Tuesday, February 27, 2007

Friday Night Diqqat: Who needs to see?

Signal integrity diminishing, unwanted noise increasing.
An intermittent connection with no increase in conductivity.
The solution didn’t involve the application of solventless corrosion inhibitors.
The solution didn’t involve deoxidizing the potentiometers.

What was the solution?
What do you think?

“Shumo chi mikuned?”
“Hamash naghz... Hech gap ne...”

Tuesday, February 20, 2007

Singes de Style: Epigones Élégant and the Road to Thanatos

Down the sidewalk comes the parade, with all the pageantry of a baby elephant walk. A train of hipster chimps (chimpsters?) shuffling forward with a loping gait, each clutching the scarf of the ape in front of him.
And where does this caravan lead? To Pain & Blunder’s Hangout, where their Vespas are parked in a row, conspicuous in attentive fashion.

Man invented the wheel, it must be agreed, but what are the consequences of these creations that we hand down to our bipedal brethren?
Let us focus upon one average member of this troop...

Professor John Gutts: “A creature of concise inanities, the subject preens in front of the picture window, conscious of the eyes of passers-by. Attracted by a glint from the superfluous array of mirrors on his motorised bike, he scampers over and hops aboard. The mirrors act as catalyst for the self-grooming instinct: The subject immediately hunches forward, gazing at self-image and ‘checks his style.’ Accidently kicking the parking brake free, the scooter rolls forward while the unknowing chimp’s trendy and way-too-long scarf gets caught in the wheel...”

So, we see (a) the gift of the wheel, coupled with (b) the scarf...

Prof. Gutts: “What was once an innocent fashion accessory becomes a sinister instrument in the bitter struggle between style and death...”

...along with the Compound Coagment Factor itself, (c) the desire for style.

Prof. Gutts: “The appetible hunger for a sense of style within a collective is an irony of ironies, as ‘rebellious manifestations’ counterproductively bolster tribal attitudes instead of girding the autolatry of ‘The Individual’ (Yeah, scare quotes there cos ‘tis a Hipster Paradox).”

So... when ’style’ is simply a recursive means towards its own ends, freely embraced by the Culturati along with a wink-n-nod postmodern excuse slip, should it be any surprise where it all leads?

Prof. Gutts: “Voluntary ironic detachment... begets passionless art... begets a lack of cultural contribution... A discursive roundabout manoeuvre resulting in a terminal free-fall into Niche CultureDeath.”

Monkeys struggling to free themselves from the sub-kitsch noose of their own making, gurgling their final words, “I’ll get noticed if it kills me...”

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Gloria’s Vainglorious Displacement: Boucs émissaires dans la piscine

Your domestic strife
cumbers every interaction...
Suspecting the worst,
fears become projection...
Tainting your ‘tude
magnifying every infraction...

In your pool, horsing around...
chlorinated water up the nose
gagging, snorting, sputtering,

Take it out on the convenient friskies
innocent, fun-loving aquanauts...

The unexpected admonishment from on deck:

“Get off my property”

Tuesday, February 06, 2007

Del-Wood: Patinoire Anachronique

In the cold, diffused light of the mid-afternoon sun, the building sits at the end of the lot.
Dull, drab, cracked paint, gray as slate. Deco arcs of another age, invisible icing ignored... and a weathered, unlit neon sign (does it even work?).

Inside: Dark, cavernous...
Well-worn iron railings, scuffed maple flooring
and the unexpected echo of laughter.

The must of 1958 hangs in the air as dozens glide in circles.
The strains of a wheezing Wurlitzer breathe bright melodies like a whistling blind man, unaware of the decay around him.
A palpable sense of history hovers -- but is it from the obvious layers of dust or the dank, old-gym smell?

Around and around the figures continue to race, laughing.
Boys furtively eye the skirts, girls glance at the boys with a blush...
And it all seems to work.

Is this a taste of the heyday from years ago?
If so, that dusty, burned-out neon sign, quietly crooked and nonchalant, must have been one helluva beacon for the kids.