Friday, September 14, 2018

Classic City Arcade 0918

Chemists at the Horton listening to KISS and eating Funyuns®... Bells tolling at the Church of Sirach... 8TG prepping for anniversary show... Uncle Ernie overseeing gas line installation... Groep Margriet picking up a gig at the Kilowatt Klub... Joe Clown snapping pics at the Olde Laundromat...

Sunday, September 09, 2018

Urban Tribal Trauma ’18


There are rules of conduct regarding credibility. Without credibility, respect is impossible.

Sunday, August 05, 2018

Spilled Drink: Ancestral Flashback

  Suramokov sat quietly in the cool café sipping his iced beverage gazing out the window at the brutal sun beating down on the pavement of Pomorie. Along slowly waddled a massively obese fellow with sweat pouring down his reddened frog face, wearing a crushed straw hat that looked like said man had sat on it.
  Suramokov, already in a sour mood, winced at the sight. ‘How much you wanna bet he comes in and plops down at the next table?’ he cynically asked himself.
  Mere moments later, lo and behold, the hefty guy approaches the adjacent table and sits down his coffee. In his attempt to squeeze into the tiny banquette, he jostles the table, spilling most of his drink.
  The man began swearing at himself, and Suramokov’s revulsion instantly dissolved into pity — and then shame.
  He had seen this before.
  What man would wish himself into such a miserable physical state, where even the most mundane everyday acts rob him of his dignity?
  Through the misty depths of time, a vision came to Suramokov.

  Little Xander stood sentry at the fort in ancient Thrace. Though he possessed a whip-smart mind and unquestionable loyalty, physically, he was an overweight mess. One would think Xander’s fealty would command respect, but alas, this was not the case.
  Whispered sniggers as well as public ridicule were both cast by his peers and betters. Fellow sentry Suramokas witnessed this humiliation with daggers in his eyes, and eventually karmically dispatched both Buzas Putras and Iōnnēs Elias with extreme prejudice.
  For no man wished himself into such a miserable physical state, where even the most basic of courtesies are cast to the wind.

  Suramokov reflexively snatched a handful of napkins and handed them to the big fellow to clean up his spilled drink. He quickly put on his sunglasses and then left the café.
  Again, a man’s corporeal prison is not always his choice, whether bound by the suffering nemesisms from within, or the hell of torment from without.
  Suramokov strode down the street under the stifling sun and removed his sunglasses to let the August breeze dry his face.