PHOTO ESSAY: I BREWED FIVE GALLONS OF STOUT PORTER.

                 Original gravity: 1.0670

                 Final gravity: 1.0236

                 Alcohol by volume: 5.70%

                 IBU: 30

                 Main ingredients:

                 Yeast: English ale

                 Hops: Fuggle, East Kent Golding

                 Malts: Crystal caramel, Chocolate, Victory, Black

A FEW REFLECTIONS ON DUO EXCHANGE + LOST CIVILIZATIONS LIVE.

I’m not aware of another project quite like the Duo Exchange / Lost Civilizations collaboration, which was renewed on August 16th in front of a small gathering at the Black Squirrel in Washington, D.C. The musicians who form Lost Civilizations—Ted Zook (basscello) and Mike Sebastian (saxophones)—improvise from the beginning; on this night, Sam Lohman accompanied them on drums. The words—Rod Smith and I doing business as Duo Exchange—have no predetermined order. The entire performance, clocking in at just over sixty minutes, invents and reinvents. For a free listen (and free download) at SoundCloud, click [HERE].

Rod and I continue to experience amazement (even awe and euphoria) over the accomplishments of the musicians. It’s hard not to think of language like “tensile sway, swing-swang, magical fracture, muscular patterning, projective texture” when listening to them. For me, the night created at least three maps: (a) the music; (b) the words; and (c) the two layers together. As a reader, I’m always stunned at when the music pushes me to deliver language with emphases and cadences I hadn’t counted on; these effects undoubtedly bounce back and forth from Us to Them, from Them to Them, and from Us to Us. The learning curve is steep and enormously gratifying.

On this night, I should point out that we were joined by a fellow who, attracted by the music, came downstairs to participate a little bit. You can hear him in the 47th minute, as well as when he repeats a word (“honky”) from the grand finale. Did I mention that we had a grand finale? Rod and I both spoke at the same time as the band honked, rattled, and sawed, from about 47:50 through 52:05. I’m not saying you should fast-forward there, automatically, but you should know that it’s coming. In all my years of writing and reading, I never before experienced the raw satisfaction as I derived therefrom. I’m very fortunate to be a part of this collaboration.

Finally, I’m reminded of a jazz hero—Sonny Rollins—and one of his great songs, “St. Thomas”—as Lost Civilizations played onward. I want to say St. Sonny. Oh yeah!

AUTO-COMPLETE NIGHTMARE.

It’s not the size of the river in the fire but the size of the fire in the river. As such, you may never mention the subsidiaries of rain ever again. Think of all the forlorn rust, the un-drummed rust, the tepid rust. Let us review our policies and procedures before we pince. It’s time to pince, by the way. Did you bring your pince-nez? Think of all the armies who train to pince, think of all the nez. The French vote either “oui” or “nez” while the Turkic peoples may wear a fez. It would follow that a dispenser could dispense pez or it could dispense pince-nez. A doctor may prescribe a monocle if you’ve masturbated too often with one hand—a right monocle corresponds to right-hand overzealousness. Some left-hand zealots (even as late as the 20th century) became Leftenants; these were the tenants who lived on the left side of the building. They often applied for academic jobs, their exploits appeared in the Monocle of Higher Education. Meanwhile, the musician, Prince, has requested a Prince-nez, from a Prince-nez dispenser. The world had never heard “what it sounds like / when doves cry” until the musician, Prince, played his music, apparently, in a public park, no, the world, until that point, had known “what it sounds like / when doves mourn.” What else mourns, I ask you, but the diastolic beat of the clouds?

WAKE UP, BRO!

Starring:

John Doe. . . . as Bro

Director:

Dan Gutstein

Running Time:

25 seconds

Advance Praise:

“Gutstein deftly captures the ethereal scrim between sleep and the harsh realities of commuter rail.”—Celluloid Tabloid

“A Bro is born. Well, not exactly. He is jolted. A Bro is jolted. Awake.”—Talkie Times

“The intertextual rubrics of the slumbering proletariat are, capably, or otherwise, slathered in the luxuries of gradual arrival.”—Pinko Picture

Other Films You Might Enjoy:

The Hand Fan That Stirs the Puma

Push Ups

The Hand

 

A MAN SEARCHES FOR THE PROPER EXOTIC DANCE TO SUIT HIS MEDICAL CONDITIONS, WHILE THE EXOTIC DANCER, RUNNING OUT OF CREATIVE OPTIONS, SEEKS A WEE BITTEEN OF RELIGION.

The man detected a return of his symptoms, and thereby requested a Relapse Dance, from the exotic dancer. After his cardiologist diagnosed yet a new condition, the man ordered a Mitral Valve Prolapse Dance. For a while, the man tried to live with this condition, but after a fainting spell, he asked for a Collapse Dance. Conventional therapy didn’t work, surgery ensued, and afterwards, the man sought a Laparoscopic Dance. The man reflected on his life, at one of them, ehhh, express kiosk dingies, with one of them, ehhh, gigantic muffins the size of a bowling ball; on the way home, he inquired about an Elapse Dance. Meantime, the dancer was running out of interpretations, to suit the man’s spectrum of exotica. “Seeing as I’m the only exotic dancer in this gosh-forsaken one-Walmart town,” she thought, “I gotta get me a new perspective, or at least, a wee bitteen of religion.” On the occasion of a-wandering about, she discovered a church, a place of well-scrubbed worshippers, the Loofah-rans. Its well-known founder, Martin Loofah, had been a friar, he had been the deep fryer, deep friar of the fries, down at Mickey Dee’s, so he knew about boiling oil, heat rash, and grease trap—just the kind of expertise a lost soul might seek from her spiritual advisor. There were saints and sinners, winners and loofahs, according to the church’s doctrine. After a spell in residence at services, the dancer began to “loofah thy neighbor”, even as she tittered under the electric light, some serious giggle-wattage. She decided to help the man—who requested her interpretive dances—to reform himself, in the holy house of the Loofah-rans. She might even perform a L’apse dance, there, wielding some bawdy wash.
 

SEND IN THE BURGLIZ!

Starring:

Ruth as . . . Herself

Marty as . . . Himself

Director:

Dan Gutstein

Running Time:

15 seconds

Advance Praise:

“Just like Nixon must have dictated, except, of course, not in that NY accent.” —Film Flam

“Burgliz or Burglars? You decide. And that’s the wonder of this compact effort.” —Movie Groovy

“It’s Queens (Ruth) vs. Bronx (Marty) as this great American word is held up to the light of Gutstein’s adequate camera.” —Cinema Minima

Other Films You Might Enjoy:

Dan Gutstein Speaks to the Cat

They Don’t Let You Live

They Don’t Let You Live (Alt Tk)

COMMUNICATION BREAKDOWN: AN ECO-FRIENDLY PARABLE.

After the Despot ordered the defenestration of his political rival, he retired to his bedchambers clad in deniability sleepwear—earplugs and blindfold—as he planned to claim “I heard nothing, I saw nothing” should the meek judiciary ever issue subpoenas. A noisy night of sawing, chopping, and chipping ensued, but the Despot slept like a sack of spuds. When the leader awoke, he wished to experience the symphonic triumph of the mid-morning sunlight, so threw the curtains apart, but imagine his Munch-scream face when he discovered that the woods—the entire woods—had vanished, a column of trucks grunting forward in low gear, each vehicle bearing a pyramid of thick trunks. On television, the Despot’s political rival cemented the disgrace, the deforestation, by branding the Despot an enemy of the root, branch, wood, creature, creation, universe, God.

  [2]

“Despot here,” the leader hollered into the telephone. Yes, sir, said his deputy. “What the hell has happened?” Happened, sir? “What the hell have you done?” As you decreed, sir. “As I decreed?” Yes, sir. The Despot thought painfully, as if a centipede were gnawing his thought balloon. “What have I decreed?” he asked. The act has been carried out, said his deputy. And with considerable efficiency, I might add. “I ordered a defenestration.” Yes, sir. “You have effected a deforestation, instead.” Sir? “The forest,” said the Despot, “is missing.” Yes, sir. We defenestrated the forest, as you decreed. Sir, added the deputy, your political rival telephoned us this morning. He has challenged you to epee. “Epee?” Yes, sir. “You mean, sword?” It’s a foil, sir, it’s an epee. “Impossible. I have no foil!” Well, sir, we could purchase one using EpeePal.

  [3]

The Despot received embassies from noon until 1:00, after which he received audiences from 1:00 until 2:00, whereupon he received embassies from 2:00 until 3:00, inasmuch as he received lobbies. Representatives from the prophylactics industry spoke to the Despot about cornering the market for equine rubbers, to prevent the conception of unwanted foals. They would produce, on a trial-basis, a condom billed as Trojan Horse. A group representing the nation’s seiners and trawlers encouraged the Despot to seize the fish: carp diem, they implored. The leader bade his fool approach. Yo, I’m so impoverished, quipped the fool, I ain’t got no despot to piss in. Trumpets signaled the embassies, audiences, and lobbies to toss many banknotes into a circulating hat. The Despot had listened to these visitors; they must subsidize his scrutiny; they must “pay attention.”

  [4]
That evening, the Despot sat with his soothsayer in the conservatory, each man sipping a tincture. “It’s quite simple,” said the Despot. “They heave my adversary out the window.” Yes, sir, agreed the soothsayer. “They don’t demolish an entire wooded region.” Yes, sir, agreed the soothsayer. “Defenestration. Deforestation. Not the same!” The soothsayer hovered his palms over the leader’s head, as if it were a crystal ball. I see your political rival practicing epee with corked tip, he hummed. “You do?” Yes, sir, the soothsayer hummed: quirky his thrust shall be. Just then, the fool appeared over the Despot’s opposite shoulder. “How now?” said the Despot. He who places confidence in the soothsayer’s racket, said the fool, shall become, himself, a seer-sucker. Dig? Nesting birds brawled in livid riffs on the slopes of roof. There were, after all, no more treetops.