No More Tears: A Clench for Nought

The act of projecting present-day socio-nihilistic observations onto possible future time arcs is a lazy luxury that foregoes constructive solutions in favour of hand-wringing ‘what-ifs’ ... according worry-warts the hollow burden of chasing down phantasms, that, when squeezed, don’t amount to squirt.

Colonel Taylor, you are not there. You are here. You are not then. You are now. Deal.

POSTSCRIPT: Perhaps our protagonist’s negative societal outlook is the result of a deep-seated (deep-seeded?) clash between his ego and superego Gestalt modules. After all, who would name their spaceship the Icarus? Wouldn’t that be like naming your boat the Titanic?

Res Op Mandate training minutes 121107 UPDATE: Schemata Actualised

Oleaginous Persuasions

The Spirit of Uncle Auntie

The Hefty bag makeshift shotgun window flaps madly at 95dB as Uncle Auntie smirks from the ceiling of the rusty VW.

The freaky krewe toodles in Leisurely Industrial style along I-10 towards the Vieux Carré.

Arm in arm on Rue Dauphine, sung to the tune of “Nanny Nanny BooBoo,” the mantra is quantised:

“Nous sommes crannie de mamie”

Res Op Mandate training minutes 121107

Clever Phrases, Realpolitik and the Spin of a Coin

In their impotent rage, sophomore activists, hoary gender warriors, armchair academics and other political dilettantes froth at the mouth at images of presidents, media bloviators, “The Man,” and other icons in the mould of Emmanuel Goldstein.

One pretense of speaking out against the undue oppression in the West is the mantra, “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” Sounds heavy, but unfortunately, this “Protest Logic” makes about as much sense as persuasion by puppetry. In effect, it makes one “friends” with barbarians. Is that the intent? Rebellious nihilism? Or maybe some people just don't think their clichés all the way through.

Perhaps they should heed the notable policies of the Mendez Dynasty. Beset by hostile neighbours, an environmental cataclysm and a population badly in need of gene therapy, the House of Mendez practise a unique form of realpolitik. In the words of Ongaro, High Counselor to Mendez XXVI, “We don’t kill our enemies. We get our enemies to kill each other.”
Indeed, an admirable tactic in the psionic arts (much like pungeoning itself), but the greater import is to see this not as just a tactic, but as a broader strategic Weltanschauung. Machiavellian perhaps, but a strategery that is more likely to ensure self-preservation than would street puppetry and sit-downs with terrorists. In the end, the Mendez Dynasty ultimately seeks Godhead while our protesters merely invoke fatuous moral palaver and stale clichés. What could they possibly learn? One’s mantra clashes with the other’s tantra.
So it’s probably a good thing Johnny Protester ignores history, whether past, present or future.
One final caveat must be made: As Keepers of the Divine Bomb, the House of Mendez is essentially practising a de facto programme of Mutually Assured Destruction (MAD).
Are we simply seeing both sides of that old cold coin of nihilism?

Gaijin Condiment: Camouflage Ranch

Of late, diners have been raving about the delicious deals found at Inaka Express, especially the supposedly delectable condiment known as “Yellow Sauce,” said to enhance the culinary experience to no end.
Food critic Johnny Gutts was finally convinced by associates to brave this eatery and all it had to offer, particularly this renowned “Yellow Sauce.”
Mister Gutts was not impressed.
First of all, the name. Calling it “Yellow Sauce” conjures up images of cafeteria sculleries with 200-litre drums of foodstuffs lorded over by heavy-set, middle-aged women with turf issues wielding stainless steel ladles. You’d think they would’ve come up with a more appealing moniker, like “Essence of Dragon’s Breath,” or “Minamoto Mayo,” or even just “Ninja Sauce” (even the kids would dig that one).
Then, there was the flavour. Weak. Like thinned-out Ranch dressing. That’s been sitting around for two days. With Yellow Dye No.5 added.
Johnny Gutts grimaced as he swirled the sauce around in his mouth. The gears began turning in the back of his brain.
“Come to think of it, why didn’t they just call it ‘Ranch?’ Classic City does lie in the ‘Ranch Belt’ — that region of the country where Ranch dressing is a Mandatory Condiment... [one of the original Ten Condiments manifested on stone tablets brought down from Witch Mountain by Uncle Beignet...] But I digress...”
Gutts does have a point though. He offers sage culinary and marketing advice:
“Mister Inaka-san, do yourself and your patrons a favour. Ditch the yellow dye routine and just call a spade a spade. Put this on your menu...”

THIS IS RANCH DRESSING.
WE OFFER COPIOUS AMOUNTS.
DUMP IT ON EVERYTHING.
DIG IN.

Kudos to Mister Gutts for developing a brand repositioning solution that is deferential to the regional demographic.

Of Dogs and Divas

DATELINE: Classic City, 1963 — It was still just a town, but it may as well have been Metropolis when compared to the one-traffic-light podunk burgs three counties away. The couple came in their Chrysler from the east as the sun was setting from the west. Big night on the town, yeah. After dining, a flick. Walking arm in arm under the lamplights of Clayton Street, Carl and Helen could see the marquee of State Theatre shimmering ahead. Carl froze, gazing up at the blazing sign.
“No.”
“What is it, Carl?” Helen asked.
He pointed up at the synchronized bulbs framing the red plastic letters: Laddadog.
“We didn’t come this far to sit through a damn dog movie.”
“Laddadog?”
“Yes. A movie about a dog. Lad. A dog. Laddadog. We’re leaving.”

– – – – –

Flash-forward: Classic City 1991

Martha leads George by the arm under the lamplights of contemporary Clayton Street.
“C’mon, we gotta get good seats.”
“Alright, alright,” George muttered half-heartedly.
“You’re gonna love it. You’ll like her more after you’ve seen the movie.”
George shrugged and looked up at the marquee: “In Bed With Maria -- The Hit Documentary of Diva Maria Mauvaise”
“Let’s get this over with,” he said as they got their tickets and entered.

One-hundred and fourteen minutes later, George and Martha walked out of State Theatre. Though George wasn’t the slightest bit impressed, he did offer up some lukewarm, neutral commentary vis-à-vis Martha’s cloying praises: “It was interesting.”
The movie itself was indeed a documentary about a self-proclaimed diva. Complete with de rigueur forced outrageousness and artistic proclamations, it had descended unsurprisingly into unintentional self-parody. It was the kind of movie that appealed to people who confuse spectacle for empowerment and mistake controversy for content. Empty calories. Low value.

It made George think of the story about Laddadog.

Standing under the marquee in ‘63, Carl and Helen must have known that that particular film wasn’t going to be their cuppa joe. A probable tale, one could guess, of a canine and his ragamuffin child companion, beset by the challenges of man and nature, told in a typically treacly way. Value there, perhaps, but not of the couple’s choosing.
But George had stood before the same marquee, suspended prejudgment, and came out worse for the wear.

Damn, he wanted a hot shower.

Who would have thought that cornpone cinema of 1963 could morally, if not aesthetically, trump the vapid, narcissistic cinema of 1991?
George shook his head. Ever the optimist, he hoped that some things would change for the better come fifteen or twenty years.

Haiku C-130

Twenty-five-seven
hours: daily, two or three
Hercules pass by

Over, through the sky
the bearing is ESE
A slow, steady hum

Behind them arise
dull ember al-Dabarān,
glint of al-Mirrikh

Brew of the Day: Caffè de Gallina di Cacao

Before the advent of microprocessor modules and programmable machine parameters, Hot Beverage Dispensers were at first smiled upon as yet another example of Automated Convenience. It wasn’t soon after that the public collectively rolled its eyes when actually savoring the cardboard “coffee,” the feeble, tepid “cocoa” and the saliferous “chicken soup” the machines had to offer.

The problem, as they say in the industry, was flavour-buddies (a term that is nowhere near as pejorative as it should be). That is, the contamination and commingling of adjacent flavours. Though each commodity was housed in separate containers, they all made their way to the customer’s cup via the same Dispensing Duct. The inefficiency of Brewer Flush sequences only added to the taint of a disheartening Vend Cycle.

But today, with America’s Coffee Renaissance in full swing, vendors have reason to hope. The failures of yesterday can be the successes of tomorrow. All with the power of Marketing.

Just take advantage of the old machine’s default Beverage Configuration -- the flavour-buddy-ridden amalgamate fluid of coffee, chocolate and chicken soup -- and simply change the nomenclature to reflect the demands of today’s self-conscious coffee cognoscenti.

The Orville Corporation’s Marketing Division hosted an array of focus groups in order to distill a brand image for this product that would appeal to the broadest demographic. In this product line, brand names that rated high were:

• Capponeccino
• Dulce de Pollo Blend
• Suisse Hünchen Chocolat (”The Hunch”)
• Chiko-Choco-Chai (or the “Triple-C”) — for the Teen/Collegiate market

But the highest-scoring identity is one that appeals to the upscale niche markets, yet is also versatile enough in styling options (lo-fat, decaf, plus popular additives) that it is attractive to a wider market share.

So, vendors and coffee connoisseurs alike, raise your cups and take in the distinctive, pungent aroma of the bold, new, full-bodied flavour of...

Caffè de Gallina di Cacao

"Don't taze me, bro"

La Paz en Cuñamadera: El pedazo que falta

Corre un viento cálido y fuerte.
Una guitarra soñolienta: Bolero lento.
El nombre del niño es Pipo.

The boy wandered along the dusty arroyos and across the llanuras of Cuñamadera, a leather sack weighing upon his shoulder, along with the heavy August sky.

Every few minutes he would stop and gaze at the landscape around him.
Saguaros, high plains, scrub. A lone burro in the distance.
Pipo took in a long breath of the warm air, and from his sack drew a flat piece of slate, etched with the image of a shrouded woman.

Who was she?

Lupita, o Tonantzin? O Madre?


He could not say. All he could remember was a face in the corner shadows of an adobe bohío. Tears of one who had clutched to the storybook endings and knightly sunsets as promised by her abuela. Bitterness rising in the throat, the self-pity of fruitless perfection. He saw a sadness, but not without hope or promise.

That hope pushed Pipo and his mysterious devotion across the high llanos with the stony talisman securely in his satchel.

He roamed onward past a thicket of mesquite, a Gila woodpecker darting past him. Lost in thought with the image of the woman, Pipo startled when he noticed a burro standing but a few paces away. It was the same burro he had seen earlier from afar.

“Stubborn thing,” Pipo sniffed dismissively as he approached the animal. The silent burro watched him in the sun, heavy lashes blinking lazily with the odd swish of the tail.
“Beasts such as yourself can be much trouble, can’t you?” The boy stood watching, as if awaiting an answer. But the weathered burro simply blinked with a slight sway of its head.
“You are not one to complain, mi amigo,” Pipo exhaled, softly petting its mane.
Stubborn, perhaps, he thought... But still, these beasts did bear the thankless brunt of everyday toil. And did they not ask for very little in return?

Pipo looked off to the horizon, squinting through the arid breeze.

The etching of the woman in his satchel, and the gaze of the burro, both heavy upon his back. One soul, with the burden of expectations; the other, with the expectation of burdens.
Each life was missing a piece, and in Pipo’s eyes, this itself was a piece missing from his own life.

The boy wandered along the dusty arroyos and across the llanuras of Cuñamadera, two souls weighing upon his shoulder, along with the heavy August sky.

Corre un viento cálido y fuerte...

Inspirado por la admiración de Mateo hacia Panchita.

Niebla en el regazo del desierto de sudoeste

Virtual Heimlich

目覚めなさい!

Drum Circles, Explained?

In the extension of self-reflexivity by percussion participants, any cultural references are veritably steamrolled by the facilitation of exhibition-attention/psychosocial projections.

In this Multicollinearity, deliberate response biases are evident in the allocation of excuses that range from the defensive “musical” to the self-righteous “geo-cultural.”

Behavioural Components of Attitude notwithstanding, the psychological proximity of cohorts only reinforces the Constitutive Definition of false empowerment.

This Discriminate Analysis illustrates and thus verifies the apparent social construct of “Choking the Proverbial Chicken.”

AWOL Secretary: Live and Let Punge

Bond always had the utmost respect for Moneypenny. Though they often flirted harmlessly with each other, he always admired her taste, her style, charm and consummate professionalism. He imagined that she held him in the same regard, and in that, they shared a bond (no pun intended).

So when Bond was overseas under deep cover, it brought him great dismay to hear the news of Moneypenny getting knocked up by Dan DeGlann. The vile DeGlann was no superagent of SPECTRE like Blofeld, nor was he a shady operative of the BubbaCabal like John Iddiott. His position in the world held no prestige, for he was a petty propagandist, churning out not screeds of any particular ideology, but empty, piss-arse, important-feeling words, ever-changing as the winds blow.
That’s right. Moneypenny got preggers by a pervy berk -- a right common tossbag hack.

What the hell was Moneypenny thinking, mulled Bond. DeGlann’s naff reputation in the intel community was an open joke, a dishonourable one of which he thought she was well aware. Bond was baffled, and being incommunicado, could only silently ponder the reasoning behind all of it.

Hmmm.
Reasoning. There was no reasoning... no logic, no sensible advantage to parlay in this move. Did M know about this?

As months passed, Bond gave this mystery less and less concern, though it did remain crouched in the back of his mind.

Eventually, Moneypenny intel came down the pipeline while Bond was stationed at Vyras Kambarys. It seems that she bore a son but did not remain with DeGlann, opting to raise the child on her own.
Well, that certainly made some sense, considering the sire’s lack of character. But this incomplete debriefing and the questions it raised nagged at Bond’s need for closure, forcing him to posit various theories as to what happened.
Had there been some torrid affair, or a one-time romp in which she knew not of DeGlann’s past shames? Maybe her biological clock was clamouring and he was the most proximate donor. Perhaps some combination thereof?
Though he could speculate all he wished, Bond knew he would never have the full story.


EPILOGUE: Eight years later, on assignment in Old Town Tbilisi, Bond strolls into a small café and stops short. Seated at a small table are Moneypenny and a tow-headed, wide-eyed boy.
“Bond, how are you? How have you been?” Her eyes beamed; the question, sincere.
“Oh, well, quite busy, as you must imagine... erm... very good, thank you.” His cheeks flushed, the back of his neck burned. So much to ask, yet all so terribly awkward. He hemmed and hawed, much out of character, trying to go on his merry way.
Moneypenny insisted on introducing her young son to Agent Bond.
Bond stood stiffly, replying in measured tones, “I am glad to make your acquaintance.”
The boy pushed his crayons and paper away from himself, looked up, cocked his head and said, “You have the same name as me.”

CSI: Heritageville -- Psych!

The inherent risks of spiritual forensics are all too obvious when witnessing the timeless battle between Those Who Could Know Better But Won’t versus Those That Should Know Better But Don’t: Petty, garden-variety autocrats push the buttons of petty, garden-variety ‘rebels’ and vice versa in a watered-down yin-yang ploy of marxoid oneupmanship.

Our man cringes at the sight of the puerile, pubescent, defiant id aggressively coupled with the equally puerile, overeager expedience of the tribunal superego.

The crime? Sacrificing the potential of constructive input at the expense of ego-driven, point-hungry games of ‘Gotcha.’

Unavený Jako Pes: The Shocker Was A Yawn

When it’s all said and done 20/20 hindsight may seem like a welcome bolt of clarity, but in essence, it’s only spelling out the path you’ve already followed, the bed you’ve made, the house of cards that you’ve built... and it’s rubbing your face in it.

ENDGAME: While stewing in one’s own karmic juices and being forced to watch the Grand Retrospective (a sort of cosmic Friar’s Club, if you will), one can hear the distant baying... the welcome approach of the mongrel Nostalgie, eager to pitifully hump your wooden leg in a desperate plea to highlight attention to past hollow victories.

Let’s face it -- attention whores fantasize about going out in their own ‘blaze of glory,’ not without sensing the road they intentionally paved to get there... But it seems that Fate has an ironic Last Say in terms of how anticlimactic their denouement will be.

Who’s Afraid of Tobacco Road?

“That scene might as well have summed up the whole movie...”
-- Eljack McGhee, Heritageville Observer

A rickety beachhouse at Paulie’s Shore, on holiday with Greg Brady, Karen Allen, Andrew McCarthy and a Casual Friday Marilyn Monroe. Big names, yes, but alas, they are but minor characters.
  Let us look at George, bipolar associate professor, and his passive-aggressive consort, Martha, daughter of the college president. Outside of swimming, sunning and sightseeing, an uneventful week passes, punctuated by increasing bouts of petty bickering. The subjects run the gamut, all equally pointless:

“YOU went skinny-dipping with THEM?! Did SHE look at you?!”
  “Why do you want us to eat alone and not with your friends? It’s obviously not a romantic overture, judging by your arctic demeanor. You merely want to hoard the prawns, perhaps?”

Back and forth. And so on.
  And as the dry, fuming ride home gives in to full-blown character assassination, the Citation itself overheats -- thin wisps escaping the bonnet, testament to a machine having given its all. George eyes a dusty service station ahead on the right as the car wheezes past a faded sign: Tobacco Road. Rusty dust and gravel are kicked up as they pass the pumps, pulling up alongside a faded, decrepit building -- more of a shack, actually -- seemingly having baked in the southern sun since Sherman’s flame.
  George pops the hood. Fossilised auto chassis litter the lot. Sporadic shouts from behind a screen door make the place sound more like a roadhouse that has seen better days. After hours in the car bitching, the now-quiet Martha can only offer, “George, I’m nervous.” “Don’t worry... just gotta find some antifreeze or something.”
  George and Martha walked past empty garage bays. A layer of grease and grit cover what junk is left. In a chair slouched a man in a stupor. Mechanic or local hobo? Hard to tell. Flies buzzed in the breezeless sun. Approaching the screen door, they could hear more shouting and laughing. Suddenly the door flung open with a black guy lumbering out, neck arched back, arms flopping in the air. In one hand was a pistol.
  “George, I don’t like this.” A verbal shirt tug.
  George and Martha slowed, gazing at the man stumbling along the wall, shirt unbuttoned, drenched. His incoherent words slurring in between screams and laughs were aimed at the sky above. His shadow followed along the wall, waving the gun loosely in the air. Who could his tormentors be?
  “George, I do not like this.” Another urgent tug.
  George paused, mulling the options as the man passed by them, oblivious.
  The heat. All week long. And not the good kind. Heat and no light, figuratively. Heat between a man and his woman, hurled to-and-fro with bile. Heat that exhausted a car. Heat that perhaps exhausted one man’s feeble grasp on sanity. (Okay, that one was probably the booze. But it made an impression on George.)
  “Let’s get outta here,” he mumbled.

  George managed to start the car and get it to a proper service station, where they simply yanked out the thermostat. The rest of the way home he did his best to remain tight-lipped, tuning out any and all static. Did he win the battle? Lose it? Win by ceasing to play? Lose?
  It was nine in the eve when they pulled up to the house. George and Martha trudged inside. Though George was majorly drained, a part of him in the back of his head was energised. He walked back to the bedroom, oblivious to Martha’s mutterings, popped in a tape of Nelson Riddle’s The Untouchables, dimmed the light, lay down, and immediately fell asleep.

On the importance of identifying mission spoilers.

Who dropped the ball?

a) Objective
b) Research
c) Prospectus
d) Commission
e) Execution
f) Valuation

Vacation... Mission... What’s the difference when a single individual can bring ruin to an otherwise well-planned task? Otherworldly deputations nor tropical escapes can guarantee freedom from Gilliganesque maleisons that creep into Planned Time.

The skyward dreams of man’s best virtues can always be thwarted by the worst of the same man’s vices -- resolve tainted, if you will, by the instincts of some to monkey around...

Yes, every mission has a weakest link: the Aeolus 14 Umbra factor.
Whether the mission is aboard the S.S. Minnow or the ANSA Icarus, the agent must be identified.

The Taggening

The author has been tagged by Blandly Urbane of DeMediacratic Nation.
Tagging in the Blogosphere means, that if you’ve been picked, you have to pick five to ten others to follow suit. Here are some questions and answers. The questions can be changed when you “tag” some other blogger. If you’re tagged, answer the questions on your blog.


Tagging Questions:

1) Name your favorite band and singer. (The singer can’t be from the band)
Singer: Stevie Wonder.
Band: Zeppelin. They’re still cool, right?

2) Favorite historical politician (domestic)? (Historical = Dead)
Ben Franklin. He was a Buckaroo Bonzai-type character from the early American political scene. You may have heard of him.

3) Favorite historical politician (International)?
Aelius Hadrianus, another fine Renaissance man.

4) You’re giving a Hollywood pitch (25 words or less) about your Blog — GO
Art, Graphic Design, Cultural Criticism, Psy-Ops: The Nexus of Image, Language and Meaning. Open to interpretation; opinions welcome.

5) Other than where you live now, what city do you like?
Kyoto is nice, München, too; Olde Smithville is a charm, as is Delta, Unincorporated. But the ideal is Heritageville USA, an enchanting hamlet where even the children are smarter than the vapid adults of Lake Wobegon.

6) Favorite modern politician? (In office now)
None impressive enough to mention, except perhaps Xarg VI, Grand Praetor of Xarnaq IV. Oh wait, you meant on Earth, right?

7) Are you a Wilsonian Idealist or Nixonian Realist in foreign policy?
Depends. There.

8) Favorite obscure movie?
The Swimmer, with Burt Lancaster; Charly, with Cliff Robertson.

9) What is your favorite restaurant?
Zaberer’s, from ancient memory: Eye candy, ear candy, and, er, mouth candy? Guess that would be the caviar. Or perhaps Fisher’s, back before The Cheapening.

10) Choose a music video on YouTube. Why that one?
Here. A video communique, intended to confuse.

Who to tag… for starters:
Lesterblog
Copacabana
Nunyaax

Cimex scientiam: U got me bugged

Assignment:

1) Obtain a small piece of rock from outside on the ground.

2) Glue some pipe cleaner feet on it.

3) Glue some googly eyes on it.

Behold: The Science Bug

Where does one begin to explain this mealy non-attempt at imparting scientific knowledge to the next generation?
[Shakes head.]
Was this an isolated incident? A rupestrian pipe dream hatched by some lone kooky teacher?

Johnny Gutts happens to remember the same project from an even earlier age... five, perhaps.
“Musta come from outta a book or something.”

He wasn’t taken in by it either: “By then I was already used to the overwhelming waterfall of sh*ttiness.”

Amen, Mister Gutts.

Apparently this assignment is a concerted effort by teachers to either foist bogus knowledge on the young or to shirk their day jobs, or both.
In the increasingly media-saturated environment of recent decades, perhaps kids are becoming more attuned to the questionable notions and claims put forth before them by those adults who should know better.

Good on ya, kids -- don’t swallow it. Speak up against this content-free pedagogical pussyfooting. Your parents can help, as Mrs. Gutts did when young Johnny came home from school and showed her the class ‘project’: she rolled her eyes and muttered, “How scientific.”

This simple yet pungent retort cemented the importance of the power of B.S. detection in the psyche of one Johnny Gutts.

Let this be a lesson to young and old alike: Don’t believe everything you are told.

This platitude is brought to you by the Emotive Response System.

Lutetian Vignette: Uintathérium Intemporel

Solitary Uintathere, knee-deep in a brackish bog, slowly and thoughtfully munches on fern and moss as the Eocene sun rises from behind the dense cypress.

So remote from anything significant in the timeline, as 41,917,067 B.C. was pretty much an off-year as far as global history is concerned.

Yet this beast seems to understand the greater scope of what was, and what will come to be.
Perhaps he is a reincarnation of a lower order Triassic reptile. Or even a retroincarnation of a latter-day hominid.

Still he stands in place, a plodding gnaw of the jaw, a languid blink of eyes abdicant.

Soon the fen will turn to tar, and our friend’s form will be the subject in a Polaroid™ of pitch, bound to the hands of the continuum’s clock, ponderings petrified, or perhaps even paroled.

Whither the mind and soul of this robust beast?

DaDa Freitag: Sporn den jungen Held an!

Wie du mir, so ich dir: Der Geistesknüppel

Kāle Ke Āge Chirāg Nahīń Jaltā: Beware the Words of Naga

Amethyst Vas Methysménos: Cue for the Visions

Filament in purple glass on the ceiling warms in strength. Minor key heartbeat of the nocturne pulses through the small, furnished shed. This dim prelude is to frame fragments of memory.

• Trudging through snow to Blumenfeld to return the borrowed folio.

• A trek across the Bäckerinhügel, past sledgers to retreat under quilt, shaking off the cold from the hardwood floor.

• Slouching through the Vieux Carré to sidle up to the Taverne Vide, a mope and a beer with Brenda Lee warbling on the jukebox.

• Leaving the Lodgemaster to rendezvous with the inamorata falsely in durance vile; now freed, mitigating the ordeal with hearty tongue and brew.

• Limbs entwine at Bad Greiferfuß, warm water rippling under that same purple murk.

The nocturne winds to a halt and the light is doused, revealing a phosphorescent ceiling of stars.

Carpe noctem, ad astra per lux

Trans-Chroma: Todo del día espectro

• Sunlight hitting the dashboard crossing Las Cruces at dawn

Melting Creamsicle™ on naugahyde -- a blinding visual flavour

• Looking down from the mesa over Cortez at high noon

Dusty maize-hued scape baking under light of white gold

• Double rainbow over the Jicarilla Rez

Spectra framed by brooding violet clouds and swaying grass of electric green

• Tumbleweeds crossing 94 near Medora

A panorama with the hues of white klieg lights gleaming off a tarnished Zildjian

• Town lights shimmering at midnight in the river at Salida

Diamond pinpricks smear and ripple through black water beside the roadway

Sleep beckons, and there... there is a roadside motel.

De amanecer a la oscuridad, cielo a conectar a tierra... a güebo...
...Ahí nos vemos.

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...”

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...”

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,
incapacitated...

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

The unexpected admonishment from on deck:

“Get off my property”

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.

She and the Reflex of Mortals at Chestnut Run

Marguerite of Horatius
Sun-streaked auburn hair,
tanned shoulders with the beginnings of a burn, dappled with dew

La tuffatrice in volo
She is not Icarus.
She aims for the sea --
to arrive there in perfect pitch from the sky.

She stands, hands pointing north and south
toes on the edge
back to the brink

A slight bend in the knees
a taut bob of the arms
starting momentum

With an arch of her neck, her body springs -- upward... outward...
...airborne...

Over the precipice her frame arcs into the sky
Seemingly out of the sun
circumvolving in slo-mo
heels over head over heels
almost perfect...
almost...

The rotation a hair from completion
when her nape nicks the crag
from where she leapt

one split-second

and the reflexes of mortal men kick in

Bodies in motion are in flight before she even touches the water
Simultaneous splashes
and arms are there to gird her dazed form...
lifting... upward through the sea

All at the surface
and only seconds have elapsed.
Marguerite draws a breath
and the rest of us can release ours.

Primate Unstable

Monkey Jr. makes a rare cameo appearance -- the first since his debut in 1982.

It may be said that the discernible presence of venal subhuman tendencies in humans is more evident now in the present atmosphere of lax media mores and an ‘anything goes’ wink-and-nod climb up the social ladder.
The highly demanding chore of fomenting sincere affective bonds within one’s socio-economic habitat has been resulting in self-interest behaviours that parallel anti-social development that risks a pivotal brink-slide into full Pink Boy freebootery.
An urgent point to be made then is that the potential societal languor that would result from this outgrowth demands a containment contingency best addressed by a joint strategic pungeoning confutation.
A covert psychological facilitant is needed to expose the inherent ‘identity nakedness’ polemic of Pink tendencies. Thus, an acute Type I proximate pungeoning methodology should be implemented to best address potentially deviant Pink ideologies and the resulting effect they would have upon the existing societal matrix.