Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 09, 2009
“Arm candy makes good copy”
While the sad lament of unrealistic middle-aged fantasies is quite common, fair quarter must be given to the understandable need for idealism at any age.
Unfortunately, it is not until mid-life when some realise that that which should have been recognised in earlier years is as pertinent now as ever.
Ideals of beauty, depth, and most of all, potential, are timeless qualities that beg to be acknowledged, regardless of circumstance.
So why must the man -- who has had decades with which to accrue wisdom -- blindly pursue Bygone Barbies and Caricatures of Cassandras whom he will never heed?
[SPOILT EGO SPENDS JACK ON SUBSTANTIVE INTROSPECTION]
Posted by LordSomber at 3:47 PM
Friday, February 20, 2009
Let’s be frank: By ‘decadence’ we mean the point at which a creative function’s indwelling essence has rotted, leaving nothing but the outer rind of form. We do know that new forms come from new experiences. Fair enough. But unfortunately, using yesteryear’s zeitgeist as today’s boutade célèbre spells out the harsh reality that’s all too obvious to most outside the shell.
“Embrace the Clothes’ New Emperor”
Yes, the presence of the pod itself is deemed more important than what’s in it. Apparently, it just doesn’t matter:
• Where your good intentions lead, as long as you speak loudly of them.
• Who is in charge, as long as you oppose them.
• What your tattoo means, as long as you show it.
In the end, it’s all about the carapace...
Posted by LordSomber at 5:14 PM
Friday, February 06, 2009
[Gass-Boy’s icon re-rendered from the fourth stratum]
A witness fell in with the Haskell-esque Gass-Boy sometime during the third stratum. Oh, the mischief he saw from the roads of Cambridge thenceforward.
• Weasel’s dad was working under his car when Gass-Boy just missed him with a snowball. Chase ensued from Nottingham to Sheffield.
• Oh, and on the hill behind Weasel’s house? The Golden Shampoo Incident. The heinous details remain expurgated, but let it be known that, yes, another chase ensued.
• Gass-Boy’s skirt-flipping move in Cranford that resulted in a manhandling by leather clad, 6-foot Cosmo.
• Hunched over with a nosebleed earned by a wisecrack. “I’m not hurt. I’m just trying to spell ‘KISS’ on the pavement with my blood. Really.”
• A spastic basement spree that resulted in Elvis 45’s shattering against breeze-block and wood panelling.
• The dead fish in the greeting card presented to some unsuspecting lass, and the unsurprising revulsion reaction thereafter.
• Expeditions through Mystery Hill to seek out abandoned tree forts where men’s magazines lay charred.
• Torching the pitch behind Platt Plaza.
• The Naked Tripod.
• The Crippled-Bird Salute.
Et cetera, ad nauseum.
As often realised in hindsight, our proximity to trickster archetypes act as cautionary tales to guide our witnesses down the road.
Cuiusvis hominis est errare; nullius nisi insipientis in errore perseverare.
Posted by LordSomber at 5:27 PM
Friday, January 09, 2009
Monday, January 05, 2009
It happened during the third chukker.
Could have been a bug bite, or a sharp noise perhaps. Whatever it was, the mare that was being hot-walked was spooked enough that it bolted off past the back paddock towards the main road.
Quick thinking by Jack Casher allowed him to commandeer the Citation, where he would ride shotgun with Courier One at the helm.
The vehicle’s wheels spat up rust-coloured mud as it spun into gear and tore down the dirt path before turning onto Thomson Ferry Road. The berserk horse was less than a third of a kilometer up the road galloping through the four-lane traffic, its speed equal to the cars around it.
“Dammit,” swore Jack through his teeth.
Courier One mashed the accelerator and closed the distance between them and the fleeing steed.
Pulling alongside the animal, you could see clumps of foamy sweat clinging to its chestnut coat. The rapid clip-clop of bloody hooves rattled the asphalt like impatient fingers drumming a tabletop. Have you ever seen the whites of a horse’s eyes as it’s racing uphill at 50kph amidst two-tonne vehicles?
“Here, girl... heeere, girl,” Casher coaxed, hanging out the window with his arm beckoning. Was it the sound of a familiar voice, or the sight of its master in the corner of the beast’s eye? One or the other, the horse slowed gradually, as did the auto beside it. The gallop became a canter, and finally a trot slow enough that Casher could hop out and jog alongside, snatching the bridle with one hand and reassuringly gripping her withers with his other.
All finally came to a halt on the roadside with the din and blur of traffic whizzing by.
When something sets you off into a blind panic, and when the world is furiously rushing by you, who or what is there to grab your bridle to rein you in and talk you down?
Posted by LordSomber at 12:48 PM