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Virtual Heimlich

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Drum Circles, Explained?

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

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

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

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

AWOL Secretary: Live and Let Punge

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

CSI: Heritageville -- Psych!

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

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

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

Unavený Jako Pes: The Shocker Was A Yawn

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

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

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

Who’s Afraid of Tobacco Road?

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

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

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

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

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