Friday, March 23, 2018

YEAH, WE HAD THAT IN THE JOINT.



The sailors overtook the ship at lunchtime, in Matinee on the Bounty.
Enjoy some Junior Minsk, the li’l box of chocolates from Belarus.
“Persecuted? Yeah, we had that in the joint. I stole a purse, and got 
the electric chair: I was purse-a-cuted.” Suffering from Markie Post Traumatic
Stress Disorder? (You watch too much Night Court!) Now we know
that Marlon Brando had ‘Pryor knowledge.’ A few Japanese assassins
suffer from the gum disease, Ninjavitis. There are many vast possibilities
to choose from these days. As a result: I have multiple or chasms……

Re: the singing tradition—Call Center and Response—[Hullo?] [Please listen
carefully…] [Hullo?] […as the menu options have changed!] [Hullo…?]
Modality meets hip-hop, bird, geometry, and WW II, in Kind of Blue Jay Z
Axis Powers. “Feasible? Yeah we had that in the joint. If it could go in the freezer
it was feasible.” A Sea Dog pursues the mutineers, who fire a warning shot
across the bowwow. Now, they’re serving time for involuntary man’s laughter.

Wednesday, March 7, 2018

SUPER SECRET PROJECT.



The musician arrived with a bag of 30 harmonicas.
30 harmonicas!
He selected two.
And he began playing both of them, together.
A folk song.
A beautiful tune, newly interpreted. His way.
There were many others of us there.
We all had jobs to do.
(I myself “co-produced.”) (I also made some sandwiches.)
Whatever each of us was doing. . . . .
When the man played, and sang, we heard him. Oh yes.
“A recording was made,” as they say.
There is more. Much, much more.
Stay tuned, my friends.           



IT’S TIME FOR AMERICANS TO FULLY ACKNOWLEDGE THE LIKENESS BETWEEN THE INCREDIBLE HULK AND PRIS STRATTON.



Imagine Dr. David Banner tripping along dystopian urban streets in the year 2019, which was not so long ago. Coincidentally, it’s the Los Angeles of Blade Runner, a city with 106 million people, most of them cavorting-about with their spacey umbrellas perpetually sprouted. There are talkie-ads the size of skyscrapers and flying cars and embittered replicants, artificial people who intend to visit some voracious vengeance upon the malevolent corporation which designed them.

In this future, the camera follows Sean Young, Rutger Hauer, and especially Harrison Ford. (“Harrison Ford?” says Dr. David Banner.) Yes, Harrison Ford, which is really aggravating, so Dr. David Banner hulks, his mouth agape, his eyes resembling the green of lightning. The buttons on his shirt pop free, one at a time, and he shreds the legs of his blue dungarees to inhabit them perchance as a perfect pair of cutoff jeans. “Rawwr!” he says.

By now, Dr. David Banner hulks every fifteen-twenty minutes. So much so, the makeup artists tire of scrubbing off the green pancake, and slopping it on, scrubbing and slopping, until it’s just Lou Ferrigno walking around as an ill-clad drifter, a kind of Mr. Green Universe Meets the Crowded Indifferent Future of California. There’s no more need for Bill Bixby, who is seen smoking apple tabac and attending dubious matinees. His anger no longer matters; he’s cured of his gamma radiation overdose.



When all of a sudden, Lou Ferrigno espies Pris Stratton, a basic pleasure replicant who could be The Incredible Hulk’s spirit animal. They are both pancaked, they are both raccoons, they are both shorn in the same shaggy hairdo. Pris is really Daryl Hannah. She dunks her hand without pain into water that boils a dozen eggs. Perhaps she desires a magnificent sprawling omelet, the ambient heat of the whipped eggs and southwestern ingredients. “Rawwr!” goes Lou Ferrigno.

If Daryl Hannah was capable of love, then she’d have already crushed Harrison Ford’s face between her thighs, his head bouncing down the stairs like the meatball in the spaghetti song. We know more about the future than ever before, and it continues to predict the demise of Pris, kicking her legs and howling for help. The Incredible Hulk trudges toward a second transformation, green and dumbfounded, and in that way, Lou Ferrigno resembles all of us, trapped in the lonely squalls of our acrimony.


too futuristic? see super secret project