notes on writing below

  • Notice of Copyright: all writing posted here by the writer using the web name “zombiedisco101” and the pen name “D.T. Hart,” unless otherwise attributed, is copyright by him on date of posting
  • format: a) “titles” in quotes are fiction, b) titles without quotes are nonfiction
  • music/film/tv links are stuff we listened to/watched before or while writing the posts
  • this wordpress journal was set up Nov. 16, 2016, w/posts dated earlier transferred here from an older journal on

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Posted in Uncategorized

“claire voyant”

… the story of a girl without a clue

leaded-glass window view
(photo from

“You’re telling me,” Claire said.

Exec Prefecture watched her speak, then shook his head and looked out the leaded-glass windows of his family’s 37-room country château homestead bungalow, in Upper Really near the falls. He knew they had a common bond when he first saw Claire, sitting on a window stool at The Total Perk.

It was a Tuesday in early June. A slim, female-type member of the spec, she was eating a half-pound cranberry muffin, washed down with a 24-ounce Total La-Tay-Dah. Exec — pronounced “Ex-‘ek” like the abbreviation — had switched from half-pound cran-muffs just a month before, when Dr. Fensterdiggin’ told him he had the cholesterol of a sedentary 95-year-old living off of pork rinds and rum-spiked eggnog — “which is an Easter Clot Parade just a tad bit lacking in a storyline, for a boy of 25.”

“Whatever,” Exec replied, getting the Judy Garland ref and standing, about to turn and leave the doctor’s plush, book-lined mahogany forest of a study.

“Okay.” Doc continued. “Then I’d advise you to get your affairs in order, possibly within the next six months.”

“What affairs? I’m not seeing anyone?” Exec said defensively, forgetting for a moment that just because the doctor had his blood results, didn’t mean the corpuscles had necessarily given up his sex life.

CORPUSCLE OSCAR-EDGAR-BIG-BOY: Oh, man. I’ve been waiting to tell someone about this dog. Thanks for caring. For purely selfish reasons, the patient has created an extremely unhealthy work environment. So please — help us — FUCK-ING NOW!!!

CORPUSCLE BETTY-INGRID-PARTY-GIRL: Oh, go soak your lub-dub, FuckenDorker. Don’t listen to him, Doc. He’s such a pussy blood.

“Sorry,” Exec quickly added, realizing he was breaking trad. “You’re right. I’ll try to do, a better job — of watching what goes down the Pie-R-Squared hole.”

“Okay.” Doc smiled, then paused. “Going home, E.P.?”

“Funny. I’m in a different movie, Doc,” he said, turning to the door. “Though I do feel like a total alien most of the time.”

“Of course. Is it the money you have a problem with?”

He stopped at the doorway, turning back. “No. In America, money would make you feel like an alien only if you had none. As Great-Aunt Gerwig liked to say: “If you have it and could give a shit, then you’d just be an ineffectual, martyr without a cause.”

“Brando on a Harley,” Doc said, using movie ref’s as often as possible.

“James Dean’s sister, in the film about a sausage and a girl named Casing. You really don’t know shit, do you, Doc?” He then turned and continued through the doorway.

Claire Voyant, the only child of Celeste Bestgirl Ringle and Richard An’Hangron Voyant, could not believe — at the age of seven when she first understood the wordplay in her name — that anyone would name a kid like that.

“Maybe it was an ironic challenge,” Exec offered, standing by the windows of the family, country château bungalow above.

Claire walked up to the window to his left. “I love this view.”

In the distance a long wing of Canada Geese was flying a hundred feet above the trees on the far side of the apple trees planted 50 years ago by immigrants from Pennsylvania. “Yeah. Too bad it’s so polluted by the money.”

“Ironic challenge, how?” she asked.

“A challenge to your sense of irony. So that it would not just lie down, roll over and become a habit of perception that said ‘Oh, please scratch my tummy, great and pretty godly gods of the fantasy of a permanent and lasting arrangement of cause and effect.'”

She breath laughed. “Just don’t scratch, below a certain point.”

“Right. Like the great and pretty godly gods of the fantasy of a permanent and lasting arrangement of cause and effect, are really good at following instructions.”

She looked at him, then back out the window. “I can’t really remember, the last time my stomach wanted scratching.”

They were quiet for a few beats, before she added: “Above a certain point.”

20180721 12:37 Sat (710 words)
▸ Turin Brakes performing “Mind Over Money” from “The Optimist LP” 2001
▸ Blitzen Trapper performing “War on Machines” from “Furr” 2008
▸ Old Man Canyon performing “Take Me Higher” from “Phantoms & Friends” EP 2013
▸ Okkervil River performing “Call Yourelf Renee” from “Away” 2016
▸ DeVotchKa performing “100 Other Lovers” from “100 Lovers” 2011
▸ George Ezra performing “Cassy O'” from “Wanted on Voyage” 2014

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“kite strings”

… and moving on the feeling in the air

wdlf - swallow-tail kite 01
(photo of a swallow-tailed kite feeding on the wing from; and a video showing migratory routes from the Avian Research and Conservation Institute)

When Rebecca Anne Kellogg first came to Florida at 16, in early-March of 2008, the snow in Ann Arbor was still two-feet deep along the snowplow banks that lined Chestnut Lane. As she got out of her parents’ car in Palm Coast that Sunday morning, it was 75 and sunny. The St. Augustine grass was green, and the dried fronds and seed pods of the cabbage palms rustled in the sea breeze coming off the blue Atlantic.

Becs smiled at her mother. Olivia Arnold Kellogg was leaning on the open driver’s door, her arms folded and resting on the open-window door top, as she gazed at the ocean and people on the beach.

Her father, Edgar Charles Kellogg, was still sleeping in the Buick wagon’s back, the suitcases, duffel bags and cooler piled up on one side, Edgar stretched out on the other. He’d driven through the night while Olivia and Becs slept, leaned against the passenger door or lying in the back. As Doris, their 15-year-old chariot from Detroit with the beginning of a serious case of rustosis flakyoffum, hummed on down the Interstate.

“It’s so amazing,” Becs wrote in her notebook as they passed the horse fields of Ocala, “that in just 30 hours you can be transported to somewhere so completely different. With palm trees!!!” This being the usual, bobble-headed tourist’s first response to Florida, as snowbirds from the frozen north with pivot heads, would blankly stare at scenes from another world.

“They’re not really trees,” Edgar had said a year earlier when they’d first talked about going south to Florida “next spring break.”

“Why not?” Becs replied.

“Because they’re more like giant grasses.”

“No way!”


“He’s right,” Olivia added. “The trunks have no tree rings, formed by a center of dead wood that holds a record of it each year’s former, outer-ring of living tissue. All the tissue inside the trunks of palm trees is living. Like stately, leaves of grass.”

Becs took the info in and stored it in her “central processing unit” for future reference. She liked to think of her head, and the life that was going on inside it, as operating like a computer with an intelligence that was the opposite of artificial.

“Will we see swallow-tailed kites?” she asked.

“Nope,” Olivia answered. “There’s a wildlife preserve just 10 miles away that’s a common, summer breeding place for them.”

“But they’ll still be on their way back to Florida, from winter in Brazil,” Edgar added.

“Brazil! Wow, that’s a long way. Too bad. They look
so graceful on videos on the web. Built to fly. Like we are built to fly — inside our heads,” she added, smiling at her dad.

“So how’s that work?” Edgar asked a few months later. “A personal, CPU with an intelligence that’s not artificial?” They were lying on the hood of Doris last summer, parked across from the Dairy Queen on Farley Road, each eating a double chocolate-softie, heads resting on the windshield between the pulled-upright wiper blades, both looking upward at the evening stars.

“It’s like the difference between giant-grass palm trees, and regular trees,” she answered through ice cream licks.

“You’re talking about dead wood?”

“Yes. Live wood, dead wood, and wood that isn’t really wood, but more like plastic with a woody attitude. Which is actually deader than dead, because it has no life history, at all, for what it claims to be.”

“And that’s the opposite of what?”

“The opposite of the grace in graceful. Like with kites, where graceful is a natural thing, the opposite of manufactured, and something we can naturally connect with, feel, or understand, from our own experience of what it’s like to move, through gravity, in space and time.”

“Which isn’t anthropomorphizing another animal’s experience, because … ?”

“Because the anthro-po-mo thing is a carryover, from a time when we did not consider ourselves as being animals. We were more like gods, or one god, or the son of one god — Benji, and his son Benji Junior — more like that, than like the other plants and animals on a planet we had no idea ‘was’ a planet. So we interpreted everything in terms of how we saw ourselves — by looking out, at the world, from inside the sacred vestibule of our totally hot and god-some, sense of self.”

“And today we look, how?”

“We see ourselves, the world and universe around us, from outside ourselves. We’d imagined that somehow, someday, we could actually transcend our sordid, flesh-bound lives, and become like gods ourselves. Then the transcendence thing finally happened, only it turned out that what we ended up transcending was just our need for being gods-in-waiting.”

Edgar breath laughed. “Nice insight.”

They were both silent for a few minutes, eating their ice cream cones and looking at the sky.

“Hey! A shooting star!” Becs shouted.

“I see it. Cool.”

“Yes. Cool from a distance. Up close, though, probably more like ‘pret-ty freak-ing toas-ty.'”


They were quiet again for a few minutes. “So how would you, at this moment, connect swallow-tailed kites, meteorites, and two humans lying on a rusting Buick, and talking?” she finally asked.

“More than just the story of a rusty chariot from Detroit, it would be a story about things that move through space and time. Which includes the story of us, in space and time, seen from a point of view that’s now outside ourselves, as we channel the will to find.”

He smiled at her, then looked back at the sky. “Also known as flying in our heads, so I’ve heard.”

20180709 12:01 Mon (975 words)
▸ Ten Fé performing “In the Air” from “Hit the Light” 2017
▸ Frankie Cosmos performing “Being Alive” and “Apathy” from “Vessel” 2018
▸ Kenny Rankin performing “Peaceful” live (c. 1970) from “Mind-Dusters” 1967
▸ The Weather Station performing “The Most Dangerous Thing About You” from “The Weather Station” 2017
▸ Broken Social Scene performing “Hug of Thunder” from “Hug of Thunder” 2017
▸ The War on Drugs performing “Holding On” from “A Deeper Understanding” 2017
▸ Moxy Fruvous performing “My Baby Loves a Bunch of Authors” from “Bargainville” 1993
▸ HÆLOS performing in studio January 2016 – “Pray” 00:30, “Earth Not Above” 05:55, “Dust” 18:00, “Oracle” 22:50 – from “Full Circle” 2016
▸ The Owls performing “Channel” from “Daughters and Suns” 2007

Posted in Uncategorized

“life inside the social echo chamber”

bldg - abbey of st denis
(interior photo of the Basilica of Saint Denis, in Saint-Denis, France, now a northern suburb of Paris, completed in 1144)

“Whelpbreath,” Emily mutters to herself, smiling as she replies to PoMo’s text.

Emily Alice Hardy — also known as “Little Gargoyleina” or just “LG” for short — is sitting by herself on the top of a rock outcrop behind the portables at Walker Riley High. She sends: “thr r no m&m’s in hell.”

Stansfield Lansing Nordlin — also known as “Poor Motherfucker” or just “PoMo” for short — is sitting in the cafeteria next to Wedgey Church. In 3rd grade Wedgey achieved some early glory as a boy who outsmarted the bullies on the playground, by undermining their bonding ritual of turning tidy-whities into stainer-thongs.

“And that’s actually working?” PoMo asked him then, on the bus to Elgin Elementary.

“Yep,” Wedgey answered, beaming. “Every weekday morning I leave my clean briefs wadded up and underneath the mattress, so they’ll wrinkle, then put them in the hamper clean at night. Then on the playground the motherfuckers just moved on, dumbfounded that there was nothing there, inside my jeans, to wedge between my cheeks.”

“Cool,” PoMo said. “Ten points for creative,” as they high-five slapped their hands.

PoMo has finished his sack lunch, now — two PBJ sands, an apple, chips, and an 8 oz. carton of free, school milk — and is looking down at the cheap Tracfone cell resting on his leg, as he sends LG the reply: “just a myth invented by the hell haters.”

They’re exchanging ideas now on the food they’d take if and when they go to hell. PoMo originally objected to the texting thesis, saying they could not logically leave here and go to hell, because “hell was a 4-letter word for high school.” LG countered that hell would be more like a continual cruise ship voyage on the “MV Norovirus Diarrhea.” PoMo said continual diarrhea would be more like heaven, compared to non-stop constipation, where the demons from the underworld were alive and cementing-up your colon.

On different buses this morning on the way to school, they were texting about fantasy travel plans after h.s. graduation in June. Last night in their rooms, on a break from writing papers on “Ways to Fix the Current Great Dismality,” the exchange was about how social echo chambers have changed since the Middle Ages.

LG has poster-size photos on her walls of the insides and outsides of Gothic Cathedrals built in Europe, when the images of grotesqueness from the brutal beastie night were put to constructive use as drainage spouts to divert the rivers of rainfall coming off the enormous roofs, away from the mortar of the stone walls.

Those cathedrals created sanctuaries for the ideas of something better, as a life that had the resonance of music, inside — while the Middle Ages’ version of the tribal tooth-and-claw was left cloistered, with the gargoyles, on the outside.

Now that’s reversed as, in an echo of today on PoMo’s walls, his drawings of lines and curves that darken and condense into whirlpools and black-holes, are so dark they consume comparison and contrast, and any light that might survive from difference.

So from then to now, it’s like facing forward on a train that’s going backward, at the moment, for some reason that no one seems inclined to talk about. As both teenage human rooms become two individually-tended galleries, that show the social echo chambers of two different times.

20180510 12:18 Thu (578 words)
▸ The University of Wisconsin Eau Claire Concert Choir, conducted by Dr. Gary R. Schwartzhoff, performing “Entreat Me Not To Leave You” by Dan Forrest, “Alleluia” by Eric Whitacre, “I Will Lift My Eyes” by Zachary J. Moore, “Vox Populi” by Svilainis, “Pilgrim’s Hymn” by Stephen Paulus, and “Tu Es Petrus” by Palestrina — live inside the Wilwaukee Art Museum 2014
▸ Foreign Slippers performing “Avalanche”, and “It All Starts Now” from “Farewell to the Old Ghosts” 2012

Posted in Uncategorized

“trappist moneystory”

(photo from realty resources management)

“Large brick building. Probably a mill, at some point, though that point is still not clear at this time. No, wait — it was the 1850s, as the building has a cornerstone with ‘1857’ still visible through 150 years of biological and chemical deposition — with that being, apparently, the only part of the building’s original facade, not sandblasted into the squeaky-handsome now.”

Barley Knight Rider-Font is recording notes on a small, digital recorder he’s holding in his right hand, the half-gloved fingers of his left hand wrapped around a still-warm 16-oz paper cup half-full of the “Jo-Jo’s Blend” and milk he bought 30 minutes ago, a hundred yards up the road at “Riley’s Quick Stop” on Water Street near the dam.

It’s the end of winter along the river in Edson Falls, a former mill town in “the upper mid-coast Maine rural-industrial aggregate, currently easing through the mid-years of its renovation of decline.” That being Barley’s informal, street-walker academic description for the “post” part of an industrial life that lasted for a century, here, from roughly the 1850s to the 1960s. An economic life that built a useful future from the positive economic output of the present.

Now many of the abandoned edifices of that earlier industry have been renovated for the tourist, retirement, and money-churning office industries of today. An economic life producing a bankrupt future, from the negative economic output of the present. As the positive economy of turning ideas into useful things, in general, moved from the Northeast to the South in the ’70s and ’80s, then to Mexico, and then in a big way across the Pacific, on its way to Neverland.

Which is ironic, since it was boat transport that solidified the country’s place in the industrial revolution in the first place, back when water both turned, and floated, the wheels of commerce. And before that, of course, there were flotillas of Newlanders from the Oldie Mommalands, who survived high-sea adventures on the vast Atlantic, to begin their new adventures of settlement and displacement of the continent’s original, nomadic settlers.

“The brick appears to be older than the 1850s, though that may be due to it’s mineral composition, and local techniques for firing the clay.” Barley studied geology for a time at Western State, before leaving college to work at Preston’s Garage in Upper Edson Falls, after Roger Preston left Kelly Sue and the twins and moved to Florida with a girl young enough to be his daughter.

“Glad he’s finally gone,” Kelly Sue said when she asked Barley to run the garage, a business that still had a lot of business, as most of the new cars and trucks in this part of the world were just “new” to their second, third, or fourth owners. “And there’s some nobility,” Kelly added, looking at one of the two aging hydraulic lifts, “in keeping the life of anything going, for as long as possible.”

With “nobility” being the word that had hooked and landed Barley onto the deck of Kelly Sue’s life boat, and kept him there for a decade until she and husband no. 2, Reginald Hasgrove, were finally wed, then sold the land to a real estate developer and also moved to Florida. “That peninsula in harmful weather’s way does have a strong attraction,” Kelly Sue said to Barley when she told him of her plans, “having a winter without the cruel and unusual punishments of ice and snow.”

Barley could see her point, though he was not a palm trees and bikinis sort of guy. So he took his modest savings and moved into a second-floor room with hallway bath at Ester Howsie’s rooming house on Elm Street, where he began his life of writing as a way of coming to an understanding of the times and places in which he lived. That being, as he saw it, just another version of nobility — where, in keeping alive a personal interest in seeing stories, it’s possible to keep alive a sense of person, for as long as possible.

rv 20180412 12:14 Thu (704 words)
▸ Amelia Curran performing “Soft Wooden Towers” from “Spectators” 2012
▸ Lambchop performing “2B2” from “Mr. M” 2012
▸ Dan Mangan performing “Race to the Bottom” from EP “Unmake” 2016
▸ Shearwater performing “Quiet Americans” from “Jet Plane and Oxbow” 2016

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“icon love-and-lorn”

… or, how being transfixed by that oldie-moldy social corpse-meat standing in the corner, is the “off” in moving on

ingraham - hogg
(photo from “The Guardian” Mar 31, 2018)

“Surviving the Culture Wars,” Hannah Gilfree Baily Reough reads, then stops for a beat and looks up. “HandsDown,” as she’s called along the waxed linoleum floors of Edgar Rice Burroughs High School in Lower Market Falls, Wisconsin, is leaning back, her butt against the front edge of Hector Proscales’ desk, one sheet of print-out in her hands.

It’s 2nd period, “English for Beginning Writers.” Which, in “OhHec’s” unreserved opinion, is the inescapable-and-continuing education lesson plan for the life of writers, and others less obsessed with verbal record-keeping, who continue to develop, through their lives, the life that’s living in their heads.

As she glances at the room, HandsDown’s curious who’s listening, and especially curious what’s going on inside the bloomer-tube resting on the shoulders of one Thompson “Wiggy” Andrews, sitting in the last row. A skinny kid with fraying jeans and a faded polo shirt he found last Christmas in the $1 bin at St. Vinnie’s on Railroad Street by the barns, Wiggy’s looking out the windows as she stops. He does a slim, 1/8 head-eye-turn to catch her looking at him, using his “peripherals,” which is what she’s looking for.

They’re peripheral friends. Which might sound insubstantial, but in the full spectrum light-wave present of their view of individual life in space and time, not embracing an oldie-moldy tribal social need for interacting with the heads of others like those heads are just the up-top wobble nods of the hot and steaming fuck-meat of their loins — is more than just the closeness-cool that naturally will follow from acts of respectful free-association. It’s also how the untooled reality of indie life, now, in fact is — when not pretending that we’re living, still, in an endless play-out of the dark and brutal beastie night.

“Part 1 — Lay the fuck-meat of your ego down, Oh, Sweet Hose Anna.” HandsDown then lifts and shakes both hands in a brief, revival-tent hallelujah moment. The class responds in individual turns on restrained laughter, that drifts upward toward the dusty ceiling tiles. “Spelled ‘H-o-s-e, space, A-n-n-a'” she adds, and the class laughs again.

It’s an exercise in friendly, non-beat-down irreverence. Which is the opposite, in totality, from the blow-back that is popular now with the poli-fashioned “new irreveranté” — the neocons high-strutting their new-found “anti-future, behold the foxy glory of a fastastic idea of the past,” as the resurrection of a better, brushed and polished tooth-and-nail. Oh, Sweet Hose Anna.

“So,” HandsDown continues, “‘lay the fuck-meat of your ego down’ might be difficult to wrap the coordination of your oldie sense of ‘preen’ around — if you consider that the self you’re trying to say ‘bonsoir, now’ to, is the mirror-image product you’re oh, so proud of, tailor-made just for you, from the hard orb resting on the erection of your neck. Like our heads, necks, and bodies are just the cooling towers for the fuck-meat furnace of our loins. Which is true only with regard to the dismal, last gasp grasp of this, the hormone boat of metaphor’s demise.

“But, just do it. Anyway. Lay your ego down. Do it for the future. Do it for the kids. Which is, exactly, the same thing. And if that’s just too big a bummer for your hang-man sense of self to jolly up to, then, please — stick your head back up your saggy fuck-meat. And shut … your … mother … fucking … mouth!”

She looks up again. Everyone is with her. She drops the print-out to the floor, raises both hands, empty palms facing out, takes a breath and shouts: “LOOK, YOU FUCKING COWARDS — WE HAVE NO GUNS!!”

The class pounds their desktops, stamps their feet, whistles and hoots. Standing mid-way back along the windows, OhHec is smiling as he stands and feels that buoyancy of moment people long to feel, when they’re fully in the swim of life — with the long-view value sum of this uplift, in particular, getting an A+ for constructive.

20180402 10:57 Mon (712 words)
▸ Cass McCombs performing “County Line” from “Wit’s End” 2011
▸ Wilco performing “Born Alone” from “The Whole Love” 2011
▸ Daughter performing “Get Lucky” by Daft Punk, live 2013
▸ Feist performing “How Come You Never Go There” from “Metals” 2011
▸ Shearwater performing “Backchannels” from “Jet Plane and Oxbow” 2016

Posted in Uncategorized

“the poli-sci-fi of the head-fashion culture wars”

poli-sci-fi and cultural fashion wars
(photo from “How to troll the left: understanding the rightwing outrage machine” by Jason Wilson, in “The Guardian”)

The Pitch.

“Okay. So run the explain by me, one more time?” Alexa Nostrum, an executive-assistant to the 3rd Vice-President of Acquisitions at Super-Colossal Pictures, says.

“Okay,” Jackson sighs. Jackson, one name only, is standing on the sidewalk outside Buffy’s Hair Salon on Figueroa, talking on his cell phone. Penelope, his girlfriend, is still inside, doing the “finish work” on Loretta Harpwell’s latest “gravity perm” — which is to a normal perm, as Jackson’s screenplay pitch is to the usual “Please and pretty, pick ME!” writer spiel. Meaning it’s a totally abnormal, extra-fluffy in the retrograde attempt at getting a foot inside a producer’s door, concerning the movie he wrote and that’s been floating somewhere in the outer layers of the writer-promise ether, now, for seven years.

“Still there?” Alexa asks.

“Yes. Sorry. Just reorganizing the thought train.”

“So it’s a train?”

“Yes. Or maybe just a long caboose. I’m not trying to put on railroad airs, here.”

“Good.” Alexa likes the boy, though she can’t really come up with any reason why. Something to do, maybe, with what he calls his “neutral ego aura.” Which — though different and not the usual stand out, “grab your thought-process balls and twirl them” formula of most people trying to gain some ground in the moo-vie-lands — is somehow better by its lack of BigMe? She isn’t sure. Can’t say. And really doesn’t care.

She’ll never be a studio exec. Or the exec of anything, at this point in the mid-thirties of her now red-lined career, having suffered through ten years of being passed over as a glorified, script step-and-fetch-it girl. So it does no good to try to figure out the why and how of things, so you can work those calculations into your overall, life-plan story arc. At this point pretty much everything, for her, exists solely for its entertainment value. Which makes her life a lot like the movie stories that she vets.

“The story,” Jackson continues, “is more like the story of a northern hawk owl, than the story of a girl from the tuberlands of Ohio.” As he says this a girl passes on the sidewalk, with the music coming through her earbuds cranked up extra-loud.

“No shit,” he blurts without thinking.

“No shit, what?” Alexa asks.

“Suddenly, it’s like I’m writing this story about our conversation. And as I say the words ‘northern hawk owl,’ words that suddenly swoop in to fill the link-link space left for a comparison, flying in because I saw three photos of the bird dining on a red squirrel in Alaska, recently, posted online by a future edu-doc from Sea-town — just then, as I type the words in the story, the web-radio I’m listening to begins the next song, which is by Breathe Owl Breathe.”

“The ‘no shit’ of an out-of-the-blue coincidence. That’s always cool.”


“What are you listening to?”

“It’s a Russian station — ‘radio caprice – indie folk rock.’ The url’s ‘'”


“I’ve never pimped web-radio stations before.”

“Good. Keep doing firsts. So, back to the movie?”

“Yeah. Which, movie …?”

She breath laughs. “The one about the alt-right as the new global anarchists of social disorder, making the world great again.”

“Right. Great again for chaos thrivers.”

“Who thrives on chaos?”

“The disrupters of good and bad, and right and wrong. Also known as thieves, scoundrels, villains, fuckheads, and human toe jam.”

“So it’s not spontaneous, grass-roots anarchists, this time around?”

“No. It’s planned, manufactured, and mega-funded. Creative only in the big-production revival, of their Big Lie chorus numbers.”

“So no happy ending, then.”

“Not until the heroes of our better natures have finally had enough of the fuckhead worship.”

“I hope that’s not much longer. And I hope you find a home for this script.”

“Just not at your house.”


“Okay. Thanks for talking to me.”

“Sure. It was the highlight of my week. Bye.”

“Bye.” Jackson slides the cell phone back inside his jeans pocket.

“Man!” Penelope quiet-screams, as she shuts Buffy’s door behind her and walks up to Jackson on the sidewalk. “Please — get me the “fuck” away, from this house of vanity porn.”

20180318 22:06 Sun (742 words)
▸ Breathe Owl Breathe performing “Photos Upon Pianos” from “Ghost Glacier” 2013
▸ Damien Rice performing “Colour Me In” from “My Favourite Faded Fantasy” 2014
▸ Ralfe Band performing “Cold Chicago Morning” from “Son Be Wise” 2013
▸ My Brightest Diamond performing “From the Top of the World” from “A Thousand Shark’s Teeth” 2008
▸ James Vincent McMorrow performing “This Old Dark Machine” from “Early in the Morning” 2010

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“prince of peace”

… as prince of chaos

pe - njolstad-trump
(Olav Njolstad, Secretary of the Norwegian Nobel Committee, announces on Feb 28 that the committee has received a second, forged nomination of Donald Trump to receive the Nobel Peace Prize — from “The New York Times” / The Joker ruling Gotham City — from the “The Washington Times”)

“How fitting,” Marcie says as she reads the story aloud to Kingsford, across the small wood table with two chairs by the kitchen window that looks out on Water Street, three floors down. “The Prince of Chaos.”

“Fraud Daddy,” Kingsford replies, smiling as he looks over the pages of the sports section while watching her read. Their plates of scrambled eggs and jam-spread toast, and glasses of frozen re-con orange juice, now drying crumbs and slender threads of citrus pulp.

“Trump, the Frump of Chump Dump,” she says as they begin the trade-off.

“The Bogus Woe’s-Us.”

“The Man from Glam Sham.”

“Tiny Gold Fingers.”

“Baby Huey with a Head Ker-Blewy.”

“Tawdry Audrey with the Blob-Wad Body.”

“God of Shod.”

“Pluckster of the Liar Lyre.”

“Walking Ejaculate of the Permanently Buck-Fucked.”

Marcie drains her coffee, stands, grabs his empty cup and steps to the narrow counter by the fridge, as a loud pickup truck with more rust than paint passes on the street below.

“And just where’s this fucked duck headed to an end?” she asks, topping off the refills with an inch of 4%.

“With a wimp-purr followed by the fake stud-muffin news of a Viagra bang.”

“A tiny, exploding-penis gif, posted on @theRealDonaldTrumpPenis. I can see that trending.” She puts his cup down and sits.


“And this is why you read the sports section?”

“I don’t really read it. I just skim the stories looking for key words left from, and to, Russian spies.”

“So what’s the latest?”

“Frog Walley, the hacker from Olga on the Volga, needs to write home and let his mother know everything’s okay.”

“With ‘mother’ being …?”

“His spy boss at the Directorate of Hacking,”

“And ‘everything’s’ …?”

“The status on his mission to swing the November election in favor of the PRTs — Pro-Russian TransInvestItes — with bought-and-sold candidates running in key districts in the neo-nutsy-lands, who will convene a new, Constitutional Congress that makes Russian Oligarchs the new founding Boris-fathers of America.”

She puts her cup down and picks the paper up, again. “Which is why I’m really glad.”

He’s reading about the history of lacrosse in the well-lawned exurbs of Connecticut. “Glad for what, Pumpkin Patch?”

“That your swimmers can’t reach the coast, now.”


“So thanks.”

“No problemo, sweet vulvino.”

“Vulva — you don’t hear that word nearly enough, today.”

20180304 01:24 Sun (396 words)
▸ M. Ward performing “The First Time I Ran Away” from “A Wasteland Companion” 2012
▸ Clare Teal performing “We’ll Gather Lilacs” from “Hey Ho” 2011
▸ Patrick Wolf performing “Time of My Life” from “Lupercalia” 2011
▸ Murrieta performing “Joaquin Dead” from “A Head & Hand” 2014

Posted in Uncategorized

“north of montana, e3”

(photo of Golden Ears Provincial Park, British Columbia, from

Episode 3: “Mountain Ears”


Opening titles and music begins. WILL, wearing a parka, gloves and wool watch-cap, leather boots, gaiters and jeans, has stopped walking knee-deep in the snow. He turns to LOLA, the Goth-Girl waitress from the roadside diner of ep 2, who stands beside him, speaking with her heavy Russian accent.

… cont. below

a) script: wr tlp – north of montana e003 d02 20180211
b) char list: wr tlp – north of montana e000 series notes 20170409

20180211 18:59 (4635 words)
(/wr tlp – north of montana e003 d02 20180211.fadein)
▸ Fleet Foxes performing “Grown Ocean” from “Helplessness Blues” 2011
▸ The Leisure Society performing “Last of the Melting Snow” from “The Sleeper” 2009
▸ Villlagers performing “Ship of Promises” from “Becoming a Jackal” 2010, “Nothing Arrived” from “Awayland” 2013
▸ Dan Mangan performing “Road Regrets” from “Nice, Nice, Very Nice” 2009
▸ Jake Bugg performing “Slumvile Sunrise” from “Shangri La” 2013
▸ Ben Howard performing “Promise” from “Every Kingdom” 2011
▸ My Brightest Diamond performing “I Have Never Loved Someone” from “All Things Will Rewind” 2011
▸ Birdy performing “Skinny Love” by Bon Iver, from “Beautiful Lies” 2011
▸ Kathleen Bird York performing “In the Deep” written for the film “Crash” 2004

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged

“outfamous recipies”

… and other gastronomical cures

(“Brit supermarket chain Morrisons launches bizarre Yorkshire Pudding pizza thing,” from “The Register”)

“The Yorkshire Pudzza Corn Soaker”

Directions: a) place 2, 12″ Yorkshire Pudzza Corn Soakers in a 350-deg. oven for 15 mins; b) take from oven and place on floor in TV room in front of favorite chair; c) place one corned dog (foot) inside each soaker and soak for 20-mins; d) wipe each dog with a paper towel when done, then place each soaker on a plate and share with a friend. Bon Appefeet.

20180205 17:28 Mon (77 words)
▸ Castanets performing “Tell Them Memphis” from “Decimation Blues” 2014
▸ My Brightest Diamond performing “Pressure”, and “Lover Killer” from “This is My Hand” 2014

Posted in Uncategorized

“unmelting the meltdown, v. 0.0.2”

.. an analogy to uncover how hackers might use “Meltdown” and “Spectre” to uncover important stuff you thought you’d hidden pretty fucking well

sw - meltdown and spectre
(photo from

Sitting in a booth at the Taco Bell on Water Street, you write a breakthrough joke on the receipt for your three burritos and a Pepsi, and put it in your shoe for safe keeping.

On the way home a mugger with a gun stops you and, in trying to determine if you have anything worth stealing, begins asking questions.

“What President is on the 20?”

“Jackson, Michael Jackson,” you answer, then expand on the answer because you’re wondering if his gun is really empty, or fully loaded with the latest mugger ammo. “Michael actually wanted to be on the 10. But people at the Bureau of Printing & Engraving thought 10 might be too young a denomination for him to be associated with.”

“So you think you’re funny?” the mugger asks, pressing the barrel of the semi-automatic mugger pistol against your sternum.

“No, not really. A funny guy would have you totally disarmed by now. I mean, a funny guy would have taken your gun, “and” both arms, for good measure. He’d probably then toss your arms into the box of a passing pickup truck, and hand the gun back to you by placing it between your legs, with the barrel pointed up.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m being serious, here. Deadly, mugger serious. You can’t get much more serious than that. Unless you’re tending goats while wearing a turban, and a Reaper drone suddenly pops up above the tree line.”

“People pay money to listen to this shit?”

“Sadly, no. More and more, people are just staying home and watching trending stuff on Twitter.”

“So tell me the joke you have hidden in your shoe.”

In response to this, though you try not to, you immediately flinch. And if there’s one thing muggers are good at, it’s reading flinches. So you laugh and say, bending over: “Guess you found me out.” Then you remove your right shoe, the one without the joke written on the Taco Bell receipt, but the one that’s now a hot house for an abscess on your big toe, that has spread from a severely infected case of toenail fungus. You hold the shoe up, a foot below the mugger’s nose.

He flinches and begins to gag, instinctively bringing his dominant hand, now holding the mugger gun, up to his nose. As he does this, like a ballet choreographed in slow motion, you reach out and tap the barrel end of the gun, just once, causing it to pivot on his trigger finger, which depresses the trigger just as the barrel is pointed at his face. There is a click, which shocks the mugger, and makes you smile. He looks up from the barrel of the gun and sees your smile, then turns and runs.

You bend back down and put your shoe back on, still smiling. Then you stay there for a moment, kneeling with one knee on the sidewalk, as the adrenaline that’s coursing through your veins gives you perfect recall of the joke that’s resting in your other shoe.

You imagine yourself standing on a stage and telling a packed comedy club this joke, and as you deliver the punch line and wait the one-second, laugh lag time for the audience to totally convulse in ha-ha’s, a window air-conditioner from the Struthers’ bedroom on the 5th floor of the building you’re in front of, falls.

The air-conditioner hits your head, and then embeds it into the first three inches of the concrete sidewalk, your left leg and the shoe that holds the breakthrough joke, splayed out behind you like a sausage on a leash.

Okay. So what’s what in this analogy?

1) In the Intel version of the story, the breakthrough joke, hidden inside the micro-processor of your shoe, was never really threatened. The complicated nature of the other items that make up your computing ensemble, along with the odorous pathogens you have allowed to be harbored there because of your own duplicitous, fungal nature, are more than sufficient protection to keep anyone from wanting to snoop around and find anything worth finding. Still, out of the kindness of their corporate hearts, and as a way of keeping class-action lawsuit awards below 30% of market cap, Intel suggests you visit a variety of third-party repository sites — designed to completely negate any liability — and install firmware updates to their chips.

2) In the Operating System version of the story, the code talkers notify you of patches, much like your mother calling to say that there are now patches for your computer ensemble, like the ones she used to iron on the worn-through knees of your favorite jeans, back before puberty made worn-through jean knees a total turn on, and people took perfectly good computer ensembles and intentionally wore them out by installing stuff that is known to weaken the knees of any operating system. But you install the patches, anyway, even though you can’t be sure the micro-iron you got from Amazon is really getting hot enough to do the job, since the only settings are for “permanent press” and “cotton,” and you’re pretty sure you should be using “operating system kernel.”

3) In the User version of the story, you install the firmware update and operating system patches, only to notice that your laptop is now humming something that sounds a lot like the Chinese National Anthem, sung by Madonna from the bottom of a well. An added bonus is that everything you type suddenly disappears, and then reappears three weeks later to the hour, the letters arranged in vertical columns, with the punctuation in a font that’s eight times larger than the letters. But you don’t complain, since the stuff you were writing anyway wasn’t all that great, and this at least has the benefit of being different. So you print out two hundred pages and send them to an editor you saw on Oprah, before she started running as “a better tv President.” The editor writes back with an advance for $50,000, and says this is the first great book of the century. Which seems crazy, until you remember what Great-Aunt Dingle often said: “Face it, Sweetheart, if you wanted sane, you just got on the bus a little late.”

20180108 17:06 Mon (1099 words)
▸ Turin Brakes performing “Average Man” from “Ether Song” 2003
▸ Ambrosia Parsley & The Elegant Too performing “Skin & Bone”, “Empire”, and “Make Me Laugh” from “Weeping Cherry” 2013
▸ King Creosote performing “For One Night Only” from “From Scotland with Love” 2014

Posted in Uncategorized


… oh, roam-e-o — the real rom-com-dram heartthrob, now, is following the flashing link-links, running free-ass thru our indie heads

(photo from

Scene 27 – Besper’s at the Bridge.
(Ten inches of new, January snow covers the plastic tables and chairs stacked on the patio behind the Truro Beach Food Shack. Rectilinear brushes the snow off four chairs with his gloves. Then he and Isabeltow set out the chairs, pull blue foam sit-upons from their knapsacks and sit, legs and boots up on a second chair. With the snowstorm passed, the sky is deep-end blue, the air so dried-out it feels abrasive. The sun, reflecting off the still pure, flaked-up whiteness, is like a blazing, 3D winter fire — as they both unzip their parkas and slide the hoods back.)

ISA: Good crowd, today.

REC: Twice as big as yesterday. Wait — two times zero, equals what, again?

ISA: Zero.

REC: And yet — there “are” twice as many people here today, as yesterday.

ISA: Yes. It’s a problem math has with numbers. We rely on it because we think, compared to us, it’s the paradigm of a rational, expectation and delivery vehicle. But the truth is math has never been able to really deal with its relationship to nothing.

REC: What’s the saying?

ISA: In the land of zero, the math dunce head is king.

REC: That’s it. Who said that? Pythagoras?

ISA: Originally? No idea. Recently, it might have been a follower of Trump’s on Twitter.

REC: Which is why he’s such a “stable genius.”

ISA: Who knows his way around the land of zero, better than anyone, today.

REC: Which is probably the real reason the voters, in 2016, decided he deserved another, reality tv show. How many realities is it possible to portray in reality tv shows?

ISA: I’m pretty sure Pythagoras dodged that question.

REC: Well, Pythagoras isn’t here.

ISA: I wonder why?

REC: 21st-century, Pythagora-phobia?

ISA: Possible. It’s what I had in my freshman year of high school.

REC: Really? How’d you get to be a math girl?

ISA: I managed to push through that first wall of the “quantity and shape arrangement” blues.

REC: Algebra. I remember the nightmare. How many math walls are there?

ISA: “Not more than a few infinities,” Einstein might have said.

REC: Math was pretty good to Albert. For a guy who only had one stein going for him.

ISA: Sometimes it’s not the quantity of steins, but the quality that counts.

REC: Which is why Trump is the epitome of stable genius.

ISA: Zero is pretty much the genius heart of stable.

REC: And Trump’s Twitter feed would be the epitome of e-pit-o-me.

ISA: Did your mother ever catch you?

RED: Doing what?

ISA: Playing with your word self?

REC: No, fortunately for the language.

ISA: It does seem to like you.

REC: Thanks. But it’s not really me it likes.

ISA: Really?

REC: It just uses me. Or, to be more accurate — uses my neural apparatus, as a vehicle for moving its long and sordid record keeping of the spec, on down the road.

ISA: And you’re okay with that?

REC: About as okay as okay can fucking get.

ISA: Because?

REC: It’s like your thing for science lingo. And — this particular, mother fucking-orc-va tongue, is such a youthful and full of life, old cunt bastard.

ISA: Which makes you feel, how?

REC: The only way I want to be …

ISA: Yeah …

REC/ISA: Alive in time.

20180107 01:20 Sun (580 words)
▸ Fink performing “Shakespeare” from “Hard Believer” 2014
▸ The Leisure Society performing “The Last of the Melting Snow” from “The Sleeper” 2009
▸ George Ezra performing “Drawing Board” from “Wanted On Voyage” 2014
▸ Birdy performing “Wild Horses” from “Beautiful Lies” 2016
▸ Turing Brakes performing “Dark on Fire” from “Dark on Fire” 2007
▸ Shearwater performing “You as You Were” from “Animal Joy” 2012

Posted in Uncategorized

“bad night, short light”

… kite for sale

bicycle - columbia standard
(photo of a Columbia “Standard” bicycle ca. 1880, from the Smithsonian)

Charles Isherwood Greenleigh Sale, “CIGS” for short, was a tall fellow of some renown. “The length of person you’d gladly welcome onto a boat, in case the mast snapped in bad weather,” as CIGS liked to put it in his own, personal version of self-affirmation undersell.

“Hey, CIGS – how’s the weather up there?” kids would yell as, at 16, he rode by on his five-foot-high bicycle. CIGS would smile down, and sometimes wave, if he wasn’t too distracted by looking in the second-story windows of the daughters’ bedrooms along Doctors Row.

He was “no salesperson of the self,” he once said. “If fact, if you gave me three-dollars-ten on Tuesday, and asked me to invest it in the latest, la-ti-da of self-promotion, by Friday I’d still have the full, three-dollars-ten resting in the pocket where I’d put it deep, on Tuesday, having gone on to think of better things.”

“Boy’s a fool,” Elwood Grainger told his daughter, Junie-Tune, when his peripherals observed her glancing at the cyclist as he passed. She blushed, Elwood shook his head, and CIGS kept on biking.

Some of the denizens of Empire False were surprised when, after high school and six years at the Polytechnique, he put aside the various techniques he’d successfully polified, and began racing on the big-wheel bicycle circuit.

“I had no idea there was a big-wheel circuit,” E.F. inhabs said to each other, over short picket fences, and long ice cream cones at the Frozen Numbler.

“Apparently it’s something that he started on his own,” others replied. “There are no races — not against other riders, or the clock.”

So it became a generally-regarded weirdness that was mostly overlooked, as people realized they liked to see him riding by. And once it became a fashion to toss dollar bills ten feet into air as CIGS passed, he began carrying a long-handled butterfly net to pluck the fluttered money from the air, like butterflies with cameos of Lincoln.

Then as word spread, CIGS spread his big-wheel wings and began touring across the country. In 1885, with few automobiles on the roads, and horses that remained surprisingly unspooked by the passing of a six-foot-seven-inch guy on a five-foot-high bicycle, traveling on the roadways of America was like opening presents on Christmas morning — an unfolding adventure of surprise.

20171212 15:45 Tue (414 words)
▸ Damien Rice and Lisa Hannigan performing “Volcano” in studio, from “0” 2002
▸ Family of the Year performing “Hey Ma” from “Loma Vista” 2012
▸ Noah and the Whale performing “Give a Little Love” live, from “Peaceful, the World Lays Me Down” 2008
▸ Kodaline performing “Love Like This” live, from “In a Perfect World” 2013

Posted in Uncategorized


… a story of excess as told by three, temporarily reformed excessories

(photo from

Scene 27

(A cool glade on a hot day.)

ANGEL PURSLANE FREEBUSH FRANK: (looks out from wood edge, smiling) Feel that air? So — cool.

JINKLES THE CLOWN: Yes. I can actually feel the neural warriors on my social battlefront, unclench their weapons of self-esteem.

GUILTY AS SIN IN RETROGRADE: Same here. And though I love the little hu-bris-tles standing upright on my neck, when they slink back down to the entrance to their skin caves, life always does seem to get more peaceful.

(Two mourning doves flush 10 yards out, wings beating as they squawk: “Shoot me, shoot me now, you ape-like fucking pigs!”)

ANGE: And right on cue, the pinheads herald us in this, the clearing’s welcome.

JINKS: I really should have brought my gun.

GUIL: You mean the one that’s not the tired, rope of puss, hanging ‘twixt your legs?

JINKS: Clever. But I think your “I am Bic, pent with meter” — is a little limpy.

ANGE: Hmm. A Twix does sound good. Did anyone remember the candy bars?

GUIL: Sorry. It was all I could do to remember the rugby balls. (slides knapsack from shoulder)

JINKS: What is this thing you have for leathered balls?

GUIL: (shakes cherry bonbon from cardboard box into palm, hands box to Ange)

ANGE: Thanks. I love this particular blend of chemicals — chocolate-covered, Marist-chinoed cherries — they’re like smiling priests in cotton slacks, covered with a dark temptation. (takes one, hands box to Jinks)

JINKS: Oh “these” rugby balls. Thanks, man, your balls are the best.

GUIL: (eating bonbon) Like you actually possess discernment.

JINKS: (eating bonbon) Met her once …

GUIL: … but she didn’t hang around, long. (swallows) … Yeah. That joke is more worn out than Snow White’s titties, at a county fair petting booth.

JINKS: Is it true (swallows) … that in the original Disney drawings, Snow White had a rack that looked like Mae West waiting for a train?

ANGE: “She Done Him Wrong.” (blurts, salivating) I love that movie! (swallows)

GUIL: Snow White pulling a train — I’m thinking you might be spending too much time at

JINKS: Thanks for the assessment, Mom.

ANGE: I feel like taking off my clothes and running naked through the meadow, like a wood nymph who has just discovered the savanna.

GUIL: And “savanna” with a final “h”, with your tiny, unripe Georgia peaches barely bouncing as you run.

JINKS: I should have brought my camera.

GUIL: You mean the one that’s not the instrument recording the nonstop frames of puss running through your head?

ANGE: God, I suddenly want to give someone head right now. Are there volunteers?

JINKS: Naw. But thanks.

GUIL: Yeah, same here. I’m 14 months hormone sober.

ANGE: Yeah. What was I thinking. That was the old me. I really love the new, orgasm-free me, so much better.

JINKS: Yeah.

GUIL: Abso-fucking-lutely. (holds out box to Ange) Bonbon?

20171202 14:09 Sat (498 words)
▸ Broken Records performing a) “A Darkness Rises Up”, b) “The Motorcycle Boy Reigns”, c) “You Know You’re Not Dead”, and d) “Home” – from “Let Me Come Home” 2010
▸ Sophie Hunger performing a) “Headlights”, and b) “Train People”, from “1983” 2010

Posted in Uncategorized

“ego, a me go”

… and the distal thunderdome of break-gazing at the mirror of the bloated-gloated self

nat - flame bowerbird
nat - volglekop bowerbird
(photos of flame and Vogelkop bowerbirds — with 5-min videos at the links)

“Break-gazing — it’s like break-dancing, but as a narcissism syncopation thing, where you just stop looking at yourself — whether in a mirror upon a wall, or in the mirror-of-self that’s turning in your head.”

Alex Garther “Noobie” Fleck is trying to describe, via instant messenger, what she means by saying “ego is a relic from the tribal social night, a social-life thing and not an indie-life thing, that we’ve just retrofitted to make it look like an individual offering to the social no-cap gods, of which there are now none, by definition of the indie-real now, and not the social theme-park now — which is why the whole ego deal seems so mindlessly reflexive.”

“Uh-huh,” Hanscombe “Farside” Wilson sends back. … “And I have no fucking clue, what your go-on is about.”

“Yeah …”

“… So?”

“So, what? Explain myself?”

“No. I’m not parental unit ‘Alpha-Male-47-Ginger-Tango-Boop-Boop,’ defining you by social role.”

She smiles and breath laughs, and sends back “sbl” for “smiling breath laugh.”

“So … you need a few minutes to collect your thoughts?”

“Few years would be more like it. Ask again in maybe 2023.”

“Ok. I’ll put it on my calendar.”

“Cool. See you then.”

“Right. Be good, and keep your ideas down.”


“Yes, ma’am?”

“Why are you so fucked?”

“No idea, Ask me again in 2023, after we rehook-up on the interwebs. You know, if cyberspace hasn’t actually melted down around the melted blue-goo of the planet. … Hey, Noob?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Do you think one upside of global warming is that in, say, 30 years, we can eat toasted cheese sandwiches without actually having to cook them?”

“Possible. Are you still eating, like, a car-battery size brick of cheddar cheese each month?”

“Yeah, but its like a battery for a really small car, now.”

“Good deal for your arteries.”

“Yeah. … So the photos at the top?”

“Yes — and how do they relate to the current search for a bt — big-theme — that I have so effectively ill-defined?”

“That’s it, the theme bacillus. Continuum, please-um.”

“Ok. … So the two bowerbird neighbors from New Guinea. One builds elaborately decorated ‘seduction parlors,’ as Attenborough refs them, and the other builds something like a cattle chute, before which he does an elaborate, pupils independently dilating, bird-guy Kabuki dance. Both working toward the same hormone-driven goal, which is, you know, the bird cloaca version of ‘fuck the girl.'”


“So one bird is like a master architect, carpenter, interior decorator and landscaper, all rolled into one small beak and head. And the other is like Baryshnikov in his prime as the Emperor of Japan’s voo-doo-eyed, brightly costumed boyfriend-girlfriend.”


“But they’re birds. You know, animals that are ‘bird-brained.’ At least when measured by the mirror lens of self-awareness, as the thing that makes ‘oh-so-smart’ so smart.”

“Because birds don’t recognize their own reflections.”

“That’s it. But if …” she trails off, with a long pause before he replies.

“Okay, I think I see the story-line. But if, say, you put a self-awareness, narcissism on parade, unable to feel empathy psychotic, idiot non-savant, former real-estate developer dancing on the edge of bankruptcy who is now the greatest leader ever in the history of the Milky Way — if you put that pile of steaming horse shit beside the actual work-product of the two bird-brain specs shown in the photos at the top, then what is smart and what is just doo-doo with a self-awareness comb-over?”

She chirps out loud and sends back “col.”

“So, at this the fade-out of the roaring vanities of a 20c as the Age of Narcissism, maybe smart is something else?”

“Which is the question of the bt: When did anything that anyone ever managed to do well, get done because of, and not in spite of, the self-mooning eclipse by the twin cheeks of self-awareness and self-reflection?”

“So your bt involves a step-back look at us, in time?”


“With the current bloom of ignoranti —

“– being not as dumbed-out as they act. Not really biologically impaired. Just breast-thump clinging to the tribal, brutal beastie night.

“Which is empowering. So the group-hug of the past is group empowerment, at the expense of the empowerment of the individual?”

“Right. Which is the “Welcome” at the theme park of delusion.”


“Because everything that ‘is’ today, is ‘because’ of the empowerment of what is individual. That’s what art and science are about, now, since the R-word — seeing the depth of field in seeing individual things in space and time. Which is not about the hug of common-focus groupies, finding-making things as proof of the grandness of a higher form of social la-ti-da. The effectuality that can happen through the sharedness, is a ‘result’ of the effectuality that can be realized in the indie-focused looking.”

“Ok. Makes effectual sense to humble typist me.”


“Have you heard the line that if Descartes had used a computer, he’d have said: ‘I rewrite, therefore, I am.’?”

“Yes. It’s written in Sharpie above the toilet paper dispenser in every stall, inside the 2nd floor figure-with-a-skirt restroom in Lester Hall.”

“Oh. So you aren’t the girl with knee-high socks that say: ‘Support me, please, I’m really not all that elastic.’?”

“No, but I think she lives on my floor in the dorm. And you aren’t the guy that carries sparrows in his knapsack?”

“Knapsack sparrows? No. Are they like smaller house sparrows, that eat the small pieces of paper left on the spines of spiral-notebooks?”

“And by ‘spiral-notebooks’ you mean the ones where you write ten words on any subject and then roll the notebook vertically inside itself, as the notebook then multiplies the words into a paper suitable for scholastic presentation?”

“I think you might be academically confusing me with magic.”

“You mean you’re not the image of the person that I’m corresponding with, now, inside my head?”

“No. But I think he might be living on my floor in the dorm.”


“Yes. This ‘is’ sad.”

“Yes. I guess I’ll just excuse myself, wash my face, and say good-night.”

“Me, too.”

“Ok. And don’t forget to put on the heavy nighttime mittens your mother gave you when she began to notice mysterious, stiffened aggregate, on your pajamas with the dancing bears.”

“Thanks for the reminder. Good-night.”

“Good-night. And …

“… same time tomorrow?”

“Of course. Why would anyone say no to this?”

“Why in-fucking-deed.”

20171114 15:37 Tue (1137 words)
“Kicking and Screaming” 1995, Noah Baumbach’s first and best movie (at 26), with an amazingly real perf by Olivia d’Abo – on Netflix
▸ Gabrielle Aplin performing “Panic Cord” from “English Rain” 2013
▸ Whitehorse performing “You Get Older” from “Leave No Bridge Unburned” 2015
▸ Lord Huron performing “We Went Wild” from “Into the Sun” EP 2010
▸ Hey Rosetta! performing “The Simplest Thing” from “Plan Your Escape” 2006

Posted in Uncategorized

“the four jockeys of the apopka-lypse”

mechanical pony
(photo from

“The boys” — aka Billy Evers, Theodore “Hangers” Timms, Franklin “MoonSpoon” Willis, and Sharky Gilmore — rode their bikes most weekday mornings, during their summer break between grades three and four at Andrew Molton Elementary, to the “pony track” just inside the doors of Avalon’s Market, on West Orange Boulevard in Apopka, Florida. At 9:30 the place was never crowded, and the four mechanical horses, shipped from the Ohio Pony Works in Cleveland in 1963, were still just “5 mins for 1 dime.”

Septimus Avalon bought the ponies after a traveling salesman sold him on the “future draw” of mothers who would be glad to leave their little ones, happy in the saddle, while they shopped. Septimus, not the most astute of grocers, reckoned that the Cadillac convertible with Ohio plates the salesman was driving was tangible proof enough of a “future draw” that would, in fact, come true.

In truth, some fifty-four years later that “future draw” never quite panned out as Septimus had hoped. But his daughter, Julie-June, kept the ponies where they were when she took over running the store in 2000, as she’d spent a lot of hours, herself, in the saddle of these horses, while riding out the cowgirl stories in her head.

The stories that the boys were role playing, now, had no cowboys ridin’ ‘cross the sage-brush dotted plains. They were saddled-up on thoroughbreds and racing with each other on the track at Gulfstream Park. Crouched forward in the saddle, heads just above the horses’ heads, as human and equine brainwaves mingled in the gallop of the moment — the boys whispered, in four-part harmony to the rhythm of the pounding hoofs, sweet nothings of encouragement into their charger’s ears.

The horses, track, and scene — all, just human dream time running in the wind.

20171110 17:47 Fri (307 words)
▸ Sophie Hunger performing “Heharun” live 2013, from “Danger of Light” 2013
▸ The Lumineers performing “Flowers in Your Hair” 2012, from “The Lumineers” 2012
▸ Fink performing “Warm Shadow” in studio 2013, from “Perfect Darakness” 2011
▸ M. Ward performing “Sad, Sad Song” live 2011, from “Transfuguration of Vincent” 2003
▸ Anna Ternheim performing “No Subtle Men” live 2013, from “Separation Road” 2006

Posted in Uncategorized

“love for sale”

… and the art of selling anything on eBay, while pimping la histoire

(photo from

It took a few months to figure out exactly what was going on. Even for the software geeks at eBay in San Jose, it was difficult to wrap their code around. They’d always thought it was “possible” to one day sell anything online. But actually selling emotions like “love,” seemed like an idea that was just too emo-hung to ever finally get dressed and make it to the party.

Barry Struthers, on the other hand, never understood what people meant by “doubt.” Since the age of nine — when he buried ping pong balls, filled with paper envelopes of Drano surrounded by lighter fluid, deep inside an 80-lb. bag of “Mr. Garden’s Super-Nitrogen Fertilizer,” resulting in a lift-off that put most of his parents’ one-car garage on the roof of their neighbor’s house — Barry had been certain that he was born to move the world.

So at 24 and barely two years out of tech school at East Evanston Kinetics (EEK), when Barry discovered, while seated at the work bench in his parents’ rebuilt garage, that emotions were actually just human reactions to a particular harmonic frequency in sound waves too low to be detected by the human ear, the eBay logo flashed before his eyes.

And flash it did, as the “Love Store” he set up on eBay sold half a million CD’s in just six months, with a variety of “Love Waves” from: “So hot and horny my desire to do the orgasmic choo-choo in your presence is like a locomotive running on adrenalin.” … to “Girl/guy of my dreams, I want my loins super-glued with yours forever in an act of holy pubic procreation.”

“So I just went with the flow,” Barry said two years later, on “The Entrepreneur” segment of “Good Morning Evanston.”

“And at the end of our first year we had worldwide sales of $150 million. That’s when Google, Amazon, and Facebook made their offers, followed three weeks later by DARPA at the Pentagon. Suddenly, everyone was interested. Even the Joint Chiefs of Staff saw the potential of turning a war machine, that was forecast to consume 300% of the Gross Domestic Product by the year 2040, into the perfect market of a self-sustaining — or “economically self-procreating” as we like to call it — love machine.

“Which was a big change, when you think about it. From a ‘war machine’ to a ‘love machine.’ And it’s something the military and the CIA had initially fought since the ’60s, when they figured out what the Summer of Love was all about.

“‘Fine,’ they thought then, ‘we’ll let the kiddies have one season, but by Autumn we’ll turn this Hippie-Skippie thing around and show the world what a Winter of our discontent is really all about.'”

“Wow!” Jennifer Stiletto Heels, the co-host of “Good Morning Evanston” responded. “It all started with the Hippie-Skippies?”

“Yeah,” Barry answered. “And one day I just woke up and heard the music. Thank God we keep records of this shit.”

20171023 13:00 Mon (518 words)
▸ Howe Gelb performing “The Three Deaths of Lucky” from “The Coincidentalist” 2013
▸ Bear’s Den performing “Elysium” from “Islands” 2014
▸ George Ezra performing “Don’t Matter Now”, a single 2017
▸ Bahamas performing “All the Time” from “Bahamas is Afie” 2014
▸ Lower Dens performing “To Die in L.A.” from “Escape from Evil” 2015

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“bus talk”

… while exchanging condolences with the psychotic-in-chief

bus interior 02
(bus photo from

1) Lucille, please come back where you belong.

LADY JACKS: (40-something girl in fire engine red spandex jumpsuit, lime green hair and moo-goo-party pink sweatshirt with “Foley’s Jacks Will Jack Your World” on the front, sitting by the windows half-way back, bus-left) I think his name is Bo.

LUCILLE: (80-something girl sitting next to her, with a freshly-permed white Afro, looking like she could be Little Richard’s mother if Little Richard’s mother had lived to be 180, and been white) Are you sure? I was thinking Bootsie-Lee.

LADY JACKS: No. Bootsie-Lee was the guy who played double-bass while dancing around it like a dance partner, in bare feet with toenails painted in mural scenes of Rome in the 4th century ICE.

LUCILLE: (smiling) “ICE”? I thought it was just “CE” for Common Era.”

LADY JACKS: Yeah, it is. I added “In the” to push it forward. You know, as the kind of ironic, anti-dignifier that would apply to a God-forsaken planet, slowly burning to a crisp.

LUCILLE: Crisps. As a poor girl growing up in Cornwall we ate crisps most nights for dinner, and called them “pomme de flambé terre.

LADY JACKS: Another three hundred years and potatoes will likely come from the ground, already cooked. That would be a plus.

LUCILLE: Yes. So electricity, that would normally go towards cooking, could be —

LADY JACKS: — used for air-conditioning. Right. (smiles at her) You’re pretty cool.

LUCILLE: You mean for an old lady who looks like Little Richard with a snowball perm?

LADY JACKS: (breath laugh) Yeah. The perm is definitely selling the sanity of roots.

2) HandsomeFootsome, a boy with digits made of steal.

WHOLE FOODS: (teen-something girl with mid-back-length hair gathered in a tightly-braided horse tail) He does have nice hands. Don’t get me wrong. His fingers might be light, but there’s not a thing wrong with Abstell’s grooming.

PIERCE ARROW: (teen-something girl with more studs and rings tethered to her face than a pirate looking for a place to drop anchor) Yeah. I could eat off any part of that boy, and never feel like I was holding back.

WHOLE FOODS: Totally. Microbes cross the street when he walks toward them on the sidewalk.

PIERCE ARROW: I bet his boxers smell like laundry dried on a clothesline in the 1600s – back when the air in North America still smelled like a wilderness of virgins.

WHOLE FOODS: Yeah. I love that smell. It’s like the fresh, absence of odor.

PIERCE ARROW: Totally. Like Nuns smelled, back when religion was still hot.

3) Ezekiel, and other kick-back toys.

BOOK NOOK: (teen-something boy in the backseat, leaned against the window, deep into a paperback; looks up) Yo, Mo.

HAND-WASH GLOW: (teen-something boy skinnier than a push-broom handle waiting to grow bristles; sits) Abstell. How’s the mother?

BOOK NOOK: Fresh out. (looks back at book)


BOOK NOOK: As a Nun with money left in her allowance.

HAND-WASH GLOW: (mutters slowly) F-uh-hkk. (looks at him) Any suggestions?

BOOK NOOK: Dry fry’s buy-one-get-one, this week at Save A Lot. (looks at him) Or … you could try the choir.

HAND-WASH GLOW: (looks forward) Nah. My thoughts are way unclean.

(both are silent for a few blocks)

HAND-WASH GLOW: (looks at him) What’s the story about?

BOOK NOOK: (looks forward) A guy spends his life dreaming of riding the bus and writing down what he overhears people say.

HAND-WASH GLOW: (looks forward) So it’s a western?

BOOK NOOK: Good guess. He lives in L.A., like a monkey trapped inside the desert sound stage of his head, who never sees the light of day.

HAND-WASH GLOW: Yeah. I can see that movie, with music by a Swiss girl who digs her spaghetti and spinach. *

20171007 13:38 Sat (667 words)
“The Sweet Life” 2016, available on Netflix
▸ Sophie Hunger performing: -a) “Spaghetti mit Spinat” * from “Supermoon” 2015, -b) “LikeLikeLike”, -c) “Souldier” from “The Danger of Light” 2012
▸ Buffalo Springfield performing “For What It’s Worth” from “Buffalo Springfield” 1967
▸ Little Richard performing “Lucille” 1973, from a single 1957

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… and other things that float on seas of mysterious importance

leaderships 03
(not to scale photo montage of: a) Royal Caribbean’s “MS Harmony of the Seas” – launched 2016, 1,200′ long, 227,000 tons, 6,000 passengers, crew of 2,000; and b) a replica of Ferdinand Magellan‘s “Nao Victoria” [2] – 89′ long, 85 tons, crew of 43; the only ship of the original fleet of 5 to complete the 3-year-long, first circumnavigation of the world in 1522)

Sally Newburg-Rice With Fixings is waiting for the Elm Street Market bus, her ragged jeans butt-parked on a low brick wall as she reads page 97 of Lanford Struthers’ novel on elliptical projection, “Wilco’s Quest,” a second time.

“Wilco led with his chin in all things,” the page begins. “Which was not by chance but by direct result, the result of a brief growth spurt he’d gone through at age 15, after learning how to prime the pump and use the lever of his loins to bring his nocturnal, wet-dream dreamtime fun, into the elliptically-projected light of day.

“At least this was Wilco’s theory to explain the happy coincidence between a sudden growth spurt and the discovery of how to erotically prime the loin-lever pump. Which he tended to as enthusiastically as any student of engineering might, after discovering how well a humble lever can seriously move your world.

“Lately, the boy seems to be using a lot of toilet paper,” Glenda Dupree said to Grover, her husband of one decade plus.

“Let it go,” Grover Dupree answered, and continued marking up his “Daily Racing Form.” “Just be glad the boy is not plugged up.”

Sally’s own mother, Helen Newburg-Rice With Fixings, expressed a similar sentiment with regard to Sally’s younger brother Edgar, after he, too, discovered popular body mechanics. So Sally found she could relate to Struthers’ novelistic, elliptical projections, even if the dotted trail of the projected ellipses, in the light of day, often left some dreams unrequited.

Sally closed the paperback on her bus-transfer bookmark and looked across Forest Avenue, thinking about her brother, who’d left high school and moved to L.A. a year ago to be an actor. Much like her father, Randall Fixings, had done 10 plus years earlier, leaving a note for her mother underneath the kitchen table cookie jar.

“Babe – going to Hollywood to make my mark. I’ll send for you and the kids soon.” That being the last news Helen received from, or about, Randall Fixings. Which was okay with her, since a decade plus of marriage had settled in the long bilge of her life, like a dampness that she’d wished would really find another place to be.

20170926 09:51 (383 words)
▸ King Creosote performing “Something to Believe In”, “From Scotland with Love” 2014
▸ Birdy performing “Skinny Love” by Bon Iver, from “Birdy” 2011
▸ M. Ward performing “Hi-Fi” in studio 2014, from “Transistor Radio” 2005
▸ Milo Greene performing “Royal Blue” from “Control” 2015
▸ The Dodos performing “Jodi” live 2008, from “Visiter” 2008

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“anger management, 101”

… a survey of current events and other tribal social, regurgitated deformities from the dark and brutal, beastie night

evnt - charlottesville 20170813 b - bbc
(photo from BBC story Aug 13, 2017)

GUY WITH CLUB: A/*Q#N@ #O$P!M%$ SH(#&P$>W*Yr@! K//G^>FFF<!!!

MERRIAM WEBSTER'S COLLEGIATE DICTIONARY TRANSLATION: ugh \often read as ˈəg or ˈəḵ or ˈə\ interj (1837) – used to indicate the sound of a cough or grunt or to express disgust or horror


ON-SCENE TV REPORTER: (to camera guy) Quick! Get the fuck out of here!

“FOX AND FRIENDS” GUEST COMMENTATOR WITH TWO RIGHT ARMS: (watching video) Obviously, to anyone who has actually seen the video of what ‘was’ a peaceful demonstration, organized by people with an appreciation for a view of Southern history that is not the revisionist history of the global “unity through finding commonality in diversity” Nazis – the peaceful expression of Southern heritage here, today, was turned into a violent confrontation when the political-correctness fascists attacked the demonstrators with the aggression of their words – words full of the insidious innuendo that has, so successfully in the past, been used to inflame the moment. As the pluralism-Nazis successfully turned these humble demonstrators into the raging lunatics they wanted them to be, in yet another example of social transference, as alt-left zealots – the bad people – turn good people into the bad people the bad people really are.”

“FOX AND FRIENDS” ANCHOR HANDSOME HANK: (reads stock response as intern Wendy kneels beneath the anchor desk and tidies up his zipper with her tongue) No one here can argue with that.

VIEWER IN WHITE HOUSE TV ROOM: (writing with his thumbs) “Alt-left = Bad #LoserPeople! BAD!!!”

20170817 13:51 (302 words)
▸ John Lennon performing “Imagine” live (1972), from “Imagine” 1971
▸ Bruce Cockburn performing “Pacing the Cage” in studio 1998, from “The Charity of Night” 1997
▸ Destroyer performing “Bangkok” in studio 2015, from “Poison Season” 2015
▸ Blaudzun performing “Revolver” from “Blaudzun” 2008
▸ Passenger performing “Rolling Stone” live (2013), from “Whispers” 2014, lyrics
▸ Mindy Gledhill performing “Winter Moon”, from “Winter Moon” 2011

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“penis colada”

… a favorite drink for infamous people

(penis colada photo from here and here

Ingredients and Special Tools

a) one very tiny, presidential penis

b) one industrial-grade strainer


a) Remove the penis from the owner with a dull, rusty knife – preferably a knife that’s been sitting in the back room of a junk store for at least fifty years, after being purchased at a police evidence auction where the dried blood of several political wiener amputees is still evident on the blade, after the removers were acquitted by not-very-well-hung juries twice, the second trial taking place in Zürich at the former Bank Nationale de Filthy Riché, and now a burned-out building serving as a court of injustice reversal.

b) Place the crudely severed penis in the industrial-grade strainer, with the special hydraulic macerator pressed down at the full 5,000 pounds per-square-inch of pressure recommended by the manufacturer. Then place a thimble, or other receptacle of appropriate size, underneath the strainer.

c) Place the former owner of the penis in a chair beside the macerator/strainer, for a good view of the proceedings.

d) Turn the macerator on. After all traces of the penis have disappeared from view, stop the macerator and remove the thimble, or other receptacle of appropriate size, and slowly decant the strained liquid into a special, crystal decanter, blown specially for the proceedings and bearing a strong resemblance to the lucky star of the show.

e) Seal the decanter and send it upstairs for display in a gallery of the Museum de Political Wiener Amputees. Send the other residual material, including the former owner of the penis, to the museum’s incinerator, after raising a hand perhaps as the trash cart is wheeled out through the doorway, as a sign of praise for the process of cutting off the “in” from “justice.”

2017-07-02 17:29:51 (342 words)

▸ The Ass Band performing “Hail to the Chief”

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