V. PUTIN, IN SPORTS BRA, ENVISIONS WAR.

V. Putin fastens a Cold War, Soviet-style sports bra: straps like umbrella handles, indifferent material akin to upholstery, a clasp that pinches his upper excess as would an inebriated toothless granny. Yet the bra—and the leader—exude the kind of sturdy defiance one might expect from the products of a durable if blundering empire. The sports bra, however abrasive to his Caucasian epidermis, holds; the contraption creates a bloc; the bloc holds. Once supported, V. Putin can dress in formal attire, a rose pinned to his lapel. Not far away, a catering staff prowls around the diplomatic affair, offering small pours of spritzers. The catering staff offers small bites of salty cakes. “Wired”, notes an American spy, “every living soul electric.” The American spy thinks of the difference between “W” and “V”, the difference, in English, between Wladimir and Vladimir. In glides V. Putin. He crouches. Judo rises into his eyes; he performs virtual parries and slips; he takes virtual advantage of the momentum he perceives about the assembly: a pair of ladies drifting in glittery gowns. His expression crosses from feline hungry to feline kill, crosses back to feline hungry. V. Putin slides invisible armies across the great steppes of his mind, swift columns of vehicles governed by gritty throttles. Every sweet, doomed soldier resembles V. Putin, arriving at a pock-marked destination shaped, in advance, by the shortages of his Second World imagination.

Too serious? Prefer animal-themed photo essay? Click on Fred the Dawg Cheers-up the Blogger.

PHOTO ESSAY: FRED THE DAWG CHEERS-UP THE BLOGGER.

Fred is named for Fred Couples, the golfer, although Fred is a female dawg. How many dawgs are named after golfiz? I don’t know her handicap. Fred may be a Rhodesian Ridgeback. If so, she’s probably a runt. It’s possible that she’s not a ridgeback, and not a runt, but instead, a red-brown dawg. Fred is a good dawg. She’s affectionate and she likes writiz. She also likes the friends of writiz. Fred used to drink a little stout. I’m encouraging Fred’s parents / owniz to allow her a smidgen of stout now and again. We’ll see how that goes. Fred runs very, very fast. It ain’t nobody around who could outrun Fred. You may think you can but you can’t. Unlike most dogs, Fred is a country-city dawg. I’ve known Fred in the city, and I’ve known Fred in the country, and the deal is: she’s basically the same dawg in both locales. Sometimes she doesn’t know who I am in the country. There, I’m just the dude who slept in the basement, but even then, she allows me some basic latitude. These pictures were taken in the city. It ain’t such a cruel city, after all, despite what you read in the papiz. See how the dawg cheers the blogger. It ain’t no little cheer, either. That’s big-time cheer. Thanks, Fred. 

Too furry? Prefer incisive journalism on controversial leader? Click on V. Putin, in Sports Bra, Envisions War

RIMBAUD: FIRST BLOOD.

Yo, Verlaine! That poem sucks!

Sylvester Stallone stars as Rambo in Rimbaud: Première Sang, an action-adventure film in which a young French poet escapes persecution by literary critics and avenges this persecution with surreal verse. “Yo, Verlaine!” says Stallone as Rambo as Rimbaud. “They drew first blood, not me!” Verlaine, played by Bruce Willis, sits in a hovel with Rambo as Rimbaud, having helped Rimbaud elude water cannon and the poetry cannon. On the one hand, Willis plays Verlaine, but on the other hand, Stallone plays Rambo playing Rimbaud. The production crew can’t automatically compute where Stallone ends and where Rambo begins, where Rambo ends and Rimbaud begins. One scene, a bro-mance entitled “Ram-bro”, calls for a passionate fist-bump between Rambo as Rimbaud and Willis as Verlaine. Afterwards, Stallone and Willis compare their future engagements. Willis will appear as a Jewish wine merchant, in a TV series entitled Chico and the Manischewitz. Stallone will appear on a rival network—as a fellow who suffers from gynecomastia—in Chico and the Man Boobs. “Yo, Verlaine!” cries Stallone as Rambo as Rimbaud, but the camera shows the viewer that Willis has departed. Rambo as Rimbaud holds a battered sheet of onionskin to his face. The camera shows a dirty, sweaty, camouflaged man reading verse. He is Rambo one minute, he is Rimbaud another minute, he is a real laughing hiatus. 

PAUSE. (ELEGY FOR BLOOD AND GUTSTEIN.)

Recent “now” stats reveal

a few hourly search trends

No impediments, on the last day of your life. The streetcar doesn’t idle at its signal, on the last day of your life. The rain doesn’t slant hard enough to slush your sandals, on the last day of your life. Nowhere does the sidewalk produce a reflection, on the last day of your life. Nowhere do the numerals above doors duplicate the year of your birth, on the last day of your life. Engines howl behind clouds, on the last day of your life. Engines buzz all about you—wet, thirsty, hoarse, reluctant—on the last day of your life. No impediments, on the last day of your life. Lights at eye level, lights above, lights failing, on the last day of your life. People in threes, on the last day of your life. The beige heavy stones of old downtown buildings, on the last day of your life. To the south, not visible, the systolic beat of the river, on the last day of your life. The space between an impulse and a correction, on the last day of your life. The twinge of a tendon.

EARLY MORNING ARRIVAL OF PASSENGERS WITH BANANA REFLECTION IN WINDOW.

Cast:
Arriving Passengers
Woman with Banana 

Director:
Dan Gutstein

Running Time:
1 minute, 25 seconds

Advance Praise:
“A ghostly breakfast, and yet, oddly sensuous!” --Groovie Movie
“Gutstein deftly, deftly gives us a meal in a peel!” --Film Flam
“The somber footfalls of the proletariat like never before!” --Cinema Minima
“As if Lady Liberty welcomed the early shift . . . with a banana.” --Slick Flick
“Gutstein offers us — fiber — in this latest effort.” --Documentary Daily

Vegetation Statement:
An herbaceous flowering berry was eaten during the course of this movie.

Thanks To:
Everyone I know.
My phone.
Trains.
Hunger.
Commuters!

UNDER ARMOIRE.

I’ve got so many athletic commitments—such as clubbing and jumbo slice—that I’ve accumulated numerous pieces of athletic underwear to the tune of closet-busting. You might imagine boxer-jocks dangling importantly from marquee hangers amid my notable suite of salmon-tint Casual Day home kits. So I upped the antechamber. For all my Under Armour, I bought an Under Armoire. Do you know about this? It has room for sporty sock, sporty pant, sporty tote, sporty sideways cap. (I store my sporty cap sideways, in any event, to get it broken in-for athletic commitments such as clubbing and jumbo slice.) I thought it would end there, and by “it” I mean the accumulation of athletic underwear, and by “there”, I mean my Under Armoire, but Nö, I begin to desire greater domination, the way Under Armour conquered the body, one garment at a time. I would like to own an Under Armoured Car and travel the Land Down Under Armour, not to mention purchase shares in the corporate merger that will certainly produce Under Armour & Hammer. I could see this getting way outta hand. If I max my credit cards, what then? Must I appear in Debtors Court? Will my wages get garnished? Will they hand me my money with a sprig of parsley? All because of my insatiable requirement to fill my drawers—with drawers!

BOEING THERE.

Imagine Peter Sellers as a dim-witted captain in Boeing There, a movie wherein his character, Chauncey Pilot, unintentionally predicts the course of the economy through the application of flight terminology. Chauncey Pilot doesn’t anticipate that his choice phrases—“taxiing for takeoff”—“climbing into the sky”—“cruising at 500 miles per hour”—will embolden markets overnight. At the same time, this unassuming simpleton receives invitations to chuck out the first pitch at the ALCS, appear with Sully Sullenberger in a PSA concerning the dangers of incomplete astrophysics homework, and select the crucial ping pong ball for the nine-figure lotto drawing. A door opens. Another door opens. Hillary Clinton welcomes Chauncey Pilot into her dwellings for a private chat about who she, the presumptive nominee, should choose to occupy the two-spot on the ticket. (If not him.) An heiress played by Shirley MacLaine later invites the chaste captain to bed but Chauncey declares his preference to catch up on Lifetime reruns instead, forcing the seductress to pleasure herself. MacLaine’s turbulent body nevertheless captures Chauncey Pilot’s attention, reminding him of a chaotic Attitude Indicator on an airplane struggling to level itself during a crisis. He thinks about crisis, about the dark side of his profession: not only the possibility for accidents, but lost luggage, lengthy layovers, and fees for seat selection. In every ascent, he thinks, there follows a descent, and for every acceleration, he thinks, there follows a slowdown, and beyond that, even, a period of idleness. We, the viewers, realize that our way of life rides the cosine waves of Chauncey Pilot’s thinking. If he should he say “accident”—“lost”—“idleness”—“fees” then the economy might darken in correspondence with these terms. Fortunately for us, it’s Peter Sellers acting through these tribulations, what with his slightness of grins. If only the menacing machinery of the real gullible world would admit such a king.