BLOOD AND GUTSTEIN

THREE WAYS TO REBUILD THE AMERICAN ECONOMY IN A HURRY.

2012-01-10T14:32:00.000-08:00

Shall we avoid discrepancy & saddening silhouette.

I remind myself on occasion of my dormant bachelor's degree in economics, one that led me to work for the now-defunct and internationally disgraced Arthur Andersen & Co. for two years before I traded that dismal firm for A Life of Adventure. As I continue, perhaps I need to offer a brief disclaimer -- being: I am not a practicing economist, currently -- or perhaps you will count that circumstance in my favor. The country requires a few serious jolts, starting with this: (1) Green Manufacturing. Let's imagine, for a minute, that the ailing economy stabilizes and improves. The unemployment rate, presumably, would drop, but what would that mean? Mitt Romney likes to promise workers in Michigan that their jobs will return, but will they? Does it feel like the American automotive industry is poised to lead a major economic resurgence, full of well-paying, secure, assembly-line positions? In fact, it feels like America is becoming a nation of warehouses and strip-malls, where wholesale and retail drive our economic fortunes -- hence, the emphasis on consumer spending. Imagine, now, a second recession, one in which some of our retail and some of our wholesale don't survive, never mind our manufacturing, which many economists characterize as being in steep decline. What then? Instead of General Motors trying to be General Motors all over again, General Motors needs to become General Motors & Solar. Not only do we need to build electric cars -- to avoid punishing our environment and reduce our dependence on oil -- but we need to consider how we will produce the electricity that will juice the cars. We need to construct solar panels, and wind turbines, and fuel cells, and biomass facilities, among other going concerns -- and the infrastructure required to store and transmit the electricity we generate. The sun is probably going to shine for much of the next several million years, and last I checked, it was free; unless, of course, Comcast gets a-hold of it, in which case, you'll probably receive the sun on pay-per-view, with dreadful customer service. But I digress. A green energy conversion in this country would lead to a slew of new jobs, both in manufacturing, management, and maintenance. We would probably still mine, burn, and sell coal, and still generate some power through nuke-u-lar, but the green conversion, in principle, and in principal, would create skilled, well-paying jobs, and would tap energy sources, otherwise, for free. (2) A Level Playing Field on Labor Practices. It now appears -- doesn't it? -- that going to college makes little sense for quite a few Americans in their late teens and early twenties. For starters, college is expensive, and must be financed through equally expensive loans, but once a young adult has graduated, and enters the labor market, what kind of job is he or she likely to find? The answer is, in many cases, a job that did not require a college degree, and will not reward the student for taking out such costly loans. But according to many economists, even those jobs have fled the country in great numbers, since they can be sourced (or out-sourced) in countries where labor costs are -- horrifically -- detrimentally -- artificially low. If, for simplicity's sake, a Gadget Job in Country B pays $0.50 per hour, and in effect reinforces a poverty-level subsistence faced by the workers who produce the Gadget, then we should apply a tariff to the Gadget, as it enters port in the U.S., that would effectively render the Gadget at such a price as to make it competitive, were it produced in Country A, as in the U.S. of A. We, at least, offer something known as a minimum wage, and while that ain't much in every case, it's a reasonable law, and we should demand that our trading partners abide by similar practices. If they don't, then we should calculate all the costs that are not being fed into the price of the Gadget, and bill that country for said amounts. Maybe our "Captains of Industry" will therefore recognize an opportunity to produce the Gadget in our fair land, creating the varieties of jobs that might offer an alternative to those young adults who feel that they must, at any cost, attend college; our economy should present those alternatives. (3) National Service. Upon graduation from high school, the vast majority of American youth should serve a two year hitch in national service -- some in the military -- but most in what I'll call "Infrastructure." I don't know what, exactly, all of them would do, except that we need to build, rebuild, and restore quite a bit of our highways, bridges, tunnels, lakes, rivers, wildlife areas, et cetera, but also we may need entry level workers in factories and other settings. (Some cheap workers for our Green Energy Conversion, see #1, above.) "Of all the preposterous things you're saying, Gutstein," someone will think, "this is the most preposterous and expensive!" True, this may be costly, and in terms of financing it, I'm only prepared to say that our big-pocket corporations (and corresponding individuals) have to manage it, and finance it, in its entirety. The results, however, should benefit the very corporations that would be tasked with handling the system. I can't imagine that better highways and cheaper energy sources would be detrimental to the bottom lines of these corporations, and in any event, our federal, state, and local government agencies are broke, strained, and incapable, and if left up to them, it just won't happen. I would also like to imagine that young Americans could begin to have a valuable, shared experience in the rebuilding of their own republic, but let me not glow too roseate in my optimistic oratory. Okay? And that's all. Sure, there are other serious issues that trouble us Americans, but these three activities, in my estimation, would set the country toward an enthusiastic course, not seen, perhaps, since the exhilaration of V-E and V-J days in the 1940s. Leadership would have to come first. Someone who could unite the legislators of both major political parties, and also convince everyday Americans that we would all be entering a period of austerity and sacrifice. "Now's the time!" shouts Martin Scorcese before his character blams away at Johnny Boy (Robert DeNiro) in Mean Streets, and that's about right, except for, you know, all the gunfire and violence.

WE MUST, AS A SOCIETY REËXAMINE.

2011-12-01T08:20:00.000-08:00

In a perfect world, it would dispense STOUT.

We must, as a society, reëxamine “Prophecy” if it should prefigure, No. 1, chronic wandering, and if, No. 2, to alleviate chronic wandering, the wanderer must arrive to the interior of a land where no man salts his meat, for there is such a land, and that land is Hypertension, but instead, what if the wanderer, owing to Prophecy, must drift about, oar slung across the sinew, and knot, and leather of his dorsum, until he discovers a land where no man beats his meat? Now that would be a journey. Should a street tough assault you with a dark red legume then he would be giving you “the beet down.” Did Beethoven compose “Fur Elise” during a confusing period of rental instability, and really meant to entitle his movement “Fur Lease”—or maybe he meant to offer pelts and foxpieces on layaway or through other creative financing? Whale = Whale, agreed, whereas Whales = Welsh, am I right? What the hell is the state jackrabbit, again? In the fourth book of the bible, Numbers, god administers to the Israelites a series of mathematics examinations, and it’s no wonder they dwelt in the house of the desert for forty years; you didn’t fail, exactly, but were smitten (with dyspepsia) (with Pepsi) (with Pepcid) (with pep rallies). I will dress for All Hollows Eve as a Hollows. I will dress for All Hollows Eve as a Guile Bladder or a Blind Boulder Test. The Eskimos, on the other hand, have 100 names for the Federal Debt, and for Obesity, and for Little Debbie Snack Cakes, as well. We may begin to suffer double dip influenza on account of double dip recession. One man, one half of a murderous duo, opted to don tights in prison, and so the esteemed duo were later known as Leotard & Loeb, even Neotard & Loeb after one in the duo adhered to progressive politics. Different haircuts will nowadays necessitate different shampoos; we will require pumice and petroleum shale to cleanse a mohawk. If we are serious about reducing the size of government, then we should send it, at long last, to a shrink.

THEY DON'T LET YOU LIVE (ALT. TAKE)

2011-11-18T12:27:00.000-08:00

Rare footage has been discovered in the basement of my iPhone

Previously unreleased rendition, in which Pops holds forth on many of the same issues that squander his peace of mind. Rated PG (Parents Strongly Cautioned.) He would probably like to occupy the going concerns & people who don't let you live.

FULLER & ROBINSON @ MICA WRITING STUDIO, WEDS., NOVEMBER 16TH, 5:00 p.m., in BALTIMORE

2011-11-14T06:47:00.000-08:00

Join us Wednesday, November 16th, at 5:00 p.m., for LitLive at Maryland Institute College of Art, featuring poetry readings by Heather Fuller and Adam Robinson.

Heather Fuller is the author of perhaps this is a rescue fantasy, Dovecote, Startle Response, and other collections. Click here for more on Heather.

Adam Robinson is the author of Adam Robison and Other Poems, founder of Publishing Genius Press, and a member of one or more bands. Click here for more on Adam.

LitLive is a new literary reading series at MICA, with events held in the Writing Studio, Bunting Center, 1401 Mt. Royal Avenue, 4th Floor, Room 452. The series spotlights Baltimore & Washington, D.C. writers and is hosted by Dan Gutstein. All readings are free and open to the public.

Basic Directions / Parking: The Bunting Center can be found at the corner of West Lafayette Avenue and West Mt. Royal Avenue in Baltimore, and is one of three buildings at the center of MICA's campus. Exits 5, 6, or 7A from I-83. Light Rail to University of Baltimore/Mt. Royal (walk north on Mt. Royal). MARC Rail to Penn Station (Take W. Oliver St. to Mt. Royal, turn right). Garage parking at The Fitzgerald on Oliver Street between Maryland and Mt. Royal. Street parking on or around Mt. Royal.

We hope to see you at the Writing Studio.

KIMBALL & SIROIS @ MICA WRITING STUDIO, OCT. 13TH, 5:00 p.m., in BALTIMORE

2011-10-05T06:42:00.000-07:00

Join us Thursday, October 13th, at 5:00 p.m., for LitLive at Maryland Institute College of Art, featuring fiction readings by Michael Kimball and Justin Sirois.

Michael Kimball is the author of four books, including Dear Everybody and Us. His work has been on NPR’s All Things Considered, and has appeared in The Guardian, Bomb, and New York Tyrant. He is also responsible for Michael Kimball Writes Your Life Story (on a postcard), a couple of documentaries, and the 510 Readings. His novel Big Ray will be published in Fall 2012.

Justin Sirois is the author of Secondary Sound and MLKNG SCKLS; Falcons on the Floor (written with Haneen Alshujairy) is forthcoming in 2012. He also runs the Understanding Campaign with Haneen and co-directs Narrow House. Justin received individual Maryland State Art Council grants in 2003, 2007, 2010, and 2011 and a Baker "b" grant in 2010.

LitLive is a new literary reading series at MICA, with events held in the Writing Studio, Bunting Center, 1401 Mt. Royal Avenue, 4th Floor, Room 452. The series spotlights Baltimore & Washington, D.C. writers and is hosted by Dan Gutstein. All readings are free and open to the public.

Basic Directions / Parking: The Bunting Center can be found at the corner of West Lafayette Avenue and West Mt. Royal Avenue in Baltimore, and is one of three buildings at the center of MICA's campus. Exits 5, 6, or 7A from I-83. Light Rail to University of Baltimore/Mt. Royal (walk north on Mt. Royal). MARC Rail to Penn Station (Take W. Oliver St. to Mt. Royal, turn right). Garage parking at The Fitzgerald on Oliver Street between Maryland and Mt. Royal. Street parking on or around Mt. Royal.

We hope to see you at the Writing Studio.

THEY DON'T LET YOU LIVE.

2011-09-18T07:56:00.000-07:00

A little Q & A with my Pop.

As my dad is recovering once again from surgery (and doing well) I thought it might be fitting to post this short clip of him responding (pre-operation) to a typical list of stressors. His refrain works out to be the "cri de coeur" of the retiree, as all the man seeks is a little peace and quiet. But no -- that's not possible -- and I'll let my pop explain why.

ADVENTURES IN PERSONAL PURITY SCORE.

2011-07-06T12:35:00.000-07:00

Not even Ivory Soap is pure.

I was eating lunch with a couple friends recently when the topic of coffee drinks came up, and one person said, "Well, I went to Starbucks the other day -- I don't usually go there, but someone gave me a gift card, you see," and doo da dippity, she went on to describe a brewed beverage, but along the way, attempted to address what I'll call her "Personal Purity Score" by disavowing any particular affection for Starbucks, a going concern that is also synonymous with "big impersonal national chain that has helped kick the little guy (who must've had character) to the curb." She said, in effect, that someone else created the circumstances under which she actually patronized the joint, and as such, attempted to safeguard our opinion of her. Some people will stick up for Starbucks, noting that the coffee's not bad, and the company isn't either, and besides, there are worse examples of corporate misbehavior in this world (see: Walmart, BP, Haliburton, etc.) This raises a question that many of us consider -- subconsciously, perhaps -- every day: How pure is our behavior as consumers, for starters, but also in other arenas as well: In relationships, with political choices, as regards to the arts (bands, literature, etc.) we prefer, and with respect to the very food we eat, the very drink we imbibe? Would one increase his Personal Purity Score by averring his preference for working-class suds like Budweiser, as opposed to some pricey, fruity Belgian import? Would one increase his PPS by listening to jazz on vinyl as opposed to compact disc or MP3? You may not like the Tea Party movement, but the central plank in its platform -- nay, its only plank -- concerns the various facets of fiscal stewardship, making the movement, arguably, more understandable or accessible, for example, than the Democrats; thus, the Tea Party crowd, in its own way, may be more pure, since it may be more obvious (regardless of political bend) in its focus, as opposed to the bloated, muddled, flip-floppy major parties. Or take the social construct of marriages, half of which in this country seem to fail. Groom and bride make a bunch of promises that may otherwise contradict the essential character of the human animal whereas if they had never married, they may never have contradicted themselves in the first place. What is your carbon footprint? Is vegetarianism better for the world than being a carnivore? Do you -- really -- recycle? Ah, the list could go on and on. Raising another question: Can Personal Purity be attained? Is anyone pure? And if you or I cannot attain a high PPS, i.e., we may be beholden to circumstances that we cannot control, then what's the use of trying? Many years ago, I came across some kind of PETA catalogue and I swear they were advertising a really little ladder that one would install in his bathroom -- to help -- a spider -- climb out -- of the -- bathtub. If you don't own this ladder, and are not helping a spider to escape from your tub, then is your PPS slipping? After all, the average American will swallow, in her sleep, a certain number of aimless, wandering spiders every year, and if she isn't installing a little ladder in her mouth, to help the critters survive, is she taking the purest steps she could take? A chunk of this is relative to the individual, obviously, but nevertheless, if you don't condemn conservative politics, if you gab on a cell phone as opposed to a land line, if you masquerade as an avant garde poet and/or a "Marxist", if you purchase products from Pfizer, if you waste toilet paper on casual spills, if you are "fashionable" -- Ladies and Gents -- the Big Question looms: Are You Pure? (Do you lose PPS for declaring your relative purity?) You may have a big heart, but when the time comes to meet your Maker, he or she may point out that you didn't exactly stick to the tenets of your faith. Or is religious devotion versus, say, cultural devotion, an impurity? Your conclusion may be that, like Ivory Soap, 100 percent purity cannot be attained, but we should all be striving, nevertheless. What's a good threshhold, then: 75 percent? 60 percent? 45 percent or less? I may be wrong, but the bar seems rather low, these days. Are there certain basic purities that we should all be demonstrating in our daily lives? Have we forgotten? Have we lost our way? Surely, in the grand scheme of Our Modern World, and the way we suffer Our Various Indignities, it hardly costs my friend very much PPS to have taken her gift card to Starbucks, am I right? I ask you.

THE GREATEST POET, PAUL CELAN

2011-03-24T09:15:00.000-07:00

“De voi depinde.”

Before Paul Antschel adopted the name Paul Celan, he lost his parents to Nazi deportations and was, himself, a captive laborer in the Old Kingdom (of Romania) until 1944, when the Red Army, self-sprung from Wehrmacht encirclements, pressed into the region. He spoke Romanian and German as a child, acquired Russian during two Soviet occupations, and later mastered French, after settling in France, and marrying an artist. His earliest poems, to my knowledge, were published in Romanian, but the bulk of his works, including his most famous poems, appeared in German: the piece “Todesfuge”, or “Death Fugue”, for example, published in 1948, may be most-cited, and is a stark reminder that Jews, under the Nazi regime, suffered a series of well-orchestrated reductions until the tattered remnants, in the poem, are whistled out as a pack of dogs, by a camp commander who forces them to dig a grave “in den Lüften”, in the wind. Later poems grew clipped and cryptic, perhaps as the poet attempted to corrupt or reinvent the German tongue; he also succumbed to mania and despair. A few years before his death, Celan wrote “Todtnauberg”, a piece that commemorated his meeting with the philosopher (and former Nazi) Martin Heidegger, on the German’s rural property. In this poem, he hoped “for a thinker’s / word / to come, / in the heart,” (of his host, Heidegger) but the twin evils of Nazi genocide and postwar indifference must have been costly to Celan’s wellbeing. Heidegger was said to remark upon the man’s erratic behavior a couple years later, “Celan ist Krank—heillos,” sick with an incurable disease. The poet threw himself into the Seine in 1970, drowning, leaving behind his wife and child. Maybe this deterioration, resulting in suicide, can be traced through Celan’s verse. Small, introspective weights such as “De voi depinde” (it’s up to you), from the Romanian poems, build into greater acknowledgments of darkness and burden. An excerpt, “Die Welt ist fort, ich muß dich tragen” (the world is lost, I must carry you), from a 1967 collection, Atemwende, may additionally refer to the biblical dilemma faced by Abraham, when called upon to sacrifice his son, Isaac, even as the reader may conjure the poet’s mother, instead, lost to a bullet from an Einsatzgruppen rifle. Later, Celan would write, “Vertag dich nicht, du,” or “Don’t adjourn yourself, you.” Paul Celan’s titles, in the collections that followed Atemwende, include Fadensonen, for Thread-suns; Lichtzwang, for Light-strength; and Schneepart, for Snow-part. The titles, in translation, approximate spectra, sensory fusion, meters that compute natural units. The word, Atemwende, itself, which translates to “Breath-turn”, nourishes many Celan aficionados, who cherish the sense of exhilaration that accompanies the genesis of poetry. Call it exhilaration or corporeal necessity, but the “bloodblack” edges throughout Schneepart, for instance, are tempered by a “magnolia-houred halfclock” that keeps unorthodox time as the speaker promises, “I’m wintering over to you.” Perhaps my reverence for Celan’s writings (poetry, prose, translations, letters) springs, in some small way, from my own (inept) Jewish militancy, misplaced angers over the loss of mother’s-side family members to the Shoah, Holocaust, or what Celan termed, “that which happened.” Celan concluded a poem, written to his wife in French, on the occasion of her birthday, by reflecting upon his hand, how it drew “l’un, l’unique / cercle”, the one, the only circle. They were, apparently, living apart, but very much in love, and yet, a short while later, Celan would take his own life, rounding-out an anguished, solitary circumference. Reading and re-reading is a circle of its own, and in so doing, fulfills a poignant request: “Trink aus meinem Mund”, the poet wrote, drink from my mouth——this wisdom——and I do.

TWENTY WORKS OF AMERICAN POETRY (+ 5) THAT YOU MUST READ BEFORE YOU CAN HAVE A CONVERSATION WITH ME ABOUT POETRY (written between 1820 - 1980).

2011-02-17T07:16:00.000-08:00

One of the cornerstones.

A friend and I constructed a first draft of this list as a means of passing time, when returning from the MLA Conference in Los Angeles, more than a month ago. We originally called it "The Twenty Most Important Works of American Poetry (+5)" and I posted it as a 'note' on Facebook, in order to elicit some (heated) criticism. It was also (hotly) debated at DC Poetry Happy Hours (at The Reef) and via several (volcanic) email exchanges with people who reside without the District. Good points were made about (1) some of the works (i.e., we had foolishly listed the wrong collection for T.S. Eliot) and about (2) the title -- that, in the end, we could not necessarily be arbiters of "most important", since "importance" means different things to different people, but instead could put forward the list as a set of "relevant guideposts" for anyone who might wish to comment on the broad sweep of American poetry. Perhaps we were thinking as teachers; perhaps, we reasoned, these works should be read by students of ours who aspire to study American poetry or enter the "po' bidness" themselves. The list is not perfect, and I welcome a continuation of commentary and (broasted) debate. Please remember that we chose "works" as opposed to poets, but that said, the major poets do, more or less, seem to be here, on this list. Without further ado, and in A-B-C order, the relevant 'Mericans is:

John Ashbery // SELF PORTRAIT IN A CONVEX MIRROR (1975)

Amiri Baraka // PREFACE TO A TWENTY VOLUME SUICIDE NOTE (1961)

Ted Berrigan // THE SONNETS (1964)

Robert Creeley // FOR LOVE (1962)

Emily Dickinson // COLLECTED POEMS (written ca. 1858 until ca. 1886?; first collected 1955)

T.S. Eliot // THE WASTE LAND (1922)

Robert Frost // NORTH OF BOSTON (1914)

Allen Ginsberg // HOWL AND OTHER POEMS (1956)

Lyn Hejinian // MY LIFE (1980)

Langston Hughes // MONTAGE OF A DREAM DEFERRED (1951)

The Last Poets // THE LAST POETS (recording, 1970)

Frank O'Hara // LUNCH POEMS (1964)

George Oppen // OF BEING NUMEROUS (1968)

Sylvia Plath // ARIEL (1965)

Edgar Allen Poe // COMPLETE POEMS (written between 1827 and his death? 1849?)

Ezra Pound // THE CANTOS (1917-1969, unfinished)

Gertrude Stein // TENDER BUTTONS (1914)

Wallace Stevens // IDEAS OF ORDER (1936)

Walt Whitman // LEAVES OF GRASS (1855)

William Carlos Williams // SPRING AND ALL (1923)

(+ 5)

H.D. // TRILOGY (1946)

Jack Kerouac // MEXICO CITY BLUES (1959)

Lorine Niedecker // LORINE NIEDECKER: COLLECTED WORKS (Written before 1970; published 2002)

Charles Olson // THE MAXIMUS POEMS (written 1940s to 1970; unfinished; first published 1983.)

Jack Spicer // THE COLLECTED POETRY OF JACK SPICER (Published 2008.)

THE MULTIPARTY SYSTEM.

2010-12-17T07:20:00.000-08:00

A film that redefines American political calculus

despite a muddled, overworn plea at the curtain

A major American political party can be, by one definition, a multiparty system unto itself. This is most evident in primary elections, when candidates vie for their party's "core constituencies" -- and officials adjust the party's platform, striving for a palatable structure that will house as many sub-groups as possible. Political pundits will, for instance, describe the Republican party as being comprised of the religious right, the wealthy, big business, fiscal conservatives, moderates, and the burgeoning Tea Party movement, among others, and these groups can threaten to abandon (i.e., fail to support) the coalition if they feel that the purity of their message is being compromised. The Democratic party may contain even more pieces. Every two years, after the government has been assembled, an expert socio-mathematician could attempt to define just how many blocs are in operation. Some governments can be more unified than others, and surprising partnerships can spring-up around certain issues, and a popular president can squander his mandate overnight. All true. In the end, though, if you want to vote for President, or for Senator, or for Representative, with few exceptions, you either have to vote Democrat or Republican; those are your choices: a two party umbrella. The sum of the little parties out there, simply, doesn't amount to much, beyond, for instance, a single seat in Vermont. A new documentary film, Inside Job, concludes, however, that America might have but a single party, when considering one of the most important facets of our society: the management of our vast, complex financial system. Despite the change in administration -- and the promises to the contrary that have accompanied this change -- the same kinds of faces wind up at the helm of Treasury, the Federal Reserve system, the SEC, and so forth; professionals who have been bred, apparently, on the boards or in the speculative environments of massive financial outfits. While Obama was not elected by his own party alone, and owes his presidency, at the very least, to a coalition that also included "swing voters" from other terrain, he was, nevertheless, nominated by a reinvigorated Democratic party which was driven by its fervor to rid the nation of various policies, support them or not, enacted under the presidency of Bush #2. When Democrats and Republicans alike elected candidate Obama, during a period of extreme economic distress, did they vote for him to appoint the same mold of individual appointed by the likes of Reagan, Bush #1, and Bush #2? (All Republicans.) In some cases, Obama appointed or re-appointed the very same people who served in those -- as well as centrist / similar Clinton -- administrations. One could argue that the Republicans who crossed the aisle to vote for Obama were doing so, in short, because they wanted a different kind of leadership, especially with respect to the economy. "Is there no other kind of economic leadership?" one might ask. Are there no other people? To bolster its suggestion that no, there aren't, Inside Job takes its viewers to the halls of academe where, it asserts, many faculty members employed in top-rated business schools and topnotch economics departments also serve or have served on the boards of major financial corporations, and espouse the viewpoint, to students, i.e., future leaders, that deregulation of the financial sector -- a major culprit behind the 2008 meltdown -- is sound policy. The film was, largely, a strong and frightening documentary, yet ended on a weak note. The actor Matt Damon, who served as the film's narrator, tells the audience that Americans should fight for a new kind of government, while the Statue of Liberty luxuriates in its brave stance, having been filmed, presumably, from a helicopter. It was a mixed message, at best: the voice of a wealthy actor imploring an amorphous "us" to buck for change, while an overly familiar, green and rippling French donation poses for a closeup taken from the cargo bay of an expensive, whirling gadget. The inability of the filmmaker to properly close the film unwittingly serves as a metaphor for the nation's political quagmire. The film probably meant to underscore the need for an "independent" but significant third party to arise, one to steer us Americans with the simplicity of good ideas, but it doesn't explore that slant. It doesn't ask whether independent politics are even possible, in the era of our Wall Street governance. Are we stuck, that is, with corrupt financial leadership that seems to -- magically -- reappoint itself?

CARTAGENA DE INDIAS.

2010-10-24T08:35:00.001-07:00

"Panoramica de Cartagena" Enrique Grau

Center panel, triptych, oil on wood (1997-98)

There were at least two homages to the Colombian writer Gabriel Garcia Marquez located in Cartagena's indomitable Museo de Arte Moderno -- the magical elements that can be found in the three-part panorama painted by Enrique Grau (above: glowing religious figure, tumbling pilot, encroaching sheet of rain) and also a painting by Spanish artist Daniel de Campos, "Homenaje a G. Garcia Marquez." The latter, part of a traveling exhibition, Entre las dos orillas, depicts the desk and typewriter of the Nobel laureate, a work-worn, rumpled area that presages the writer's imminent reappearance. While the exhibition's title might translate as "Between the two shores," that is, the Spanish shores of the artist, and the South American shores of the former Spanish colony, it is de Campos' landscapes, in particular, that might recall a Frenchman, Cezanne, in composition and coloring. Cartagena, in its own way, reminds the traveler of other walled cities, the Old City of Acre, for example, in the Middle East, where the tall stone battlements preside over the lapping sea, and in this way, Cartagena, and perhaps Colombia, in general, fulfill de Campos' prediction -- that city and country are moving between many such dualities, if you will, or combinations of 'shores': Old City and towering condominiums; the prevalence of tradition versus oncoming cultural fusion; a period of relative political calm as opposed to recent-enough upheavals involving a vigorous insurgency and narcotics trade. There is more: in October, the lightning flashes offshore and inland, and the rains visit nearly every night -- long, clashing downpours that idle over blocks and neighborhoods, flooding the streets. On Columbus Day, the kids toss firecrackers and slosh through the streets and courtyards, banging a ball between one another in improvised futbol matches. The prescient traveler can purchase a meal of arepas and mango from street vendors then catch the Afro Caribbean dancers or the marching bands, the little girls at the back twisting their cymbals artfully before clattering them together. There are plenty of horse and mule-drawn carts to offset the many busses and tiny Chevy taxicabs, and numerous docile streetdogs roam the tight grid of streets, poking their snouts into garbage bags. Of course, there is more: the traveler can sit in the Iglesia de Santo Domingo, and contemplate the ecumenical weather of its smooth, blue dome. There is also a bone fide sloth to be found hanging out, in a banana tree, at the Palace of the Inquisition. In all, Cartagena is a harmonious place, even in the relatively grittier area of Getsemani, or the sprawling market outside the Old City, but as this blogger (aka Senor Gringo) discovered, one can still make a gruesome finding -- in this case, as part of a side trip, well outside the Old City, in search of more Marquez mythology. To say that one must not stick out his arm, ever, farther than he absolutely needs to, would be a far too facile parry; the finding was a reminder that the forces of brutality are still at work, even as present day Cartagena offers a more panoramic view of tranquility than maybe it had, in recent decades. It has been hundreds of years since swashbuckling Spanish conquistadors slugged inland, through groups of natives spearing them with poison arrows, among other dangers; two hundred years after Napoleon occupied Spain, an act which, in part, precipitated the rebellious figures (Bolivar, et. al.) of New Granada to seek independence from their colonial overlords; and decades since Colombia modernized, in large part due to the coffee economy that other South American, Latin American, and Caribbean nations have, too, enjoyed. The future for Colombia might be brilliant, indeed, and Cartagena once again is the gateway to the Colombian -- and South American -- interior; folks might want to visit before the tourists really dilute the place.

AM PLUTO WATERLY YOURS.

2010-09-07T05:58:00.000-07:00

Louis ... Live ... at the Smith Corona!

Think that one kind of genius is 'trapped' within its own genius? Think again. Louis Armstrong reportedly purchased his first typewriter in Chicago, in the 1920s, and banged out letters on it, as a means of keeping time with loved ones back home in New Orleans. He crafted memoir, over the years, and articles, too -- rendered, at times, in jive, and through a unique system of punctuation which, according to Thomas Brothers, gives the reader clues as to how the musician would apply emphasis. Brothers is editor of Louis Armstrong in His Own Words: Selected Writings (Oxford UP, 2001) and author of a companion book, on W. W. Norton (2007): Louis Armstrong's New Orleans, said by one critic to be the finest book about Armstrong not written by the man himself. Consider the following excerpt from Selected Writings, the first sentence of a letter that Satchmo sent in 1967 to a marine serving in Vietnam: I'd like to 'step in here for a 'Minute or 'so' to "tell you how much--I 'feel to know that 'you are a 'Jazz fan, and 'Dig' 'that 'Jive--the same as 'we 'do, "yeah." Note the appearance of quotation marks (") outside their traditional function as well as the appearance of apostrophes (') at the front of words. Louis also underlines, capitalizes, and employs long dashes at surprising moments. How to pronounce the word "we" as Louis types it: 'we. Emphasis upon / within / to clarify / to reinvent Emphasis. Armstrong's writings instruct us to scan language for variations of stress -- in reverse of traditional English scansion, or on a separate axis entirely. There may be a 'new scansion' that the man himself invented, thus meriting close study by writer-folk and other creationists. If that's not enough, then read the Dipper's letters for his closing phrases. The man was, indeed, fond of his laxatives, and in closing "Swiss Krissly", for example, he endorsed the cleansing of things in the herbal way.

THE DISASTER ECONOMY.

2010-08-11T10:09:00.000-07:00

It's no longer a 'Bump' after all.

If there is such a thing as The Disaster Economy, then there's hope for America yet. For the Disaster means Jobs. What better way to unite our Blown Wells and our Ne'er Do Wells? "Christmas come early" to some is "oily" to others: "Christmas come oily!" indeed. The Bump has become a Dip and the Dip threatens to Outright Mire. A very yellow bird flies by, a Goldfinch. But the old timer -- you know: fanny pack, green-striped tubesocks pulled to the knees -- calls it a "Dickcissel." How you gonna react to that? Tell him he can't say "Dickcissel"? That's ALL he wants to say, is "Dickcissel" -- he says it about every bird, and every academic theory, and every dip in Gross Domestic Product. "Dickcissel!" he shouts. "DICKCISSEL!" The storm brews and the storm's bruise and work's cruise and work crews: there's hope for America yet.

WORST CASE SCENARIO.

2010-07-09T07:40:00.000-07:00

Hope for us all?

If it sleeps two Swedish it can sleep assorted Chosen ou huit chevaux. Which is, basically, Disparities, if not boxcars, but not cuisine. It's a Dug-out if you've Dug, and if you've Dug, you've probably saved your own ass, but either way, it's probably not the Dig-dug pen beside the EconoLodge American Dream, where you may or may not be able to Ambulate, any longer. You may have lost your chance -- to Ambulate. And now for Sport. It is always time for Sport. This has been Sport. And now for Sport. Cuisine should not be confused with Orientalism and it should not be confused with To Do List. There will be Cuisine, in all likelihood, irregardless of procrastination, and at that, please don't elevate your lethargy to some kind of Level. You're just a bum, is all. Anymore have you ever groomed yourself -- combings & pomades, I mean, but not toe jam -- in a way that would obstruct throwback Dissidence? Don't never, not once, don't never obstruct throwback Dissidence. If they don't throw it back, we'll never see our Dissidence ever again, and then we'll be left with wild, improbable scenarios that involve Mustard and Seduction -- dig?

BE MERRY. GO ROUND. BEWARE.

2010-06-09T10:04:00.000-07:00

Somebody smelt a gas!

If a man says, "Am I wrong?" -- he's wrong. If a man says, "Am I right?" -- he's bullying. As a result, nobody is ever correct, and the economy can be found out back, under a few mossy rocks, where slugs suffer their blind, miserable lives. Religion says, "Stand up." Religion says, "Sit down." Sit down. And you're out :: of work. Did the Crooner becroon the crony? Did the Crooner becroon the crone? "Be merry," he sang, "go round. Go round," he sang, "beware." "Warfare," says the Commander, "is all about imposing Your will on the Other." Or is that love-making? Either way, it's becoming a world of spinning around and going, "HAH!", only nothing -- nobody -- is ever there: Am I Right?

LIVING AND LOINING.

2010-05-14T06:07:00.000-07:00

A no porking violation.

We live on one big, humping planet. It is therefore surprising that a detachment of soldiers would be assigned to investigate a little bovine friendliness on the lea. The army has to plan for everything, I suppose, and a good soldier must be able to identify a field pork in a pinch. A pig in a poke, as it were. Will our predator drones also go to 7-11? It's that, folks, or every 'Ambulance' must be converted to 'Ambulate', and circulate, like busses, so everyday citizens can attend psychotherapies. As for EMTs -- they'll be stowed aboard UPS trucks, delivering packages and patients as profit margins allow. Isn't that the future of health care? As if we were healthy. As if we cared. Most Americans are 'pro choice' if 'choice' means 'kuts' and 'kuts' means 'loin'. Think about it -- there must be 10 billion loins in motion (and countermotion) at any given time, and I hear that one factory in China manufactures 40 percent of the world's loincloths. An investigation took place with scores of loinclothed policemen, even as the findings hardly hampered the humping. I do not know which of the following currencies will triumph -- 'administration', 'blame', or 'hump distribution' -- but we are running some serious deficits; it is some lean loin out there.

AVANT MOI . . . LE PRELUDE.

2010-04-13T05:33:00.000-07:00

Le Chat Qui Peep!

Funny how we know just where to assemble, each morning, for the goodbye kiss. People, people, and dessicated animals. The domestic, meanwhile, must toil in the antechambers where the victuals rhyme with vittles. The antechambers, by the by, are where you must call after the flop, and by call, I mean, drop your breeches that rhyme with britches. If it were "Complete the Sentence" then you'd get on this whole Bridges, Ridges, Riches, [Complete the Sentence] thing, which isn't fair, in any stretch of the pagination. Fess Up, Fess Up, and Lie Down. Lie Around, Lie Around. Fess Up, Fess Up, and Lie Down. (Fess! Fess! Fess! etc.) Which brings me to, what I'll call, The Problem of the Summit. I mean, aside from the buzzing spotlamps, the seesaw sirens, the jackbooted regiments of confused irregulars, the fishyssoise, and all that French kookete down by the riverside. The Summit, after all, is just that: The Top, The Heights, and yet, there is nothing, afterwards, to best The Summit, even as The Summit banks on the principle that it will, indeed, be bested. Like a wedding [will be bested] or a weeding [will be bested] by the fertility to follow. This new radical philosophy, folks: I just got weed of it today.

APRES MOI . . . LE DELUDE.

2010-03-30T05:58:00.000-07:00

The lesser-known Trojan Elk

After Me, there will be a flood -- of delusion. The Trojan Elk will empty out at 3:20 p.m. in the past, underneath the Flor de Baltimore sign, straddling the tracks, in the Border Town. Out will pour Ionians and Dorics, of course, rounding up all the Helens and Hellenes that they can sway with their Oratory, with their Rhetoric, with their Rubrics of Avant Modern Shizzle. John Coltrane will chant "Delude Supreme, Delude Supreme" while a woman nicknamed Hot Cups will bring the coffee, two sugars, two creams. O, Apres Moi, O, Apres Moi. Because, you know, the flood is taken for granted, by now. It is -- the Whitewashing -- at issue. We are Spectacle, and everything, these days, is a Close Shave. To own your own mind is to be the loaner of an only heart. If there remained only one Heart or one Casket or one Rump of Beef, in which would you invest, as a money-making venture? If you chose the latter, and it got out of hand, you'd be stuck with a Rumpus of Beef, so choose wisely. And roast enough Rumpus to feed those rampaging Ionians. Apres Moi, I would hope that one could tell a Heart from a Casket, a Delude from a Deluge.

HUBBA HUBBA.

2010-03-24T06:58:00.001-07:00

O, Seduction, Thy Poultry Is Sizzling!

What would Freud say about a drumstick-wielding Colonel? Is a Freudian Slip a kind of sheer night-wear donned -- "by accident"? Or is it sheer night-mare? (The sleek she-horse who arrives in the dark). One must worship the stormy sea, and one must worship the sun-shine, before one can worship the potato. That would be my triptych, if I were told to have triptych, if our government, say, decided that all Americans should have access to triptych: Water, Light, Tuber. In terms of what I can do for my country -- I can ask what my country can do for me! It's a kind of Perverse Osmosis Patriotism, and it is, now, available in most beverages. We should protest those who engage in windy fascist tactics, The Gustapo. And we should protest those who engage in soupy fascist tactics, The Gazpacho. Pop for weasel, culture, and dislocations. Pop for soda, gramps, and dislocations. Alert: the Fraud Fräulein is a-loose; she must've given her jailers the Freudian Slip. The she-horse is a-galloping; the ocean must be nourishing the potato.

WHEN LOVERS KISS.

2010-03-17T05:16:00.000-07:00

How a ménage à trois always ends

It is that -- brief -- time of the year when a lover will don the sweater vest, or a seaman's cap. Well, to be fair, it is always time for a sweater vest in love affairs that are prosecuted by members of The Academy. The train moves, but not like it does in France, or anywhere else, although, it's a real plus that it moves at all. Fliers enter the commuter rail at the airport depot, portly dudes who want to "take back our country" or have a successful encounter with Vice. Preferably, one in which other people get arrested, who do not deserve the misfortune. "Oui" is the stuff of sheets being thrown overhead and God-all knows what else. Whereas "Yes" can lead to the sheets thrown overhead but only if decided upon in advance. What is elliptical versus what is utile. Take the word "intact". It equates, roughly, to "solid in the wake of a dire challenge" but if you chop it in half, make "in tact", then it sounds like diplomacy, which, equates, roughly, to futile. What is intact, in tact, is lessoned. Plat, Platitude; At, Attitude; Drat, Gratitude. All right, portly dudes, take back our country and get a refund. You can't get a brand new country because we're all out of new countries, unless you'd like something in an ecological disaster -- Oh, there's plenty of that to go around, Odorites.

THE ECONOLODGE AMERICAN DREAM.

2010-03-08T05:43:00.000-08:00

Get some spellcheck on that tag, yo

Will that be Oral Vulgarity or Written Vulgarity? Inside the safe you'll find the condiment bar, and that'll be two Fins. There ain't enough mustard, though, to feed the god, to free the swallowed child. The children of the gods, therefore, are lost, and this, for all practical purposes, is your final notice. If you want to say "Chine" say "Chine" -- should it ameliorate the repossession of our -- collective -- drywall. Our troubadors crooning the Oleo Leo. I mean, we can't even spell "doomsday" below the window and above the grille. I'm sorry, but all rooms in the EconoLodge American Dream come with Very Aggressive Culture. For an extra charge, your Very Aggressive Culture can be 100 percent certified Organic. If necessary, you can ambulate in the digdug pen beside the dumpster, and then settle down for a complimentary Incontinent Breakfast. Choice of EconoLodge Bananas. Or, if you will, calculate the chance of zealotry viz the appearance of actual zealots. The Fallback? Oh yeah: Nearly forgot: The Center is an idealogy: Queue the pilgrims.

PRIX FIXE PREFIX.

2010-03-02T11:33:00.001-08:00

Tusk, Tusk, Tusk, a Shame

Lo, the teenage elephant charges down from the Now 'n' Laters wearing Speed Stick Must. Maybe he shrieks "YEAH-H-H" in the middle of nowhere because he Gotta. It is both inveterate and beyond the paleontology. Similary, the naming rights to the U.S. Gross Domestic Product have been sold, and we now, apparently, have the EconoLodge Economy, which is currently entering a double dip repression, owing to a shortage of ask less, Chaps. There is little difference, anymore, between breaking news and breaking wind. Bejewel your sea creature and call him a Bling Ray. Go ahead, chomp your Sweetmeats and ring your cowbell, champ, your Sweetheart ain't arriving any sooner. Should we be passing Immigration or Ingratiation Reform? How about a New Deal, instead? That is, a fresh hand of cards. Every person in this country should be given a little Duchy, or should that be a little Douchey? The prix fixe prefix is IN. So, I mean, trumpet around in a state of Gotta, and remember that Gotta is just Gotta until it's a boner fide Gotcha. In time, there won't be an Economy anymore, at all, or on the atoll, just the EconoLodge American Dream.

SUFFIXES TO SAY.

2010-02-22T10:50:00.000-08:00

That does not explain everything.

Everything "ette". Vinegar + "ette" and incarceration + "ette" and Deity plus "ette". The problem of everyone, in a scandal, having a spokesperson. Suddenly, there are some tall, sturdy Swedes telling us that other tall, sturdy Swedes have nothing to say. Spokespeople is a shovel-ready project. Why not dedicate stimulus funds, thus, to hundreds, if not thousands, of spokespeople. It could be the President's way of including his adversaries in the national dialogue, by way of expanding their political vocabulary. Instead of being "The Party of No" -- well, they could be "The Party of No . . . Comment" if all voters had access to spokespeople. What you used to know about heavy cranes + "ette": No comment. Was that a rabbit or an elk + "ette": No comment. No, wait a minute. Was that, like, a vole, or a sourpuss, or a digdug kind of creature + "ette": No comment. See how that crab works? Chaw Sir, Chaucer, Saucer, Sauce Sir?

THE DANGER OF SHELTERING IN PLACE.

2010-02-16T06:58:00.000-08:00

Your Stimulus Dollars in Action

Nothing says "I love you" more than nougat, except, maybe, nugget. Nougat or nugget, eh?, that's the rub. Which brings me to the problem of People with Elegant Wrists. They and their elegant wrists, they don't have to curse, they can't, really, in any event, curse, on account of their elegant wrists. One day, soon, it will be 8 / 9 / 10. That is, it will be August 9, 2010. There must be some -- finality -- on that day: A curtain raised and someone really peeved. "Ta Da!" even if the trick fails, the trick always fails, in real life. O, Big Old Water Tank. Why a Big Old Water Tank and not another form of liquid delivery? Some daredevil will always want to scale it, A., and B., someone will write an unfortunate Ode to His Hometown Water Tank. Will it say "Shibboleth?" it will say "Shibboleth." What can you do, but incorporate some peat humus into the topsoil? You will never be the same, thereafter, but the topsoil will always be the topsoil, just a bit more peat humussy, and awaiting, with some -- finality -- The Drought.

THE PROBLEM OF THE CHOW CHOW.

2010-02-11T11:43:00.000-08:00

I'll Never Go Back to Georgia

The problem of the chow chow, unleashed, in a summery rural lane. With no owner, apparently, nearby. And no people, for that matter, anywhere about. The problem of that chow chow, cocking his head, raising his tail, in that rural lane. In Georgia. He'd been clenching a softball in his jaws, and when I arrived, dropped it, slobbery, beaten by bats and gloves. The ball rolled off to the side and the chow chow cocked his head, a black dog with purple gums, its tail not passive, but raising like hackles. To know a dog's name is to know his combination and if you get one or two tries incorrect, unlike a safe -- which will just sit there, dumbly guarding its valuables -- the dog will grow and growl impatient. Or worse. Would nobody name a rottweiler "Rottweiler" or a shepherd "Shepherd" but a chow chow's second name is always "Chow Chow". And so the problem of the rural chow chow, unleashed, was solved. Even though I've never been in a country lane. In Georgia. It was Florida, instead, and the chow chow was a friend of mine.

BAD LUCK OBEDIENCE TRAINING.

2010-02-01T05:50:00.001-08:00

Def Leppards.

What I'm saying is, there is a tree out there that not only bears the salami as fruit, but effectively hides the salami as part of its -- daily, monthly, annual -- ritual. A Hide the Salami Tree. O, can you imagine when people became people? It must've been, like, B.C. B.C., cuz, becuz that's when people still didn't know who they were, just yet. Some walked all the way up to Norway! There were savages running around in the hedge, painting themselves blue -- before they became the British. Another man held a snail, or a mushroom, up to his nose and he became a Frenchman. Suddenly there were all kinds of people, and the only logical thing to do was, heat lots of oil and pour it on each other. (This notion would go uncorrected for many centuries, until a band of traveling minstrels, Hard of Hearing Feline, or was it Def Leppard, would aver that one should pour sugar on [the other].) O, Deffen me!

IN CASE YOU DIDN'T KNOW.

2010-01-25T06:50:00.000-08:00

"I Like Gravy"

Rabbit, Come Out the Bewilderness, O, Rabbit, Come Out the Bewilderness. The word "collaborate" no longer suggests the arrival of a double bass and submarine sandwiches for all but a "Corporate Strategy Session" with a man named Hammer. Having a "career" is all about not "careering" out of control, i.e., having a good careen after swilling some of the poteen. No, it would not be a good "career move" to career. To my knowledge, only one man -- me -- has ever depreciated all the telephone poles in the United States, and the answer, I came to, was: This job sucks. We should've, instead, depreciated all the rabbit suits in the United States. If the lawsuit fits, wear it, I suppose, unless you're being sued for impersonating a career. "Think outside the lunchbox," says Hammer. When, all of a sudden, the smoked salmon arrives. And that's really why I agreed to depreciate all those telephone poles -- in the hopes that, one day, I could toss my big, fat tie over shoulder and really dig into an everything bagel. O, Rabbit, Come Out the Bewilderness, O, Everything Rabbit, Be Wild, Come Out the Bewilderness. Listen: Okay, kay, kay, ours is not a land flowing with milk and honey. It is, nevertheless, a land flowing with biscuits and gravy, its inhabitants be as numerous as depreciated phone poles, and Lo, they shall revel in the very cholesterol of their imitations, huzzah!

SALAMI TREE.

2010-01-15T07:52:00.000-08:00

Uff Da!

The men and women of Salamis are Salamis. If they have more than one salami tree -- and more than one salami -- then these, too, are Salamis, everything is Salamis. It is called Uff Da if a penguin jumps in Minneapolis and Uff Da if a Penguin jumps in Norway. They have all the same kinds of adages -- Minnesotans and Norwegians -- except that they have no magnetic birds. They must, instead, have a fish in-hand, if they want to effect change upon them penguins in the hedge. Adjectives, however, is a different story, when it comes to modifying adages. Can one slop a penguin? And if so, would one slop it with scripture? Many times I have seen people -- who call themselves cultivated -- slopping fowl with scripture. Is Irish sorcery the O'Cult? Maybe, and maybe not, but what must the Persians be thinking, still, after all these years? They failed to capture Salamis in The Battle of Salamis, in part, because, the Greeks harvested the Salamis first, and chased the Persians in angry-mob-style, wielding Salamis. Uff Da, in Norway, and Uff Da, in Minneapolis. Had the Persians triumphed, would the penguin have ever leapt toward a wielding of seafood?

ATTACK!

2010-01-06T10:57:00.000-08:00

Showdown at the Phone Camera Corral.

YOUR HAT IS QUITE POLITICAL.

2009-12-23T13:58:00.000-08:00

Nah, he's just happy to see us.

Had the Kaiser been more durable -- you know, been a Kaiser Permanente -- maybe we'd've missed out on his disturbed successor, Ice Adolph. (His rapper name.) "Pom Pom / Pogrom / Grommet / Gram Gram" goes an original line from Ice Adolph Live at the Bööger Haus. What's the difference? Stocks are up. And by that, I mean there is more essence of animal or essence of vegetable a-percolating on the stovetop than every before. Invest in Wall St. if you prefer; I'll sink my meager gleanings into 60 Month juice of boilings, thank you kindly. The U.S. Government, on the other hand, is so much indebted to various kinds of various types that it must drop one or more letters from GDP, leaving us at P, basically, Pee, Pisswater. A roar of the pectoralis / A snore of the digitalis / A boer of the limpid phallus / Areola Borealis. The Nipple Display, that is, in the Northern Sky. The Nipple Lights of the North. Let me get something absolutely correct: Was there really an Emperor Jones or did the Ruler just have a yen for giving a little dictation? Currency is to Jones, one must conclude, as Yen is to Yen, so watch out, especially, for a tip to the lid on the bonce. "Kaiser", afterall, sounds like something one might inflict upon a Citrus, and our man's battle topper could double as a Field Juicer when the lines inevitably stall, scurvy, curvy, pervy.

LIPS THAT TOUCH LIQUOR.

2009-12-15T06:32:00.001-08:00

Settin' the pace.

Liquor the lips and thy secret shall be known. The trick would seem to be -- liquor the rest of the body, instead. Imagine that -- a cold heart and some warm hands. Taken on face value, there is little difference, afterall, between a Metrobus and a Succubus. A deeper examination reveals that one never comes on time, while the other only comes at night. Whereas the Porcubus is leaving, right now, for the Congressional District, HA-HOOGA. Listen to Charles Mingus and fly Aer Lingus Lingus Lingus Lingus Lingus, and, dern it, don your Porcupine Hat, gnat. "Talk about the greats" someone always wants to talk about the "greats" as if it's a condition. Comin' down from the grates, "Jimmy's in there, comin' down from the grates," and he is, in there, in the closet, sleeping on his feet. Eights, of course, are one rotation away from infinity. Or, if you've got a particular kind of eight, then, infinicky. O, Bored Walk of my Water Front, O, Boardwalk of my Moist Facade, HA-HOOGA. A furlough, Jack, is an economic readjustment, not the foxpiece worn round the ankles, and a furlong is a horse-race discrepancy. Rankle, ankle, angle, wrangle. Don't know 'bout you, but I need a nip just for everyday tongue-twisters, and other twisters, I need to reach out and touch liquor, since its spirits are distal, still, a distillation, dot, dot, dot, in the Northern Sky.

BLED & WAKE-FEST.

2009-12-03T07:30:00.000-08:00

Grisly aftermath is fun!

Believe me when I say that, originally, you weren't supposed to scream "Yahtzee!" when you triumphed at dice games but "Nazi!" instead -- perhaps when you achieved a snake-eyes kind of Fascism, throwing the venom of your palm into the air. And that, at first, you could opt for a Fascism at the Day Spa, you know, seeking to smoothe-over the defects in your maniacal allegiance, until you had to flat-out request a Facial, instead. If you try to debunk your Uncle, you'll get a Debuncle, if you try to carburate your Uncle, you'll get a Carbuncle, and if you try to monopolize your Uncle's attention, you'll get a Monocle. Skin blemishes over swaths of time could lead to Epoch Marks. But I digress. These days, with respect to our information economy, Megalomania just ain't enough Mania, you need something like Gigalomania, to get just enough Mania. Yeah, yeah, yeah: Cleveland and rivers: yeah, yeah, yeah. You can await the river all you like when you should probably abate the river, you know, get a crew, and a foreman, and have them sit around the tailgate by belching grease and ogling the Convenience Mart. 'Talegate' as in a scandal that accompanied a Yarn or 'Tailgate' as in a scandal that accompanied de Lay o' de Land? You take risk, tsk tsk, you take risk. One minute you're checking into a Bed & Breakfast, the next minute you're checking out: Period. As in Bled & Wake-fest. Optimize now, and we'll throw in four Gigs of Mania at no extra charge! Optimize now, and one of our customer service operatives will -- personally -- clap you on the Carbuncle! Bundle, Buncle, Whoa Back, Buckle.

DON'T FENCE IF YOU AIN'T GOT NO CHAFF.

2009-11-24T08:50:00.001-08:00

Rip, Rig, and Panic

The Lunar Cycle may cause Tsunami & Catastrophic Origami but it is Barbed Wire that brings out the Cheeky Grimace of the Moon. Speaking of which, Barbed Wire is some hateful fence. In that, it scalps some serious Hurt. And the Chafe begat Chaff, sayeth The Verse. And the Chaff begat Dust, a Harvest, a Sustenance, a Bowl. The Great Depression was a Seer, as well, a Prophet who'd been established in a tent, upon a throne, despite profound irritability, incurable remorse, and a large "D" embroidered on his chest, in 48-point Goudy Stout. One could seek his Decrees -- "Are you here to seek the Wisdom of, His Lowness, The Great Depression?" -- and it was his Collected Decrees that would triumph, eventually, in competitions with Other Revivals. The Great Depression was really a farmer named Tuffy. "Tried Legumes," he said, out back, behind the tent. "Tried Tubers, Ugly Fruits, and Assorted Goobers. Never thought of harvesting no Opinions, 'bout the only thing I could raise in this here Chafe." When asked if he'd pose for a few snapshots in his Getup, the farmer spat near his shoes, "Yep." Then his oilskin trousers ruptured after a suspicious clap. Think about what makes you Tick: We're all Ticking, you see. Don't hate if you ain't got no fence; don't fence if you ain't got no Chaff; don't Decree if you ain't prepped to risk some Cheeky Grimace.

ENMITY HATH MOTOR.

2009-11-16T09:21:00.000-08:00

"COOL! / NO! / COOL! / NOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Mankind is being flung towards the far horizon at speeds greater -- and heights taller -- than God ever intended. "Oh, Why, Oh, Why," wail the mourners, as another man flies past, overhead. If the synagogue is where you sin, then the dialogue is where you dial. "Help Me!" in one tongue is "Tongue!" in another langue and "Merengue!" in yet another harangue. Lemon gets to be a risk. Grape-fruits get to be a risk. The fields molder and a cry spreads through the land. Oh Lord, why is there motor? There is motor, sayeth The Lord, to impress thine enemy. But mine enemy hath motor. Sayeth not hath, sayeth The Lord, for that is my very verb form. Very well then, but my enmity 'hath' motor. Thine enmity hath motor? shrieketh The Lord, thou dost bringeth the disnomer and the piss-nomer in thy protestations and for that -- I shall now smite thy fleeting moment of achievement in sport. And The Lord smote the pilgrim's second place finish, and the pilgrim, in turn, smote his younger brother, with a loud clap to both ears, and the younger brother, then suffering from a disturbance, smote the television set with a thirty-ought-six, even as the set continued to speak, " . . . in corporation we trust . . . ," a minor miracle.

DA BOTCH.

2009-10-22T05:30:00.000-07:00

Laughs for Gaffes

The bus driver, once again, flips the pedestrian "the bird." So, the pedestrian rides the bus, figuring: "He can't give me the bird any more, because I'm riding the bus." Then, the bus driver slams on the brakes, and the pedestrian -- "Oooh!" she says -- falls out the door. She's a pedestrian again, and the bus driver is always the bus driver, he's always been the bus driver. He gives her the bird. She takes the new route home, but there's always a bus, and in that bus, under the little lamp, there's usually a bus driver, who flips her the bird. "Is it in their job descriptions," she thinks, "to flip me the bird?" She buys a can of black spraypaint, but doesn't really know what she's doing. She shakes it, rattling those little balls in the can, and sprays a terrible doodle on the wall, the wall of the newspaper building, the newspaper that always tells you what you think they're gonna tell you. She yells at her boyfriend, that night, and he says, "yeah yeah yeah." The next day, she yells at a colleague, too, over an ambiguous break room encounter. The colleague has a tattoo, just above the sock-line, that reads, "Beers beers beers." She thinks "yeah yeah yeah", she thinks "beers beers beers." She would invoke the loud legend of her God, but he's at the track, playing the ponies, or he's at the track, wearing a fedora, with his stinky armpit stains. She steps into the evening, just as the bus drifts down the street. "NOT IN SERVICE," it goes, on its forehead, passing her without incident, but leaving her, clap, clop, to walk the city, in Autumn chill.

BANANAS AU GRATIN.

2009-10-13T05:40:00.000-07:00

Like never before.

The pilot has turned off the No Antisemitism Sign and you are now free to stagger about the aircraft, all red-faced and whatnot. Intercontinental or plain old incontinent, it hardly matters these days. Maybe if we had a rapper named Warmio the earth would cool, instead. I'd even settle for Lukewarmio, if the earth would enter a period of Glacial Mediocrity, as a result. If your possessions -- dig it -- are not in perfectly great shape, then the U.S. Mint Police will be paying you a visit. They have a new para-military commando unit known as the Mint Condition Police, the funds for which were diverted from The Legislation to Nowhere and The Finest Types of People to Nowhere and The Sensible Slacks to Nowhere. No, you cannot spell that "commandoe" with an "e" but you can be a Veep who fades away like an old soldier, in these, the Incorporated States of America, Limited. To whit, the athlete could spell neither "buttocks" nor "manicure" though his future would -- uncannily! -- involve both. The French, O, the French. They have added Serum to their fromages, and as a result, have pioneered Treu Cheese. "Eat and Confess" is their motto; it's a perfect snack before visiting the Precinct, like, forever. There is no more cracker for your whiz and there is no more succulent for your concubi. The lyrics do not go "Bananas: Endless / Endless: Bananas." Yes they do.

WHEN FANGS DO FISHERMAN NIP.

2009-09-10T08:03:00.001-07:00

How to catch a Dorkfish

All right, People, the housing market ain't so bad that domiciles are cheaper than clothing. Before you start dressing in building materials, consider the fact that the snake will bite you just for looking like an idiot. "I wouldn't of [sic] bit that guy, had he not gone as a chimney. Chimney makes me feel MEAN." Thus sayeth the serpent. Was it Caesar who said "Venom, Vidi, Vici?" Or was it that dude, Seizure, instead, Julius Seizure? Either way -- consider the Message. Were you not Ridiculous, you would be unscathed. The minute you made yourself Ridiculous -- and let's talk about that minute, yes? Some say that Ridiculous is genetic but I say, You were not born Ridiculous. One minute fine, the next minute you've got the serpent coiling around your ankles. And for what, a bite of commonplace fish from a commonplace tributary? The bear -- we should note -- catches the fish without a rod and reel, without leggings, in fact, without clothing of any kind, and you're not going within one mile of that bear, am I right, Danger?

DAN GUTSTEIN SPEAKS TO THE CAT.

2009-08-05T10:02:00.000-07:00

Just two cats chewing the mews.

COWBOY HOT PLATE.

2009-07-18T15:16:00.000-07:00

Et Tu?

George Stephanopoulos with purple two pound weights versus Yahweh with double helix in lavatory. Coming soon: "Senior Advisor Xbox 360 -- Second Term." Got joystick? Then you, too, can manipulate little avatar Stephanopoulos as he jettisons himself from the administration. "I ditch this appointment, Mr. Prez, that made possible my career, in order to mutilate your legacy." George Stephanopoulos with mobile device versus heckler with obscene gesture in specialty doughnut shoppe. Work them little two pound weights, up Wisconsin, down Wisconsin, one of the President's men. Little avatar Stephanopoulos reports from the poof of talcum mishap. Little avatar reports from the gastropod. "Senior Advisor Xbox 360 -- Second Term" comes complete with Scratch 'n' Sniff ethnic aromas and ceremonial beanie. Yahweh with double helix versus heckler with obscene gesture in lavatory of specialty doughnut shoppe. George Stephanopoulos in patriotic cape and tights, with giant blue "A" on his chest. He sings: "ACUMEN!" Faster than a speeding filibuster (!) -- More powerful than a poontang scandal (!) -- Able to leap constitutional crises in a single resignation (!) -- "ACUMEN!"

NOW PLAYING.

2009-07-03T18:30:00.000-07:00

Work with it!

Tonight, on Extreme Weapons Amnesty -- "The potato gun discharges into the sergeant's left buttock, leaving forty-nine potatoes in the magazine." Tonight, on Extreme Throwing Crap -- "A green apple is thrown into a YMCA snack bar by a 15 year-old boy, causing the manager, a high school hall monitor, to squirt ketchup all over his beard." Tonight, on Extreme Third Nipple -- "A fringe religious leader explains that the sabbath cannot begin until the third nipple has been revealed." Tonight, on Extreme Army Trapped on an Isthmus -- "The Vikings slay some and levy higher taxes on others." Tonight, on Extreme Weapons Amnesty: Michigan -- "A pickup truck arrives at the checkpoint with a gatling gun and numchucks." Tonight, on Extreme Pregnant Pause -- "A newlywed couple discovers a flaming bowel movement on the front stoop of their historic duplex." Tonight, on Extreme Are You Jewish? -- "The season finale; a winner is declared; the pawnshop business is awarded; Laren Bacall is remembered." Tonight, on Extreme Quincy Reruns: "Fujiyama jumps out of a closet; Quincy solves the case; Lauren Bacall is remembered." Tonight, on Extreme Probing -- "George Stephanopoulos discusses Xbox 'George Stephanopoulos' game."

VLAD THE ENPALER.

2009-06-24T10:30:00.000-07:00

Victims / The Enpaled

The reputation of Vlad the Impaler, the famous Wallachian philanthropist, had gotten just so, he didn't need to Impale any longer -- well, now and again, heh heh heh -- since his proximity effectively Enpaled his victims. They would blanche. They would whiten. They removed themselves to The Pale of Settlement. Contests ensued and some were pronounced Pale by Comparison. What else can one do in The Pale of Settlement, afterall, but drink Pale Ale and beget Pale Stool, all the doings of Vlad the Enpaler. Vlad, which is short for Vladislaus, which, in Wallachian, translates to He Who Fondles of Vlasic Dillweed & Cole Slaus, then turned toward cheeseboarding as a means of extracting a confession. He once cheeseboarded a Dom DeLuise-looking Homey for three days -- the man, placed on a wooden board, had cheese rubbed all over his face -- until the Dom DeLuise-looking Homey confessed. Subsequent attempts to Cheeseburger a confession only triumphed in the Americas. Those, in the States, who caught a glimpse of Vladislaus, bought Impalas. Beige ones. It was undercover Americans, though, dressed as Syrians, yo, who applied SPF in his presence. He only caught on, did Vlad, when they ordered Fetish salads, hold the onions, with Wild Ass Toosh, when real Syrians would order Fettoosh, with onions, hold the Ass. "I tried to become a kinder Impaler," wrote Vladislaus, in his memoir, My Tippus, "but for the Americans, I would've ceased Impaling altogether, and now, I shall Impale afresh."

POSTMODERN TENTACLE LITURGY.

2009-06-12T18:09:00.000-07:00

Donkey in the air is Tentacle.

He who spends too much time focused on Tentacle is a sucker, Gran'daddy always used to say. More and more Tentacle washing ashore each morning, though, cause of Al Gore. Tent plus pinnacle = the nipple of the octopus. A man squeezes a woman's nipple, a woman squeezes a man's nipple, only amongst primates. Go ahead, but if you pinch octopus nipple you will be in world of suction. Don't forget to catch Antique Tentacle Roadshow and play that game "Disappointed" / "Not Disappointed" when Tentacle is evaluated by Postmodern Paddle Wackers. Some folks think they have antique Tentacle and are disappointed when the appraisal is low whereas some people think they have modest Tentacle when it turns out they have very valuable Tentacle, and are elated, to say the least. The same Tentacle -- chopped high and chopped low -- has sat in the Thai Knot sushi prep area for years, rotated, every so often, by a sushi chef in a white mushroom cap. That's how Tentacle matures. Unless it's bottled and Put Up. I wouldn't turn down a bottle of Tentacle 12 Year Single Brine, but that's me. A tired octopus is a Spentacle whereas a gladiator cephalopod is a Spartacus. The Mongols, when they ran out of Tentacle, would catapault their own slain comrades -- especially those festering with the bubonic death -- into the citadels of their enemies. "Incoming Tentacle!" the sentries would shout, at first, until they saw a dead Mongol fly into their camp. "Incoming!" they would shout, instead, or "Mongol!" until it became commonplace, all those Besiegers flying through the air, and the sentries quit shouting, quit their posts, quit the citadels, but failed to notify their adversaries, who kept launching their mates in broad arcs.

WHEN HARRY MET HARPO.

2009-06-04T17:34:00.000-07:00

Truman Appoints His Secretary of Strings, Horns & Whistles

Do you have a lot of dust in your apartment? Because what dust is -- it's human skin. So what you really have is lots of human skin in your apartment. "I have just eaten an exhibition of paintings," said the Bohemian glutton, artfully. Get it? There is no such thing as "art" anyhow. Claiming otherwise is just an Insanity Pretense. The goslings resemble rabbits and the mimic thrasher nips the crow in the pooper. Why do you have so much human skin in your apartment? When I say "apart/ment" I do not imply that you suffer from irreparable separation. "C'mon, let's get this procedure over with," the sick man said, impatiently. Get it? There is a fine line between Rapture and Rupture, although the latter can follow from an experience with the former. Nobody hails from that venerable American town, Vaudeville, anymore, our presidents no longer seek wise counsel from yonder, and nobody, in recent memory, has been caught holding the mute's leg, a tragedy.

SQUID PRONE QUOTA.

2009-05-17T08:47:00.001-07:00

The effects of too much Applause.

If someone takes your Vitals, make sure to get them back. There is a highly profitable Black Market for Vital Signs these days. A good pulse can be traded for ethnic and ethical fish, alike, whereas a good blood pressure can be sold for Upward Mobility. Don't let them take your Vittles, either. He who is convicted of Appetizer Theft is a Convictual, and those who get pinched more than once, come to be known as Habitual Convictuals. Therefore, if they take your calamari, they're taking your squid, if they sell your calamari, they're getting Quid on your squid, proving, thereby, that "British slang" is, at best, redundant. If, therefore, Herman Melville first conceived of a peglegged captain who chased a giant tentacled beast, but realized he wouldn't earn enough Quid on his squid, he then conceived of a peglegged captain, Mobility Dick, who beat the odds simply by stumping around the Poopdeck. The title of Melville's nautical novel pingponged for years between "Poop Dick" "Dick Poop" "Dick" "Deck" "Dick Deck" and "Deck Poop" before a European Music Star inspired the header as we know it, Moby Dick, a techno-loving Private Eye who scours the sea for a bigoted whale. Beware Applause. No, no, no, should you stand too close to Applause, the bang of the palm against palm, you, too, could catch The Clap. Beware Applause. Signs of The Clap include spontaneous Applause, Applause not-called-for, belligerent applause, plausible applesauce cravings, and Pause. There are, in fact, the Seven Horsemen of the Clap, you can always tell the approach of their steeds by the clopclap, clopclap of their shoes. At that point, there will be little left to do but laud and applaud, for the Madness will be, like, Tentacles in the Tabernacle.

TAKEOUT BAKEOUT.

2009-05-13T07:54:00.000-07:00

Think "Textiles" When You Crave a Doobie.

Say "Drugs" to "No" and "Narcotics" to "Nah" and "Dope" to "Nope." What time you got? The time is Now. We cannot, as a Society, separate. We cannot separate (the) State from Salt, (the) Lick from Bone, (the) Dry from Park, (the) Avenue from Light, (the) House from God, and so forth. Can you batch?, we know you can botch, can you butcher, as in slaw?, can you dozen the alternatives?, can you batch? Can you bundle?, we know you can bandy, can you bindle, as in slaw?, can you dozen the alternatives?, can you clump? What time you got at Five past Five? To empower the Trick Question please press "1" on your Rotary Phone. Beware, though. The empowered Trick Question may ask you, trick you, task you, ask. An empowered Trick Question, par example, once interrogated an entire office full of Fraud Investigators, investors, gators, and Frauds, with some slippery Freudian trickery: What time you got at Five past Five? Can you knot?, we know you can knit, can you gnat, as in slaw?, can you dozen the alternatives, can you batch? Say "Dope" to "Nope" if you can separate, and if you can separate, please press "1" on your rotary phone.

HUMANITY IS A-TORSO.

2009-05-03T07:45:00.000-07:00

Don't let the math do you.

You cannot call a dead bee a bee. You may call a dead bee a "was" because it certainly doesn't be anything, anymore, aside from a chitinous skeptic. Similarly, a deposed strongman may have a roof over his head but no Despot to piss in, or does that refer to the triumphant Putsch-man, instead? Coups come in all forms, though in one sense, the song of the dove is, therefore, a contradiction. "Coup Coup," sayeth the dove, who otherwise queued for peace. If it were not queue, but skew, then professional standers-in-wait would be Skewers, whether they stilted the curve, or not. Sewers are a sore spot for so-so sowers, go-go goers who gore the gawkers. In the Gawkery. Patron asked Server in Foreign Restaurant for Curry Favor but Server informed Patron that Curry Favor was now Felony. "In these times" or Thereabouts. Which is shorthand for Fisticuffs all around. Which is shorthand for Clenched in Shirtsleeves, light on the Starch Your Own Habits Tat. That which waffled in an apiary could be termed a Bee That As It May, its flanks a Bee Hind, its hive a hairdo, its humanity a-torso, Coup Coup Ka Chew. Putsch your Funny where your Mouth is, Putsch me and I'll Putsch you back, Jack!

ARMED TO THE BICYCLES.

2009-04-25T08:41:00.001-07:00

w/ Harpoon Attachment for Quelling Ocean Strife.

In some corners of the world, Sorrel Soup is the Soup of Choice, and can be known as Sh'chav, and in other corners of the world, the Shah of Iran is the Shah of Choice, and can be an authority on Sorrel Soup, in which case, he is often referred to as the Sh'chav of Iran. Some folks fashion garments from greenery, Sorrel Suits, and other folks fancy clothing that expresses their remorse, Sorry Suits, and still others, yet, favor technology, downloadable Ironies known as Sarcasts. Irony as in solid-like, by the way, as in Pressed-through-Steamburst, or Hamlet-upon-Riverway. Not to be confused with one's Cronies, so-called because they Crow in Tongues and Proximities, Needs and Knees. Crow Knees. Chews One or Choose Many can be the difference between Mastication and Mass Migration. The way Simulacra can be Sancta but Sanka will Sink Ya. Read all about it or Rehab your Doubt, the two represent Equal Opportunity if not Cheeks and Balances. While Plato's sophomoric history, Sophist, may have predicted Sweet 'n' Sour Tarts 'n' Turks, it was Nietzsche's The Twilight of the Idols that foresaw Modern Nipple Violations. Or, if you will, and you won't, a Go Go Girl with a Swelled Head might be termed an Ego Girl, you Go Girl, four saw and twenty scores ego. I mean, that's Conceit, even if it's not Concession, that's Receipt, even if it's not Recession, it's a pour worse than Session, it sure ain't Renaissance. Dear Noodle Ring, Dear Pringlebrain, Dear Executives Masquerading as Sympathy Mannequins, Sequence & Sequins as Fiscal Policy. Imagine a Doll, a Doll is Simulacrum for Not Breathing, a Dull is Luxury, whereas a Doll is Us and a Dull is You, Dear Pringlebrain. Adultrated our Dollars, you have, in Breathing and in Breathless. From Stones and Weeds Shall Soup Be Made.

THE STAIRS IS GROSS.

2009-04-13T18:45:00.000-07:00

One Love.

Note how Excuse Me has become Skew Me has become Scume. At the Big Box Retailer at the Jetpack Pavillion at the Nature Hike. In this ailing economy, Endowments are down and Extenze won't help. But Big Boxes are prospering, to the point where people can't help but Scume. There are Two Worlds, I guess, One Love, and No Enhancement. The Stairs Is Gross, in the first world. The Stairs Is Gross in the other world, too. "Scumez Moi." There is a sale on Lip Balm, Lip Blam, Cans of Whoop, and Over Easy. No, she does not have five Sweet Potato T-Shirts, she has worn her Sweet Potato T-Shirt five times, you Nooty Nooget. No matter how old you are, the time has come for your parents to have the ol' Artificial Blueberry Talk with you. Tiblet, Gimlet, Giblet, Fib, is how it starts. Riblet, Ribbit, Chick Lit, Tib, is how it starts. By the time the Artificial Blueberry Talk has come to a Natural State of Rest, many people Skew Me, and nobody Skew Say Moi, even as the Mottoes & Chants, led by Salesmen and Salsa Men, go A = Always, B = Be, C = Clobbering, Always Be Clobbering, A, B, C.

HIP HOP PASSOVER.

2009-04-10T05:09:00.001-07:00

"Because it is Bitter / and Because it is my Herb."

The slaves cried out for some suntan lotion / While Pharoah smoked Shisha in the Land of Goshen / "Tut tut," said Tut, to the Masses / "I will sic my Armies on your Homeys / No gassy passy No safety glasses No rigatoni No Slammy Yamma" / When along came Moses with his tricked out Staff / He cast it down, Sudden Snake, and it began to Rap: / "You will see, Tut Tut, some medieval Plagues / You will stammer, But But, by the end of the day / There will be a Frog, a Gnat, a Slug, a Rat, a Cat from Prague with a Baseball Bat / If you deny the slaves their S.P.F. -- then you will be visited by the Angel of DEF!" / BREAK DOWN! / And the Jews did the Robot before they fled / And the Jews ate unleavened bread / And the Jews did the Robot before they fled / And the Jews ate unleavened bread / Then for Twenty Score and Twenty More / God dropped Bagels from the sky / Then for Twenty Score and Twenty More / A Rock 'n' Roll Salmon came swimming by / Lox, Bwoyyyeee / Smoky Fish / And the halls of The Academy quietened / Shhh / The Seder was afoot //

KINNIPTION SNACKS.

2009-04-03T05:40:00.001-07:00

sham WOW WOW yippee YO yippee YAY

If you graduate high school and need something to do, you can always join the Arms Race, and if you come out the Arms Race, and need something to do, you can always join the Rabid, I mean Rabbit, I mean Hare, I mean Hurry Curry, I mean Hairy Krishnas, and if you graduate them, and need something to do, you can always join the Intellectual Property Krishnas, those bold, bold Esquires battling for Your Intellect, Oh Yeah, you can beat the Drums in the Park, you can bash the Tambourine beside Statue of Thoughtful Felon at Dusk, this ain't no Post Bop Economy, it's called Opportunity, Ltd., that's right, you may Apply yourself to a Task, to a Mattress, to an Opening, Ltd., but the only jobs are in Forwarding, and Forwarding, my Friends, requires Membership in the Tribe, Oh, don't fret, there are all kinds of Tribes, from Roto Rooter to Harris Teeter, from Deuteronomy to P-h-a-t Economy, there are No Shortages of Tribes, Vibes, and Jive, the Question, really, is one of Membership, does it involve Vindaloo, I'll tell you what it involves, there will be no more People to introduce People, in a Charles Mingus Presents Charles Mingus kind of way, it'll be You Presents You, China Presents China, Opportunity, Ltd., Presents the Human Being as Gross Revenue, we can only Hope.

Rare OOPS

2009-03-17T06:11:00.002-07:00

What Happens after Swilling the Poteen.

Suction, if left alone, could destroy the universe, one stickfigure booty at a time. I offer the equation Dial "S" for "Suction" but Suction, of course, has been misunderstood over the Ages, 18 to 24, and 51 to 69, in particular. Most other Groups understand Suction just fine, or so sayeth Psychotherapies. You may wish to "Muse" in that you may wish to Inspire some young Sap, but don't Muse if you plan on Mewing, in the plural. It would be impossible, thereby, to distinguish your Muse from your Mews. Your Pause from your Paws. I will now describe My Own Theory of Relativity. I am related to You inasmuch as You have some Money for Me. Otherwise, you must apply for Relativity with the notion in mind that -- relating to you should leave me an additional half hour every day. Either Way, by Either Pike, we reach the aforementioned destination. "Your wallet please" may be a Robbery or it may be a clumsy attempt to speculate on the satisfaction of your billfold. "Ahem" may be a Throatclear whereas "Ahem ahem" may be a Warning that you have a Problem with your Garment. It may be Suction that is Amiss, and if so, check out that Video -- Suction Gone Wild -- via latenight infomercial. Suction will, nevertheless, determine a good bit Today, in your life, and in mine, we will require Redundancy, nails to secure nails, theory to secure theory, people to secure people, and so forth: It's getting to be That Kind of World.

Coq au Vindaloon

2009-03-03T18:47:00.001-08:00

Les Garçonz 'n' le Quartier

If French scientists can change a hen into a rooster then why can't American scientists change the economy into an economy? It'd be risky. We could, afterall, wind up with a fowl worth negative $3,000,000,000,000, and counting. History is full of transformations. Swords have been beaten into Ploughshares, a Chechen Bird o' Prey has decloaked over the Kremlin, and Water has been turned into Wine, down in the Land of Canaan, at the House of Babel. There isn't just water, there is water on top of water, some water needs to be on top and some water needs to be on the bottom, there isn't just water, water is very sexy. It used to be one could wave a Cheeseburger and a Marijuana Cigarette at just about any problem, and the problem would go away. These days, and when I say "these days", I mean, yes, I, too, throw fistfulls of I Owe Youze into the air, it might have to be a VeggieBurger, and the Marijuana couldn't be Marijuana, it'd have to be Medicinal. Judaism, by the way, can now be purchased in the bulkfoods aisle at Fresh Fields. You can find it next to the dried mango, and for the same price, $10.99 per pound, although it's on sale this week, or just mark down the code for "Student Mix" and you can get Judaism for $3.49 per pound. Judaism and Student Mix -- apparently -- are like twins separated at birth, the cashiers and baggers, alike, cannot tell them apart. O, whadda we have to do, These Days, and when I say These Days, I mean, yes, I, too, muck my aces for no defensible reason, whadda we have to do? Well, we must be Vigilant, for one, we must light candles and let the curtains flutter in the spritely spring kissing wind. After all, one minute we might be laying an egg, and the next minute, we might be crowing -- for broke -- at the bright horizon.

A / V Sucks!

2009-02-20T18:29:00.000-08:00

Cordage / Decline.

We are not crash test dummies, Teacher! We will wield the box of FILMSTRIP that got soggy when the roof flooded and the fat guy dropped through the ceiling onto chemistry. He did NOT smoke weed. Nobody smokes weed (pfff) but they need to. The way that nobody watches FILMSTRIP, Teacher!, but they need to. Have I told you about DAVE? Well, Billie Jean is not his lover. But my mom is! I’d rather call him sweetervest. We had a bat in the attic, a bat, with wings. Teacher! Leave them kids alone! We will wield the box of FILMSTRIP because FILMSTRIP has education in it and the students will watch up the education when they regard FILMSTRIP, Teacher!, leave them kids alone. May your iMac go pancreatic and your intercom go fritz and may the a/v aides be "goofing off with the dirtbags in the breezeway" rather than preparing for taco with fruit cup or acting MIDDLE OF THE ROAD.

(Guest blogged by Gina & Shaker Heights A / V Aides. You ROCK.)

The Looks Dept.

2009-02-10T09:54:00.000-08:00

Neuteronomy.

The Weigh Sayers amongst us accuse the brewery of brewing the sneeze into the beer, that they drank, before the fits came in threes. They watch Extreme Weapons Amnesty: Michigan, on TV, and laugh when the potato gun discharges into the Sergeant's left buttock. They no longer Break Glass in Case of Emergency, but phone The Samoan instead. The Samoan doesn't mind being called The Samoan, because it establishes him as the authority, amongst Samoans, even though he's not Samoan, he's ethnic Jewish-Albanian. He's prompt, effective, and demands Apple Hookah after the emergency has been resolved. The Weigh Sayers do not like to discuss the time they offered The Samoan an Apricot -- not Apricot Hookah -- but an Apricot -- in place of Apple Hookah. It is not wise to substitute an Apricot for Apple Hookah. Ever. In any scenario. The Weigh Sayers descried an attempt to derail the freight train, and seeing as it had no purpose other than insanity itself, termed it the loco motive. The Weigh Sayers amongst us visit The Looks Dept. at the Supermarche to purchase some Deep Smoldering Glances, you know, Looks. They think "Roofies" are those who worship and follow The Roof and "Reefer" is that which recommends itself to consumption On The Briny, atop the coral. You wear your socks too tight, O, Weigh Sayers, the Salt of the Systole and the Disaspora of the Diastole, O, the breezy May-hem of the heart, Weigh Sayers, you wear your socks too tight.

Energy Kick

2009-02-06T18:24:00.000-08:00

What put the pep in "Greensleeves"?

Freddie Hubbard knew: "Coltrane wasn't playing so far out then," said the trumpeter, of the 1961 Africa/Brass sessions, as reported by Ashley Kahn in THE HOUSE THAT TRANE BUILT: The Story of Impulse Records. "But he had so much energy, man, because him and Eric [Dolphy] used to drink honey out of the jar. They would eat those sunflower seeds and raisins. They were on an energy kick. I said, 'Man, you're going to get diabetes or something, man! You drinking raw honey?" [Pause.] I mean, that's right. We shall, therefore, rest our theories. There shall be no more theories. Our big-bottomed poets will quiet and quiet, too, will the poets of small bottoms be. Let (X) = "Greensleeves". Let "Greensleeves" = Horn in Sky. The honeybee leaves a pollen print in the history of Jazz on impulse! Praise Song for the Trane; Praise Trane.

Skeletons to the Right

2009-01-15T10:19:00.001-08:00

I guess the closet is full.

The floundering economy has necessitated cutbacks that, already, have taken the dignity away from Great American Traditions such as Skeleton Return. Pretty soon we'll see Skeleton Reform, and after that, you'll just see despondent Bags o' Bone sitting in the park, drinking they Deuce Deuce, steam rising off their skulls in brassy, reedy fog. In any event, Skeletons are at their boniest since the Great Depression, when New Deal Skeletons were more calcified than a nice big cuppa Dustbowl. Postmodern Skeletons, on the other hand, Extrapolate, in that, they practice corporeal punishment with their little ones. They conflate and intertextualize. If they rebate, then they masturbate twice. One can bait his breath, if he means to trick his respirations. The Skeleton, however, means to trick his expirations. To whit, the Skeleton can achieve separation, should he become disconnected from his expiration, but that's a ghost story -- the Skeleton bouncing down dark alleyways, with his expiration in pursuit. Sometimes, a Special Officer, i.e., one who can demonstrate either a pulse or an I.Q., is called in, to corral said Skeleton, kick him around, and reunite him, all so vividly, with his expiration. We are Structure, and we are Weakening. If we scream "Jackass!", do we mean another, or are we identifying ourselves? We are Language and we are Debt. In that, we lease our Skeletons from the Landlord, the Earth, its doors to the right, its closets, its walkup duplex with berber carpeting and a riverview.

Neon Horror Clippers

2009-01-07T18:15:00.001-08:00

All Ye Who Enter Shall Leave Changed . . . Personally.

The difference between "lion" and "loin" can be a lousy diph-thong, an underwear-thin vowel sequence. Too, the lion covers itself with a cheesecloth whereas the loin stalks us au naturel. When the loin is not tender, the loin is always tender, the loin is not legal. You cannot pay your rent with loin, you cannot post an envelope, you cannot purchase the dealie. Someone else, however, will purchase the dualie, someone else always purchases the dualie, which can be the dealie, as well, only not with loin, he will not purchase the dualie with loin. 'Fused? Then prefer the porkchop, the establishment does not serve the porkchop, nobody can remember the porkchop, prefer the porkchop. Would you quit forking around? You know how much I hate it, when you fork around. We can spoon, we cannot knife, we cannot attempt all the cutlery positions, we can bowl. Tell me something that's not so "Obvi" -- and by that, I mean not so "kicked in the knickers". I used to consult the Ethnic Market, the Ethnic Market had those funky roots, the Ethnic Market lost some composure, thereby developing needs of the Ethic Market, which tumbled again, today, on reports of selfish, shellfish, two times a lady. A man named Marmalade will never become president-elect, he could be secretary of buttery spreads, ("Obvi!"), in that, he could preside over the nation's manses, menses, minces, and muensters. Lettuce mints whirreds for the grater good, i.e., Implement.

Valences, meantime

2008-12-24T09:15:00.000-08:00

Qu’est-ce que c’est loosy goosy?

Proust is not a verb, he Prousts, he Prousted, they Proust. One cannot say, "She attempted to Proust his robust clipping on a day when the hoarfrost stimulated the overhang", and vicey-versey, acey-deucey, loosy-goosy. Valences, meantime, is suffering. Do not feed or water Valences and by no means should you contribute to telemarketing campaigns that may, in fact, befront Valences. Shoes make the man, the man shods the horse, and shoos ingredient the fly pie. Pastries are less and less what they purport to be and more so what I'll term "Monomaniacal Strategies." One must take precautions when attending a huddle of pastry chefs lest one succumb to its dogma: A pie in the safe, a safe in the antechamber, an antechamber of the mind. You could term the mind a subset of the gray matter or you could think of it as the collective Take Offense, mind you. The Heed. Let "X" equal "Variance" then rewrite all your mathematical primers. There is a chance, afterall, that The Prophet will arrive, and by "arrive", I mean the impossible. It's not that we, as a culture, will witness "Opposites", in that event, but language will vary to such an extent that we will require algebra for point-of-sale transactions. It will not mutter if you batter yourself or matter yourself it will not butter. The Valences will come on then, and by "come on", I mean blue you, so with that in mind, go forth and affection the ills of the ilk, bebother, beblather, belove.

Whirreds to the Whys

2008-12-18T06:08:00.000-08:00

When Creme Is Not Enough

The new defibrillators restart the heart and uncover the lies, as well. You can't expect to suffer a heart malady and conceal an untruth any longer. The World War II era Germans considered -- briefly -- world domination of breakfast foods, almost naming their secret police the Waffles S.S. Pancakes everywhere shivered in their griddles, but for a typo, some shivered in their girdles, some women found petrified toastcakes in their bloomers. Lord forbid a greater typo -- the girdle cake -- but why not offer shortstacks in the stacks? Pancakes amidst the musty volumes, as it were, if only our librarian entrepreneurs showed some spine. Why is it such a big deal to sell a seat, I've sold a chair, I've bought a chair, I'm a chairman, in that I seat myself, I chair, I prefer to swivel or recline. A charwoman, on the other hand, cleans the flue, proving that there's a fine line between sitting and dirty politics, Mr. Blog Goy of Itch, Mr. Income Bent. Cherub dub dub, three angels in a tub, or rhymes you'll never hear again, and never did. Saying "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" is like saying "The Grime of the Ancient Grammarian" or "The Lime of the Ancient Librarian." Speaking of which, Citrus is the greatest marketing device since The Great Diversification. I mean, GM, Ford, and Chrysler have been selling Lemons, successfully, for years. Barnum & Bailey considered -- briefly -- running a Citrus instead of a Circus, no rings but rinds, instead, causing Lion Tamers and Loin Teamsters, alike, to shiver in their bouts. With regard to bouts, had the Poultry rumbled with the Samoyeds, you'd've then had the Chickens on the Spitz, whereas true Hybridity is an inebriated wedded woman, a wet dame, so to squeak.

The Consequences Are Offal

2008-12-10T09:29:00.001-08:00

To Overestimate the Saw. To Underestimate the Emergency.

Awful can be Awe Full while Offal is a Circuit, as in a Troupe of Performers from Lesser Bulgaria who lament the virtues of Cowguts au Poivre. Bulgarian officials once pontificated a national name change from "BOOL-gary-UH" to "Pineapple" and a national anthem, hence, that began, "O Pineapple / I opine for thee / I pine for thee / O Pineapple." Emergencies may include Deprivations but are not limited to the Extremities and do not, in general, require Handsaws and Clobber Mallets, unless the Emergency is related to a Derailment, in which case, everyone should don his or her Clobber Mallet, and speak his or her mind without any inhibitions. I was last struck by a Clobber Mallet in the Millennium, and by "struck", I mean moved, physically, by skid steer loader. Back in the days, that is, when a little Despair used to be good for you. "I'm prescribing a little Despair," the doctor would say, whilst scribbling furiously in his Rx pad, then the patient trooped across the boulevard to Woolworth's and sucked down a few Eggcreams while the pharmacy fulfilled the prescription: A Little Despair Twice Daily Take with Bonbons or Dilly Creme. According to legend, Isaac wanted to beget a son named Isau because he believed in Tradition, namely, that the name-bearer would saw, proudly, himself, rather than be Esau, who would saw electronically, on the Internet. Instead of begot, Isaac forgot, and begat a spat with Jacob, who ate the pottage and minded the cottage, until he was cot age, and slept in the Mudroom. "Du tout," say the French. "Do toot," say the Dealers. Which is a Circuit, as in a Troupe of Performers from Lesser Bulgaria. For all we know Confusion may be our salve, and the associated religion, Confusionism, may be benevolent. Desireable, even, in an auto-erotic kind of way, you know, the arousal we all feel at the sight of the Clunker, the combustion of the petroleum. It is Aweful if it is Offal, it is Awe Full if it is Awful, it is Offal if the light dawns on the nation-state of Pineapple, and its armed forces, sporting Hawai'ian Pizzas on their Epaulets, storm the Taverns, the Caverns, the Houses of Multigrain Toast Cakes.

Decline in the Jaws

2008-12-06T07:32:00.000-08:00

11. Thou shalt not blame thine Economy for all thy Failures.

When the Deer Tick bit the Heretic in the Arctic, it was the Deer Tick that suffered a chilly Apostasy. The Heretic, meantime, applied an Epoxy to his Piety, his devotion, that is, to baked dishes which feature savoury ingredients. To cure its economic ills the U.S. Government ought to encourage more Savouring, hugging one's self, in essence, whilst beaming a beatific smile. Left alone, Demand Side Economics will default to the Ultimatums of Old Tomatoes. The Seventh Day Dentists believe in the filling of cavities, offshore drilling, and looting the billfold -- on Sundays. The Great Gingiva, himself, awards the highest honour, the Plaque of the Holy Molar, to that Seventh Day Dentist who seeks the Lucrative Path to the Wisdom Teeth. The earth, meanwhile, faces not only The Greenhouse Effect, but the loss of its vast and valuable Carbonated Waters. These waters have gone flat in recent years, threatening our Soft Drink, beloved Cola, thereby imperiling all Cost Of Living Adjustments. Households may have to switch to Hard Drinks, instead, nails in a bucket of water, or Graceless Drinks, abusers of which often end up in the hospital, in The Awk Ward. Skeptical? Consider the case of the "escort" who received no formal training before going on that first call. A real Layperson, as it were. "Next!" shouts the Clerk. "Next!" shouts the Cleric. For these are the days that fjord the very trickle.

Anemia Per Se

2008-11-25T12:21:00.000-08:00

"Darn deez doodles!"

An Appointment can be a Disappointment whereas an Ointment can salve a Disappointment, which may, in fact, remove the Appointment. Luggage is that which you lug; baggage is that which you bag; adage is that which you add. If you want a diagnosis, you will have to settle for a Diagnosis Per Se. Describe your symptoms one month in advance and await your Diagnosis Per Se underneath the oleander, beside the Winded Patient Per Se, the Rattled Patient Per Se, and the Chapped Patient Per Se. Is peat hummous a Canadian legume dip? Does one harvest peat in the classical sense of the word harvest or the classical sense of the word peat? "Repeat" is to "peat again" whereas more than two peats, i.e., a "threepeat", gets you into the whole Multiple Bean Salad Corollary. Kind of like The Eve before The Eve. Next thing you know, we'll be celebrating every blooming day, irregardless of that day's "musty parlors of yore." I think I feel a Germ coming on, I mean, Germ in the singular. Germ became Germs the way McDonald's has served more Cheeseburgers Per Se, than Cheeseburgers. Every American must engage in QUIZ, no Americans must engage in STOUT, some Americans engage in both QUIZ and STOUT, many Americans resent QUIZ and resent STOUT, those (latter) Americans have, for the time being, lost their electric power. Worshipped is a cross between warshipped and horsewhipped and worcestershire and horseradish but The New Church of Ladder Day Saints will be honoring those who have performed miracles "on the rungs" as it were. There are steps to that faith and footholds, too, at the top of the climb Norman Rockwell hands you a burrito; guacamole is $0.50 extra.

Beef Pineapple Robot

2008-11-16T11:11:00.000-08:00

Be ruthless. Go for the juggler.

I have become the kind of person who can order biscuits over gravy but not the kind of person who can tolerate the true definition of a Constitutional -- what is, essentially, bicycle chaos. The French grape suffers more than the Chilean grape and more than the Syrian grape, but does it suffer more than the Russian potato? The Walloons ballooned and the Huguenots tied they selves into Huge Knots. People say that they are Walloons do people say that they are Walloons people say that they are Flemish, afterall, as well as Phlegmish. Newspaper titles need to be more flexible. The North County Times, for instance, really should be recast as The North County Good & Bad Times. Whatever the case may be, Southern California has a higher percentage of Experimental Yogis than any other region on the globe. Speaking of which -- said Yogis have much to say on the topics of globulization and Globular Warming. Meat eaters may swallow the fear of the animal but that doesn't mean the meat eaters shall become fearful, in fact, it means that they will become Chicken Satay Robot. Some will become Drunken Noodle Robot while others will become Beef Pineapple Robot. There is no Moo Shu Pork Robot although there is Moo Shu Porkbarrel Robot and his name is Congress. After Tex / Mexy I was Lava / Tory and then I felt human again, i.e., I could, once again, Go for the Jugular or is that Go for the Juggler? The Sea Breeze came face to face with the Santa Ana and the result was When Microclimates Collide. A cute angle is obtuse, when you dream it, all angles are gifts, yours is I Sauce a Lease -- Eye Saws the Police -- Applesauce Please, dig it and "ridic" as in Ridiculous, Citizen, as in the Walloonie Bin.

The Confusion of The Swede

2008-11-04T08:19:00.000-08:00

Tip #3: A complex moment. No sudden movements.

The Swede sets out everyday at sunbreak, dressed in blue, in his turtleneck diamond pattern sweater. Nobody ever says "good morning" or "nice axe" or "your postmodern haircut." No, The Swede departs in a silence so Swedish it is Appalachian. To be Swedish is to be sugary-like, to be Sweetish. The Swede takes a nip from his Ass Pocket of Stockholm Glögg and commences to chop. The Swede chops This and The Swede chops That. To be a Swede is to chop, afterall, the wind does he chop and the water, too, in Sweden is a hard, heavy water, in need of regular chopping to effect a kind of order, oh, the chop of the Briny. At times, every Swede faces a band of marrauding foresters who attempt to yank his blue underoos out from beneath his blue trousers, and those Swedes caught in that kind of malevolent horseplay must then live in The Northern Land of the Wedgie, in that, they become Norwegian. That doesn't really happen so much anymore as most Norwegians are a stoic group. At the end of the day, The Swede mutters a time-tested, focus group-tested, market-tested joke that he calls his Nordic joke: "I am Finnished," he says, followed by, "heh heh heh." He has, by then, axed himself and his clan a varmint that he places, each day, in a fresh paper sack, folks, a fresh paper sack. He then walks the sad, isolated, chilly road that leads to the traditional Swedish ski lodge betwixt a spray of spruce pines. It is amazing, thus, in those sub-Arctic moments, with snow weighing down the land, that the woman, in blue top and mini-skirt, comes out of doors, leading the traditional eight Swedish children. We can never see The Swede in that instant, for every such Swede is turned away from the Swedish folk artist who accompanies him home each evening, but that Swede does wield "a searching pride" as he does wield his paper sack: "This life," he thinks. "This varmint. This axe. This Sweden!"

Signs & Symbols

2008-10-22T11:55:00.000-07:00

Bend over to sniff perpendicular shark bubbles?

Do you think that Basques ever made Bisques? I know this: Had they ever cooked a jiffy pancake they'd've called the mix BasQuick. If you've been hearing the same goat again and again, then clearly you need Bas Relief. Speaking of which, it may come to pass that all Americans will soon be eligible for Relief. Defined, to each, in his or her own way, of course. Some of us may need money kind of relief; some of us may need spell-you kind of relief; yet others will wish to enter An Era of Regularity, no doubt. Kind of like The Era of Good Feelings except I'd characterize the Feelings as, well, "dependable" and "right on schedule" as opposed to "amicable" and "of orotund fraternization". Keep Dreaming. i.e., That bus is always late. Never not. In the meantime, we'll have to consider the Current State of American Signage versus The Signage That Could Be. For instance, I'd like many signs erected that might warn: Imminent Risk of Dumbass. Or: Imminent Risk, Dumbass. Instead, all we're told is, "It's a quarter mile to the next McNugget", that famous be-breaded Scottish chicken chunk.

Persecution Duplex

2008-10-05T18:38:00.000-07:00

For a balmy bonce

There is an upstairs to a complex and a downstairs to a prosecution. All Americans will soon engage in Hypothermia Practice, which is, broadly speaking, band practice without the instruments, uniforms, and sheepmusic. No, that's not a tasket hound, that's a gasket sound. Too many claps on the buttocks nowadays celebrate an insufficient outcome so much so one must come to terms with too many claps on the buttocks. Coffee will now be served during most North American ecological disasters. The terms of the financial bailout are as follows: (1) You may visit "Your Money" once a month on weekends, and (2) "Your Money" is hereafter defined as "Theoretically Liquid." As in, Pisswater, theoretically. A typical Salisbury Steak Frozen Dinner has been fed into a Supper Collider where it is being slammed into Mac 'n' Cheez, Hamhocks & Cornbread, Surf 'n' Turf, and Rigatoni, in the hopes of discovering Quantum Epigastric Development (Q.E.D.) It might be funny to feed Twelve Trillion Dollars of American Debt into the Hadron SuperCollider in the Swiss Palps and see if a black hole will eat it, or just pick at it, if it's not hungry. That's about all we can hope for, otherwise. Son, says the parent, if you work hard, you, too, can grow up. Period. 'Bout all we can hope for, to Grow Up. That night, the son sleeps beside the lyre, and the lion creature devours his dreams. Nobody ever said that.

Das Lunchmeats

2008-09-21T13:09:00.000-07:00

The buck stops here. "Indeed."

The rate of surplus value divided by a thirty ought six continued to result in Lunchmeats. There will be, Fellow Citizens, some day, a National Museum of the American Lunchmeats, which will feature papier mache replicas of submarine and other nautical sandwiches. According to the bloated blue mimeograph that the young worshipper relied upon for restroom reading, one should pray to one's guardian angel to help free daddy's skid steer loader from the water table. The cool dew lubricated the deep grass, and that's when the attentional difficulties came on, Religion, Venison, Religion, Venison, although reverence toward one typically resulted in plenty of the other. The neighbor threatened to power up his scraper box. Those were dimestore, jokestore antlers, they had been stapled to the buck's head, if only it were a buck, if only there were carbohydrates, then the opportunity for a bipartisan BBQ may have fruitionated. The Cosmonaut endured his epigastric difficulties because he re-galled the epigastric difficulties of his Cossack forebears and the types of Caucasic Distress they had overcome, and this exercise resulted in the type of Orbital Weightlessness never possible at Dairy Queen or during a snackchips felony. Lunchmeats is a reward system though in the wrong hands Lunchmeats can be a false summit. Consider the DSM-IV Manual of psychiatric diagnoses: no. 823.09 -- Lunchmeats Disorder, Moderate. Symptoms include speaking to Lunchmeats in frank, rational tones, demanding to know what became of Youth. "Give me some answers," the sufferer can be heard to say, whilst harrying an English muffin. The hurricane remnants came through for half an hour. The worshipper's daddy and the neighbor stood there, hands on hips, lamenting how hurricane remnants whuddn't what they used to be. The neighbor powered up his scraper box. The game animal came out of the woods, then -- shoot, it could've been the Duchesser Windsor, but it was Fourth and 2, and Coach was sending out the taxi squad, or so said the Television Set, Religion, Venison, Religion, Venison.

Loss of Beatitude

2008-09-09T18:53:00.001-07:00

"Here's lookin' at you, Freezerface!"

Remnants are a loom product and Remnants are the exhaust of a dead storm and Remnants are the hours we typically devote to anxious pontifications or subdued debauchery. Doctors have performed the first Beatific Smile Transplant in history by removing the Beatific Smile from the Arse of a Mr. [censored], and attaching it, bravely, to another man's countenance, thereby restoring Beatific Smile to a second Mr. [censored], who'd suffered Loss of Beatitude. Ah, the tilt of the beret. The receipt of cultural information. It must be Academe, you know, written exams, oral exams, digital exams. Did a dog once Retrieve the entire land mass of Labrador? Rote chores or wrote choirs. To fool the I, to fool the Oeil, trump, trompe, chump, chomp. To attain the rank of Middle Manager is to develop skill sets in correlation with long term goals, or, how to serve that lunchmeat, Inertia, with a side order of Props. Habitat is where your Habit is At. Don't be all, like, up in my face with this "Boers 'n' the Commuter Rail" nonsense because I espied those wild Boers, and heard their "kookete kookete kookete" who says "kookete kookete kookete" anyhow or were those the blooming railroad wheels bracketing toward the municipality of Halethorpe and its adult video landfill? Oh, Sameness of Waterfront Errants, Oh, Every Culture and Its Gravy, Oh, Whap Whap Kneady Jones. To "Whopper the Colonel" is to deliver, yes, a Flame Broiled Burger to a ranking officer, and to deliver a Bent Truth, i.e., Angled Artifice the size of, say, a Dirigable, to a ranking officer, kookete kookete kookete.

The Spin Cycle

2008-08-21T06:43:00.001-07:00

We are well equipped to attack The Weather.

In some countries, it's not the Grim Reaper but die Erdkröte aus Tod, or the Death Toad, who shows up, on the doorstep, in a blurry thundershower. That will only happen if (A) your time is Up or (B) die Kartoffelkroketten were dry. To be clear -- if the croquette potatoes were dry, the Death Toad will come. If the tropics are busy this year, then the X storm will be Hurricane Xerox, which will repeat the path of the storm that came before, a real aid to The Generals Weather. Jails are becoming more user-friendly: While they won't offer to vend you your orange jumpsuit, they will leave it on a hanger in your cell, kind of like a hotel robe challenge, after you've dressed in street clothes, upon parole. Beware Opportunity and Beware Cost, both are Felonies in the 21st Century. If you engage in Sport then you will engage in Itch. If you engage in Itch then you will engage in Prickerbush. If you engage in Sport then you will engage in Prickerbush. "A man is not a laundry machine." Okay? "A man is not the spin cycle." Okay? Unvarnish thy prose ; debloomer thine oration ; reflutter thine eyebat ; unration thy scintillation. La bas la bas la boogie!

Dearth, Incorporated

2008-08-12T19:54:00.000-07:00

Grand Theft Downpour.

Behold the Drought. It loiters and we forget. We engage in abominations while the Drought endures. The rains must come if the rains don't come. If the rains don't come the rains must come. You know the rest. The cucumbers parch beside the heirlooms. The vegetarian goes without. He must sample a little turkey, instead. He must chew a little tender, juicy bird. Behold the Drought. The lip of it to the north of Danville, Va., amongst all the Danville Gals. A beachhead to the west of Ocean City, N.J., amongst all the Danville Gals. It loiters, the Drought, and we forget. We water our crabrass. Nudge our grabass. Bed down beside our false idols. The Neo-Stoics postulate that water, itself, thirsts, and assert the stratagem. The rains must come if the rains don't come. If the rains don't come the rains must come. Shortages is Shortages. That's the plan. "For sayings you are, and unto sayings shall you return." We engage in abominations while the Drought endures: Senator, Senator, Senator, Senator & Co.

Pride and Pejorative

2008-08-06T10:16:00.000-07:00

I'm so proud, I could privatize myself.

I'd vote for Hoss but not for Haas. I ain't electing nobody who got no splotch on they billboard. That there is a SPLOTCH or my name ain't kicked around the paint factory. I don't keer if his ealdormen fought with that dumbass at Essex. He can color himself blue and run around the woods all he wants, I don't keer. I have a convection to make. I told my priest that I have a confection to make. That's not true. I ain't got no priest. I don't have no busfare, yes, I have no milk money. The big spiders hide in the banana bunches. The banana bunches travel, coach class, on banana boats. Hence, by the transitive property of mathematics, the confession was a perjury, per the jury's instrumentation. Ever heard the Jury Quartet and their new single, "Guilty, Guilty, Guilty, Guilty-y-y-y-y?" It's pretty bad, actually, it's a "tet" offensive. Okay, kay, kay. A member of the elite border policemen stops a car on the Italian/Austrian border but it could be anywhere, kay?, anywhere. He asks the driver to unlock the trunk, which is standard procedure. A search of the trunk reveals an enormous pumpkin. "Vass ees thees?" he stammers, "Vass ees thees?" That's the question. Now, choose the correct answer: (a) The policeman as the "avant gourd" (b) For shame: Manwich is a Meal but a pumpkin's a SQUASH. Drizzle that vinaigrette on your little grape tomato, little cherry tomato confab, Hoss.

Ode to Odors

2008-07-28T10:42:00.001-07:00

Right next door to Funkin' Donuts.

Odor in America. It's not just funk, it's a ritual, a Rite. A right protected by the constitution. Men wearing mirrored glasses and three piece suits can eat submarine sandwiches, wrote the Founders, and bear arms, even as they expose they stinky armpits -- they Flounders -- in the process. Bearing arms is kind of like doing the hokey pokey, kind of like a potluck, in Marianna, Fla., a little Fish Fry, which is healthfoods, by the way, specially if said Fry is held at a place of worship. Eat a little sole, to save your soul. Eat a little sardine if you dig The Dumb Animal. But don't eat no smelts, if you are what you eat. Else, you might smelts, bad, so sayeth Leviticus: As in Foundry as in funk (20:20). Hint: don't bring that Strange Odor before the Lord lest the Lord smite you. On the Q.T., backchannel, we all know that the Lord gets a little loosy goosy, in that regard. He digs his Smote Salmon, with a little Garden of Eden cream cheese, on a Deuteronomy Bagel. Speaking of which: Dude, where's my Economy? Didn't we, like, hand Dubya a Surplus? Some will pull the lever for the McCain / Abel ticket, and if McCain / Abel win, I hope they Do the Rite Thing. O, Do Rite, I want to tell them: ODoRite. We'll need it: Odorite.

Reverting to Feral Ways

2008-07-21T09:01:00.000-07:00

Sugar in the Raw!

Let's face it: We can control our climate but not our primate. Adulterers are those who criminally impersonate adults. I send you my (r)egrets because I'd rather you be visited by a seafowl. Depressed about protocol? Take your antideprecedents. The British have it right: Their raincoats, the way they talk. The Scot took a doomp. A brick layer is a mason in the trowel-wielding sense, that is, one who specializes in the "escapades" (and ice capades) of sunbaked or kiln-fired clay products. Perversely, a marine layer is not an individual who specializes in the urges of our fighting men but a cloud pattern blown (ahem) ashore from the see the holey see. To be swayed by suede is to stand in deference to indifference. A summands is a noun; derives from summa; a term in a summation. An addenda to an agenda. What kind of society debates the availability of "free condoms" when it won't offer free condiments? Us and our low carburator diets. Our liens and our leotards. Our neins and our neo-tards. God Bless the Good Ol' United States of Corporation! (Lo-o-o-o-o mein!)

The Similarity Between Feline and Peafowl and the Snackchip Habits of Us All

2008-07-13T14:53:00.000-07:00

Same racket. Different act?

Scene 1: Alleyway. Muggy night, post-thunder, pre-cool. Ferocious mewing and metal garbage can overturned. Screeches of pain. Pain of screech. The ill wind of an evil moan and garbage can overturned, spill of bottles and spin of tops. The kind of calm, then, ensuing, that chills the very steel of steely, the very iron of irony. You: Urban ooh-ooh. Your wingtips and your vegetarianism and your vote, chump. Fighting, you aver. It should be broken up, says you. The poor beasts, in an environment devoid of regulation. Policies, you say. You thump your fist into your palm. Policies and enforcement. The leonine brutality. The Modern Age. The Lesson: Yam, slam, oop bop sh'bam. Sexy kittens. Scene 2: Fishing hole, central time, Panhandle, a starter storm that is here, that is there. Piercing shriek mid-tree, fanning of tail, and squonk. Shocking squonk and shriek climbing in thunder-light summands. The fear of the fish in the fishing hole, the fear of the hole, itself. The horror of blood beating the eardrum. "Salt Peanuts," goes them ears. "Salt Peanuts. Salt Peanuts." You: Food Jr., batter the cinderblocks, bulk chaw, yeahright. Up there, says you, where the limbs ramify, re-ramify, and play the trades. The love the peacock feels for the peahen. That the peahen would accept the peacock's tailfan and not criticize his stature in the larger peafowl taxonomy. The love, says you, that awaits us all. The Lesson: Oop bop sh'bam, a goo goo mop. Scene 3: The beasts about us. They covet curve of hindquarter. They covet wisp of arsefeather. They struggle and they mate. What greater perversion, then, that the human would prefer a snack chip? The glue that secures the bag. The tinny struggle to liberate the Dorito. The cheesy crunch. Whilst the television promotes acts of competition. Note: This entry posted from breezy Carlsbad, Calif., underneath the baobab, underneath the watchful eye of the hawk, beside the restless, relentless Pacific, a goo goo mop.

Battle of Maldon Recital Memoirs

2008-07-07T14:18:00.001-07:00

That means you!

I once drew the Éire of the Irish eyer. She: none other than [censored] who lectured me in languages at an institution of lower learning. She bade me translate and I did: Some fat dude, I said, alofted his sword and noted that he had the Norse pinned between the Irish cliffs -- as spare and severe as the face of [censored] -- AHEM! -- and the Hard Rock Cafe. But the Viking leader appealed to the furnace of the fat dude's fairness and the fat dude allowed the Vikings to stew until Tide Subside, so there could be a fight. "Salami," he yelled, which meant Discount Carpet, Hello, and Family Values, in one word. It evolved towards, or from, the Hebrew "Shalom" and towards or from the call to supper, known as Salami Aleikum. Well, I went on, the tide subsided and the Vikings climbed toward the English King, there, at Essexshire-on-Schrod, he hadn't moved, and his arm -- alofting the sword -- was mighty taxed. His name! demanded [censored]. Uh, I said: Ruddy the Reddy? Unruddy the Unreddy? [censored] held aloft her yardstick and crashed it whapwhap on me knucklebacks.

The Vikings plundered Booty, and plundered Booty, for there were two kinds of Booty: the Onion, and -- That's not in the text, shouted [censored] and brought down the whapwhap. Some Brits painted themselves blue a while, whereas the Vikings rarely felt depressed, for they had carried aboard boxes of Uncle Abe's Sardine Kit and Uncle Abe's Venison Kit. The Vikings returned to Denmark, and emigrated, eventually, to Minnesota, where the Venison Kit finally made sense. Meantime, descendents of the descent of the decent few who'd been beheaded at the behest of the King Viking, formed a support group. They met to discuss fears of canoes and assorted dugouts, the panic they felt at the slightest butter knife "quickly dipt" into oleo. Well, I said, that's about it, except the part where they cook Brown Sauce for the priest, I think his name was Buckle, Mickey Buckle. Bra-VO, said [censored] in a way that made me think of Seagrams, second, and bosoms, first. She served tea and animal crackers. Handed me an "A" and a "Minus." She said: Sum assembly rechoired.

To Kick a Mockingbird's Ass

2008-06-25T21:41:00.000-07:00

This bad actor is a LARGE part of the pantomime.

Days ago, during a muggy jog up towards the Cathedral, a soldier from D.C. Beaks, a gang of mockingbirds, assaulted me in front of the Australian Embassy, while a uniformed Secret Service officer ate a submarine sandwich. It is true, that I was wearing my gang colors, at the time: A Baltimore Orioles cap. The mockingbird pecked the oriole on my cap, then swooped again, leaving me Twice Pecked, Once from Cleveland. He proceeded to alight in a distant oak, and did what mockingbirds do, he mocked me. He discussed the importance of swing voters in the presidential race, he spoke to me in rusty French, he submitted some poems for publication. Just before I jogged out of earshot, he wondered why it wasn't he, a mockingbird, on the cap, when there are plenty of mimidae in Baltimore, and to boot, the oriole doesn't exactly frighten the blue jay, the tiger, the ranger, etcetera. He didn't say etcetera. He said, "Recession." He said, "Try pissing into a dixie cup during a Category Five Twister." Then his song faded.

A mockingbird could best a Finch, even one that nested in the Atticus. No, a mockingbird is not innocent, not the mockingbird I banged with, while the Nation of Australia did nil, and the Secret Service ate some Subway. Still, I agree with Harper Lee, in noting that a mockingbird should not be killed. To wit, we should kick its ass, instead, if only we could confront the thug where he alights. O, Lord: Why is there perch? There is perch, sayeth the Lord, to remind us of what a serpent is not. Why is there serpent? There is serpent, sayeth the Lord, to administer justice. Justice? What does the serpent know of justice? It knows not, sayeth the Lord. That's the point. O, Lord: I'm confused. Take a seasalt bath, sayeth the Lord. Engage in the utility of lavender. Lord: why didst thine mockingbird assault me? Mine mockingbird, sayeth the Lord, assaulteth even me, that pesky son of a gun, with those dilly wings and that dilly tail. Tis why I createth the hawk, but yesterday I didst espy the mockingbird routing the hawk. We must soaketh the brisket over-night, sayeth the Lord, then leave it beneath the distant oak, for the mockingbird dost judge our fate. Huzzah!

War of the Worlds: A Slavonica

2008-06-06T13:53:00.001-07:00

"Lookit yonder subURPS."

Out in Montgomery County, Md., as the crow flies, cries, and pries, one can find two entire Worlds: Leisure World and Privacy World. They are, as it were, housing developments, the former for Senior Cits and the Latter for Private Cits. There are no other Cits. You are either Senior or Private. I will now wait a minute while you choose sides. [Pause.] Thank you. Now, there has been arranged an Olympiad between the two developments, which abut one another along Georgia and Connecticut Avenues, in the sprawling 'burbs and 'burps. There will be competitions, specifically, in Leisure and in Privacy. Residents of Leisure World are expected to excel at Leisure, and acey-ducey, in that the residents of Privacy World are expected to excel at Privacy. There was talk of a hybrid Leisure-Privacy Decathalon, but negotiations stalled and then coffee cake and coffee were served. Coffee was chosen because it was Healthfoods. But it was also chosen because it can be both Leisure and Privacy. Coffee cake is not Healthfoods, however, and it is not Privacy. Coffee cake is 100 percent Leisure, folks, and controversy will always dog Leisure until The End. Did you hear the one about Leisure and Privacy? Okay: Leisure took legal action in order to communicate more effectively with Privacy. It was Leisure's suit to write to Privacy. [Ba-doom tish.] John McEnroe: Please: The last name of the No. 3 ranked men's tennis player is not pronounced JOCK-of-Itch, it is JOKE-O-vitch. Not JOCK-of-Itch, like the man, JOCK, is the son of Itch, eh, John McEnroe? Have you hugged a Slav today? Huh, John McEnroe, have you hugged a Slav? Please rise, turn to your left, and hug the nearest Slav. Thank you and: [Eggseunt.]

The Many Sides of Beef

2008-05-27T14:42:00.000-07:00

Shame, Shame, Hillshire Farms: False Advertising.

Back in the old days of Grunting and Scratching & Vexing and Flexing, "beef" used to mean one thing only: [censored]. Oh, you know, it came to mean Dispute, of course, verb and noun. One could express a beef, or beef loudly, for example, with one's kinsman. Said kinsman, indeed, could entertain a beef whilst grilling a beef on his Hibachi and, to wit, could Air His Beef, as well. The Airing of the Beef is a Signature Event in most western Psychotherapies, if not at red traffic lamps. Today, of course, with the advent of Jet Travel, beef has become a destination, as well. If, that is, you wish to visit the British Virgin Islands. Then you must travel to Beef Island, like it or not. Many other countries, with eyes toward luring travelers, have strategically placed beef nearby airports, and in many cases, within airports, thereby making beef, [censored], available as part of most itineraries. It has also, beef has, come to mean substance. In a famous moment in U.S. Political History, Ronald Reagan (R-Calif.) asked Walter Mondale (D-Minn.) "Where's the beef?" after the two had sat down together for Psychotherapies. I believe that Mondale still, to this day, seeks the beef. As in, he pursues both a beef and the beef, ad nauseum, museum da, to his own detriment. That's what one did, in the old days: Pursued a beef to one's own detriment. Nowadays, you can't even tell a rufous bird from a man, "Roofus," who resembles a slanted overhead shelter. The Beat Generation had its chance. I call upon a New Generation of Americans -- The Beef Generation -- to stand up. Organize your Beefdoms, your Coral Beefs. Together, we march as One Flank, One Loin, One Shank, One Rib, One Tib, One Round, One Skirt, One Roast, One Ground.

America's Crumbling Infer-structure

2008-05-23T07:22:00.000-07:00

Hardly a new trend in law enforcement.

You've got libel and you've got liability. The mouse found in the oleo. You've got stock and you've got crackpot. Aunt Ratchet and Unka Work Release. The star of the band, according to Dizzy Gillespie, is not you. Not you. Not you. The Authorities have decided upon This Year's Heroes and you must now worship them. The authorities have also decided upon This Year's Gyros and you must worship This Year's Heroes while eating This Year's Gyros. Those who do not engage in worship of any kind will be Violated. If your worship will deviate from the Parameters, then you must apply for a Waiver. The office, however, is closed, and the forms, nevertheless, are broken. The people who can (1) open the office and (2) mend the Waivers have declared themselves unfit for service. There are no other people. Therefore you must worship within the scope of the Parameters. Otherwise, you will be Violated. Worship, we should note, includes Calories. We should also note that Calories is defined as Parts. You may not qualify for worship unless you have consumed many Parts. Therefore, according to the transitive property of mathematics, we can assume that Calories will worship This Year's Heroes. It is 1957 on the CD player. It is Newport, at that. The star of the band is not you, according to Dizzy Gillespie. Not you. Not you. It is Pee Wee Moore. May your weekend be filled with Notes so pleasant as Moore laboring over his saxophone (bari). Less Labor. Moore laboring. Happy Holiday, Folks. Cheers and beers.

If You Bring Strange Fire Before the Lord

2008-05-17T11:27:00.000-07:00

The Lord's SmitePad: Thy Smittance Approacheth

If you bring strange fire before the Lord, the Lord may (1) raise your rent, or (2) smite you with Vibrato. "Well, pickle my herring," I say. I say, Vibrato derives from the Latin, "Vibratus," which is translated, literally, as the Rabbit that eludes the Snow Cat. There was, too, apparently, a man named Vibratus, and he wrote, and his writings, known as The Collected Sheathes of Vibratus, featuring such works as "Acey Ducey" and "Vicey Versey," were very powerful, according to Thucydides, and he was, Vibratus, thus appointed Vibrator of the Lower Duchies. There is, to this day, a Vibrator of the Lower Duchies, and his role, though largely ceremonial, is, according to the Chinese Instruction Manual, "to achieve Vibrato in a calm and confident manner, such as would lead people to pronouncements of personal discovery -- that, or lead them to drum madly in the woods." And then, read the Postcolonial novel, "The English came."

There are big kids who live in Hershey, Penna., as well as little kids who live in Hershey, Penna. -- you know, Hershey Squirts. It means either "Buttocks" or "choking the Coach" when a Corporation acts. Where else would the violinist live, but in Upper Caucasia? You may apply a poultice to yourself or you may apply a poultice to poultry or you may apply a poultry to yourself or you might apply for a job at the Great Pince Nez / Nez Perce Susurrus of 2008. Someplace in this country, a man who wields some power is demanding his Bib. It is furthermore conceivable that a man named Posey is fetching that Bib. "Posey," says the former, "bring me my Bib!" At the end of the workaday, people ride conveyances toward destinations, with their iPods and their Debt. Call it "The Sum of the Songs at Nightfall." We have, collectively, set our Vibrato on Vibrate. Is it the Funeral for our excess Qualities? Or the Qualities of our excess Funeral?

MacBeth, Explained -- Read On

2008-05-06T12:12:00.000-07:00

"Quit deforesting my #$&!-ing $%&*," sayeth They.

The fact is, Trees do talk, even if they do it chemically. "For the record," they say: "Fetish ain't no river in Serbia though Fettoosh is a salad in Syria." But Salads, Folks, are Trees, like it or not, and those Trees are talking a lot of gibberish about Toe Jam and Futbol Scores, etc., that the Syrians swallow when they eat they Fettoosh. And by Syrians, I mean Syria, Ohio, eh? The Trees, moreover, predicted that the Cavaliers would defeat the Celtics in 6 games, but Superdelegates would award the series, anyway, to Boston. Okay. Kay. Kay. Kay. A Tree and a Rabbi walk into a Lumberyard. Or is it a Tree and a Rabbit walk into a Lumbaryard? A Priest and Poplar? A Debutante and a Doppler? Lots of talk about "Eras" in Our Great Nation. We live in The Associative Era, no matter what, meaning that you cannot, repeat: cannot, even sit next to someone in a waiting room without being blamed for their Obese Cultural Value Set. Consider that the next time you sit beside an Elm, a Sugar Maple, a Hickory, a Ficus, or a Fettoosh.

Do you think that, when he wrote, "Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill," Shakespeare was thinking of a classic hard-on? It's poetry, Yo, so it has millions of possible interpretations. Mine is, the Bard had a (massive) morning woody whilst staying in his lodge at Birnam, i.e., "Great Birnam wood," and had to otherwise depart immediately with Mrs. Bard "to high Dunsinane hill," and thus, the whole experience served as an inspiration for his famous, and lethal, Scottish play, MacBeth. Don't listen to your English proffs. The F do they know, anyhow? (That's a pun, folks.) I'm not much of an actor -- I do play a small role in National Geographic's RAT GENIUS -- but it's not a recurring role and I have not, Ahem, seen any royalties yet -- but I do hear that actors are loath to participate in a staging of MacBeth, because, apparently, the play is cursed. I think that a Japanese film company should produce Hamlet vs. MacBeth. In it, I would expect MacBeth to kick Hamlet's ass, even though Tokyo and outlying Prefectures would be devastated in the struggle. "Domo!"

The Worst Things Ever Done

2008-04-30T10:43:00.000-07:00

Before he wet his pants or as punishment for said offense?

If it's a pump, it's a sump pump. Why sump pump? Because it's pumpin' sumpin'. You could address the pump directly, "S'up pump?" Or: "Whattya sumpin', Pumpin'?" A pump is a heel and you are a pump. And by that, I mean "you" -- not you. Why do you always think it's you when I say, "You?" There is an increase in people getting hit by more animals falling out of trees than ever before. There is an increase in trains approaching more dysfunctional depots than ever before or other versions of the underworld. There is an increase in Taco Bell orders at the Wendy's drive-thru. So, what is de-creasing, you ask? Beside wash 'n' wear pleats and furrowed brows, it ain't much, Meshach-a-belly. Everything else is good and creased. I mean, look no farther than the tomatillo, the wasp, the bannister, the canister, and the purple martin. Eh? Add that to the rainfall totals and the result is: The deficits are so ridiculous, they become imaginary.

Imagine the imaginary. It ain't so easy, ain't it? Somewhere in the panhandle of Fla., is a man named Joe Shores, who once told a good ol' boy to go knocking door to door, and to say that "Joe Shores sent me." Sent you to do what? "Odd jobs." You can say that again. "'Scuse me?" All righty. "Huh?" All righty. If a Good Ol' Boy is a GOB then a man who defeats him is a GOB Stopper. I, personally, have many complaints about stoppers, eh? My landlady stole the stopper to the bathtub for instance and now I have to use a sock. Consider the shame felt by the sock, which was once a lovely place to glove the foot. Now it stoppers the tub. There are such devices known to mankind as flopper stoppers, dropper stoppers, and proper toppers. What goes where and who goes with who is a mystery to me, and if it ain't no mystery to you, I sure would like to hear from you, whoever you are. I'd call you a heel, and by that, I'd mean to pump you for information. What you got?

"Up, Up, Up, Up -- AAAH!"

2008-04-23T09:16:00.000-07:00

The Big Yellow Up Arrow: Sign of a Healthy Universe?

The Dictionary defines "Recession" as an indent, a hairline, a tide, and a greensward where European schoolchildren used to play with rubber balls before a Pogrom. Oh, and there's a word or two about The Economy. In that, it must contract for a while in order to be considered a Recession. For two Quarters, to be exact. Thus, at halftime, with your team, "The Economy," down by 12 points, Yes, then, it's time to float-about the "R" word, especially if, up until then, The Economy has been having a winning season. Speaking of teams, and names -- it might be more fearsome for The Yankees, let's say, to go on the road and face The Recession. Or The Depression. Or The Dustbowl. Or The Layoffs. Or The Foreclosure. Or The Rate Cuts. Why do we insist on all these potentially offensive American Indian references -- Braves, Chiefs, Redskins, etc. -- when, instead, The Yankees could lose 3 out of 4 to The Vacancy? Or to The New Deal?

I once knew a guy named Charles Osbourne the 2nd. Or, if you will, C-O-2. He was funny. He was a gas. Although he was Not Noble and he was Not Inert. He always had a fever and threatened to "take" karate. Take it where? I would ask myself. To the movies? To the park? TO THA STREETS? Question: Is it a Fool who is a Dolt or is it a Fool who fools us? Our Great Country of the Ponzi Schemes and Venison Stew. Our Great Country of the Airplane Growling above the Nature Preserve. Our Great Country of the Televised Calisthenics and Cholesterol Mishap(s). Say "perchance" if you must say "perchance." Say "per annum" if you must say "per annum." Say "periodontist" if you've got them nasty molars. Question: Is it a Fool who is a Dolt or is it a Fool who fools us? Answer: Think of a fish. Who is both a Fool (Dolt) and a Fool (Trickster). Note: I said nothing about Politics. That, my friend, is your worried mind re-booting. As well it should.

Oh, There Are Hearts

2008-04-16T05:27:00.000-07:00

Commentary: Beware the tongue! when Kissin' the King.

The Boy with the Broken Heart and the Boy with the Overflowing Heart sit, tables apart, at the Howard Johnson Breakfast Buffet. You can tell who's who by noting which of the two presides over a plate heaping with home fries and ketchup and which of the two presides over a plate of melon cubes and yoghurt. You can tell who's who by noting which of the two has groomed himself a fancy facial hair display and which of the two has allowed his facial hairs to grow unkempt like a weedy lea. There are girls, oh, there are girls. There are hopes, oh, there are hopes. There is bacon, oh, there is bacon. And there are Hearts, oh, there are Hearts. One of these Hearts is Broken and one of these Hearts is Overflowing. The two Boys write poems. They write sheathes of poems. In one of the sheathes, the Heart Overflows. In the other sheath, the Heart Breaks. Perhaps you can guess which of the two Boys wrote which of the two sheathes. Things tend to correspond -- to correlate -- to arrange themselves for devotion -- in these ways.

The Boy with the Broken Heart wins the Pulitzer Prize. Well, not yet, but many years from now, his Collected Sheathes will triumph. He will be easy to spot in a crowd. He will sit in an armchair surrounded by Boys and Girls who wear goatees on their chins and flowers in their hair, respectively. "Whipped cream," he will say, and "My time in Venice," and "Grotesque dreams." Those sitting about him will say, "Ohhh." The Boy with the Broken Heart will be awarded an Endowed Chair at a Prestigious State University. It will be called the Broken Heart Endowed Chair in the Literary Art of Poetry Sheathing, and all will be well in the House of Babel, as they say, in the song. But what of the Boy with the Overflowing Heart? He grows bitter. In his opinion, those who advance in the world of poetry sheathing say the word "F**k" too often and curse the current president. There are no chairs for him, poor soul, cept the ones at HoJo's. As my friend, F. Nouns, would say: "There is a morale to this story." There is another kind of Heart out there. There are many such alternatives. Cultivate one of them. Then sing yr @&*$ing song.

The Post-Hoax Era

2008-04-09T07:12:00.000-07:00

The head is REAL. The rest is a GAS. Go figure.

I had an Aunt Yeti, once. Nobody talked about her much. And her whereabouts were always just a bit too vague for discomfort. In my family, we say the person's first name and then the town where he or she resides. Because everyone is named the same darned name. For example, there's Abe Long Island, Abe Toronto, and Abe California. Abe California really lives on a vegetarian commune in Oregon, but he's always been Abe California -- as in, the man does not have a telephone, or a homing pigeon, or a blow-up doll. And there's another Abe, like, Abe North America, or something, or Abe Daylight Savings Time, or Abe Witness Relocation. Aunt Yeti, on the other hand, was an exception. You didn't have to say Yeti Himalayas or Yeti National Forest, because there was no other Yeti. She was Aunt Yeti. We had all kinds of terrible rhymes that we'd sing, running around the empty lot where we kids used to play that great old game, Missing Link. "Yeti spaghetti," we'd sing, for example. There was talk, for a time, of a Yeti/Teddy ticket, way back in 1980, just before the Miracle on Ice. Yep: Yeti and Ted Kennedy, although it was unclear whether America was ready, at the time, for a woman on the ticket.

I think the funniest possibility regarding the famous 1967 Patterson-Gimlin Film (frame 352 appears above) is that a dude who neither Patterson nor Gimlin knew dressed up like a Sasquatch and ran out in front of the camera. If you subscribe to that possibility, then, no, it wasn't a hoax, because suddenly, out of the forest, strode Aunt Yeti, as far as you knew. This film, by the way, probably inspired the disappointing, yes, disappointing "Blair Witch Project," which was not scary, because you knew it was a film. Had the BWP folks not told us it was a film, then it might've been scary. As a kid, Leonard Nimoy (aka Spock) scared the crap out of me because I didn't know he was a film. When I found out later that Leonard Nimoy was a film, I laughed it off by guzzling a 40 on the back stoop. That's how you celebrate the end of a Hoax: "Like a MAN// with a 40 in yr HAND." (Bumpa bumpa.) Anyhow. Let's get something straight: This era that we're in -- call it what you will -- but I'll call it The Post-Hoax Era -- sucks. We don't have true Hoaxes anymore. We have, what? Shoplifting? Grand Theft Auto? We have Theft. Our Hoaxes, meantime, cry the proud, stiff tears of a dying language.

Mit Charlie und Chaplin

2008-04-02T06:34:00.000-07:00

"Die Trout swimmen mit die Kraut!"

Und die Doubt in der Bats-in-der-Belfry. In der Belfasten Irisher Cabbagevolk in der Belt und der Fastener inkommen zee Fasten das Lenten. Das Boot! Oh, Das Boot! Neathen sie Atlantikken wheren die Trout swimmen mit die Kraut! Der Krauten toppen dem Sausage. Der Sausage mit der -- HO HO HO! -- die Petzel in der Kavern. Sich dem Tavern wheren der Busten bulgen der Blouse. Der Frau frownen zee Snookums mit der Pepperspray. Iffen die Snookums eaten dem Chocolates den die Snookums givven dem Grossenfarts inder Nacht. Under lachten die Moon. Siden dem Loch Ness Monsteren zooten die Casbah. Zooten dem Sims und die Sins offen der Distance. Und die Dirtydeeds? Oh, dem Dirtydeeds dunder cheep. Dem Dirtydeeds dunder cheepen kommen sie Birden indie Hands und sie Birden indie Bushen. Oh, die Bushen! Die Bushen! Adden zie One und zie Two und getten der Dummkopf!!! Der Kopfen mit der Assenbrains und Acidrains uppen der Bats-in-der-Belfry. Kommen sie Baconfry sizzlenoisen.

Der Max Baer hitten sie Max Schmeling inder Sizzlenoisen und der Schmeling cryout kommen der Baby. Oh, der Baer wearen dem Starren Juden und wearen dem Starren Juden zee Louis, comma, Joe. Swingen sie Louis. Swingen sie Schmeling. Losen sie Louis hurrah hurrah der Schmeling der Schmeling smelling gut kommen sie Rosen. Button sie Louis kommen sie time-und-again. Swingen sie Schmeling. Swingen sie Louis hitten der Schmeling in der Sizzlenoisen und der Schmeling cryout kommen der Baby. Dender Schmeling stuffen dem Knockwurst und dem Bratwurst und dem Wienerschnitzel offen dem Kroger und das Food Lion. Iffen der Lionroar den runnen mit der Brisket offen dem Distance. Iffen dem Lionroar offen dem Distance eaten der Brisket under dem Oleander mit der Sweatheart und zie Saltenpepper und lissen die Wolfgang, die Amadeus. Den joiner das Deutschers kommen der flushentoilet und crappen der Deuce. Tuggen sie Gerbil. Volken sie Yolk. Javol Herr Charlie. Bravo das Nonsense! Das Improv!

Diversification Ain't Just for Portfolios Anymore

2008-03-26T08:39:00.000-07:00

One stop shopping!

Look here: If the Cheese Truck came grunting up the street, you sure as heck'd chase after it. Don't be telling me any different. I don't care if it was the Chocolate Jimmies Truck or the Messianic Products Truck or the Patriotic Accessories Truck or the Awkward Moments Truck or the Truck your Aunt Arquilla was giving you for upsetting the Shuck Bowl -- coming down the other side of the street -- you'd be out chasing that Cheese Truck. It's part of what I'd term "Calisthenics" or, if you will, and I know you will, the Diversification of Your Portfolio. Have you heard somebody start a sentence, "Anymore..." anymore? Have you heard anyone claim that Bibim Bop was Korean Jazz? How can a man be both a celebrated actor and a deodorant? I dunno. See: Mitchum. Personally, I couldn't help but think of Mitchum, the guy, if I were applying Mitchum roll-on. It's why Blood And Gutstein endorses Speed Stick. Musk. AwwwwwYeah.

There is a world of difference between Musk and Must. Ask an elephant. He could use the former, in his every day, and he comes charging down, out of the mountains, when he is In Thrall to the latter, and when that happens, all the other elephants scatter -- except one of the gals. Former // Latter. Doesn't that drive you Barmy? Which is not my word. No, I picked it up, like a bad habit, in Charm City. I want to say, "I ride the train." So I will: "I ride the train." There are other men who wish to say, "I ride the bus" or "I ride the twos and fros of my biorhythms" or "I ride the whims of society's thrillseeking" or "I ride the political currents like the wimp I am" or "Somebody stole my milk money" and to them, I would say: Diversify. Chase the Cheese Truck & ride the train. Apply the Musk & ride the whims of society's thrillseeking. And if you can, seek out Robert Mitchum's most celebrated flick, DIP IN ROAD. He played the Dip. The road played itself. Yeeup.

In Celebration of Lurkers Late

2008-03-11T12:12:00.001-07:00

Tom Archia (L) played sax and sang the "Downfall Blues" (R).

According to Gwendolyn Brooks, out there are some folks who "Lurk late" and "Strike straight." While she may not have had jump blues musicians in mind, exactly, (she apparently had in mind "The pool players. // Seven at the Golden Shovel." instead) these are certainly some of the latest lurkers and straightest strikers, ever. Tom Archia, who played with many of the greats, sang the "Downfall Blues," a dirge about the perils of the Drink, then played cool bop & jump horn before there there were appreciated rock 'n' roll musicians, never mind unappreciated rock 'n' roll standouts. In effect, he is the unappreciated of the unappreciated. As was Freddie Mitchell, who comes to mind, too. On his "Sugarfoot Rag" and "Pony Express," it seems as if there's a musician in the back playing his baritone sax "Brooommmp // Brooommmp" in time with the rhythm section. Freddie Mitchell presents a manic horn akin to the (celebrated) excess of Big Jay McNeely, a west coast bar walker and tenor sax R&B man extraordinaire. Mitchell eventually became a cabbie and died in obscurity, whereas these two sides are some of the rockingest music you'll ever hear. Herb Hardesty lurked late behind Fats Domino, and Charlie Singleton lurked late, and a guy named "Dale" lurked late behind Rosco Gordon, who, himself, lurked late by banging the ivories while a whisky-drunk chicken danced atop the piano, and when I say "lurked late," I mean they waited, and waited in the song, until it was time to blow the daylights out of their horns, i.e., time to jump, and they did, "Lurk late" and "Strike straight." Morris Lane, Big Joe Houston, Chuck Higgins, Johnny Sparrow, Tab Smith, Lee Allen, Joe Morris on trumpet, and so forth. Gwendolyn Brooks wrote that her lurkers late did "Sing sin" and were "Thin gin." It's tragic, of course, at the end of her great poem, "We Real Cool," that the pool players -- "We // Jazz June. We // Die soon." -- may perish young, and it's tragic, in real life that raw, brash jump musicians (some of whom died young) never got credit for the social & emotional riot they blew out the bells of their horns. As if they were the "bad kids" in the poem whose anger and rebellion, in effect, were expressed, without compromise, in their music. We need more of that ("raw art") today. It is sorely lacking in our Land of Corporate Sameness. Hoy Hoy.

British Subjects & Other Spellings

2008-03-04T05:55:00.000-08:00

Ye Olde Royal Rippe?

March 5th is Fast Food Month, folks. You can go down to Wendy's and order some DQ. You can go down to NASCAR and order some Staying Powder. You can go down to Borders and order a Dipsy Do. The next four months go as follows: March 6th is White Noise Month; March 7th is Road Rage Month; March 8th is Wet Burp Month; and on March 9th there will be a Flatulence Mitigation Seminar entitled "You Cut Them Blind Mice Farts." Erupt / Elect / Erect / Eluct. Birch / Batch / Botch / Klatsch. Eegie / Wedgie / Nietzsche / Moe. Catch a candidate by his . . . Lying Ass. "Spare Change We Can Believe In." Now that's a Real Slogan Whose Time Is Now. Change is something you should beg for, after all. When we say British Spellings, we mean "Sirrah, the latrine stinks." We mean "Sirrah, adjust your Pince-nez immediately." We mean "A tossed salad doth maraud the virgins, Sirrah." Yes, the brisket. Yes, the hills. Let us digress in all the familiar ways:

Should it not be One Drink Minimum // Two Drink Minima? If you've got to tell people that they need to drink three drinks, we've moved beyond what I'd call Standard Practices and into the realm of Problem. The Bard sang of his Cougar: "40 inch bust -- BAHdum -- 40 years old -- BAHdum -- 40 inch waist -- BAHdum -- and a 40 ounce malt liquor in my haaaaands -- she's my 40/40/40/40 gal, and I love her yes I doooooooo." To whit: A particle is here and a particle is there. It is the same particle, simultaneously. A man is here and a man is there. If his alibi doesn't hold up, that is. Try it again. A man is here and a man is there. It doesn't work, does it? "Every rat needs his hole," said an elderly gentleman to me, one day. He was renting a bachelor apartment in my building, even though he was married, and lived with his wife. True, the ceiling had just fallen down on him, but he was cheerful, and that should be a lesson to us all. BAHdum.

On Accidental Meaning & Numerology

2008-02-25T12:10:00.000-08:00

Can nobody count? Lord, strike me blind!

Ninety-two plus Ninety-three makes 185 -- perhaps the number of stitches required to close all the wounds on the assistant coach who seated these two -- in chronological order -- on the West Virginnie bench. Get this straight. No. 92 should never, never, never, never, never sit to the left of No. 93. No. 93 could sit to the left of No. 92, but, I mean, that should probably never, never, never, never, never happen, either. What fool stitched the name "Dingle" onto No. 92 and "Berry" on No. 93 and didn't remark to himself -- ha ha, chuckle chuckle -- this would remind our enemies of the twist that one might develop in one's asshairs? Had he given them Nos. 90, say, and 96, this catastrophe could have, could have been averted. But still. Still. The two men (aka 92 & 93) must have considered the possibility of this event. Their teammates and sage coaches must have considered the possiblity. The news media, Lord, the news media. A cheerleader. A cautious fan. Somebody -- one person -- in all of West Virginnie must have seen this one coming. Surely, yes? Or do the Mountaineers require a Compound Noun Coach?

In addition to being the former half of dingle/berry, 92 is: The atomic number of Uranium; the total faces in The Snub Dodecahedron; a figure that runs through the films of Peter Greenaway. In addition to being the latter half of dingle/berry, 93 is: The atomic number of Neptunium; the code for international direct dial phone calls to Afghanistan; the title -- Quatre-vingt-treize -- of a Victor Hugo novel. You may recall 1992 with fondness but you do not, at all, personally, remember 1893. Safe to say that numbers divide us & numbers unite us. Consider, for a moment, the numbers 87 and 36. At first glance, they have nothing in common. The former is considered to be an unlucky number in Cricket, while the latter represents the number of inches in a yard, which is the primary unit of American football. In keeping with football, if No. 87, a Mr. Cody Nutter, on those same W.Va. Mountaineers, stood beside No. 36 on the Urbana Blue Knights, a Mr. Emmanuel Butters, well, then, you'd have Nutter/Butters, a compound noun and snack food upon which all people, Football and Cricket athletes, alike, can agree.

Wearing the Lampshade ---- Forever

2008-02-19T06:33:00.000-08:00

Squirrels don't just die -- they go to The Big 60-Watt in Omaha

I once bought a muffin mix that advertised "artificial blueberries." Just what the heck is that, exactly? It's not a blueberry or else it would be a blueberry. It was, I must conclude, a substance made to resemble a blueberry in any number of ways: texture; odour; psycho-emotional hangups. I assume that the antioxidant qualities were simulated, as well. If I was what I ate, then I was artificial blueberry. We, as Consumers, have grown accustomed to / swallow hungrily replicas of our cherished foodstuffs. So much so, there has been a backlash, much in the spirit of TV programming, a countercultural movement that has led to the use of the word, "Real." That same muffin mix now has "real blueberries" -- like that's some big Favor -- and we apparently use "real squirrels" in all our lamps, where artificial squirrels once ruled. To the point where corporations will Reinvent the previous version of a product. You remember how Coke became Classic Coke. It's not going to be long, mark me, before we have Classic Artificial Frog Clocks or Classic Real Rabbit Nightstands.

Just what is the word, Real, though, anymore? Real, as in Quite a Bit. Real, as in Not Hypothetical, as in Verifiable or Proven to Be the Case or Not Made from Air. Real, as in the Informed Choice of Two or More Options. The Squirrelest. The Verifiable Squirrel. Of Squirrels, the Hardcore Squirrel. Which is a fine segue into Politics. We have, for instance, McSurge, on the one hand, versus either Hillarious or Classic Artificial Hope. Americans will have to decide. What kind of decision will it be? Will it have lots of calories or will Taxidermists pause in their work, as the Electoral College votes, this November, while record temperatures encourage the critters to bound and abound? Who's courting the Taxidermist vote, I wonder. O, Taxidermists of Omaha, Nebraska. O Taxidermists of the Lower Forty Eight, What Say Ye? Will we have four more years in the Dark Ages? Will we Knowingly Elect Our Finest Candidate? Shall the Squirrel Illuminate Our Way of Life?

When Treats Do Marxists Tempt

2008-02-11T10:48:00.000-08:00

"Sit!" "Stare!" "Repeat!"

This is Grigsby. He is my colleague at [--censored--], where I toil, in Charm City. He is a Marxist. I know that because he eats everything in my office. He ate my yellow hi-lighter and he ate my stress brain. And that's just last week. This week, I'm missing a set of headphones and my surge suppressor. Grigsby and I don't loiter, the way we used to, in the '60s. Back then, Grigsby walked on hind legs. Chicks dug those pudgy little paws. And his guttural jowls. And his love secrets. In addition to being a Marxist, Grigsby can be a French Bulldog. He favors nuclear power and la préface de la riff. One of his grandparents sniffed Mitterrand's wife's dog's butt and barely escaped the guillotine. Grigsby is very popular, as it were, with the student body. Nevertheless, the administration makes him take a crap on the quad. Sometimes Grigsby and I engage in deep conversations about the future of the world. He is a pessimist and says that the world is flattery than every before. I give him pats that he Ho-Hums, yawn. He sure doesn't Knock my Utz Gourmet Medley. A chip in the hand is worth a Grigsby 'neath the desk. "Awroo!" he snorts. "Awroo."

Inflation on the Rise

2008-02-06T07:43:00.000-08:00

The new penalty for doing 55 in a 40? Arrest & deflation of Hoodie love doll.

It's not enough that the Basket of Goods and Services cost 4.08% more in December, which is up a full 2.00% from the start of last year, but now police are targeting Another Kind of Inflation. Our love dolls. In what has come to be known as "Puffin' em and Cuffin' em," a sting operation from coast to coast has led to the detention, and in some cases, deflation of the dolls, even as these figures have provided a valuable service to American motorists. Designed to Supplement airbags in cars, the love dolls inflate at the minute one car impacts another, offering motorists the illusion of Sex at an otherwise troubling moment. "Or," says an industry spokesman, "the illusion of just about anything. We offer a full array of dolls to represent the spectrum of human possibility: The Just A Friend Doll; The Lead You On Later To Break Your Heart Doll; and The Identity Theft Doll. You'd be surprised at what people would like the illusion of -- while their cars do a cruel, cruel marimba with other automobiles!"

Despite law enforcement efforts to the contrary, Inflation is on the rise. There were more balloons around, for example, in FY 2006 than a any other time in Human History. Lungs are larger and filled to capacity with air and other substances. And egos? Ah, forget about it. Egos, Eggs, and Eggos -- that is, the human "selves," chicken eggs, and commercial frozen waffles -- have swollen, too, and according to some studies, these gains are interrelated. Just as the nooks and crannies of a waffle hold the tender lovely swirls of melted butter and syrup, so does the mind collect, as it were, its grandeur. Just as the mind folds itself over and around its theoretical and emotional ingredients, so does the flipped, stuffed omelette gurgle in the saucepan. Taken to mean "Increase" or "Rise" in the General as well as the Abstract, Inflation is Everywhere and could attain Deity status before long. Until then, should Inflation arrive on your doorstep: take off its boots; give it a glass of scotch; and scratch its freaken Itch.

Frog & Mouse Flee Broasted Chicken

2008-01-30T07:01:00.000-08:00

Terrified Mouse (L-top) Hitches Ride on Vigilant Frog (L-bottom) As It Flees Insane Broasted Chicken (R) with Numerical Tats Top-Hat and Bloodshot Eyes Ensnared in Massive Barbed Wire Trap Set by Rioting Evangelicals (Everywhere) in Wake of Huckabee (4th in Fla.) Admission of Secret Ark & Saw Genetic Poultry Experiments That Resulted in Football Shortages & BLT Dustup

American Administrative Narratives

2008-01-29T05:47:00.000-08:00

"We have experienced such Hardships as Steak Tartare."

The Smithsonian Institution has announced a new folk life initiative. It will be dispatching Lummices to resort towns, in the hopes of capturing, on reel-to-reel, American Administrative Narratives, and the Like. "Don't judge a person by his or her Noise, White or Otherwise," my Forebears stressed. What we could use, instead, are some Broasted Chicken Narratives, and the Like. Such as just W/T/F is a Broasted Chicken? Breasted / Rested / Broiled / Educated / Fluent in Clarinet / Fluent in Mellophone / Tested / Bested / Roasted / Broasted? I feel like I've asked people before, about Broasted Chicken, and I've been answered. In that, I'm having Broasted Chicken Deja Vu. Say this, like a Rap Star: "Greta Garbo-o-o / Brigitte Bardot-t-t." Let's go to a Chock House for some Swamp Gas (!!!)

According to a Russian Scientist we are approaching conditions akin to the Maunder Minimum, a Period that involved Sunspot activity, or the lack thereof, and the return to which may signal a Little Ice Age. Like the one that gripped the world (and gave it The Grippe) a few hundred years ago. I sure as hell hope so. We could use a little Maunder Minimum to counteract our Maximum Dumbass. In fact, our Maximum Dumbass may still defeat the Maunder Minimum. In that case you won't have, let's say, Junior, anymore, but Jumbo. You won't have, say, Hank Williams, Jr., but Hank Williams, Jumbo, or rather, Hank Williams, Jbo. That's as much Noise, in fact, as Healthfoods, All-weather Radials, and Bicameral Legislature, combined. I don't know about you, but I'm praying to the Sunspot Activity. Save us!

Without a Stimulus Package . . .

2008-01-23T11:39:00.000-08:00

. . . the supply of condiments could plummet to historic levels.

Against the backdrop of a banking scare, in the early 1930s, Franklin Delano Roosevelt asserted his firm belief that the only thing we had to Fear was Fear itself. It was another Time, another Era, as they say. Today, we have many things to Fear, including a shortage of essential condiments. There may be no Mustard for italics; no horseradish for Chiaroscuro; no capers for toilet pranks; no half & half for feelings of inadequacy; and no salad cubes for trigonometry. Many Americans lack Stimulation, to be sure. They feel listless. So so. A little bit of this and a little bit of that. Suction has not worked. Aroma Therapy has not worked as has not worked Art Therapy & Visualization. Deprivation of Celebrity Porn has not worked. The mouse has chewed through the Oleo and Americans could give a damn. The mouse has sniffed the peppermint oil and Americans could give a damn. The mouse has bested the stickytrap and Americans could give a damn. O, for the days of Fear itself. O, to fear sensations. Intuitions. Concepts. Attributes. O, to fear a good, crisp Abstraction, say, as opposed to the green apple flying into the snack bar.

It kicks me in the seat to think of someone being the first to do something. Like, throw a flint at a hazardous material. Or scare the nut out of a squirrel's jaw. Or say something provocative in the middle of the lake. Have you ever seen clouds that slid around like patio doors? Or clouds that looked like sutures after an emergency appendectomy? Or clouds that showed all kinds of favoritism to you-know-who? If I had traveled, I would've missed the man who applied a soft drink as underarm deodorant, I would've missed the Ouija Board talking about tort reform. What if there was (1) a machine; (2) a requirement; (3) a happenstance that, basically, ended up as: Every time one declares his or her candidacy, then one receives an electric shock? At least, then, we'd know a little bitteen about the dedication of our politicians. Look: the weather advisory goes into effect and we purchase all the staples that we otherwise would never purchase: milk, eggs, butter, bread. Still, let's hope said Stimulus succeeds, whatever that means. If not, we'll then hear of Stimuli, a word that sounds like the aftermath of a snakebite.

Too Much Information

2008-01-16T08:35:00.000-08:00

For travelers in Need? In the Communal sense?

It's not enough to say that there is more Information available than ever before because there is more Too Much Information available than ever before, as well. The sign could read Marital Aid, after all, then employ an arrow (that looks, suspiciously, like a marital aid) that points toward Marital Aid, which, apparently, is a town in Canada. I mean, was it named after a natural rock formation? A bend in the river? An asparagus or other Native Healthfoods? But enough, enough, enough. Let's talk Hope. Let's talk Change. Let's talk like Candidates. What does it take to be a Candidate? Well, it takes (1) Money and (2) Vocabulary. The latter often influences the influx of the former. But, I mean, don't stand on the corner, as a Non-Candidate, and say "Hope" or "Change" because you'll get Margarineized by the Society in Which We Live. Yes, Margarine-ized. Which I would define as "Converted into Useless Vegetable Spread," as it were.

If there is a couple out there (read: two people who Make Sweet Sweet Love) in need of a new thrill, try Couples Judo. It hasn't been invented yet but will be, if life is long and the Oleander is listing gently in the Trade Winds. Throw each other. Evade each other. Wound each other. Three useful relationship techniques and a discounted marital aid, of one's choosing, in Old Man Dildo's Factory Outlet. (Is there, I wonder, a Dildo Police Force? Does it say "Dildo Police" on their uniforms? Do Dildo cops wield marital aids when subduing suspects?) But enough, enough, enough. Let's talk Hope. Let's talk Change. Let's talk like Candidates. For the first time in American history a candidate for a major party's nomination may have owned (or still does own) a marital aid. Although it would be improper of me to suggest who that candidate may be. We should see the person, I think, not the gender. The road sign, not the Dildo.

Labour Saving Devices

2008-01-10T06:37:00.000-08:00

Thank you, Machine! May I have another?

I've heard of people wanting to be Spanked, but not always Lifted. Also note the Blindfold and (apparent) Electricity and (apparent) Distress. Good Gravy. What will we ask for next? To be Understood? To be Hiccoughed? Is there an Understanding and Hiccoughing Machine out there? Yesterday, in the unoccupied Fourth Floor Men's Room at the Institution where I work, an Automated Toilet flushed, and flushed, and flushed. What ghostly arse was haunting that toilet? What ghostly turd was that toilet flushing again and again, like Sissy-fuss? For eternity. Or, at least, for Wednesday. Maybe it's just the Advance Guard Toilet for Today's Busy Professional: "Always Ready for Your Ass." I bet there are some pregnant women out there who'd want a true Labour Saving Device, huh? Maybe even Tony Blair needs a Labour Saving Device. Fo' shizzle, but we should have a Labour Saving Device Day, shouldn't we? And by that, no, I do not mean that people would reatreat to their bedrooms with Marital Aids in hand. To the contrary, Ladies and Gents.

I have made the acquaintance of one LaShakespeare Jefferson, a Baltimore entrepreneur who Labours all over town, but some days at Penn Station, where he will relieve you of a dollar or two, so you don't have to struggle with the extra weight of those bills all the way home. LaShakespeare dreams of going to Coney Island, to get some Papaya King. And I tell you what. If Shakespeare lived today, he may very well have written King Papaya instead of Lear. It would be a story about a man having to divide up his Hot Dog & Juice Empire among his daughters, and in the process, find True Love. In the end, all the characters don't die, exactly, but grow complacent, due to all the Labour Saving Devices they own. It would be, Thus, a uniquely American tragedy, that would also involve Pizza Hut, Cable News, and dyspepsia. "It burns," King Papaya would say, after eating an Oreo Pizza on the couch during election returns. "How now, Nuncle?" would say the Fool. "Dost thou have Heartburn or Acid Reflux Disease?" There ensues a pause. The pause is everything.

Prime & Primer Numbers

2007-12-30T18:27:00.000-08:00

Chicago. Electric. Indivisible.

Numbers are said to be Prime if divisible only by themselves and by the number 1. For example: 29. Both 29 and 1 guzzinta 29 but no other Numbers, Prime or otherwise, guzzinta 29. In short, a Number that can't be fucked with, too much. Prime Numbers can be hard-nosed integers and also bad-assed acts, and I witnessed one such bad-assed act this week at Blue Chicago, a fine bar in windy, snow flurry-y, Chicago. There played electric bluesman John Primer, Prime, certainly, on some level, but by definition, Primer, and singing, too. Behind him: drums, bass, harmonica, and keyboards, and beside him for a few songs: another singer, Peaches, belted it out a bitteen like Koko Taylor. Prime Numbers frustrate many possible solutions and Primer Numbers beat back the cold. One only gets divided under certain (like, default) conditions and the latter clobbers your def jam. The bar fills. The Harvey Wallbangers change hands. "I got my mojo workin'," sings Peaches, "but it just don't work on you." Clearly a song about the frustration of long division, although Muddy Waters, himself, would know best, and his ghost presided during that Primer Number. Bad-assed Chicago Electric Blues takes $10 at the door, and rattles the inertia of our sorry, cookie-cutter, mis-managed, mass media, gross airport country. Thank the lord some people & some Numbers have the basic decency to stand apart. Divide that.

Avant Garde Mutton & Demographics

2007-12-25T09:27:00.001-08:00

An avant garde mutton on the hillock. (Be afraid.)

There may be no greater Demographics than Stoic Muttons. Notice how they always stand to the right, no matter where the camera is placed. You can say PRIME-er or PRIM-er, whichever. You can say inseam or you can say trompe l'oeil. There may be a white boy with a thumbtack and a black boy in the hedge. You may decide to hate artists, or to be safe, you may decide to hate everyone. There is always some joker who cannot navigate a pool party, socially speaking, i.e., cheese-burgers, sun-tans, and fart-powder. "Arousal" and "The Scorpions" are mutually exclusive, such that, it is not possible to experience a reasonable modern arousal while hearing songs played by The Scorpions, an English-singing hair-metal combo from good old Germany, ja ja, die rootin' tootin' und die wienerschnitzel. If it were 1984, you'd be involved in drama outside the Pepperidge Farms store at the strip mall, in the middle of the night. Lip gloss, a clash of foreheads, and a police action. Enjoli: "Unh." Enjoli: "Unh." Them's not no coincidence.

Nope. Them's Demographics. Which can be confused with Healthfoods because both sets are not, in any case, mutually exclusive. Do your duty as a citizen and remember to donate some pisswater well in advance of the Iowa Caucuses. Some political operatives, afterall, will require a blood transfusion. Has anyone ever, at any time, said, "Fisticuffs in the Urals?" or "Buttocks on the Andes?" or "Liposuction beside the Himalayas?" Some Turks battle turds while other Turks battle Kurds. There are Products for what ails you and then again there are no Products for what ails you. The results, in the end, stupefy even the brightest bulbs in the garden. The world, no, does not come in stereo, unless you happen to live nearby a disaster. To whit, there were once pay phones, antennae, and sit-down meals. Every citizen had a snake story. To deconstruct was to slap one's self with another person's hand. "Chug, chug, chug," many used to shout. Planets are no better than junkies. There is Want and there is Must. Which best defines you?