could devise), with brittle bones I set off swift surprise (swift surprise), intended to surprise cheese hank'rin' mice (hank'rin' mice), but which instead has found my fingers will suffice (will suffice), my every step I trip my spirits rise (spirits rise), with every laugh I shatter morbid lies (morbid lies), like glass tables struck too hard by tumbling metal dice. Within our skin we pinch our soul within a vice within our flesh we pin our hearts and minds to a sense of safety and propriety our comedy denies.
[Musical Interlude...]
These are facts jacks, pure and simple like my dimple, stick with your swung cats, stick with a gasp of air your slaps and fall your prats, roll with the punches and punch like your rolling a flowing aero-dynamic going bowling ball with all of all of your contrived and contorted force, of course, you flow and you roll with it, of course, of course, into the pins for a strike and you win and it's bittersweet like the blood dripping from your broken teeth, like a coral reef, of course, of course, of course. I'm out. Peace.
[Musical Interlude...]
Scatological catalog of all the things that can go wrong in the bathroom of a friend. When your face turns purply-red. Methodological indexes of everything puerile and quaintly vile like a well-timed fart. Poop and Dick jokes are an art!
[Musical Interlude...]
You do what you gotta do, who you gotta do it to. You do what you gotta do, who you gotta do it to. I'm good, I'm great, I'm grade A. I...Am...Hubris. I'm good, I'm great, I'm grade A. I...Am...Hubris. I do what I wanna do, who I wanna do it to, I'm vain and I am arrogant, I'm unpleasant and I'm lust-filled too. I'm vain and I am arrogant, I'm unpleasant and I'm lust-filled too. I'm good, I'm great, I'm grade A. I...Am...Hubris. I'm good, I'm great, I'm grade A. I...Am...Hubris. I'm going to get kicked in the nuts! (Yeah) I'm going to get kicked in the nuts! (yeah) I..............Am.......Hubrissssssss!............(yeah)
[Musical Interlude...]
Oh the greats how they'd make it with pies in their face. Oh the greats how they made it dangling from giant time faces. Oh the greats how they made it as zany and insane goofball redheads. Oh the greats how they made it as bowl-cut, cue bald and increasingly bald-headed redheads. Oh the greats how they spoke with cigars blowing smoke, how they harped onward ever without having ever had ever to spoke, how they made you laugh, they made you cry, they made you never fear to die, never fear to laugh when others cry, never fear the flesh and each bit of its precious surprise. Oh the greats who've departed our plain dull plane to crash paper mache planes into stained-glass panes, who are now stains on the shirts of the fates. Oh. the. greaaaaaaaattttsssss. (yeah, jazz hands)
Like a hammer to the skull, like a skier driven deep into the softly packed snow, We Know, We Know, Our Role, Our Role. Live a million years, conquer lands and vanquish fears, Our Tears, Our Tears, Advance our careers if we're sincere. If we're sincere, in our veneer......
[Musical Interlude: Dum dum dum dum Dum dum dum dum....]
Slipping on a slick underlit patch of ice (patch of ice), brings us closer to our paradise (paradise), and if we sound out good & extra nice (extra nice), howls of pain absolve us of all vice (of all vice), and when I 'lectrocute 'pon flawed device (flawed device), I see a lite brite imprint of wise sunrise (wise sunrise), with eyes no puppetmaster could devise (could devise), with brittle bones I set off swift surprise (swift surprise), intended to surprise cheese hank'rin' mice (hank'rin' mice), but which instead has found my fingers will suffice (will suffice), my every step I trip my spirits rise (spirits rise), with every laugh I shatter morbid lies (morbid lies), like glass tables struck too hard by tumbling metal dice. Within our skin we pinch our soul within a vice within our flesh we pin our hearts and minds to a sense of safety and propriety our comedy denies.
[Musical Interlude...]
These are facts jacks, pure and simple like my dimple, stick with your swung cats, stick with a gasp of air your slaps and fall your prats, roll with the punches and punch like your rolling a flowing aero-dynamic going bowling ball with all of all of your contrived and contorted force, of course, you flow and you roll with it, of course, of course, into the pins for a strike and you win and it's bittersweet like the blood dripping from your broken teeth, like a coral reef, of course, of course, of course. I'm out. Peace.
[Musical Interlude...]
Scatological catalog of all the things that can go wrong in the bathroom of a friend. When your face turns purply-red. Methodological indexes of everything puerile and quaintly vile like a well-timed fart. Poop and Dick jokes are an art!
[Musical Interlude...]
You do what you gotta do, who you gotta do it to. You do what you gotta do, who you gotta do it to. I'm good, I'm great, I'm grade A. I...Am...Hubris. I'm good, I'm great, I'm grade A. I...Am...Hubris. I do what I wanna do, who I wanna do it to, I'm vain and I am arrogant, I'm unpleasant and I'm lust-filled too. I'm vain and I am arrogant, I'm unpleasant and I'm lust-filled too. I'm good, I'm great, I'm grade A. I...Am...Hubris. I'm good, I'm great, I'm grade A. I...Am...Hubris. I'm going to get kicked in the nuts! (Yeah) I'm going to get kicked in the nuts! (yeah) I..............Am.......Hubrissssssss!............(yeah)
[Musical Interlude...]
Oh the greats how they'd make it with pies in their face. Oh the greats how they made it dangling from giant time faces. Oh the greats how they made it as zany and insane goofball redheads. Oh the greats how they made it as bowl-cut, cue bald and increasingly bald-headed redheads. Oh the greats how they spoke with cigars blowing smoke, how they harped onward ever without having ever had ever to spoke, how they made you laugh, they made you cry, they made you never fear to die, never fear to laugh when others cry, never fear the flesh and each bit of its precious surprise. Oh the greats who've departed our plain dull plane to crash paper mache planes into stained-glass panes, who are now stains on the shirts of the fates. Oh. the. greaaaaaaaattttsssss. (yeah, jazz hands)
Sunday, January 24, 2010
The Jokes, section 5: I Don't Know What You Want, Tell Me
After that nose-be-gin-blossomed clown kicked him out the aged man pulled himself up by his boot straps, acknowledging the physical impracticality but harboring no fear of the impossible. Years he spent smashing his craft against every barrier that stood in his way until there was but one barrier left, the one separating him from the big time. Now, kicked out by a clown, pulled up by himself and proverbial bootstraps, the aged man stands tall. He has no idea where to go. If all is well in this world the clown will die an inebriated death in his own sick. But that may be too much to hope for. He stands for some hours, staring down the door. He remembers this door from many decades before when he'd been on a comedy tour which for him amounted to little more than pageboy chores. He was the runt of the comedy group, an apprentice who'd made a name for himself in smallhand in the margins of the real stars' signatures. His act consisted of knock knock jokes told slanted. This was the avante garde back then and he was doing things leagues ahead of his supposed mentors. Never before or since has he been so little understood.
Knock Knock! Who's There? Second Base!
In his later years he mellowed out. He lost his nerve some might say if anyone knew who he was or were familiar enough with the turns his comedic career was taking to say something to that effect.
Knock Knock! Who's There? Who's There? Knock! Knock!
But looking at this door he still sees snow packed along the sides of the step and still feels slush seeping into his torn and worn out loafers. If he leans forward and stares at the door close enough he thinks he can see his initials carved into the paint, but of course that was several hundred coats of paint ago.
Knock Knock! Who's There? Orange! Orange who? Orange you glad I didn't say pornography ::whirro whirro whirro::
And then he feels the door and then he hears steps behind him. "Yoodley Hoo" goes a familiar voice. It was on their tour that he opened all those years before. They've followed him? "Hey, fruitfly, make like a student and stop being stupid. And maybe, hey why not, get out of our way maybe?"
Knock Knock! Who's There? Orange! Orange who? Orange! Orange Orange who? Orange! orange orange orange....
Everyone died off, he thought. Did, did they have the same gift as him? He'd always felt so alone all those years. In his later years, after the mellowing, after the sobering, after finding faith in the everyday he hosted a radio show, a local show on KNCP in Tucson, Arizona. He found his voice, his calling, and his love all in one day. He married the kindest, most wonderful world in all of Arizona. She was his treasure every second of everyday until the day she died. Already his radio career was dying. His fans forgot about him. All the kids who grew up with him fled. His whimsy was increasingly wasted on pot-addled teens and hipster college kids. He retired at the age of 75. It was a different world. Busier but so empty. So much disconnection. And everyone he knew and cared for dead. He began sleeping for weeks at a time. Months. Before he knew it he was over 179 years old. God had granted him an infinity. But now it was coming to a close. And he wasn't going to experience the end of the world alone. Davey Ratchko and Alfred Beechum Ritter, the Dirtbag Duo.
Orange! Knock Knock! Knock Knock who? Knock Knock I didn't say bananana??
The Dirtbags hated him so thoroughly that he didn't even mind when they knocked him off his feet with their canes, each to a turn. They always make it look so easy, striding into a studio like they own the joint. Oh, and they were heavy pot smokers back before cocaine became the comedic drug of choice. The aged man sighs, wonders how God's grace can be so capricious. The Dirtbags are blessed with eternal life, living to experience the rapture while his wife died childless and distant, disease coarsing through her flesh and bones like locusts. They have time to enjoy the pleasure of the act even after he's been branded a bum and tossed to the cold. To the snow hardened spring time of his own fading emmories. He circles the building over and over. He counts his strides, he counts his complete revolutions. He coughts the number of times his wife laughed at his jokes. He remembers fewer and fewer laughs the older he lives. His days on the radio, making life exciting for kids and adults alike with some gags, some guests, puppets and music. His knack, his gift. He hardly remembers any of it now. Time is fading. He continues to circle the studio, knowing of no where else to go. And then he remembers his favorite joke.
Knock Knock! Who's There? Delores. Delores who? Delores my shephard I shall not want. He maketh me....He maketh me lie down.....He....Whooo boy (thump)
TO BE CONTINUED...
Knock Knock! Who's There? Second Base!
In his later years he mellowed out. He lost his nerve some might say if anyone knew who he was or were familiar enough with the turns his comedic career was taking to say something to that effect.
Knock Knock! Who's There? Who's There? Knock! Knock!
But looking at this door he still sees snow packed along the sides of the step and still feels slush seeping into his torn and worn out loafers. If he leans forward and stares at the door close enough he thinks he can see his initials carved into the paint, but of course that was several hundred coats of paint ago.
Knock Knock! Who's There? Orange! Orange who? Orange you glad I didn't say pornography ::whirro whirro whirro::
And then he feels the door and then he hears steps behind him. "Yoodley Hoo" goes a familiar voice. It was on their tour that he opened all those years before. They've followed him? "Hey, fruitfly, make like a student and stop being stupid. And maybe, hey why not, get out of our way maybe?"
Knock Knock! Who's There? Orange! Orange who? Orange! Orange Orange who? Orange! orange orange orange....
Everyone died off, he thought. Did, did they have the same gift as him? He'd always felt so alone all those years. In his later years, after the mellowing, after the sobering, after finding faith in the everyday he hosted a radio show, a local show on KNCP in Tucson, Arizona. He found his voice, his calling, and his love all in one day. He married the kindest, most wonderful world in all of Arizona. She was his treasure every second of everyday until the day she died. Already his radio career was dying. His fans forgot about him. All the kids who grew up with him fled. His whimsy was increasingly wasted on pot-addled teens and hipster college kids. He retired at the age of 75. It was a different world. Busier but so empty. So much disconnection. And everyone he knew and cared for dead. He began sleeping for weeks at a time. Months. Before he knew it he was over 179 years old. God had granted him an infinity. But now it was coming to a close. And he wasn't going to experience the end of the world alone. Davey Ratchko and Alfred Beechum Ritter, the Dirtbag Duo.
Orange! Knock Knock! Knock Knock who? Knock Knock I didn't say bananana??
The Dirtbags hated him so thoroughly that he didn't even mind when they knocked him off his feet with their canes, each to a turn. They always make it look so easy, striding into a studio like they own the joint. Oh, and they were heavy pot smokers back before cocaine became the comedic drug of choice. The aged man sighs, wonders how God's grace can be so capricious. The Dirtbags are blessed with eternal life, living to experience the rapture while his wife died childless and distant, disease coarsing through her flesh and bones like locusts. They have time to enjoy the pleasure of the act even after he's been branded a bum and tossed to the cold. To the snow hardened spring time of his own fading emmories. He circles the building over and over. He counts his strides, he counts his complete revolutions. He coughts the number of times his wife laughed at his jokes. He remembers fewer and fewer laughs the older he lives. His days on the radio, making life exciting for kids and adults alike with some gags, some guests, puppets and music. His knack, his gift. He hardly remembers any of it now. Time is fading. He continues to circle the studio, knowing of no where else to go. And then he remembers his favorite joke.
Knock Knock! Who's There? Delores. Delores who? Delores my shephard I shall not want. He maketh me....He maketh me lie down.....He....Whooo boy (thump)
TO BE CONTINUED...
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