The Pungeoning

A Look Back: Ugand-A-Thon 2K Dry-Run

2012-01-24T10:21:00.000-08:00

Quelle Affaire! The test prep of the various functions of Ugand-A-Thon 2K involved questionable planning as well as a shaky alliance between the Allied Pungeoning Front, Ugandoid Autonomous Prefecture and the respective UN Concordat.
BubbaCabal interference with native sovereignty had previously resulted in the APF acting as clean-up agency during both the EBB Debris Field Incident and the EBB Contagion Drill. The worst of the crises turned out to be what was known as “Mission Manqué” (EBB010597), a real flaming burnout.
Diplomatic relations were smoothed out in agrément once BBACBL was ousted, thanks to APF and envoy Johnny Gutts.
Community outreach programmes were then implemented with a considerable degree of success:

• UAP: Chui Sasa Hivi
• UAP: Ritual of the Fuju
• UAP: Wakili Kuku

Alas, in a reversal of the ‘Egg of Columbus’ precept, Ugand-A-Thon 2K was shelved, stirring sharp criticism over the proposed activities:

• Airport Re-Enactment
• Riding on Fumes
• Dead on Auto-Pilot
• Investigative Report

[TRAFSYS COMM ERROR: Distressed Directional Glyph]

By Y2K+1 (28th Stratum) the idea of a future brokered Ugand-A-Thon was in doubt...

Der Kuss der Gräfin: Dreams of the Mudlark

2011-12-15T09:28:00.000-08:00

...The green of the grass, the murmur of small talk, and the balm of camellia in the 21st Stratum...

The garden party took place in the backyard of the Stuttering Barrister, a man who fancied himself a small-town media mogul, so many of the invitees were local politicos, reporters and uni law students.
  The event was catered by Mr Bobbs, who was dismayed by the guests’ upturned noses regarding his colourful hand-farmed spores. Stoddard should have been with the Nuts mixing down the Making Love For Now UK sessions but instead attended the soirée, not because he was any fan of the Barrister or for the opportunity for free grub. The presence of one Miss Tuddley had him overlook the mingling toffs and other annoying aspects of the gathering.
  She was landed gentry, a young woman from a family with a fortune in divinity treats. But she wore her privilege quietly as she studied law at uni whilst residing in the Stuttering Barrister’s attic loft.
  Stoddard had already met her acquaintance so the slide into cordial conversation came quite naturally, and was facilitated by a fellow law student by the name of Rhett, a sociable young man conversant in topical banter.
  The three chatted amiably away from the rest of the stiffnecks meandering across the lawn, and much punch was imbibed. Stoddard subdued his crush with nonchalance, but tacitly admired the favours of Miss Tuddley in her propinquity. Her raven hair and brown doe eyes captivated him, but he was under no illusion of anything serious, for her station in life was far above his. That said, natural beauty and natural smarts are to be relished and not resented, after all.
  With the sun setting the garden party waned and the trio retreated to Miss Tuddley’s loft for further refreshments.
  It was a charming yet humble abode. The hostess pointed out her snowglobe collection whilst she prepared convivial adult beverages.
  Stoddard lifted one snowglobe off the shelf and gave it a slight shake. Dusty flurries swirled down over a dark, sleepy village.
  Merriment ensued and was indeed entertaining to Stoddard, yet he felt both privilege and appreciation to be in the company of social betters who were no doubt heading for the haute monde in years to come. Rhett, probably a future barrister himself; Miss Tuddley, most assuredly destined for nobility. Stoddard recognised status hierarchies, but only in the context of merit. Is envy not an affront to aspiration? Though a humble tradesman, he aspired no less than his present company, so there was an unspoken camaraderie beneath the boisterous cheer in the room.
  The evening wound down and everyone’s groggy fog of incapacitation meant no one was going anywhere. Rhett volunteered to crash on the settee. Stoddard nervously eyed the floor, looking for the most comfortable spot.
  Miss Tuddley stood placidly across the room looking directly at him. She made a slight gesture with her hand and quietly said in an almost childlike voice, without a hint of guile, “You can sleep in my bed.”
  Mere seconds felt like hours. Her delicate face was expressionless, save for a faint trace of ...what? Wistfulness? Tiddly fatigue? A beautiful woman is offering you her bed. What to do?
  “Okay,” he replied with clumsy nonchalance.
  The lights doused, they both lay side by side above the covers. Stoddard was stiff as a corpse and would indeed fit in a coffin, given the nervous restraint of his posture. Yet he felt more alive than ever as he quickly faded to slumber with the lovely Miss Tuddley silently inches away.

I’m on my best behaviour out of respect. I’m on my... best...

He was fast asleep.

They say one’s dreams are all the more vivid when dozing far from the comfort of one’s own bed. Intense imagery, heightened spatial acuteness, the locus of dynamic circumstance. But lucidity itself often takes leave...

In the middle of the night the vision appeared somewhat abruptly before Stoddard. It was a silhouette seated beside his frozen, prone self.
Soundlessly the figure watched over him for a moment, then bent forward as a moonbeam caught a glimpse of face.
It was Miss Tuddley.
She leaned close and planted a warm but firm kiss on his cheek. One. Two. Three seconds and she drew back into the gray murk, staring for another moment. Stoddard blinked as the movie played in reverse and ended in darkness as suddenly as it had begun.

Years passed and the lives of Miss Tuddley, Rhett and Stoddard progressed quite nicely, both socially and professionally, though all three had lost touch. Stoddard didn’t think much of the odd dream -- it was simple wishcasting, right? Still, there was something about it he couldn’t put his finger on.

One nondescript afternoon Stoddard was strolling down High Street when he ran into Rhett, bearing a well-dressed and more mature mien. The two reminisced and updated each other on their respective professions -- Rhett, who indeed became a barrister; and Stoddard, who was a successful operative with the APF.
Stoddard cooly brought up word of Miss Tuddley, who was no mystery, for she was now a countess with a current seat in Parliament.
“Do you ever see her? In the city?”
“Not too often. She’s busy. I’m busy. We’re all busy.”
“We are,” Stoddard nodded slightly, looking askance in the distance.
They stood for a moment until Rhett broke Stoddard’s silent reverie.

“You idiot.”
“What?” Stoddard straightened himself.
“She always liked you,” Rhett muttered with a sly grin. “Don’t you remember that night at the Stuttering Barristers?”
“I... erm, yeah.”
He stared out at the horizon, slowly piecing together something everyone else had seen as rather obvious.
And he remembered the strange, paralytic visions in the attic loft all those years ago. And in them, he remembered having blinked at them.
And he thought: Since when in the hell do people blink in their dreams?

Maybe he was an idiot.

A Quantum Walk Through the Arcade: Answering the Tachyonic AntiTelephone

2011-11-16T10:00:00.001-08:00

BIO-RITMO de DOS: A common device of the early strata, often found in emporium vestibules but mnemonically associated with the Echelon Facility. On the console displayed are date selector inputs and a posterised pentad of some chick’s changing moods. What is wrong with her?
To a curious 8-year-old, this apparatus looks like some sort of Hippie Computer. Or is it a Time Machine? Maybe the Big Kids know what it is.

Initial curiosity aside, the 8-year-old needed no epistemological epiphany to suss out the triviality of the contraption, for it sat amongst gumball machines and other frivolous bagatelles.
Actually, scratch that. He saw the mechanism’s meta-essence for what it was, regardless of its superfluous surroundings: This year’s Pet Rock. This year’s Leg Warmers. This year’s Ironic Mustache.
Everything that comes down the cultural pike is a constant déjà vu: Something chronologically new, yet simultaneously tired, old and boring. This is not mere jadedness. This is the Time Traveller from the future, with amnesia: He’s seen it all before, but it doesn’t register until he sees it again. The first time feels like the last time. A blind Möbius Roller Coaster with only a rear-view mirror.
If there is irony in this unfolding pageant, it is that a dime-store gadget offered to illustrate internally what the 8-year-old already unwittingly possessed externally: A leg-up on the Rhythm of Life.

Organisational Health: Corporate Taphonomy in situ

2011-10-18T10:02:00.000-07:00

ACT I: THE MICROCOSM OF WANTS VS. NEEDS
A: “This idea is shite.”
B: “But that’s what the customer wants.”
A: “No, that’s what the client wants.”
B: “The client is our customer, so he’s always right.”
A: “Perhaps so. But ultimately the customer is John Public. Shouldn’t the line of communication be tailored to that end, rather than to the whims of a fledgling shopowner with no business sense?”
B: “I guess. But that’s what they want.”
A: “As a sales rep, isn’t it your job to analyse the client’s business needs, market demographic and competition to craft an effective advert strategy?”
B: [Begins to softly cry.]
A: “I know: ‘It’s what they want.’ But look at it from the perspective of the reader -- who is the potential customer. Your idea creates little interest or curiosity. This tells the reader nothing aside from the sig [name, contact info]. I can’t even tell what sort of business this is. I can mock up some better specs myself if you can squeeze some better copy out of him.”
B: “Well, his nephew had already built it in PowerPoint, but the file got corrupted. And since he spent so much time on it --”
A: “--Then that’s the design he wants. Got it. You’re right -- the ‘customer’ is always right: He has final sign-off. If a man wants ketchup on his filet mignon, who am I to stop him? But let it be known that I made a good faith offer to provide a visual solution, to the best of my ability, in lieu of your lack of a strategy for your client. When the rateholder has ended its run, I will hear no complaints.”
B: “Can you get me a proof by noon...?”

Thirty days later...

ACT II: THE PREDICTABLE FALLOUT
B: “The client’s really upset. He got no calls. Or any response.”
A: “I offered a solution one month ago. Naturally, a stubborn client wouldn’t hear of it. But you’re the one who took the easy way out. You’re the rep -- the professional who’s supposed to know better.”
B: “But--”
A: “I’m not going to repeat myself or my volume will rise and I’ll see bloody tears again. If you think you have a case, take it upstairs to Mandley.”

ASIDE I: THE BASICS OF PERSUASION
Organisational decay and office neuroses aside, persuasion techniques are not too difficult to understand when one is familiar with human nature.
There is one key approach that is sadly lacking in communication today, from puppet-filled protests of the street to the slick mass media avenues of 30-second TV spots and nattering network news commentators: Unless your prospect is a microcephalic 9-year-old, do not speak to them as such.

Thirty minutes later...

ACT III: THE SOLVENING
A: “Good day, sir.”
M: “Good day. How are we going to solve this problem?”
A: “One month ago, your rep failed to provide a solution. I offered one, which was left unconsidered.”
M: “I see. What can we do?”
A: “Sir, I just told you. What would you have us do?”
M: “...”
A: “To be blunt, sir, these kids you hire can’t do the job.”
M: “I need to fill those seats with warm bodies!”
A: “Rather than hire seasoned professionals at a premium, you hire college-aged kids with no experience.”
M: “I’m limited by the budget.”
A: “Yet no training or foundation is offered to the greenhorn and naif, which could at least attempt to bring them closer to parity with your ‘idealised professional’ who would work within your budget, albeit without an investment in the basics.”
M: “I’m limited by the budget!”
A: “Yes, I did hear you the first time. So the short term outweighs the long term?”
M: “Perception is everything.”
A: “Perception does not trump your numbers.” Or lack thereof.”
M: “Do you like your job, mister?”
A: “Yes, sir. So much, in fact, that I stand up to face problems head-on rather than run away from them. Even when they’re other people’s problems that end up in my lap. But finger-pointing aside, let us clean up this mess. How about I sit down with the client myself and sketch out some possible solutions?”
M: “That is the rep’s job.”
A: “Indeed it is. Your point?”
M: “...”
A: “I’ll sit with the rep and client and sketch out their ideas and show what works, what doesn’t, what is best for both client and potential customer. I’ve done it before with Mr. Gutts and the Orville account...”

DIAGNOSIS I: CORPORATE PATHOLOGY AND THE BIGGER PICTURE
The obvious dilemmas:
• A Mom-&-Pop shop proprietor with little savvy, saddled with confusing a hobby for a business. [Poor Planning]
• A sales/media representative lacking the training, tools and temperament to carry out their job. [Q.E.D.; also: Buck Passing]
• A designer given poor instruction on a thoughtless plan with no recourse for alternate proposals. [G.I.G.O.]
• A manager given to massaging sales figures, perceptions and busy-work, rather than providing direction and counsel. [C.Y.A.; Dilbert Principle]
• An unseen department head even more myopic than the manager, distilling everything down to hollow numbers. (“Quantity > Quality” delusions) [Dunning-Kruger Effect]
• Passive as long as the right numbers breeze in, Corporate-level brass sleeps soundly without any regards for oversight. [Peter Principle]
[Other Symptoms Observed: Administrivia, Meta-Ignorance and “Weighing the Pig.”]
[Across-the-Board Observation: Deterioration in Skills Ecosystem]

PROGNOSIS AND TREATMENT?
Obviously, an inexperienced business owner can be sensibly counseled by the experienced advertising professional. Hire them?
“Limited by the budget.”
Okay, hire someone with less experience, and provide some basic in-house training -- and not just on how to properly fill out paperwork, but on fundamentals in this field of work.
“Time is money. Get out there and sell.”
So, inexperienced reps are sent out with little tools to service both long-standing accounts as well as new ones. From a business owner’s standpoint, this amounts to a different face walking in the door every six months, asking the same inane questions repeatedly: “What do you want?” rather than “What do you need?”
Constant turnover leads to rapport destroyed. Accounts dry up. Numbers go down. This ineffectual hiring pattern is a managerial problem.
Should the hiring/promotion process into management involve some sort of “grooming process”? A vague and simplistic solution, perhaps. Would the initiative come from department heads or the corporate level?
Comfortable with decades of cushy profits, Corporate had become loath to micromanage its far-flung properties, even whilst the internet’s growth was making their business model obsolete. The only “grooming” that went on was the nepotistic fast-tracking of favourite sons.
“What about...?”
“Yes, but...” [The Loose-Tight model]
And so go the efforts toward any kind of solution. Not only is the business model outmoded, but the rot that has seeped in at almost every level has left the organisation unable to rectify itself. Can’t blame a guy for tryin’.

ACT IV: THE WISDOM OF OUR BETTERS
Several years later, after the whole structure had withered to a husk and profits inevitably dwindled, the company sold off self-amputated limbs and shuffled arrears in a panic.
One day, word trickled through the desolated office that Big Honcho from Corporate would be dropping by. Whatever for? It couldn’t be more bad news -- that was done the brave and accountable way: over the phone. It had to be more than a pep talk.
Cubicles tidied and shirts pressed, the staff stood at attention as Big Honcho strode into the office and mechanically made his way around the room, meeting each employee with a token handshake and a few muttered syllables.
What message from on high could he possibly bestow?
A rousing vision of re-purposing the business model? A well-considered media re-alignment tailored to clients’ business demands deferential to changing market forces? Some Grand Plan, if not big words? After all, Honcho had access to the best and brightest of analysts and consultants.
The exec finally came to this office drone, pumped his hand twice whilst beaming a most vacant smile and blurted two words:
“Think digital!”

Tuesday Tipple: Michelada del Jefe

2011-09-28T09:49:00.000-07:00

As the blistering dog days in Classic City slowly ebb away, so too do most people’s summer drink preferences. Johnny Gutts advises us not to say adiós so hastily to his particular beverage of choice, for whilst it makes a good quencher during hot August nights, it equally can add a Scoville-spiced savoriness to any drab December eve.

La Michelada del Jefe

• Fill 1 pint glass halfway with ice.
• Add Bloody Mary mix or tomato juice to halfway.
• Add 2 lemon wedges.
• Add 1 freshly chopped chilli pepper (Fresh jalapeño, serrano, or -- for the brave -- habanero).
• Top off with a lager beer and stir.
• Enjoy.

Vitello di Trota: The Fish Don’t Know It’s Wet

2011-09-14T09:45:00.000-07:00

The advert proof came back from the client with their “Special of the Week” headline circled in red ink with an accusatory question mark: “Veal Trout(?)”.
To the designer: “What the hell is ‘veal trout’?”
“I dunno. [Looking at mock-up instructions] The handwriting is terrible.”
“[Looking at mock-up] ...Yes, it is. But why didn’t you get the rep to clarify his copy since it was illegible?”
“I dunno. I just typed in what I thought it said.”
“So no red flags or second thoughts arose when you ‘just typed in what you thought it said’? When it made no sense? And you sent it to the client for approval?”
“I dunno. I just typed in what I thought it said.”
“No wonder the client thinks we’re idiots.”

Her job title included the word “designer” and her department included the word “creative,” even though she had no creativity nor did any designing. “Data Entry Clerk” would be a more suitable job title, save for the fact that the data she entered was often given an erroneous and nonsensical quality, with her inputting terms like “Cadillac converters” and “veal trout.” For all intensive purposes. Sic.
Though it’s taken for granite that the purpose of client approval is to prevent errors from reaching the publication stage, one must admit that much was indeed accomplished here. This time.

The efficacy of workflow safeguards is not the issue here, but the curious mental framework present that fails to see the context surrounding the immediate job at hand. That, and the repercussions of that job’s actions.
In the “designer’s” case: In thoughtlessly treating all copy and text as asemic, context errors will obviously aggregate. [Something Spellcheck will not catch.]
This amounts to a basic case of Information Illiteracy -- a human version of the aforementioned Spellcheck: going through the motions without seeing the larger picture.
Fortunately, no persons were harmed due to these clerical errors, but outside the proverbial office this mindset can take a more injurious turn.

The decline of Situational Awareness (SA) in everyday modern life
• The classic illustration of the importance of SA can be found in such high-risk fields as aviation. All too often in aviation accidents, pilot error is attributed to a failure of SA. Flight crew fiddles with instruments, unaware that their jetliner is about to slam into a mountain. If the aircraft itself was not on autopilot, surely the distracted minds of the crew were on it.
• Witness the coed walking the dark streets wearing the headphones of her portable listening device. Senses are voluntarily hampered whilst in a high-risk environment. Lack of SA.

The distractions are not always the result of some new technology.
• Substitute the coed’s headphones with a skimpy dress. A naive absence of SA or a brazen flouting of that very lack? One or the other. Blaming the (potential) victim? Freewill dictates the adult responsible for their own Poor Risk Assessment. [Cf. “Bad Medicine”]

The dearth of awareness is neither limited to one’s own behaviour, but also to that of those under one’s auspices.
• Behold the befuddled mum, daunted by the vast variety of goods displayed before her whilst her feral progeny tear up merchandise and play grab-arse. Also, her mobile phone conversation is of prime import rather than the antics of her charges.

Information Illiteracy, a shortage of Situational Awareness and a lack of basic social propriety are all variations of a myopic “autopilot” mode all too common today, whether on the job or in public.
• Parents, be they the lazy laissez-faire or the excuse-making, hypervigilant helicopter type, fail to impart the proper social tools, leaving their children in a cerebral cocoon come adulthood.
• Employers fail to hire neither the able and broad-minded nor to nurture those towards competency.
• Among armchair analysts, there is no scarcity of culprits in the “dumbing down” in the modern age. Schools, pop culture, socio-political forces encouraging dependence on the State -- all have fingers rightfully pointed at them for some culpability in societal demise.
That said, parental and adult/workplace examples are cited emphatically in this missive because, 1) Parenting (or the lack thereof) ultimately trumps these secondary societal factors as to how their children develop; and, 2) Adult and workplace behaviour are the ultimate result of said parenting. [Two ends of a continuum with secondary factors in between.]

But perhaps Chicken Little has clucked enough, as there is a plethora of real-life examples extant, whether in neighbouring cubicles or stumbling down High Street.
What do we call those flighty fish of our social seas with brains fatted on the empty calories of pop culture? Those with a voluntarily restricted mental motility? Those whose experience prolongs their own social and exploratory retardation? Those who are thus more susceptible to infotoxin ingestion?

“Waiter, I’ll try the Veal Trout.”

Dumb Luck Dog: La Sindone di Reddi

2011-06-27T10:09:00.000-07:00

“Herr Doktor Ghoulsby wasn’t much for watching the dogs, being a busy man with his golf game and dentistry gig. Pets are for the kids, right...?”

Ruff and Reddy were a charming pair — a winsome beagle and friendly golden retriever. Sadly one day, Ruff — left outside unleashed — was struck dead by a passing automobile.
The good-natured Reddy remained, finding more companionship next door with the Benton brothers and cat Scamp than she ever found at home. At any given time one could find her in their garage nosing through the catbox for warm treats or simply “chilling out” in a less foul manner.
Unfortunately, Reddy almost met the same fate as Ruff. Likewise hit by a car, she was found by Mrs. Benton faltering and bleeding from her haunches. Wrapped in an old bedsheet, she was rushed to the veterinarian where her tail was deemed to be amputated. She lived on tailless, none for the worse.
The stained bedsheet mysteriously followed one of the young Bentons off to uni, which he used as a giant doodle pad to pass the time in between the daily study sesh. “The Sheet,” as it had come to be known, was soon filled with caricatures, vignettes and whatnot, much to the amusement of residents of Reed III, who would often inquisitively drop by requesting a viewing. An unintended gallery, as it were. Some favourite sketches were the S&M Wilma, Deity-Inventing Prof, and Neil ‘Deceit Has Run Amuck’ Rubble.
[Micro-memes accumulated up to and including the 13th Stratum.]

Images in ink, archived annals of a facetious flavour muster both laughter and puzzlement. But let that faded blotch in the corner give one pause — for the first “ink” to grace this spirited shroud was from a red dog... named Reddy.

Dumb Luck Dog: It’s Gotta Be Jarrett

2011-06-21T10:10:00.001-07:00

Jarrett was first spotted just off a rural Alabama road trapped in a briar patch howling wretchedly. An offer of cold pizza caught his curiosity long enough to hold still so Benoit could extricate him from the thorny brush.
Apparently he was a wall-eyed Cocker Spaniel with an unkempt black-and-white coat. How he arrived in the middle of nowhere was anyone’s guess. Benoit tossed him in the bed of his pick-up and headed off to Classic City.

Jarrett never did fully adjust to domestic life on Papal Street. Sweet yet rambunctious, he knocked things over and generally created an annoying mess. He was endearingly referred to as being a “spazz.” To remedy, a tilt from a Mickey’s Big Mouth would puddle onto the hardwood oak floor, which Jarrett would happily lap up. It proved an effective relaxant.
He would come and go, often escaping the house or backyard lead to wander off on great adventures, no doubt. One afternoon he mysteriously trotted through the front door with matted, sticky goo covering his daggy regions; hence, another nickname: “Bubblegum Butt.”
One sighting placed him crossing Princely Avenue, oblivious to the four-lane traffic he miraculously passed through. Dumb luck? He was found in a nearby car park nonchalantly sniffing a pile of discarded clothes outside the Potter’s Haus.
Benoit’s housemate Stoddard arrived home one day to furious yelping from the backyard. There by a tree was Jarrett, impossibly tangled up like a knot in his doggie line — a veritable canine pretzel. Efforts to unbind him were met with snapping jaws, so Stoddard phoned Benoit at work down at the Gristle. Five minutes later Benoit was there with his bowie knife to quickly free the hapless hound.
Indeed, Jarrett’s exploits were quite foolhardy, often resulting in folly sometimes bordering on idiocy. Survival was considered a fluke. His experiences raised interesting questions: Can dogs have autism? Or guardian angels for that matter?
After Benoit’s passing, memory of Jarrett faded into fuzziness. Was he given away? Some think he ran off.

Some months later word got around about the dog. Evidently Jarrett was sighted off Park Avenue, romping around the yard of some hippies. Fatter and happier, but doubtfully any smarter. A benediction from St. Francis, perhaps?

“Akhecvs!” — Of Freefall and Momentum

2011-06-07T12:28:00.000-07:00

The pair of canoes set off from the foot of the lake’s spillway, coasting the still branch that ran alongside Timber Ridge. Under the bridge at Willeo the band paddled through the marshy estuary onto the main run of the ’Hooch. The sun dappled the copper waters ahead of them as the sound of cicadas whirred in the distance.
A brief break for refreshment at a shallow embankment resulted in a jovial mud fight between two bikini-clad girls, much to the mirth of the fellows who eyed approvingly.
Onward down the river to a granite outcropping where a rope swing hangs some ten metres overhead. After tying up the canoes, Ian, Jordan, Keith and the two girls clambered up the rocks through the trees to the swing. Everyone took turns amidst the laughing and howling, pitching themselves high into the air to plunge loudly into the cool current.
Ian was up. With both hands he gripped the thick rope above one of several large knots. With one foot he stepped into a small sling tied at the end. He took a breath and gazed over the gently burbling expanse of the ’Hooch. Hopping into the air, gravity drew the swing and passenger down a steep curve over the water with the wind whistling in his ears. The surface sped by below close enough to touch, and before the arc was completed, Ian’s leg slipped.
The foot sling gave way and ran up his leg to clench his inner thigh like a noose. By the time the swing met its apogee Ian was literally arse over tit, suspended ten metres over the middle of the river. Back the rope swung, dragging him head-first gasping through the water, out and up for his body to slam with a thud against the rocky wall. Back out again like a pendulum, dipping low, hitting the surface face-first, he gulped for air and grasped to free his loins from this inadvertent waterboarding. Repeat the cycle several times and the alternating dunking and slamming slows till his body loosens from its vice, dropping into the river like a lead sinker.
With a wounded groan, Ian tread to shore to be pulled in by his mates. Upon private examination, his back and shoulders seared with abrasions, and worse, his groin was swelling with purple-red rope burns.
“Gaah...”

The crew pressed on down the river to the high escarpment of Huntcliffe. Keith jumped in to scout the waters for submerged logs and unseen debris. The crew scaled steep trails to arrive at a vantage from which they could stare even higher over the river to the marshes beyond and the dull green of the wooded horizon.
The fifteen metre acme of adrenaline was the group’s own Everest, au fond. And they stood in the high breeze facing west to take in the landscape baking under the sun. Anyone standing at any elevated height will attest that their perch appears twice as high looking down than being on the ground looking up. And it was no different peering down from a cliff.
Ian, still sore from his rope swing mishap, stood with toes curled over the rock's edge for a moment, silently gathering grit to make the leap.

“...For a jump from such a height, it is ideal to make the entry as vertical as possible — feet together, toes pointed, hands tight at one’s sides — or better yet, cupping the family jewels...” [Degree of Difficulty: Zwei-Punkt-Null... Hoden]

Ian swallowed and bounded out from the precipice, limbs held tightly together, casting himself into free space. Flight time probably measured a scant three-and-a-half seconds, but those seconds stretch into eternity as with any freefall.

Air resistance blasts upward peeling eyelids back and filling the ears with a roar. Linear momentum pries arms away from the plummeting body to rise and match the horizon. Time slows and weight grows, forcing a Christ pose upon impact, stinging all to hell. The murky sepia of the thick water braked the descent to a halt and Ian grasped his way to the surface. With his head popping up he loudly drew a lungful of the bracing air and tread his way to the riverbank.
Once again, a hike up the rocky incline under the cool shade of oaks to the high ledge. One by one, and sometimes two by two the guys made their leaps whilst the grinning girls sat by, eyeing approvingly. The sequence of climbing and jumping repeated throughout the humid afternoon with intermittent breaks for refreshment.
The day wore on and the adrenaline wore off. As he was catching his breath, Ian looked down at himself. On the underside of each arm was a black and blue stripe running from wrist to armpit. Old man always wanted me to go out for Diving Team. Told ’em I wasn’t cut out for it. Guess I was right. “Bruising due to repeated improper entries” he could imagine the judges announcing.
The worn crew got in their canoes and made their way up the ’Hooch back to the spillway before sundown. They went their separate ways and Ian, exhausted yet satisfied, hiked the half kilometre home amidst the smell of fresh-cut lawns and outdoor grills.
Changing out of his drenched clothes, he noticed that, in addition to a rope-burned crotch, scraped-up torso and thoroughly bruised arms, he had a wicked sunburn.
He slept well that night, nonetheless.

Johnny Gutts remarks from on high:

“Those inquisitive risks borne of adrenaline and the thirst for high adventure... once common rites for a lad; now, fading mainstays. Yea, for the price may be pain, pleasure, or a melange of both.
And maturity eventually tempers the physical dares with prudence, as it should, in parallel, with moral acts as well.
But please pray heed to the youthful exploits and the spirit that drove them, lest that torch grow too heavy. For that sort of hunger, in abstracto, is what drives us beyond, for better or worse.”

Occlusion du Sablier: Le Cœur sous l’Armure

2011-06-01T10:42:00.001-07:00

Ah, Paris, City of Light. To the romantic, mere mention will send the heart aflutter. To three male teenagers from the States who actually find themselves there? Well... what does any male teenager think about most of the time anyway...?

[Int., Hôtel Flatotel -- Late Afternoon]

P.: Maybe we can bring one up to our room. Won’t we freak out the folks? ‘Bed check — who's that with you?’
M.: What?
R.: I don’t think they just stand around the corner of the Eiffel Tower...
M.: No... Maybe the locals’ll find you one.
P.: They don’t have a Soho district... I don’t know where—
R.: Just go to the guy [at the front desk] and say [gesticulating] ‘Wahoo!’
P.: Hah-hah.
M.: I think he knows the universal sign for Wahoo.
R.: ‘Ah, Wahoo...’ Yeah, uh, ‘Where...?’
P.: Hah-heh... [frustrated] We can’t even get a phone book from the guy!
M.: He probably knows what ‘Wahoo’ is before—
R.: —Yeah, he’s Japanese...

Just past the 11th Stratum, randy teenagers in mock eagerness posit scenarios they know will never come to fruition. But under the swagger the heart reveals itself, sometimes later, sometimes sooner.

Three hours later:

[Ext., River Seine -- Night]

A riverboat glides through the evening and tinny, canned concertina music blares out on the top deck. Stars shimmer and lights glitter along the riverbanks, painting a setting that is basically tourist-bait. Teenage girls swoon over the pop culture-fueled clichés dancing in their minds and the guys chuckle about technocratic frustrations of the social order.
Though the scene itself abounds with trite appeals to sentimentality, perhaps there is some frisson of Parisian magic in the air that seeps through a chink in the jaded armour of wiseacre 17-year-old cynics...

Taches chatoyantes réveiller
dessus d’un bateau sur la Seine
et la liberté se trouve dans la rivière
Élever une torche à saluer
Bien que Melodica chante une
éclatement épanouissement de regarder le temps congelés
et turquoise devient velours

Vol à voile est coulissante pleure
par le biais clapotis des vagues, sereinement
deux mains se touchent, tandis que gantée
un esprit chaleureux traverse
et le miroitement gonfle
dans tous les yeux
dans tous les ciels

In the end, are jocular schemes and fanciful dreams thoughts for nought?
Grains of sand, either way.

Manifestations of the 3-D Grid — Beyond Muryoju-do

2011-05-24T09:53:00.000-07:00

A recurring motif — corridors running parallel and intersecting across all three axes. A first-person perspective wandering long, wide and deep in a anti-maze semblant, yet abstruse regarding purpose and direction.

One actualisation of this theme exhibited itself in the vicinity west of Tech. On a bachelor’s last night of revelry a double-decker was employed to traverse the town's hot spots. (It is unfortunate that a bottle of Old Grand-Dad was casualty to a sharp turn, as it had tumbled down the aisle and stairwell [90°], shattering all too close to the hapless driver.)
After ritual humiliations at the Cheetah III, the crew retreated to the lone penthouse atop the old White Provision building. Merriment for the others ensued, but further investigation of the deserted structure found a labyrinth of hallways, dim stretches of concrete reminiscent of the old bunker that became Seaside Pungeonary.

A second exposition of the theme occurred near Kiyomizu-dera. A jaunt from the temple downhill through the valley of obelisks, one finds a windowless trapezoidal structure. Inside was a latticework of passages, alcove shrines in a haze of incense, and the droning sutra of meditations humming from within. (As it turns out, this building was a Buddhist columbarium known as the First Hall of Immeasurable Life.)

Two real-life instances that have triggered the memory of a frequent but oft-forgotten dream fragment. Surely, Freud, Jung and dream dictionary dilettantes would have a field day with armchair analyses.
But let us look at the most obvious thing in common threading between dream and reality: the ever-present spirit of exploration, delineated upon the most basic schema of the conscious mind’s orientation — deportment of the physical in the three dimensions. The lasting impressions of geometric harmony in the columbarium raise considerations of “rebirth,” the Land of Bliss, and other levels in the Buddhist cosmology, in the context of the three dimensions we grasp with our senses and in our dreams.

Paradigm Para-digression:

Residents of Flatland could not perceive Spaceland, and those visiting from Spaceland would only appear as fleeting shapes, sectionals of solids passing through the plane.
What lay beyond Spaceland? The Square posited the realm of Thoughtland, though the idea was found preposterous by the Sphere.

Johnny Gutts offers us a pithy pseudo-koan:
“As Prometheus gave us the flame, the sun grazed Icarus’ wings with the same. From Dharmakāya what can we claim?”

To the layman, a question echoes throughout those halls still:
“What is the geometric balance between curiosity, enlightenment and hubris?”

Salutatio: Semper nova fines

2011-05-12T12:05:00.000-07:00

The red tacklebox and Zebco rod and reel sat in a corner of the garage. The dry smell of concrete hung in the afternoon June air with notes of turpentine and plywood. The young boy balanced the box and reel on the handlebars of his pushbike as he pitched down the driveway and onto the roadway.
From Sheffield to Cambridge to Hurffville, the quiet sun beat down upon the bitumen. Crossing Greentree he pedalled up the hill on the road to Lac des Cloches.
On arrival, the lake lay shimmering like glass beads cast into a warm broth of olive and amber. Down to the small wooden dock where the line is set with bobber, sinker, and hooked with a morsel of wet bread crust.
Cast! with a plunk, the surface ripples with ringlets, faintly throwing shadows along the bottom a half metre below. A bite! Pull in a Sunny here and there. (What does one do with these palm-sized fish once they’re caught?)
The sun arcs westward; in time, in solitude, in silence, the young man patiently waits for another bite. Why? It — “something” — awaits beneath the surface to be discovered, familiar or strange.
Along comes a Bluegill, slowly eyeballing the bait. Gently it glides towards the hook with mouth curiously agape. A steady stare and grip by the 9-year-old is too much to maintain. Anticipation overwhelming, a slight twitch of the rod sends the fish darting off, mere centimetres from the simple lure.
“Rats.”
Sunnies were always easy to catch; a bite from a Bluegill was a little tougher to snag.

He collected his kit and wandered up the hill to the community pool to swim, dive, and swim some more. Swimming with mates, swimming alone, the warm, dank smell of the lake breezing over the cool, astringent chlorine air of the pool.
A summer day much like any other — no adults, save the pool’s languid teenage lifeguard, or the lunch Mum had made earlier, which may have involved cottage cheese.
A day free of nannies, busybodies, jobsworths and helicopters.

——

A September venture on foot, beyond Nottingham, past Weasel’s abode, up the steep wooded slope, passing abandoned forts, making way upward. The tailored greenery at the hill’s plateau indicated potential encroachment, and so the trek is thus expedited.
Through the trees, the party tramped along with pinestraw crunching underfoot; corrugated plastic covering troughs evidenced prior expeditions.
The forest broke to reveal an eroded horseshoe-shaped canyon, barren soil awaiting some developer’s future neighbourhood dream.
“It’s a whole new civilisation,” beamed the 9-year-old, eyeing waste yet picturing the heretofore unseen landscape with potential and the optimist's spirit.

The sun hung high as the three lads scouted the ravine with marked enthusiasm.
An autumn day much like any other — no adults, save the bellowing man on the greenery shaking his golf club.
A day free of nannies, busybodies, jobsworths and helicopters.

——

Is the spark of curiosity and exploration innate in a young man? Of course. It can be nurtured indirectly enough by Mum yelling, “Get out of the house!”
Something will always beckon from beneath the lake’s expanse, from behind the curtain of trees, from beyond the sky and firmament.
In the cacophony of today that “something” may indeed be difficult to hear. But what happens when the boys stop listening?

Die Worte zerschlagen das Bild: When Falls the Masque

2011-05-11T11:07:00.000-07:00

The Image-Construct exists for everyone — from the apex of social echelons down to the very dregs of the populace. Sometimes it is manipulated explicitly on the macro level through PR, socio-political affiliations and speechifying, most often by celebrities, politicians and media figures. More commonly, the rest of society controls the Image-Construct implicitly on the micro level: Personal fashion, social circles and status markers.
Either way, the Image-Construct is too often lazily accepted as the True Self when it is actually a projection of the Public Self. This is regardless of Social Distance — the person could be lover, friend acquaintance, celebrity or world leader.

And then... inevitably some variation of the Kinsley Gaffe is caught when the mic slips, shredding the delicately devised mien:

• “People I don’t know are mean and must’ve cheated their way to where they are,” coming from one who has coat-tailed their way to power, never having had a day job, castigating those with merit and effort.
• High-IQ shut-ins who verbalise their Magical Thinking betray their delusions when using words like “empowerment” and “stripping” in the same sentence.
• “Sensitive” artsy souls clumsily blurt advice to high-IQ shut-ins: "Maybe you can get a job at that place that hires retards.”

Unconsidered words shrivel and rot the Image-Construct, whether coming from friends stretching to force-fit disintegrating puzzle pieces, or from Famous People distantly chiming in on subjects unrelated to their fame.
Honest words can be edifying in both a positive and negative manner, though no amount of charm or beauty can erase inner ugliness, once revealed.
The hero, demigoddess and stranger alike are equally susceptible to Image Taint without prudent elocution.

Cue for the Visions: “Head Over Heels”

2011-03-22T08:55:00.000-07:00

Tá an amhráin sin séala ár gcuimhní cinn mar céir ar an tsubstráit ama.

The 33rd Stratum saw many foreign market attempts at piggybacking off of Orville’s successful SetUp™ lifestyle product. An ignoble effort by OptiGrids Ltd. used substandard Image Toning without the benefit of Validity Projection, resulting in unfortunate Avatar Vitiation:

• Stone-faced Maoris wielding chainsaws want their cake, and also: to eat it.
• Adult proles on the dole in fancy dress scrawl Year 3-quality fantasies of faeries whilst their chav progeny regurge and belch nihilistic slogans they themselves learned... in Year 3. (A complete circle?)
• Theological posturing by hedonists who also want their (beef)cake. The in-word-not-deed theist approaches indistinguishability with the atheist.
Diaphanous façades thus disintegrated with Virtual Biteback and Contact Slough.
OptiGrids Lifestyle Programme: FAIL.

Cue for the Visions: “Don’t Call on Me”

2011-01-06T10:18:00.000-08:00

Песните кои печат нашите сеќавања како восок на подлогата на време.

The woman in the gray utilitarian dress stands in the doorway -- a slim silhouette backlit by a 40-watt bug lamp and the spidery shadows of a catalpa tree.
A former shipmate aboard the Rev. Resbo, she offers a heartfelt appreciation before jumping ship to Macedonia.

Cue for the Visions: “The Knack... And How to Get It”

2010-12-06T13:24:00.000-08:00

Mae’r caneuon y sêl ein atgofion fel cwyr ar yr is-haen o amser.

The flatwound strings thump at a leisurely but determined pace; a brisk 6/8 stroll with a skip of the heel, albeit one that is yet a step or two ahead of shoes trudging through the white drifts.
An exploded transformer, swaying cables and weeping Magnolia add to the foreboding and tension.
An eerie angelic chorus descends through the graupel as the sky turns from ash to dingy amber behind the blackened windows of the Lodge.

Cue for the Visions: “Tell Your Mother”

2010-12-02T16:04:00.000-08:00

Lagu yang segel kenangan kita seperti lilin di atas substrat waktu.

IV-V-I triumphant stabs of the Mellotron puncture the air.
An inefficient machine sputters and an old cog bounces out unceremoniously and skitters along the linoleum.
Pore through the fourth-floor tomes to sift for trivia.
Pass the time in the 36th stratum.
Browse the stacks and portals of the first-floor dayroom.
Pass the time.
The acute tattoo of the instrument signals not triumph, but finality.

Un Rinfresco al Verdi

2010-11-12T14:14:00.000-08:00

Domanda del Tomo
e il ghiaccio fratture
le pupille arrivano
assorbito e ascoltando

Bloccare gli occhi con la luce
e il corpo si blocca
il leggero tremore delle farfalle
si muove dopo secoli dormienti

Assaporare il radience breve
come ricorda la vecchia quercia
come il semenzale feltro
quando il mondo era nuovo

Orville Corporation Sponsors Local Fútbol Club

2010-11-02T09:36:00.000-07:00

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Meeting their community outreach obligations one rec sport at a time, the Orville Corporation is proud to announce its sponsorship of Las Estrellas, Heritageville’s favourite local club in the youth fútbol league.

“Youth, enthusiasm, and private funding will take the community to the next step... interfacing people and situational activities within a positive context, using Orville’s SetUp™ and LifeCoach™ programmes,” said Johnny Gutts, Regional Brand Manager for Orville.

To promote the “Orville brand,” opportunities beyond athletic relationships and methodologies will be offered, such as: international corporate sponsors, security/clone marketing and PsyOps programmes, instant notoriety, as well as comprehensive self-actualisation modules.

With this in mind, Orville has endeavoured to develop a fútbol organisational philosophy and methodology that serves two purposes: To support the fútbol methodology with specific-interest mental proxies used by Las Estrellas, and to support a programme that allows athletically expressive activities for youth fútbol clubs.

Johnny Gutts adds: “Las Estrellas is a fútbol club with global recognition and background which represents ‘the perfect date’ for us with respect to the sponsorship. We chose Las Estrellas because the institution’s characteristics fell in line with Orville’s philosophy of high performance and dynamic enhancement, along with the global impact of its image. We believe the emotive applications of the passion of Las Estrellas matches the synergy Orville puts into technological development and innovation. Through amusements and especially fútbol, Orville looks to reaffirm its corporate mission which centers on innovation, personal achievement through the establishment of psychological goals, market-attuned teamwork, and the definition of a single objective: to rule.”

“Amusement Is Fun.”

“Our ‘Amusement Is Fun’ tagline is more than just a slogan; it’s the foundation for the way our operatives and athletes interact with the global audience and with one another,” said Gutts.
“This new slogan reflects the importance of the club’s ultra-competent, experienced and fully-devoted athletes. Their commitment and desire to play as effectively as possible has led to the successful fun we all enjoy today.”

BubbaCabal time trip unsuccessful

2010-09-07T10:23:00.000-07:00

Champagne Charley: Previous accusations of schizophrenia ‘must be ignored’

DATELINE: Heritageville • Tuesday, 2 Sept., 24th Stratum

It was neither the short circuits in his brain nor the bubbly in his tummy-tum that made Champagne Charley lurch and reel at an Orville Corporation Labour Day picnic. The tumult was of an unexpected temporal nature. Explosions rocked the small intestine as a time machine materialised in his tumescent gullet. The BubbaCabal was named on suspicion of involvement in botched weekend attempts at time travelling to pre-Civil Rights America in order to tailor history to their own diabolical ends.

“What the BubbaCabal is doing is not respecting the rights of pro-autonomy citizens,” said Orville spokesman Johnny Gutts.
“We are doing our best to quell this intestinal insurgency.”
The Cabal's time travel efforts appear to have been unsuccessful at this time.

Instead of teleporting to the United States of the mid-twentieth century, Cabal operatives found themselves in the midst of the Xarnaq Dominion of 2313 A.D., an extra-solar hegemony that governs the earth's brain farms. Needless to say, the time-travelling Pink Boys were not welcome, as their limited cerebral capacities were of little use in the twenty-fourth century, much less the twentieth. Xarg VI, heir to the throne of Grand Praetor, banished them back to the present after bearing repeated insults to His regime.

The time machine was built using data recently stolen from the Allied Pungeoning Front, sources say.
Champagne Charley, by the way, is still suffering from the trauma of the invasive mechanism, which disintegrated along with its passengers upon re-emergence into this dimension. Doctors note that the remaining intestinal detritus should exit naturally through the Nether Tracts with minimal discomfort.

As for the remaining stigma of schizophrenia that so doggedly haunts Champagne Charley, “It must be ignored, of course,” says Gutts.
“His troubles are borne of an outside agency -- most likely the BubbaCabal and their half-arsed psychological attempts at scapegoating honest citizens.”

L. Jack McGhee is a staff writer at the Heritageville Observer.

Vexilla et Dies

2010-06-14T12:05:00.000-07:00

“Godwin” (half-Darwin, half-G_d) shrugs at the false dichotomies foisted upon the form to which he has been bestowed.
Still, he can unquerulently appreciate mankind’s sometimes irreverent catechising of Matters of Origin and Whither Thou Goest.
Meanwhile, he will bask silently under the bunting and the burnishing summer sun.
Si fueris Rōmae, carpe diem.

Pungle: What more could we ask for?

2010-06-09T11:17:00.000-07:00

Pungling as wise, kind, thoughtful
The leisurely man is now depicted walking around the house in boxer shorts, scratching himself. Always getting crocked and passing out at the dinner table. Always hitting or shoving us around; always holding us down, spitting on us, and shooting us with a BB gun.

Pungle Initiative II
Always smoking cigarettes and drinking cheap wine. Always making prank calls and stealing people's silverware. Conspicuously present are beanbag chairs and cockroaches. The place reeks of vomitus and cannabis.

The perfect example?
The BubbaCabal. They were evil incarnate around other people. They especially relished tormenting us. We were on to them, seeing them as the gutless little punks they were. While the BubbaCabal was essentially morally bankrupt, they didn't have the stones to be held accountable for their actions.

The dissolution of sanity has taken its toll
Men are shacked up in a condo with their 25-year-old receptionists. Rocked by the BubbaCabal's actions, men are having mid-life crises. Men get a tattoo and an earring. Men now sport nose rings and shaved heads. Men drive Miatas.
The chaos of their lives has deadened the boys emotionally. They have taken to huffing lighter fluid. They now shuffle around your front yard with empty gazes — they've mellowed.

Hi-Five of Tiki Seven

2010-06-04T10:38:00.000-07:00

an incompetent buffer.

Notions are easily swallowed by the apathetic. They accept as fact that any disgruntled citizen, no matter how brusquely burdened he or she may feel as a result of the increasing demands of a slackless society, must be a wacko, or at best a nut who deserves extermination by agents of the Con.

Ignore the incompetent buffer of apotheosis and haughtily forge ahead with your covenant of verity.

Chemo 4 Emo: Modern Solutions for Hipster Inadequacy Complexes

2010-05-27T11:02:00.000-07:00

Squamous Scene Emonomas

Their rates have been increasing locally, possibly as a result of decreased exposure to rational upbringing, a broad global perspective, the arts, and pretty much, reality. Primary Care Pungalords can expect to diagnose six to seven cases per semester and one to two cases of Squamous Scene Rejectus each year. Attitudes may be plaque-like or nodular in a waxy, translucent manner, often with ulceric smarminess.

The upshot is that sufferers can be treated with Ego Excision, Emotherapy, Electrodesiccation, Proto-Dread Removal, or Pungedynamic Therapy (the latter is not approved for this purpose by the USDA), although pungeoning does result in the fewest recurrences.
Vapourous Meta-Excuses are amenable to any of the destructive techniques described above, with the exception of PdT.
Burned-Out Scene Personae arise from Scabid Dumpster Patches and Ego Ennui and become more erythematous with growth, sometimes resulting in Emo-Hypersensitivity, Gutter Slumming, Terminal Bourgeoisphobia, and Social Ulceration. Because Brooding Self-Dissatisfaction may again metastasise, sufferers often are treated with Excisional Psyopsy.

It’s really not as bad as one might anticipate. Most chemo patients say the worst thing was losing their taste. [“Like that of rancid wallpaper.”]

That should not be a problem here.

I ddeall y plentyn: To vault the Mending Wall or a descending pall?

2010-05-25T10:35:00.000-07:00

It was sometime in the midst of the first stratum, in a portable outbuilding acting as a makeshift classroom. Class was not yet fully assembled and young scholars milled about in the bright morning.
Masters Capone and Stoddard stood in the back, listening intently to the agitated neophyte, Master Streeter. He had a smaller frame than his schoolmates, an anaemic hue, and tousled hair of ash topping his noggin.

“What is it, mate? What’s troubling you?” the two lads asked young Streeter. The boy’s slate-blue eyes had welled up, puffy underneath. His keening hung in the air like that of a forlorn calf. High-pitched blubbering interspersed with a mish-mash of words — all of it impenetrable.

He wasn’t getting through.

“Tell us what’s wrong, man.” Capone and Stoddard wondered if this impasse wasn’t exacerbating his distress.
He continued to weep, and by week’s end, Master Streeter was gone from the classroom.

Domestic issues? Emotional issues? A combination thereof?
Communicating across the globe is much taken for granted in this day.
But what about the little boy at your feet sobbing because he cannot connect?

“I have striven not to laugh at human actions, not to weep at them, nor to hate them, but to understand them.” — Spinoza

Bad Medicine: Slipped Mickeys and the Albatross of Free Will

2010-04-06T10:49:00.000-07:00

"Thank you, Classic City... Good Night!"
Ian Stoddard stepped down from the stage and waded through the crowd to the bar to grab a pint. He took a sip and surveyed the sea of heads and shoulders, searching.
"Where did she go?"
He snaked his way through the boisterous club, squinting in the hazy, low light at every niche and table.
And there she was.
Sprawled on a bench, slumped against the wall, her head skewed crookedly like a broken doll.
She stirred slightly, eyelids leaden, and softly moaned.
Ian stared daggers, and after a clenched number of seconds blurted, "What the hell happened to you?"

Veronique was an otherwise bright and witty woman -- 'fun to be around' as one might say. Though she did have a penchant for blathering boilerplate phrases in the form of "All ____ are potential _____;" "I'm against ___-ism, ___-ism and people who are ____-ist;" "____ is a social construct," and so on. You can fill in the blanks.
Ian chalked up her spouting of de rigueur tropes as a vestige of days at Uni. He endured this because she was Basically a Good Person. And hoping that eventually, being in the Real World, she would outgrow the parroting of her professors from Navel Gazing Studies classes.

"What the hell happened to you?"
Again she stirred, unable to look Ian in the eye.
"I... had a shot."
"One shot?"
"Yesss..."
"What was it?"
"I don't... know..."
"What do you mean, 'You don't know'?"
"A man... gave it to me..."
"Who?"
"...I dunno."
"So some stranger offered you a Mickey Finn and it's just 'down the hatch' to you, is it? Did you want to be a victim?"
Veronique's shoulders slunk forward, as if she were collapsing upon herself.
"...Yes."
"A victim of your own stupidity!" Ian blared, furious.
He continued to read her the Riot Act until the bloody obvious settled into her thick skull, which took all of seconds flat.

What drives this mindset?
Intentionally putting oneself in a high-risk situation?
Having an external locus of control orientation? ['If I leap into a pool of sharks, it's still their fault for eating me.']
A cheap grasp at moral status through victimisation in the face of the cold, hard stare of Social Darwinism?

Ian took a deep breath, leaned close and hissed, "You're fond of pithy platitudes. Here's an old one for you that you've probably forgotten: Don't take sweets from strangers."

Metagnostic Moomba: The Sneaker-Set Parade

2010-03-23T08:39:00.001-07:00

The lamplights are aglow
on the streets of Sheffield
and the evening dew has settled
on green blades underfoot

HOP-HOP-STOMP

Down the pavement comes the procession
batons awhirl and cymbals clatter
sneakers red and sneakers blue
hearts and smiles are on the march

HOP-HOP-STOMP

Charming the spirit of Nooralie
wives with spears in the air
Doppler drone of the thunner-spale
drifts through the ville, sonorous

HOP-HOP-STOMP

Clad in their modern-day lap-lap
the new stomp of a kapa haka
unbridled joy enthusiastic
with humble attire -- paper, not plastic

Ein Wunsch: Vier Pfennig für vier Brüder

2009-07-22T11:29:00.000-07:00

Meeting Minutes 033109: Rig-One Avatar Hub Legit

2009-03-31T12:52:00.001-07:00

Pensador Paradoja: Fuego en la Mente

2009-03-23T15:25:00.000-07:00

Genmetsu: Ned’s second wind bodes ill

2009-03-09T12:47:00.001-07:00

“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]

Klæders nye Keiseren: Enter the Pod

2009-02-20T14:14:00.000-08:00

Celebrate Decadence!

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...

Gaseous Fray: Kötü bir etkisi direnerek

2009-02-06T14:27:00.000-08:00

[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.

Seraph POV Triptych: Navio das Luzes

2009-01-22T12:15:00.000-08:00

Ismeretlen Ember: Xenomancy in Brume

2009-01-15T09:04:00.000-08:00

Trenutek 010908: božje drevce

2009-01-09T12:58:00.000-08:00

[A year ago today]

Meeting Minutes 010709: Kongo Kulu

2009-01-07T15:14:00.000-08:00

Sclera Caballo: Reinaba el Pánico

2009-01-05T09:48:00.000-08:00

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?

Astra quae disploduntur terror

2008-12-29T13:41:00.000-08:00

Red globe hovering o’er
the puddled street
casting a brooding glow
in the quiet night

Swolt and seething
the hydrostatic balance teeters
Autolytic pulse ever quivering
as oscillators scream ascendant
Impotent rage fuels carbon detonation
unbinding the manifold:
Human Combust

APF 6700 Car-Vue/Q-Mast

2008-12-12T15:01:00.000-08:00

The Orville Corporation has unveiled its latest design for a multi-modal communications mast/car park for the benefit of the Allied Pungeoning Front. The superstructure will feature a civilian configuration of an unguyed aerial transmission tower conjoined with a multi-storey car park.

• Proposed location: Barney Scholls Road, Heritageville
• Projected height: 667m
• Projected voltage potential: 120kV
• Proposed parking allotment: 720 vehicles
• Estimated completion: February 2011

The transmission array will afford full pungent response broadcasts with several half-wave radiator options.
Parking platforms will be accessible via guardrail-buttressed spiral ramps.
Another highlight will be ‘Concourse Q,’ providing commercial and limited-use space for boutiques and restaurants. Especially exciting is a planned linear-induction motorised people-mover -- one that functions vertically as well as horizontally. (An Orville first!)
Above Concourse Q will be Sky Deck Alpha. The 360° Observation Platform here is expected to be a major public draw, with its majestic views of the greater Heritageville valley and Classic City.
The APF also has plans here for the Sky Lodge -- a convivial, members-only lounge modeled on the handsome study at Seaside Pungeonary, with contemporary jet-set décor.
The Pungeonary Pavilion itself will be at the very top of the superstructure between Transmitter A and Heli-Pad 02. The Pungeonary will be directly wired into the Q-Mast, fully able to broadcast live pungeonings, or to act as a relay facility, beaming activities from remote APF annexes.

Among the Grand Opening festivities will be the introduction of mascot “Fake Craig” -- a mannequin host outfitted with a hidden cassette recorder containing courteous phrases such as, “Welcome to Concourse Q,” “Have a nice day,” and “Cuddle on, dudes.” A hidden pulley will also enable Fake Craig to “high-five” the visitors. Kids are sure to be enthralled with this cutting edge technology with a friendly face.
The APF is expecting the Car-Vue/Q-Mast to be a rousing success. And the Orville Corporation will surely deliver.
So come out to the APF 6700 Car-Vue/Q-Mast in February 2011 and see the future, today... tomorrow.

[Spectrum is blue]

Oratoria dello Psilologo

2008-12-01T13:01:00.000-08:00

The People’s Rights Festival was your typical uni-town, hemp-clad happening that featured low-grade art, music and “awareness-raising.” An annual celebration that even the most apolitical could enjoy, checking out bands, people-watching and whatnot.
But this year rumour spread that Big Name Orator would be passing through town to grace the stage with his beknighted wisdom.
The excitement that seeped through the crowd was palpable. Folks who wouldn’t be caught dead at this type of event were seen wandering down from their council flats, curious to listen to a Big Name, yet their pudding-like pace trudging down to the stage on Town Square didn’t appear particularly inspired.
A bus pulls up behind the stage -- that must be him! Out he strolls, escorted up the stairs to the mic.
The speech itself, coming from a professional speechmaker, sounded beautiful at first, of course.
But then the template became obvious.
• Feel-good phrases that rhymed like a stale storybook
• Call-and-response platitudes
• Heads dipped in a content-less saccharine prayer

Everyone felt good.
Then it was over. Back onto the bus and off into the sunset.
Folks from the council flats plodded uphill back to their domiciles, their chins no higher nor lower than before.

In the time passed between then and today, what has changed for those who witnessed The Preachening? Apparently, very little.
Wasted words or words of waste?
With empty speechifying and false hope built up upon nil, would it be fair to consider this an ‘anti-sermon’?

———

POST-SCRIPT: The hippiesque crowd, types normally proud to remind others of their ability at BS detection, swallowed the idealistic yet hollow oration. Those “dumb proles,” judging by their nonplussed gait moping back to the flats, were not quite impressed by the same experience.

C’est à rire: Just one of those days

2008-11-26T15:48:00.000-08:00

“Engine won’t start.”
“Spring open the bonnet, I’ll have a look. Try the ignition again.”
Seconds later the TAOMPV’s motor comes to life.
“Thanks, mate.”
“Not a problem,” says the mechanic, pulling his hands away, letting the bonnet clang shut.

Cruising down the motorway at a smooth 70 kph, Ian Stoddard notices a faint vibration coming from the van.
The bonnet is quivering.
“Uh--”
**BANG**
The bonnet explodes open, locking vertically, completely obscuring the windscreen.
Stoddard swears under his breath.
Time dilation kicks in.

Plant foot solidly on brake pedal without slamming it. Press it down firmly until it touches the floor. As you do that, pull over to the centre turning lane. There’s less of a chance of collision there than crossing over the two lanes to reach the hard shoulder.
The van comes to a full stop in the centre lane. Stoddard puffs out his cheeks and exhales sharply.
Time elapsed: eight seconds.

“My own fault,” surmises Ian. “Should have checked the bonnet myself to see that it had latched.”

As the van pulls up to the TAO offices, a greenish splatter of goo nails Ian’s arm.
“Jeez, that’s a first. Isn’t getting hit with bird dreck good luck in Italy or somewhere? Could’ve used the luck earlier. Or maybe I did.”

“That was the last job for today, Ian. You can take the rest of the day off,” said Miss Wood, the receptionist. “What’s wrong? You look shaken up,” she asked, cocking her head with a crease in her brow. She was the closest thing to a confidant at the office, but Stoddard wasn’t up to regaling her with white-knuckle tales of terror.
“Oh... nothing. Got bombed by a pigeon. Thanks, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The house was quiet when Ian walked in. He took in a deep breath, paused, and blew it out slowly.
‘Wonder how the rabbits are doing,’ he thought as he opened the back door.
Two dogs spun around, caught unawares. The bottom of the hutch was ripped apart.
“What the--”
The mutts made a beeline for a gap in the hedges. Gone.
Left behind was the lifeless, mangled body of the white rabbit, pink eyes staring blankly up at the blue sky. Stoddard uttered a dry, point-blank curse. No sign of the brown rabbit.
“Maybe he got away. I hope.”
He found a shovel and carved a shallow grave in the back corner of the yard.
‘Rabbits scare easily, right? Hope it was over and quick for her.’
Filling the hole, he was struck by the contrast of the soft, white fur, bit by bit, vanishing under the rich, dark soil. He finished the burial, leaving it unmarked, and walked back inside.
The sun was dipping below the trees but he didn’t feel like turning on the lights just yet. He stood before the picture window, hands on hips, and drew another deep breath through his nose.
Across the street stood Professor Hubert’s bunker atelier. Some movement in the shrubbery caught Ian’s eye. A shabbily dressed fellow was trying to squeeze in through the loosely secured rolling doors.
“What next?” he muttered as he rung the authorities.
Coppers pull up scant seconds later, cautiously entering the same way. In no time they emerge holding the perp by his collar like some naughty cat caught with his paws in the fish tank.
“Dumb hobo, doesn’t even know what he’s looking for.”

Stoddard collapsed on the lounge, stretching his arms out, letting his head roll back upon the cushion. The weight of a boulder off the shoulders.
Silence.
*RING-RING*
*RING-RING*
Pupils edge to the eye’s corners shooting daggers at the phone. Another breath and he answered:
“Hello?”
“Ian Stoddard? This is Ms. Pierce from the Heritageville Courant-Ledger. How are you?”
“Getting by, thanks. You?”
“Great. I wanted to do an interview with you for an upcoming music edition this month.”
“Regarding which band? I’m in four or five at the current moment.”
“Oh, it’s not about your bands; it’s about you, the musician, being in all those bands.”
Humility kicks in with a waft of bland paranoia.

‘After today’s events, does one really need an ego trip?’ Stoddard grills himself.
‘Maybe. But all that has transpired is happenstance. How one deals with it is freewill.’
Complaints? Curses? Bewailment? An ego-soothing appearance on Oprah?
It is to laugh.

“No, but thank you, Ms. Pierce. I do appreciate the thought. Good day.”
Stoddard pushed himself back into the cushions, smiled wryly, and watched through the window as the sky turned from indigo to violet, and finally to black.

Meeting Minutes 111808: Verdrängt durch den Sägebock

2008-11-18T08:15:00.001-08:00

Terre des Nuages: A First Time for Everything

2008-11-11T14:54:00.000-08:00

(In the spirit of Engrish, apologies for the translation.)

Le salon dans le manoir, d’ordinaire brillant et confortable, les positions a assourdi maintenant et un peu fade. Cinq ou six flânent environ dans les procès et les robes, prévoyant silencieusement le voyage de 3 heures. Les sonneries de téléphone, ponctuant encore les ombres. Venir par le récepteur, l’un peut entendre d’à travers la pièce le Turc qui plaide -- les sanglots hystériques, presque comme un animal. Etre seulement une connaissance récente, elle est doucement dite qu’elle devrait les restes derrière. Le pleurer continue à verser en avant, comme le téléphone est doucement abaissé dans son berceau. Le voyage lui-même est subjugué.
Le long du voyage le blanc de flammes de soleil dans un ciel silencieux qui sent glacé dans son bleu, même pour mars. Le tordre et tourner de la route par les contreforts de l’Alpes-Maritimes rampent vers l’haut par les arbres épais. Sur une pente herbeuse repose un signe en bois, une lettres taillées expliquant sèchement ‹ la Source d’Eau Musicale de Montagne ›. En haut de la colline les forces de Citroën augmentent par un écart dans les arbres, où tient une chapelle en pierre rustique à côté d’un cimetière modeste.

« La révélation d’une mort de l'ami toujours décontenance, inutile de dire. Peut-être ils sont morts de circonstances tragiques ; peut-être c’était le simplement vieil âge. Nous avons de la peine brièvement et nous nous déplaçons sur avec les mâchoires moitié-empoignés, rappelant les vies ils ont mené au lieu de la façon qu’ils sont partis ».

En entrant la chapelle, l’un est rappelé d’est dans une grande loge, avec sa maçonnerie de granit et son bois en chêne. C’est-à-dire, jusqu’à ce que l’un remarque les bancs d’église et le cercueil fermé. Les détails exacts commencent à palîr dans la brume de porter le deuil. La famille et les amis semblent promener de, offrant des condoléances. Les hymnes lointains résonnent par les chevrons. Un registre de quelque genre est signé avec les mots déjà oublié.
Quelques-uns errent hors de retour pour un souffle frais. Sous les arbres l’humeur est un peu moins formelle mais non moins douloureux. Les amis tirent avec effort sur leurs Gauloises. Les mains dans les poches. Les pieds tiennent à placer le sol. L’air mord pendant que le soleil d’après-midi dernier coule derrière les grands pins.
Un homme se tient stoïquement toujours, pourtant dans il est consterné : il a perdu juste son petit frère. Deux soeurs, inconsolables, et une mère cachée parmi un cercle de beaucoup bien-aimé. Et dominant sur tout le monde est le patriarche : craché de portrait du de la décédé, plus grand que vie, une épine raide et la crinière blanche d’un abbé de Provence. Son visage, travaillé dans l’agonie gelée, rendant compte son plus jeune fils, un autre homme plus grand que vie qui saisirait n’importe quel moment... allé.
Il y a homme que qui jamais a fixé sur les visages d’hommes et de femmes qui a survécu leurs enfants ? Un homme qui ne ceci a jamais vu tient maintenant ruminer, rendre compte qu’il voit pour la première fois. Il se traîne loin de la foule, le passé la dispersion humble de tombes qui est être le lieu de Benoit reposant, et les promenades dans la forêt. Plus lent il piétine, la brosse croque sous les pieds, jusqu’à ce qu’il vient à un grand rocher de granit. L’homme redresse son manteau et sa cravate et assied languissamment, engourdiment, seul dans les bois, où tout est fait conscient, et il peut commencer à pleurer.

Secret Star of Sunday’s Grill-Out

2008-11-06T06:12:00.000-08:00

Icon upon cardboard
perched on a utility room shelf,
for years you sit there
making an impression
quasi-Dobbsian
a bulldada visage to be
affixed to future communiqués...

...Exemplum gratia:

“Challenge Accepted.”

One good thing that should come out of critical analysis is that people will wake up and take charge of their destiny.
Of course, there is a downside to knowledge. Many people do not have the courage nor the intestinal fortitude to stand up for what is right.
At the Grill-Out, this fact was pointed out very well. Sure, the easy way out is to celebrate in the dark behind walls. Many people are thrilled to death because they think that our demise is going to be a real benefit to them. Despite what appears to be true, will it really be? When they fail, the rest could fail as well.

The sanctity of the Grill-Out was upheld. The pursuit... the victory... the coup de maître of Slack was reaffirmed. The challenge was accepted with vigour, as the rich smoke billowed upward from the green.

Mystery Device at Pilastro Terrasport

2008-11-03T08:40:00.000-08:00

“I wonder what the ‘Hell/Hole’ was?” Grandmum quipped while frying eggs one summer morning. Junior blanched at mention of the ‘H-word,’ but silently he wondered too about the attractions he wasn’t privy to in Madeira Selváge the previous night.
There was the Palace of Crystal -- what appeared to be a revolving maze of mirrors. And that strange building with the balconies -- was that Frankenstein chasing that shrieking teenager? And the aforementioned Hell/Hole -- an imposing black façade with a hideous winged demon lording over the glowing red portal.
“Can we go in there?!” Junior had pleaded, pointing.
“No, you’re too young,” the adults muttered back.
Denied.

—————

For years the enigma of the Hell/Hole lurked in the back of Junior’s imagination. What was it? Dungeon? Fright Haus? Prototype Pungeonary?
Eventually, documents came to light revealing to Junior the curious lair and its fate.
His eyes pored over the ledger and accompanying photos. His brow knit and his shoulders slunk forward.
“That’s what the Hell/Hole was?!”
The grainy picture showed an old vertical cylinder with a walkway around the top. Junior recognised it immediately.
It was one of those glorified centrifugal force chambers with the dropaway floor bit. Just like at the Third Kingdom, the cylinder would spin, people would stick to the walls, and vomitus would spew laterally, arcing rivulets around the chamber, much to the horror of the other occupants.
Hell/Hole, indeed.
“Hmph. This is more silly than scary,” Junior reflected. “Imagination let down by reality yet again.”
Yes, Junior, reality will do that to ya.
But it doesn’t hurt to imagine.

Hester Panim and the Blind Bacchae

2008-10-22T13:24:00.000-07:00

Johnny Gutts is a man bound by his moral code. He was always a curious sort, never conscious of the spine that was already there. Questioning doctrines, ideologies, meta-memes — what have you. The quintessential Protestant Agnostic, wary of what lies beyond human ken.

“The older one gets, the more one learns... The more one learns, the more one realizes how much they have yet to learn... and the virtue of humility is thus nurtured.” [Aversion to Epistemic Arrogance]

A weight hangs — a deistic eye in the sky that looks back, whether proverbially, theologically or even evolutionarily — over one to do The Right Thing. Genetic mandates to preserve the soul, perhaps?

Atheism as an all-encompassing weltanschauung had already been tossed out by Mr. Gutts.
“Where is the sense of the ‘What if’?”
This ism’s own metaphysical certitude had cemented itself as yet another brand of ‘faith’ — albeit one with its own built-in dead end. Not that some atheists don‘t hew nobly to their own particular moral codes. But look at those many whom one would expect rational thinking, who instead volley forth uncritically into a froth over such vague yet in-vogue tropes as Foggy Envirotheism, Utopioid Rousseauan Hand-Holding and other secular antinomian harangues they foist upon the rest of us.
One belief/faith supplants another.
It is in man’s nature to have a god — God or no God.

——————

Mr. Gutts had always appreciated the hedonistic aspect of every young lad’s lifestyle, especially while enjoying the salacious favours of one Miss Nichts. But in one instance the young lady reminisced freely about some debauched past deed, one that even the most irreverent and libertine would find cause to blush.
“Well, it doesn’t matter ‘cos I’m an atheist,” was her dismissive quip, cast with a hollow shrug.
The tone of voice, one with peccant glee, came across as throwing one’s palms up, waving away everyone and everything but the self. It gave Johnny pause, as her Faith in No Faith seemed to give her carte blanche for writing off both consequence and conscience.
Johnny Gutts thought long and deep.
“What a shallow life one must have if their raison d’être is predicated on what amounts to be an adolescent excuse...”

The Bacchantes found the pool of Narcissus and inward they gazed...
On the opposite bank sit Dionysus, Azathoth, Set and YHWH, quietly humming the melody of “El Mistater.”

Perhaps the gods have the last laugh.

"Are you ready for retail?"

2008-10-09T15:05:00.001-07:00

World's Loneliest Tailgate

2008-09-26T14:31:00.001-07:00

Échantillon LXXV de papier peint

2008-09-23T14:20:00.000-07:00

-- Dans la chambre à coucher de Frank Hobbs et Mme Walker.

Reactions and Responses on a Blue Sky Tuesday

2008-09-11T12:01:00.000-07:00

• Scene: Lunch counter. TV above blaring the latest news. An older gentleman takes a stool at the counter. It is probably his first time at this establishment. He wears shirtsleeves and a dark bow-tie. His hair is a simple, grey flat-top and he has old horn-rimmed glasses. He looks as if he belongs in a small-town Southern drug store, accustomed to providing scrip to blue-haired ladies with their aches and pains.
But he sits here with a tight jaw, looking up silently at the TV with a rigid spine, perhaps holding in some ache or pain of his own.
He nonchalantly orders a reuben.

• A few seats down is an unkempt college student furiously working on his second Scotch before one o’clock. His eyes burn at the TV overhead as he swears under his breath at the news. Is he angry because he is drinking, or drinking because he is angry? One might suppose the latter.

• Down the street a husky fireman stands on the corner, a fire engine parked haphazardly behind him. He holds out a galvanized tin bucket as he pleads for donations from the melee of passers-by.

The news is a thousand miles away, but every locale has its reactions.

• Here, a mental reaction: The old man’s silent reserve and hardened focus belie the thoughts churning in his head. Is he a vet perhaps, thinking of the past? Or maybe a grandfather thinking of the future?

• Another reaction -- this one verbal: The student with fire on his tongue. Alas, heated words borne of liquid courage.

• And a third reaction: An emergency professional, again, a thousand miles from the news, doing what he can physically, even monetarily, to alleviate the situation.
A reaction and a response.

At this point, any observer can spout platitudes (”Actions speak louder than words”) or pithy quotes (“Life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you react to it” -- Charles R. Swindoll) that may accurately illustrate the sentiment of an unfolding scene as such.
Instead, may this author offer humble and simple words:
Hats off to the reflexes of mortal men and first responders whose sense of duty transcends the self.

Adult Heresy: Puer Aeternus

2008-09-02T12:41:00.000-07:00

Witness the adult who insists on frantically coat-tailing whatever Cultural Yugo comes sputtering down the pike, retroactively clinging to some imaginary vestige of ego-pampered youth, reinventing salad days in which he was only a flavourless vegetable.
The failure of the Societal Superego to temper the Peter-Pan-meets-Pauly-Shore Syndrome in aging men* has resulted in legions of middle-aged, middle management turds grasping for relevance with false nostalgioid opiates (as if real nostagioid opiates weren’t bad enough).

Taken to its gerontological and psychological extreme, what would we have?

Paunchy, pasty putzes toolin’ for tail in the high school parking lot, blasting Creed from their T-top Z-28s? Graying geezers drooling on their GAP Kids™ t-shirts and teddy bears as they relish a future of unfettered infantilism? Depends™.
Yes, it all hinges on what a civil, sane society will allow. Perhaps an end to people just muttering and looking the other way. Pungeoning protocol dictates a “cut to the chase.” “Calling it like you smell it,” if you will.
Which brings us full circle back to a Societal Superego that needs a shot in the arm. A Collective Consciousness with cojones that isn’t afraid to Take the Punge. A no-nonsense potency with the austerity of a drill sergeant, ready to pounce and punge any who dare commit Adult Heresy.

*Do not be mistaken in thinking that this is solely a men’s issue. It is equally pathetic when middle-aged women engage in such questionable self-affirming activities as trolling for boytoy, vain implants, and the wearing of mix-n-match animal prints with one-size-fits-all white stretch pants.

Petrolic Assault Upon Opthalmic Economy

2008-08-19T15:35:00.000-07:00

“It’s petrol! It’s in her eyes! Why are you standing there?!”

LXXXIX Gulf Coast summer day
Dry & Dusty Fill’n’Go bakes by the highway
Door flies open with staggering, shrieking woman, clawing at her EYES MY EYES MY EYES MY EYES PETROL MY EYES PETROL MY EYES!!!

Cashier and customers taken aback
Something is seriously Not Right with this unfolding scene
And through the door walks in Miss Shotgun
Traveling chum nonplussed; Shotgun rider unruffled, unmiffed; Standing there standing there...
...in the face of Adjunct Nonchalance.

Labours, Laughs, and the Augean Lodge

2008-08-08T14:42:00.000-07:00

Prologue:

‘The Professor’ Jones: “Hey ‘Somber, this friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend just tipped me off to this alumnus guy who pays five bucks an hour to do odd jobs. Seeing as we’re broke-ass university students, we should jump at the chance.”

LordSomber: “Okay.”

Let us posit that a young man’s character can be developed through the crucible of Herculean tasks, most notably the chore of the Augean stables, and tempered with a sense of levity. The more difficult and absurd the task, the more a man must be able to laugh at himself.

The asphalt ends and the dirt road begins. A right turn takes you up a gravelly drive thickly shaded by old oak and pine. The trees clear and there is a secluded bungalow amidst the junk and rusted cars. Near one corner of the building is a wood frame with meat hooks swaying in the lifeless breeze. Probably for dressing deer and game. One might hope.
Upon entering the house, watch your step. Yes, that is dog faeces and it is everywhere. Oh, and ignore all those stacks of men’s magazines -- you’re out here to work. Ol’ Man Willie will assign the tasks.
A bedroom door slowly opens. Perched on the end of a bed is a squat, shirtless, penguinesque little man surrounded by three dogs.
“Don’t be so stingy with your kisses, Lucky Lady!” Willie cackles as he tongue-smooches one of the mutts sitting in his lap.
Welcome to the Lodge.

• In the attic of the Lodge on a steamy July afternoon, the temperature rises to a sweltering 115°F. Trudging through abrasive pink blankets of glass-fibre insulation, a thought occurs to the miserable crew: “What is it we’re up here looking for again, Willie?” From below, muffled snores punctuate the quiet. “Insane,” the crew chuckles.

• In the old Sig Ep house, Willie “orders” volunteers down into the dark, claustrophobic sub-crawlspace beneath the kitchen. Plumber/Philosopher Dan and LordSomber search valiantly for a mysterious clog in the PVC piping in the blackness. Oh, here it is: Bluuurrrrpp-p-p-p! From the plumbing shat out a pitch, viscous goo of month-old rotting food flecked with prawn shells. Lovely. Even those “hard rockin’” Kilkenny Kitties were too wussy to come down and help out. That in itself provided more amusement than the foetid dreck in which we were drenched.
But those lads weren’t without their mischief. One day out at the Lodge they threw an old petrol can onto the Burning Pile. With a gut-wrenching whooomph the can exploded in a ball of flame, the resulting mushroom cloud climbing 20 metres at the least.
“Dammit, you’re gonna wake Ol’ Man Willie!”
Tip-toeing inside expecting to face wrath, the crew instead found the man snoozing upon his bed like some beached whale. The guy could sleep through the apocalypse. An apocalypse the rest of us would probably be cleaning up. With a laugh, of course.

Unfortunately, Willie’s unhealthy lifestyle and penchant for quaffing copious quantities of brew led him into a diabetic state. Not that that deterred him and the self-styled kingly ways in which he lived in his domain of dog dirt.
“When I die, they’re gonna have my body lying in state in the campus chapel for everyone to pay respects,” he would say smugly with a wink.
And when that day came not long after, his funeral was but a modest one in the local Presbyterian church. In the casket he lay, fingers laced, with a wry smirk on his face. Cheeky bugger always did have the last laugh.

India Ink Abstract LXXXVI

2008-08-06T11:47:00.001-07:00

Good times flow gently.

2008-07-22T13:51:00.000-07:00

The friends are over. They’ve got dope lined up and the booze is pouring. The hot tub beckons with succulent babes ready for hot aktion.
But what is that rumbling in the background...?

You see, pungeonings can happen at any moment. Out of the blue. When you least expect it.
That’s why you need SARC. Orville’s Self-Administered Reality Check can help you with Situational Assessment, PsyOps Detection and Rhetorical Metastasis. It’s proactive and doable. Easy to use with immediate results.

SARC. Find it before you find yourself in over your head.

Aktion Fünf: Kultural Kuru

2008-07-14T14:55:00.000-07:00

Johnny Gutts is on a tear:

“Hark! Jobbernowls and ye gormless, lend me thine ears! Hear out the spumid stultiloquence of the local Scribe of That Which Is Hip. Hent thee upon his bombastry, where he swasiviously divulges all that is Cool. Mandatory irony: Check. Childhood TV references: Check. Faux-Prole fashions: Check. The credenda you need for the gulpins to heed! The nupson and ragabash have not the sense to swallow your suppalpations, for they already walk your talk with thelematic precision. And your pogonophilic womenfolk already swoon o’er your sleathy earthiness, for your watered-down, bletcherous bohemianism they find ludibund if not novel, and quite for the sake of itself...”

Okay, okay, Johnny, we hear you. Here, have a relaxant.
He does seem to bring up some good points, though.

Some say excessive nostalgia is a symptom of cultural decline. Could it in some way instead be the cause?
Currently, Nostalgic Turnaround curves are flattening (NT -- The amount of time expired before nostalgic tendencies set in) and society is running out of things to be sentimental about. We see an increase in the phenomenon known as Futro (the way the future was supposed to have been -- think jetpacks and bubblecars), but Futro is merely a mirthful variant of Retro.
With non-original source material (rendered cultural by-product) being scarfed and regurged at increasing rates, perhaps society is at risk of some kind of Meta-Taint.
As we know, Transmissible Spongiform Encephalopathy (Mad Cow Disease, kuru, et al.) spreads when livestock are fed the processed remains of same-species livestock. Perhaps there is a cultural cognate of this malady?

Aetiological agents identified thus far by Psyopsy range from the longest of scarves down to the tiniest of soulpatches. But these quantised agents are not the problem in and of themselves. The concern is the propagation and re-rendering of these memes to the point where they become socio-degenerative Cultural Prions (similar to Infotoxins).
Society once had the luxury to nostalgically laugh at past memes and fashions that barely had a 20-year shelf life.
In the ‘70’s, we said, “Look how silly we looked back in the ‘50’s.”
In the ‘90’s, we said, “Look how crazy we looked back in the ‘70’s.”
Today, thanks to prionic memes, we can simply glance about and say, “Look how stupid we look now.”

Culture Vultures have always been with us, but now we have Cultural Cannibalism -- hipsters who binge on the art and music of others yet don’t do the proverbial homework, resulting in massive amounts of content-less effluvia. There’s a reason why those Man-Purses are so big -- they’re colostomy bags.

Solution? In today’s hand-wringing victim culture, legal recourse is a dead end. Old-fashioned ridicule is a great disinfectant for any cultural contaminant, though. Better yet is a shunning indifference. That way, when you’re forced to acknowledge them you can just look at them, shake your head, and say, “Like you matter.”
Give it a go, Johnny -- much easier on the blood pressure.

L'escalier des mémoires

2008-07-07T08:24:00.000-07:00

“That house... it used to be brown. Who was it that had lived there? Was it Cathy? And the next house... an artist lived there. Guy or chick? Can’t remember...”
A stroll down Browar Street on a broiling July day elicits memories that rival even Ned Merrill’s fever dreams.
“...And that white one at the top of the hill, Omar lived there. There was this party there one time...”
The sun beat down on cracked asphalt. Crepe Myrtles swayed with the hot breeze.
“That’s Chatham’s house behind those hedges... Had a gathering on that porch after the big walkout at work... Norma invited me...”
The afternoon, in its lambent haze, had taken on odd tints and highlights. Rust tones here, green notes there. The burning sky a seething shade of lavender, as if that colour could choose its mood.
Browar Street ended at the bottom of the hill where Pauskil Lane crossed it.
“Hey, there’s Mullins’ Mill... can’t barely see it behind the tall weeds and sawgrass. Man, what a place. Art shows, bands... all in that big ol’ building...”
Images drift from the brain’s attic.

A summer night, a huge old brick mill lit from within.
The procession enters through imposing double doors. The orchestra members stride two-by-two, male and female, arm-in-arm through the cavernous interior. As they approach the stage they pass a vivisection table in the center of the great room. Its stainless steel gleams in the candlelight. It is nicknamed “The Monkey Table.” There is also a shopping buggy, some chickens and an assortment of candelabras.
The musicians ascend the stairs to a stage shrouded by a massive black curtain. Behind it lay their instruments, and behind it they will remain and play for the duration of the show. The real show is out there on the floor.

The image fades.
“Huh. Never did find out what the actual show was out there on the other side of the curtain...”
A man is hanging a For Sale sign up on the gate to the mill. He turns and nods.
“I recognise that guy -- what was his name..?”
Strolling up Pauskil Lane, thunder murmurs from the west.
“That house there... I’ve been in there. Who lived there?”
Definitely a day of fidgeting for names.
The breeze grows, as does the thunder. The street is a narrow but shady one. One side has modest homes; the other, brush and foliage. Amidst the green, there is a set of brick steps, leading up to... nothing. Nothing but vegetation, someone’s home no longer there. Nature taking back what once was hers.
“I do remember those steps -- they led up to nothing...”
What the stairs lead to may as well be a stage shrouded by a massive green curtain. Behind it lay memories of someone else, and behind it they shall remain.
The real show is out here “on the floor” -- in the present, if you will. If there is something at all to be remembered, should it not be this?

Lighted Nights: Chi-Town Alley XCI

2008-07-02T11:44:00.000-07:00

Diario finale: Incagliato in Pretare

2008-06-30T09:48:00.000-07:00

“120 trillion kilometres from home.
Atmosphere is thin, yet suffocating. Burn injuries: Are these from the disastrous atmospheric entry or the planet’s natural radiation? Blood and sweat mix, trickling down my scalp.
Environmental suit is charred and has lost resilience. Thoracic respirator seems to be functioning. Communicator is useless.”
[...]
“Am in pain. Inability to keep quiet seems to attract local humanoids. They communicate verbally, but hearing them is difficult in the thin air. They have a device that produces a very bright flash. Does not seem to be a weapon. They bring a four-legged beast that tries to attack. Can repel it. Gravity is light here.
Hiding behind a wall where it is dark...”
[...]
“Shock is wearing off but the pain grows. Find refuge in higher terrain away from local population. Manage to find some small animals for sustenance. Don’t know if local fauna are toxic, but have little choice at this point...”
[...]
“Burns are getting worse, as is dehydration. Found shelter under tree-like vegetation. Odds of survival are nil. Cannot say if mission was successful, as computer survey results of Planet Esotöb3magA-III were lost in descent. Data transmission reception unconfirmed. Skin sloughing off and life force is diminishing. May those on behalf I have ventured, for the record, know that I have done my best, to my ability, all circumstances notwithstanding.
Final entry out.”

Service, Commitment, Sacrifice: The SetUp™

2008-06-25T12:15:00.000-07:00

The concept of the SetUp™ arises out of a global perspective, interfacing people and situational activities within a positive context. It can show you what you can become, while showing you what needs to be accomplished. The SetUp™ can show you how to fit into the whole; it can help you integrate all aspects of consumption intake, and it can help you facilitate a trans-consentive awareness based upon emotive applications of image toning, synergetic flow-control purgatives, and dynamic enhancement.
With the SetUp™, you can maximize your consumption intake through a rotating benefits exchange system. By using co-orientation and augmentation of internal resources, your cognitive domain will be market-attuned. You will freely enjoy commercially expressive activities, as a normative reactivity to dynamic incentives enhances your scope of self-referentiality.

--- --- ---

And now a few words from SetUp™ Facilitator Eljack McGhee:

So you’ve been wondering...
What exactly is the SetUp™?

A: I’m glad you asked. The SetUp™ is America’s premier lifestyle product, designed to identify and disseminate excitement patterns throughout its 1500+ offices nationwide, interfacing people and situational activities within a positive context. And you can see how that’s going to help you, right?

Q: Yes, I can. But what makes the SetUp™ different from the rest?

A: In a word, sacrifice. The SetUp’s comprehensive Relinquishment Program maximizes consumption intake through a rotating benefits exchange system: your wages, your car, your house -- even your children. How’s that for a broad church?

Q: It’s very broad. But what if I’m of the opinion, ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it?’ Know what I mean?

A: We know exactly what you mean. Think of it this way -- you wouldn’t want another man, possibly a foreigner, sleeping with your wife, right?

Q: Certainly not.

A: Okay then, let’s get you set up.

Q: That seems like the most reasonable thing to do. I hope it isn’t difficult to switch over from my existing product.

A: That’s the great thing -- it’s no hassle to get you switched over. It’s already set up!

Q: That gives me peace of mind. But what if I don’t like it once I join?

A: I assure you -- that simply cannot happen.

Q: But what if I don’t like it?

A: We’ll slowly poison you with sweet fragrances. In the meantime, let’s get you set up!

--- --- ---

The author would like to thank Eljack McGhee of The Orville Corporation and Peter Glavodevedhzhe for helping him to get “set up.”

Life of Reillys: Seafóid Kibble Argóint

2008-06-23T11:36:00.001-07:00

Through the streets of Sheffield again drifts the hoarse hollering of Mrs. Reilly. Her snotty kids sulk about, littering the neighbourhood with gum wrappers. Mr. Reilly can also be heard shouting under his braying wife. Out on the kerb, rubbish has spilt from the bin to the pavement. An empty tin of Mighty Dog pet food glistens in the midafternoon haze.

Karma Fundoo: Tamas guna getcha

2008-06-16T13:05:00.001-07:00

The Adage as Crutch

2008-06-16T09:19:00.000-07:00

“If it walks like a duck...”

At one time or another in conversation we all rely on proffering little truisms that supposedly illustrate a situation at hand. Such verbiage as “Don’t bite the hand that feeds,” and “Don’t count your chickens...” can often elucidate an unspoken Big Picture.

But all too often we hear the urgent appeals to empty platitudes, most of which are strident injunctions meant to serve the speaker’s ulterior motives.
Basically: The Pig Parent’s impious harangue tailored to convince the listener to adhere to the agenda of his banal Life Script.

As most people with a clue already know, the scarcity of righteousness is artificial, and resorting to pleas with hack, fortune-cookie clichés only spells out too clearly the feeble fundament you lean upon.

No Brain, No Gain!

Schlaf verrostet nie

2008-06-10T10:00:00.001-07:00

Where the barber meets the prince
between brick and cirrocumulus
stands oxidized metal heralding
some quaint neuer Weg
to starch our shorts

UAP: Wakili Kuku

2008-06-05T13:38:00.000-07:00

Jimbōchō Dimensional Conduit

2008-06-03T12:23:00.001-07:00

Quiet, dusty bookstore in a small corner of the megalopolis.
Between the tomes glide alien tones of Hammond and Leslie, sonic statues striding in a minor key.
Attack, decay, sustain, release.
The dry smell of disintegrating pulp and the twilight of vibrato -- dusky notes of simmering violet, sage green and translucent oxblood... a constellation of miniature gongs resonate through the aisles that would bring to Toshinori-san a kind session of many smiles.

Escape from Asylum Le Rixe

2008-06-02T09:18:00.000-07:00

At first a stately refuge with hedonistic accommodations:
A home studio with “coat cheque” to fuel the all-night sessions.
A deluxe jacuzzi (with ‘therapeutic’ pretenses) where ‘Bobbing for Satan’ was a joked-about pastime.
The meditative chamber of Bad Greiferfuß, in all its purple murk.

And then slowly, like the paint peeling from the walls, ghosts emerge from the past and present:
Dogs barking at empty transoms. The baying of wolves from beyond the fence. Spectres said to drift down the main hall. A seat at the piano in the empty, darkened parlour that brings forth an invisible presence to stand at one’s back.
All this and the contagious madness that spreads to the living:
LeVira, the shut-in with a litany of dodgy excuses for every neurosis.
Behold, a nutritionally inventive new pizza topping: nail clippings. That should suitably supplement an otherwise dreary diet of white wine and menthols.
A proclivity for phony artsy friends is embarrassing enough, but when self-destructive tendencies come to the point of inviting sociopaths over for tea, one could say a line has been crossed.
Witness the vile yob known as The Hackler. Choking the dog in a spun-out bevvied stupor? That would be he. Chicken bones on the doorstep? His brand of voudou. A cinder block smouldering inside the shattered remains of a 24-inch television screen? Well, let’s just thank Mr Greenberg’s photographic prowess for capturing the posterity of that scene on an 8x11 glossy. As it drove even him from the asylum.
In the event, it drove everyone of sound mind.
Yes, the line is well beyond crossed.
Stealth evac to the true asylum: The Men’s Lodge.

UAP: Ritual of the Fuju

2008-05-29T12:48:00.001-07:00

Il portello rosso: I percorsi che scegliamo

2008-05-28T06:16:00.000-07:00

Éncore! Éncore! roared the crowd as the curtains closed.
The cast made its way through the dark recesses of the theatre towards the dressing rooms. When supporting actor Ian Stoddard pushed open his door, the reception was much the same.
“Good show, mate!” “You were great up there! Tops!”
Drenched with sweat, Ian silently waved thanks as he reached for a pitcher of water. The backstage crowd was the usual assortment of Stage Door Jennies, toady arse-kissers, half-lashed crew members and the odd friend or two.
“Ian, you were the best one up there -- you should star in your own show!”
Molessa Vega was always first in line to flatter. An actress herself, Vega was incessant with her thespian-of-the-week conquests -- of which Stoddard had been long-studied prey.
“Thanks, Molessa,” Stoddard offered weakly as he swabbed a damp towel across the back of his neck. The cramped dressing room was wedged with a dozen people, a dank sauna with conversational volume at maximum.
In tow behind Molessa was her friend Deedie. Meek and somewhat comely, Deedie was just the opposite of the cloying and predatory Molessa.
“Heya, Deedie,” Ian nodded, polite but distant.
“She likes you a lot,” Molessa hissed in his ear, tugging his sleeve. Though weary from the show, Stoddard could tell this was a conquest-by-proxy set-up. Molessa would probably later invite them all to her place where she could eventually isolate and sink her claws into him.
“I need some fresh air,” he said, already halfway out the door.

In the alley Ian was calmly smoking a fag, watching the crew load up in the humid June evening.
“Hi, Ian.” It was Deedie, hands behind her back, toeing the ground nervously.
“So, you had to get out of that craziness too?” he casually smiled.
“Yes... it was a good performance by the way.” Her skin glowed like porcelain under the street lamps... her hair, india ink pulled into a bun. Beauty without pretension. Ian felt moved.
“Fancy a stroll?”
Ian knew straight away that Deedie was much too young for him. But there was a sense of... simplicity, purity... innocence, perhaps(?) that he found refreshing; and that was something he could walk down the street with, wearing neither suspicion nor shame.
The conversation remained topical yet pleasant. At one point, photos of parents were extracted from wallets for a laugh. Her father, reedy with a small moustache and glasses, seemed the actuary type; her mother, homely and nondescript.
“This is where you are staying tonight, isn’t it?” she said, pointing upward at the hotel.
“Why, yes it is... erm... care to come up?”
A cad or a gent? Ian knew the implications could be taken either way. And yet the gleam in her eye could also be taken either way.
Ian swung the door open to reveal the grand suite.
“Oh, it is marvelous,” beamed Deedie.
“It is, thank you. Shall I fix a nightcap?”
“Why, yes. Mind if I have a look about?” she purred, her eye’s gleam that much more noticeable. The breezy air of insistence with a waft of inexperience.
“Sure... go ahead,” Ian said, opening the fridge. Nice kid, he thought to himself. Why does she hang around with that trampy Molessa?
A beer in each hand, Ian approached the bedroom doorway, a crimson glow emanating. He entered and stopped.
In the red haze upon the bed lay Deedie, spread half-passed-out, her thumb tucked into her waistband as if awaiting some move to be played. Her eyes rolled and her lids descended like the curtains at the show. Ian blinked.
The lass is getting ahead of herself -- what is she thinking? Did your girlfriends push you to do this? You can’t be more than nineteen.
Ian turned, walked into the living room, sat in the dark and waited. He dozed for a spell until Deedie stumbled forth, bidding a hasty goodbye out the door. He had to be as embarrassed at the time as she was.

But down the road, further encounters were not discomfiting at all. A kind smile, an avuncular hello here and there -- it was all good.
Ian did not quite remember when it was when Deedie left town, as eventually everyone comes and goes in good time. But years later someone dropped a tidbit that shook him awake.
“You know, Deedie makes adult movies now.”
“No, I did not know that.”
For some reason, Ian thought back to the wallet photo of her parents. The bookish father and the mousy mum, clad in their polyester best, so many years ago. The humble, young couple with a future ahead of them. He pushed the image from his mind.
Freewill. We all choose our paths, don’t we? Somethin’ like that, I suppose.
In time, Ian came to terms with this young woman, and, as distant as he was, accepted her choices in life.
But in the back of his head, he had more than a hunch that young Deedie, with the path she had chosen, found the end of that road with an early demise.

Despertar em Montego

2008-05-20T12:32:00.000-07:00

O when the goddesse taketh notise of thee
raises her arm, bekninge
from the trone upon grēves
an avowel nŏu ben sted
unbewarned ten paces ago
the hastive lightnesse shoulde maketh thou pause
but humilitie pressed thee biforen
homem invisível of the tenth stratum
once consentaunt as a deist
under palmes what ofthaued but brefli
were those nociens by a smile

UAP: Chui Sasa Hivi

2008-05-19T13:57:00.000-07:00

Tales from The Grid — Vol. 1.1

2008-05-16T12:36:00.000-07:00

• Canuck Hook: False appendage prop used by customs agents to scare musicians into relinquishing possible contraband. Fortunately, the sole, remaining roach had already fallen out of Dr. Carter’s wallet, where he swiftly scooped it up and gulped it.

Tales from The Grid — Vol. 1

2008-05-14T14:56:00.000-07:00

A collection of Spinal Tap moments from days of yore.

• Cojones del Acero: Entering an office in a Manhattan high-rise, the band is silently nervous as bigwig record label executive deigns to have them before him. Before you know it, bandmate Sarge Puss is interrogating the exec on potential dental insurance coverage. Eyes roll. Attempts to kick the musician under the table prove unsuccessful.
This same Sarge Puss had the nards to change his clothes commando-style in the rat-infested alley behind the 9:30 Club, while others lobbed beer bottles at the teeming vermin around him.

• The afore-mentioned roadkill art opening punk gig.

• Odd First Impressions: Upon arriving at a Charleston riverfront club to load in, the band spies an ambulance parked on the bridge, lights flashing.
“What’s going on up there?”
“Oh, some guy threatening to jump off... just a suicide attempt. Welcome to West Virginia.”

• Your Number One Fan ...for about 30 minutes: Mangy hayseed making out with mousy minor on empty dance floor during soundcheck.
“Man, you guys rawk!”
Later, during the set, said hayseed climbs on stage mid-song with a tattered sheet of his own “lyrics” and attempts to commandeer the mic. The 5’0” female singer is not impressed. Fisticuffs ensue.

• The final leg of a grueling tour: A +2200km jaunt in 36 hours to make it to the “rockingest club in Azalea City” run by the fabulous Roberta Vallée-d'Aoste. Upon arrival it is apparent that this “club” is little more that a mall outparcel with a “Frat Deco” motif. Ms. Roberta herself turns out to be a middle-aged woman in haircurlers with banana-tiddies. After half a set: “I’ll pay y’all now if you quit.” This could be accurately described as the tour’s dénouement.

Shock the Monkey: The obligatory exotic pet anecdote

2008-04-28T12:35:00.001-07:00

“Hey look -- that guy over there has a pet _______ (fill in name of current exotic pet species du jour).”
“Hmm. That reminds me of this story...”

It is an early eve in an otherwise empty, quiet pub when who walks in but good old Mike D., already half-sloshed before sundown. The usual barstool banter commences with jokes, stories and hearty laughs between the few in attendance.
The door opens and in walks a lone university girl, apparently waiting for her friends to arrive. Perched on her shoulder is what appears to be a small spider monkey.
Plastered three sheets to the wind, Mike’s eyes light up. [A drunk and a monkey. You can see where this is heading.]
Mike saunters over to the young lady and inquires about the pet, craning his neck trying to catch the little fellow’s eye. Quite happy to be showered with attention, she obliges, beaming with self-satisfaction.
[Aside: Here the reader will see the story’s subtext -- exotic pet as conversation piece for attention whores, and the consequences thereof.]
Mike, who could change from charmingly tipsy to a slurring pervert in zero seconds flat, proceeded to make lewd comments and puns to the woman about “what she does with her monkey.” (These comments are best left up to the reader’s imagination.) Disgusted by the wisecracks as any young woman would be, she spun about face to instead turn her attention to the TV above the bar. Her back was to Mike, but the beast on her shoulder was now looking him straight in the face. Bad move.
“Hey lil’ fella, hey there... hey, how are you? Hey...” Mike continued to interrogate the primate, waving his hand at it, peering into its face, provoking it more and more.
The reaction of the monkey (or that of any primate, including man) was perfectly understandable: Agitation.
And when agitated, what do monkeys excel at?
Defecation.
Unfortunately, this little bugger’s nappies were secured quite loosely, and what began as a few spattered rivulets soon turned into a chocolate cascade down the woman’s back. (Why, oh why did she choose to wear a plain white T-shirt tonight?)
Jaws dropped and the roar of guffaws echoed throughout the pub. Of course, this was the perfect time for her friends to walk in the door. Everyone was beet-red with laughter yet this woman was still unaware until her friends rushed up to notify her of the fecal Niagara she was host to. Embarrassed blushes between them all and before you know it, all were scurrying out of the pub, monkey in tow.

Whereas the obvious lesson learned in this little tale is “beware of the attention you seek,” one has to feel bad for the monkey. Does he have dignity? Perhaps one day, an advanced alien civilisation will make us crap our collective drawers. Wouldn’t that be some karmically funny sh*t? Guess we’ll see.

Gutts waves off non-issue of the week

2008-04-25T16:48:00.000-07:00

Leave it to The Media to dig up dirt on even the most revered icons of our time. Yes, Johnny Gutts may be a professional hard-ass who Gets Things Done, but surely he must have skeletons in his closet that we can milk to up our circulation figures, mull culture vulture editors and programmers.
Well, cheers -- you found something.
Sure, Mr Gutts has a slacker nephew. Hell, he has a slacker brother and sister-in-law who are parents of said nephew. How do you think he honed the art of pungeoning and the ability to spot BS?
We learn from that which surrounds us. For good or for nought.
“My uncle thinks I’m a slacker.”
Oh dear, one’s tender self-esteem seems to be determined by the opinions of others. Whatever happened to the “self” part of esteeming?
Yes, Jared Gutts hasn’t a job. He live in his parents’ wood-paneled cellar, writing (what he thinks are) haikus about The Man’s nefarious deeds against Chav Entitlement. That’s when he’s not out getting arse-over-tit drunk with his tosser mates and racking up ASBOs. Can we afford a mere millilitre of pity for the poor sod?
“It’s society’s fault,” sniffs Roddie Gutts, proud father of Jared and brother of Johnny Gutts. “They don’t recognise his genius.”
“He is a very talented lad,” echoes wife and mother Cortnee Wexford-Gutts. “Pass the chips, luv.”

Johnny Gutts won’t have any of this hookem-snivey.
“The bloke is a jakey soapdodger whose sorry lot in life is of his own doing and that of his pampering, boundering mum and dad. I don’t have much to do with them at all.”
Gutts clearly sees through this ruse.
“It is yet another non-issue dredged up by bored writer hacks. These mediatoxins are just another distraction from the real issues of today, like global warmening, the genetic experiments in Heritagethorpe, and of course, pungeoning. I would advise wiser folk to ignore this twaddle, but then, they already know to.”

Hear, hear, Mr Gutts. Word.

Spettacolo Pomeridiano: Iperborea

2008-04-22T07:28:00.000-07:00

The invitation came from the cathode crier: the Shrine of the IV Elements was awaiting. Eager anticipation began to mount. If memory serves, the duo reached the Echelon facility some time after the noonday sun.
A sigh of relief -- the chain mail curtains at the portal were raised this time, giving access to the crimson-carpeted antechamber. The duo pressed onward through the low light, the smell of oils and burnt grain wafting about, when they found themselves in the Main Vault before the shrine.
They reverently settled to the ground as images and sound came to manifest before them:

• Animated spinning rings spitting out a clickety-clack tattoo of hi-hat and clav.
• The crackle of fiery aurorae in static air above blistering sands and ice-caked altars -- elementals simultaneous.
• A recitation of quests of yore, replete with beasts, villains, sorcery and... victory.

Victory is the inspiration the duo take with themselves.
Leaving the shrine and portal, they look back over their shoulders -- there, like Petra, the stony face of Iperborea yawns with silent benediction.
Ahead, the sun, the asphalt, and the satellites of Plymouth.

Self-Promotional Sampler Platter: Code PNGN

2008-04-18T15:19:00.000-07:00

In a world where...

...Suburban husbands can proudly be Atlas for a day...

...Celebrities will go as far as to throttle primates just to score cheap political points...

...Comic book characters play an active role in the Global War on Terror...

...Postmodernism is used as a means to end postmodernism itself...

...Vegans and hipsters are the true missing links in the Pageant of Man...

...Ship surgeons suffering from Role Strain pogo in frustration to find a suitable ego state before their fifteenth minute is up...

...Sport presenters provide colour commentary on bio-terror hostage rescue simulations...

...Fonzie, the Sopranos and Emperor Commodus all vie for power within the same space-time continuum...

...Choosers cannot be beggars...

...Eddie Munster and Charles Manson battle wits over Hair Issues... and Heir Issues...

...Third World meets First, with surreal results...

...Angry snappers frown at the Cheapening of the Tudors...

...Insectoid kaiju remind mankind of the menace of nuclear destruction...

...you will find The Pungeoning.

Decision 2008: A Darkhorse Emerges

2008-04-15T20:44:00.000-07:00

The Pungeoning has officially thrown its hat into the ring with an endorsement for the 2008 Presidential Election.

Happy April 15th.

2008-04-15T14:12:00.001-07:00

Perplesso spontanea: Icon MCMLXXXVI

2008-04-14T12:00:00.000-07:00

APF Drill 97: EBB Contagion

2008-04-10T17:16:00.001-07:00

In the Trenches at Sea: The Crucible of Character

2008-04-03T16:27:00.000-07:00

“The ship must sail on... regardless of who the captain is, regardless of who the admiral is...”

The good ship Reverend Resbo never did sail very smoothly -- from its rocky beginnings to its eventual loss at sea some twenty-seven years later. Young Merbos had volunteered purely by happenstance: An overheard phone call at The Gristle by a crewman pleading for manpower. The ensuing voyages were a shakedown more for the man than the ship: Find your sea legs, get the tasks done, get from A to B.
It was changes in the Admiralty that led not to mutiny, but desertion by 90% of the crew. The Resbo’s remaining days were helmed by a procession of impotent captains, Queeg-like but without the experience. Needless to say, the lingering skeleton crew had clung to the gunwales, the seas growing fiercer with each successive voyage.
What does a crew learn? Not merely under one unstable captain, but never having experienced an able and competent captain at all -- what does a crew learn?
The ship must sail on... regardless of who the captain is, regardless of who the admiral is.

At the risk of charges of insubordination, Merbos could not quite bite his tongue in the face of:

• Captain Gladhand McSandbag, whose M.O. was ‘Divide & Conquer’ -- pitting the crew against each other so he could swoop down as saviour -- all whilst the ship cruised in circles.
• Captain Connor MacLeod, when not AWOL would brandish cutlery as recompense for his lack of leadership.
• Capitaine Bellâtre, who when called to account for excessive tea times and quaintwork, threatened to sabotage his own ship.
• Captain Jethrine -- smiley-psychotic who bragged of cheating at the Academy. Also conspired to keelhaul his first mate, just to get his hands on his paltry commission.
• All admirals who promoted and excused these rate grabbing dinQs (while withholding BCDs), along with their own damage to morale, reputation and seaworthiness.

It’s a wonder that the Resbo stayed afloat long enough to reach the twenty-first century. But it did. Merbos gives hearty thanks to his fellow deck hands who stuck to their oath: The Olde Salt, Top Shelf Charly, Mairobin, The Walt-Man and Lieutenant Gergg. Bravo Zulu.
Every day was a long day but no matter how endless or harsh, one must view it as accomplishment, whether by man, by crew, by vessel, or by navy. Even if one is bailing water, figuratively or literally.
At the end of a given day the scant crew of the Resbo would retire to the Nether Quarters -- a makeshift lounge only accessible via the ship’s photolab. There, Lt. Gergg would provide some much needed ‘attitude adjustment’ for all. At least by laughing off the insanities of the day, the crew could fortify themselves for whatever nuttiness lay on the horizon.

EPILOGUE: All of the original crew, and finally Merbos, did eventually jump ship, as one must when fatal leaks and other Benny Suggs go unacknowledged by brass. The Resbo continued to limp along with clueless crews, captains in name only, and admirals who abandoned them to the wind. She was lost at sea about a year later.
If no one remembers the indignities of the Reverend Resbo, may they remember her lessons.

Father of Nü Gua has boat not seaworthy

2008-03-31T12:19:00.000-07:00

At one time it was known as Xiā Xiǎo Chuán. In its final days it went by name of Zhōng Guó Xiǎo Chuán. And then, nothing but empty, boarded-up shack.

The Curse of Baxter (again)?
Bitter words from kitchen god Zao Jun?
Perhaps General Tso retreat to more advantageous battlefield?
Father of Nü Gua has boat not seaworthy.

121286: Wohltaten und die Antwort zum Rätsel des Nelsons

2008-03-27T16:39:00.000-07:00

On the worktop, beneath a bank slip, lay £400 in cash. Misplaced or forgotten by some scatty student, obviously. Professor Jones and Somber deliberated for several moments. They traded imaginative ideas of what riches they could buy in High Street. But not being the lucripetous sort, they turned in the dosh to the Authorities.

Later that evening at The Gristle (original location) they found their karmic reward perched upon the balcony: See The Cheetah?

031508: Der Teufel schlägt seine Großmutter

2008-03-20T14:51:00.000-07:00

The Da Vinci Mode 4-D: High Boss Worm and Butts in the Brie Sea

2008-03-17T15:17:00.000-07:00

Artist. Architect. Engineer. From the Tuscan village of Vinci came Leonardo, bringing his genius unto the world. With his Renaissance legacy, many see fit to name things after him. In this case, a pizza parlour.
Leonardo’s, a Baxter Street neighbour of P-Bones, was a long-time favourite hangout for locals and high-schoolers. That is, until the Curse of Baxter cast its sombre pall, as it does eventually upon burghers and good merchants of these environs. Either that, or just bad business decisions were made.

Yep, time again for anecdotal vignettes:

• A melted Brie deep-dish pizza, its buttery fluid seeping into the stained wooden tabletop.
• A waitress bellies up to the table with the cheque, cigarette ashing down on her crusty tunic.
• The new owner, flushed and sweaty, grins vacantly for the camera; his eatery is to be featured in some piddly shopper advertorial.
Photo Editor: “Was this guy stoned when you took the picture?”
Photog: “I think he was stoned when he bought the business.”

And now, an opportunity for applied theory:

In art class, Mr Dugan would speculate on how people from the fourth dimension would appear. With time being a constant, everyone would simultaneously be everywhere they had ever been and everywhere they would ever be -- much like extremely long worms.

So, what might a 4-D amalgam of a closed time loop look like here in Leonardo’s?
Risking lysergic undertones, one might see our baked proprietor, eyes mirthfully upon the ceiling; his body the Infinite Vermicelli, forever slathering in a sea of gooey Brie whilst cigarette butts bob like slo-mo buoys all the way to the horizon.
‘Leonardo would be turning in his grave if he could see what was being done in his name,’ one might think. Actually, since this scenario is timeless, he would be there himself, spinning on the ground -- breakdancing, you might call it --given he could find adequate floorspace. Or maybe he’s doing the backstroke.

A veritable temporal sfumato.

Cheque, please.

Tramonti Notevoli

2008-03-14T14:55:00.000-07:00

• am Heck auf Vierwaldstättersee
• “Ave peregrinor!” — Raeda meritoria via Latium
• En camioneta viajo a través del bulevar de Santa Mónica en el asiento del copiloto
• Niebla en el regazo del desierto de sudoeste

Crépuscule Couvrant

2008-03-14T14:51:00.000-07:00

Miroitant les points se réveillent au-dessus d'un bateau sur la Seine
et la liberté se tient dans le fleuve soulevant un pain grillé avec une lanterne,
alors que Melodica chante un éclat de fleur de regarder le temps congelé et la turquoise devient velours.

Couler, glissement, pleurant.
En enroulant des vagues, serenely deux mains se reposent,
par lesquelles une énergie chaude se déplace et les lueurs se développent
dans chaque oeil
en chaque ciel

Das Letztes Mittel: Activität des Surrogat

2008-03-13T16:05:00.001-07:00

The Sharepage Meltdown

2008-03-13T13:56:00.000-07:00

We're screaming together,
But still it's not well
And maybe we'll come back,
To work, who can tell?
I guess everyone is to blame
We're dealing with clowns
Will things ever be sane again?

It's the Sharepage Meltdown...

Not dealing with genius and so bugger all
Cause maybe they've seen us beginning to bawl
With so many brain cells to go and foul-ups abound
Next time’ll be the same we know.

It's the Sharepage Meltdown...*

Performative Proxies in 25 Easy Strata

2008-03-10T14:41:00.000-07:00

During the Tenth Stratum, the Jung Technocrats sat at the Round Table riffing on campaign dissemination possibilities. Many of these ideas were simple defensive memetics against Pinks, mall-variety Koogs and Jr. BubbaCabal initiates. The crew knew they needed a unified Third-Level paradigm offensive that would target subjects in the aggregate... a palatable mental balm that wouldn’t trigger bothersome counter-belief arguments.
Captain Intrepid, the Orville Corp. delegate to the Pan-Martian Consortium, stood up at the table. He understood the need for a Pavlovian catachresic agent that would have the Performative Utterance potency of a Fnord.
In a word, he simply uttered, “Pavianhodensack.”
The result? Nasal expulsion of lo-fat milk from all at the Round Table.
Die Eisenfrau would not be amused.

— — — — —

It is now the Thirty-Fifth Stratum. The land is awash in both fatuous Splenda™ Idealism and its twin -- smug, Soy-Based Cynicism -- both redolent with paralogical platitudes that go nowhere.
Isn’t it time we resurrect another Fnord that will clear the mental cobwebs of the collective analysand? Will “pavianhodensack” once again do the job? If not, another P-word, perhaps?

Hub Lisper meeting minutes 030408: Bivalent Sumo Trio Φ

2008-03-04T13:40:00.001-08:00

Diversions in Toyland

2008-03-04T07:49:00.001-08:00

A Torélle for Little Xander

2008-02-26T15:48:00.000-08:00

In ancient Thrace
stood Suramokas
he bore a mace
of great Zbeltiurdos

The stone fortress Revre Sbodiza stood for years weathering many regimes.
But its spirit was embodied in a big man, wise, humble, and loved by the citizenry. His name was Ramusezvas, known affectionately as Little Xander. Yet his tongue was silent as the garrison’s ranks slowly depleted over time, a rueful result of Brawn Drain.
Young Suramokas simmered over the seasons as his soldiery gave up hope and, one by one, moved on. Perhaps they were the pragmatic ones and he, the idealistic fool. For their replacements were imbeciles and cowards all, effectively rendering the fortress a useless, stony shuck.
The hubris of the new dominion left themselves unwilling to admit complicity in the downfall; instead, they pointed fingers at that last relic of the old order -- old Ramusezvas, who still roamed the ramparts wheezing without complaint. Buzas Putras, a new order mercenary whose ruthlessness was matched only by his witlessness, took it upon himself to excise this vestige with venom most sedate.
“You are no longer needed,” he told the wise one.
“You are no longer wanted,” he told the humble one.
And Little Xander found himself before the gates of Revre Sbodiza, where he gazed upward at his beloved stronghold, and crumpled to the ground on the spot. Abiit ad plures.

The villagers mourned as the body was cleansed in the Sindu Hebros and left in state for three days. As the burial feast commenced upon Skumbras Mount, Suramokas watched as some well-wishers trickled forth to offer praise and a robust transition to Zalmoxis beyond. The good man had had many acquaintances but few intimates.
A familiar face appeared upon the dais with much fanfare. He spouted purple prose and regaled the crowd with vacuous tales of camaraderie he and his ilk supposedly shared with the deceased. Suramokas felt bile and rage rise in his throat. The man speaking was Buzas Putras.

[NARRATOR VOICEOVER]: Indignities graze all men each day, and we bite our tongues and move on, lest they accrue into burdens of bitterness. But who defends the dead from the dishonour of the abject flattery by this man Putras?

Putras raised a full rhyton in an empty toast as Suramokas strode forward, his own goblet aloft, blurting out, “Epikaloúmai Zbeltiurdos kai Némesis! Dákru’ adákrua! È pîthi è ápithi!”
With a single thrust of his arm he cast the drink upon the face of Putras. The hall froze, silence hanging as liquid dribbled down his brow and chin. His countenance reddened with the Furies and pretence dissolved; everyone’s suspicions were attested that the fulsome proclamations of Putras were too good to be true.
Suramokas raised his mace above his head and let gravity guide the weapon’s heft downward until it imbedded solidly in the skull of Buzas Putras. Eyes rolling back, his jaw dropped and spine bowed. Suramokas raised his leg and planted his foot in the cur’s sternum, forcing him off the dais, toppling over and down Skumbras Mount.

ο ψεύτικος έπαινος είναι καταδικασμένος

As the sun set between the nearby peaks, a sliver of rainbow could be seen hanging in the empty tourmaline sky -- the Ouranios Arc -- a divine missive from golden-winged Iris, heralding the arrival of Little Xander into the beyond.

Traitement Orthogonal dans le Bleu

2008-02-13T11:08:00.000-08:00

P-Bones: Baxter Street Pungeonary

2008-02-08T15:08:00.000-08:00

Opening Soon MMVIII

Hosts: Mister Kevn Freeney, Nick Bialy and Krafty Will

Opening Day activities will include the Psy-Punge, Clampy Hold, Heresthetic Couplings, Waterboarding by the Bucket Brigade, and the Inanimate Pungle.

All citizens are encouraged to attend; however, Sidlers, Loud Packers, Easy Breathers, Uptalkers and other Loudsters may find themselves escorted around back, put in the pillory and subjected to public humiliation. This is a pungeonary, after all. Il y a une raison pour laquelle le tapis est brun.

Certain local promoters are already salivating over media opportunities to piggyback onto this heralded event. Having been vetted by the APF, promoters Troy Hombre and Hyena Vega will not be invited. They are Permanent Hacks, showboating with their atrocious taste.

Johnny Gutts of Eastside Pungeonary will be present for dedications, demonstrations and autographs for the kids.

Come one, come all. Let’s hear it for “P” -- P-Bones -- the new Baxter Street Pungeonary.

Ids’ Rendage meeting minutes 012908: A Deistic Virtue Gym μ

2008-01-29T14:11:00.000-08:00

Able blue with tilt chill-dot down μ

041887: Lord Ravenhurst interview minutes — If Styx Was Nine

2008-01-22T17:07:00.000-08:00

Pungenday, Discord 35, Year of Our Lady of Discord 3153

Lord Omar Khayyam Ravenhurst: “I picked ‘5’ -- it wasn’t a coincidence that I picked 5, ‘cuz I talked to a guy in New Orleans about assassinating Kennedy, who at one point right in the conversation said five is a very important number. He was always telling me stuff he said I should remember... I wasn’t paying attention, I thought he was nuts... So anyway, just in case five was an important number, I worked it into the Discordian since I had a dogma...”
[...]
“‘17’ is about last-ditch reactionaries fighting a battle against the forces of evil against the forces of good...”
[...]
“‘9’ is society being driven forward by its contradictions.”
[...]
“And ‘23’ is people who are the gung-ho communists, like the communist party in China forty or fifty years ago...”
[...]
“That’s basically what I am, a ‘Nine-and-Five’ would be somebody who is middle-of-the-road, ... ambivalent about both capitalism and communism... [tape gibberish]”

[Various mentions of Hitler’s Werewolves, the European name ‘Switzer,’ ‘Oswald’ being a German Crusader name, and moving on from reading Marx/Lenin to Ayn Rand.]

And so went the interview upon a L5P grassy knoll on a warm Pungenday (not to be confused with Pungeon Day). Lots of entertaining red meat for numerology and conspiracy buffs, to be sure. But a peculiar thing was happening as this all transpired.
A man, madras-clad, passes by.
Of no notice.
But then, he again passes and subtle details surface: camera slung around neck, blank expression.
Minutes later he’s there again, at the edge of a crowd staring dead on at this brave clench who dares to confer with their interlocutee in a public place.
Gone.
The interview winds up as batteries wind down; magnetic media slows to a halt.
And there that stranger is again, amidst the passers-by, glaring.

Is paranoia a contagion or is it a buzz? Or is it both -- a contact high, seeking memes and meaningful patterns in everyday sensory input?

Who is this being?

May we fancy some idle speculation?

• Was this Charon of Styx, mistaking Eris for a mere mortal awaiting his Final Ride?

• Was this preppie android an MIB -- one of the notorious ‘Men in Black?’ (Perhaps with his fashion update he should be referred to as a RIP -- ‘Robot in Plaid.’)

• Perhaps it is an individual variation of Lord Ravenhurst’s ‘9’: the good lord, being driven by his own contradictions, projects an obverse isochronal simulacrum of himself -- the Anti-Thornley.

Let us entertain this notion. What do you think?

081387: Les transgressions obligatoires sont une règle d'art

2008-01-07T12:51:00.000-08:00

Cervine roadkill, stuffed in an empty aquarium atop a metal stand in a long, empty gallery.
Cue strobe lights.
Cue live punk band.
Artist, take a bow at your cultivated sense of taste and aesthetic of the absurd. Everything’s a metaphor, right? Is this what Dad’s tuition money is going toward? Bet you’ve shown him.
The foetid stench and the rapid flickering of lights are disorienting the bass player.
Cue today’s lunch.