FOR PAUL REUBENS

The unhinged peculiarity of Pee-Wee's Big Adventure was staggering(!) upon recent viewing. How long had it been? Five years? Ten years since I'd seen it last? Unlike certain movies associated with childhood that would yield disastrous viewings (I'm looking at you Garbage Pail Kids), Big Adventure held its own. The breadth of the Adventure is wild and I'd most certainly argue its merits to any disbeliever. Although it doesn't exactly strike me as a kids movie, I should thank my folks for letting me watch it in the 1980s. Shortly after becoming reacquainted with the film, BTH purchased the entire Pee-Wee's Playhouse series on DVD, which I should perhaps thank God for. Worth at least its weight in gold if distributed across a dozen or so VHS tapes, Pee-Wee & Ms. Yvonne's Puppet Dance, along with Gary Panter's brilliant set design, was the cinch.

Admittedly, I'm pretty far removed from parenting and, well, children, but if the continuing homogenization of culture is any indicator, I would assume there's not a show quite like Pee-Wee's on television now. What I do come into contact with -- mostly clothing commercials and neighborhood kids -- leaves me with a feeling of deep disappointment and detachment from my own childhood. Please, parents: stop buying Starter jackets for your nerdy kids. Don't force your children to become tiny adults with credit cards and cell phones. If I have kids, I hope to teach them focus and discipline, but I want their imaginations to run wild. They should know, deeply, that anything is possible and anyone who disagrees is very sadly mistaken.

2008 will be the year I begin subscribing to Esquire. My last entry was to be about drawing a line from my ideals as a teenager to the person I am now. It proved difficult and while I may return to that idea at some point, it's in the distance. My late teens and early 20s were characterized by a loosening of persona and the self. When I started to reel myself back in, I was very much the same person I've always been (the one who got confused in the "looseness") and someone a little different. In a very small way, subscribing to Esquire represents the latter. [Maybe using the phrase "a magazine like Esquire" is a bad way of saying that I was ignorant in youth as to the difference between Maxim and Playboy and Esquire. For the record, Maxim is really dumb plus half-naked women, Playboy is less dumb and has a kind of "cursory intelligence" -- that is, it feigns an air of sophistication -- plus naked women, and Esquire is intelligent plus mostly clothed women.] Why subscribing to a magazine means anything, I don't know. I suppose it's because I based a lot of my personality on my friends in certain ways and I can't picture any of my longtime friends reading Esquire. But then, this is becoming a continuation of something I started on a few posts back.

ESPECIALLY FOR YOU

In 1997, at a VFW show in Port Huron Township, an exuberant crowd of underage drinkers gave my "No Alcohol" show policy a complete 180. This crowd was not the same indifferent crowd that came to see my band. No, these kids belonged to Neighborhood Funk Posse, an ill-named
local band that achieved legendary status despite being absolutely terrible.

I'd mistakenly thought all the excitement was indicative of a loyal fanbase and not the excessive consumption of PBR and Labatt Blue (from the can, of course!). With the prohibition lifted, a change was expected but never occurred. Somehow, in the ten years since, it's only recently occurred to me that my band sucked.

My bandmates didn't like our band. Not wanting to practice, record, or own anything we released, they politely humored me as if I were the autistic leader of a Butthole Surfers cover band. Thanks, fellas! Butcouldn't you have sent me a memo?

At a Labor Day party on some swank estate a few years back, during the middle of a conversation about something else entirely, a grown man said, "I was too weird for my punk band. I was always trying to throw in an extra little beat on each riff -- an extra little AH! -- and they kicked me out." I wanted to say, 'No, they kicked out because you have a personality disorder.' Instead, I held my tongue because no one told me.

REQUIA / DAYS HAVE GONE BY

Perhaps I mentioned my shrinking brain. The fade will erode my short term memory, speech, and mood if I'm not careful but a few weeks away is usually enough for my brain to recuperate. Just as I decided to abstain, the Soul Club anniversary popped up along with the Heavy Manners debut, both of which provided numerous opportunities for the fade. The Soul Club on Friday was tops -- 230+ people -- and Fine Wine's r&b set was the whip. Around midnight, Aaron, myself and a few others went out back to smoke when an attendee from the E-Sham show earlier in the night found us and wanted to partake. I said, "Great -- the undercover cop is here." I knew I was mistaken when he asked if any of us were into punk rock and started pumping his fists in the air. Back inside, Robert was dancing with a honey and looking very happy. That was the affirmation I was looking for -- that this was indeed a celebration, his success, and the acme of the night. By 2am, I was anxious to crawl into bed with Erin.

Saturday started off with a very necessary salmon purchase, was detoured by a 2 hour nap, and capped by the inaugural Heavy Manners -- A2's first ongoing benefit dance party. There wasn't much advance word so it was sparsely attended but very relaxed. Robert and I met up beforehand and spent the majority of the night chatting with folks until Aaron showed, at which point we started dancing. Back at my house, Brian's friends had their own little party going and we joined in. Eventually, it was 4am, we'd watched 45 minutes of Night of the Bloody Apes, and Sunday morning was going to be rough.

BAD TIMING

In a May 2001 interview, artist Dan Clowes mentioned Vladimir Nabokov's Pale Fire. Of everything said in the 24-page conversation, this little passage stuck out:

"I thought that was such a great thing in Pale Fire how this unreliable critic who's sort of mis-analyzing this whole epic poem that John Shade has written, is actually creating this whole new work of art that's possibly even superior to this great poem itself."

The concept seemed fantastic but I never picked up the novel or read much else about it (I guess I had better things to do at the time like get divorced). Over time, I forgot about this "John Shade" character and developed the idea that the book was comprised of a poem by Nabokov and a wild analysis written by his neighbor. Pale Fire came up in conversation with RSW, who often recommends the book to people and said he'd lend me his copy. On the back, John Updike dishes praise saying Nabokov writes prose "the only way it should be written, that is, ecstatically." With my misconstrued idea and Updike's quote, I began to read the book as if it were a serious and impassioned analysis by Nabokov's neighbor. It made no sense so I researched the book a bit. Re-reading the forward, it was apparent how badly I mis-read it and how fucking funny the book might be.

I've been desperate for a book to dive into as I was getting faded just about every day for a spell there and my brain was starting to shrink

LES GENS SONT FOUS / INTERLUDE

After nearly two decades of steady handwritten journal keeping, insomnia bested me and begat this writing spot. A physical journal is an excellent object -- a tangible record of your time -- but it can be a bad reminder, difficult to keep track of, or moot when your typing speed rivals that of your thoughts. When my cheap computer bit the dust and I lost two years of my written life, I began writing online. This particular blog came about when I was up late one night with a head too full of thoughts to sleep. I'm a firm believer that one shouldn't stay in bed when they can't sleep. For one, an association between sleeplessness and the bed will occur. Secondly, ideas will be lost forever if they aren't recorded. Erin's MacBook was a godsend: depending on where I felt most comfortable and inspired, any room of the house was game for writing. Somewhat quickly, that which kept me awake at night quieted and I began finding inspiration in articles, books, sound, etc., that kept me writing during other times of day.

Now, the circumstances of writing have changed so much that inspiration doesn't come at night from lack of sleep, but in the morning, on a full stomach. It's a great process: I wake, put on music, make a large amount of food (often a mushroom cap, Italian sausage, cheese, eggs and a bagel, yogurt or fruit, a protein shake, coffee or tea, lots of vitamins, and whatever else), and read. Sometimes there's a spark from an article or book, or a series of my own observations will coalesce into an idea I've been ruminating on.

[For a good spell, I was writing only fiction -- short short stories from an alternate world lost in a narcotic haze. While there's still much to explore there, spending time in the fantasy universe was cramping me up in the real world. I suppose I mean to say that my real world needs some work because the fantasy wasn't keeping me happy. ]

This morning, I was pretty taken by an interview with art critic Dave Hickey. While the entirety of the interview was a well of inspiration and hilarity, much of it commenting on the commercialization of fuckin' everything, the downright unfortunate state of the modern condition in the "creative" U.S., inability to explain the true reason why one might create, content vs. aesthetics (aesthetics -- throw your hands in the air!), there's this little nugget:

"Most famous artists are created by their work and the idea of them as a character, and if they're smart and ambitious, they reinforce that character because they want to win. They want their views to prevail. And you must want to win. I don't want to be rich, but I want to win. I want my enemies to fall to shambles. I do not want to be fair. I want the art I hate to go away. If you want your art to stay around, and I hate it, get your own fucking critic! So I am not in favor of art -- I'm in favor of the art I like."

Geezus -- thank you, Dave Hickey! This touches on so many ideas, I don't know where to begin. This is a terrible cop-out, but I can't begin right now; I've got a lot to do before daylight leaves.

YOU ROCK, YOU ROLL, & YOU BOOGIE

So far, November has been the most perfect October. Even at night, the temps are hardly oppressive and the leaves are still changing color with many of the trees becoming more and more and more golden. It's snowed two or three times -- which I haven't minded -- but it's rained a couple times too. It's raining today. Quite a beautiful world even if the seasons don't seem normal.

Unfortunately, I've been partially laid up with a bad cold and not out riding my bike in the weather. This isn't the worst cold -- the three-month colds I've had every winter for the past three years will have to duke it out for that honor -- but it's made an impact I'm hoping means I won't get hit for three months come December. Still, the kind weather is sadly lost on me.

During the first and perhaps worst night of my illness, Erin and I watched Last Tango in Paris. Geezus... where do these movies come from? How do they visit me only when I'm sick? After Brando had Maria Schneider's fingers up his anus and went on about how she should get fucked by a pig (and so on and so forth -- and no, he didn't mean a cop!), I was reminded of how my cock practically ascended into my body during the horse handjob scene in Emanuelle in America (see: turn off). Sadly, in my haze, I decided the anal rape scene in Omen III was preferable to Schneider's search for Brando's "bosom of desire".

Ahem, well, moving on:

One of the many unfortunate repercussions of a co-worker getting canned at the shop was the disappearance of Gil Evan's Out of the Cool album. Evans arranged Miles Davis' Sketches of Spain -- a feverish, poly-chordal masterpiece based around the classical piece "Concierto de Aranjuez" -- which I'd first heard at at Dave's house at age 17. Sketches of Spain was a true brainbender that served as the perfect soundtrack to my teenage insomnia: it was the only tape I wanted to listen to after not sleeping for more than three out of 72 hours. Out Of The Cool is a stunner too, especially about 15-20 seconds right around the middle: the dissonant swell that ends "Bilbao Song", a pause, and then the jolting, Lydian horn arrangement that opens "Stratusphunk".

[Speaking of music, apparently MBV is reuniting to play some shows! Was it columnist Andrew Earles that rightly compared the career of MBV with that of G'N'R? Almost ten years ago, at a defunct Royal Oak record store, I overheard a well-dressed twentysomething say, "I hear My Bloody Valentine are finally finishing up an album...." Man, I wanted to projectile vomit. In the intervening years, that line has been repeated ad infinitum by many other jerks with nothing better to talk about. ]

GOT TO MOVE ON / FOTSCHI TONG

Tonight marks the first instance of Mavis coming to lay with me. Our relationship has developed nicely: slowly, with trust steadily increasing each time I knock the "Garland Gang" away from her. With humans around, it's an awful, jealous battle between the three of them but methinks they get along quite well when alone. An early impression of Mavis is one I often recall: crossing the grass to the door of Erin's apartment, my babe stood on the porch, Mavis butting up against her bare legs just below the edge of her skirt. Mavis' tail flicked around one of ENB's calves and she ran inside. It's really the impression of both that's stuck with me.

Speaking of Erin, few things have given me the same satisfaction as the tricking out of her 1974 Schwinn Speedster. It started with a rear shelf, moved onto a few reflectors, and then original yellow grips and a front and rear tail light. It's so swank, it's fucking ridiculous. And it's the best ride in the world -- nothing I've ridden has matched it. It makes me want to set my bike on fire and ghostride it down a hill and into a ravine.

On Friday, Erin and I went for dinner at Zola. The Sazeracs were amazing and made me wonder why I sit around drinking Cognac straight when I could get some rye and blood orange bitters and enjoy myself that much more. We had the antipasto, which was fucking excellent as usual, and a whole fish (unfortunately, the name escapes me but it's a whole fucking fish cooked in parchment with Asian spices -- top notch!). We talked and talked and talked about stories, ideas, and revelations; never have I shared such a rapport with a partner.

It didn't hit me until we were sitting at Zola for a bit that I felt more in my element than I have at home lately. It was a strange but welcome feeling, with some disappointment. For the most part, it has to do with the stagnation of living in Michigan for so long. How I went from considering it one of the finest and most unique states in the Union to a big, fat fucking burden isn't so clear. I find myself craving not just a new locale but a perfect world: twilight, spirits, excellent food, bike rides, close friends, colorful but low-lit rooms, continuous music, and lots of conversation in between healthy & rigorous creative productivity. Oof. Haha -- is it asking too much?

That specific idea of a perfect world was something I was scratching at a bit with Thomas' birthday party. There weren't all of the elements I was hoping for (per the description detailed above) but it was close to the [sur]reality as I've come. It's not such a stretch that he came to mind as we lay into the antipasto and cocktails since we met there once or twice a week during his last few months in town for excellent conversation, laughs, and exchanges. Later, Travis came to mind. Our friendship took many, many turns during his stay in Michigan, some to my chagrin. That we didn't meet at more regular intervals during his later months is a disappointment but I think our interests and tastes have diverged and worked themselves out that it makes sense and is reconcilable. Still, his last night in town was one of the best of our friendship. For one of the first times (or perhaps the very first time) that Travis, Brian, and I got together, there was none of the tension that underscored the majority of our "hang sessions".

Anyway, out to dinner with ENB, I began feeling refreshed and elated in a way clearer than I'd felt in a few months. It was a true pleasure.

AUTHOR SIGNING

Join us at Connie's Book Castle with author Michael Ken Gleeson as he reads from and signs his new book, THE YEAR I WENT BALD WAS THE WORST YEAR OF MY LIFE: My Wife Split, Kids Made Cracks, A Hooker Gave Me The Clap and I Grew Long What Little Hair I Had Left Before Learning To Cook For Myself.

Thanks in part to five stars reviews from both Bald Type and Egghead Chef magazines, TYIWBWTWYOML: MWSKMCAHGMTCAIGLWLHIHLBLTCFM has percolated into the kitchens of Denver.

"I went bald, lost my wife and then my job as a real estate trader," said Connie's Book Castle owner Connifred Mason. "Then I opened this book store, which isn't exactly doing gangbusters. But I can't say it hasn't scored me any free 'tang," he elaborated.

SHERE KHAN

Woof -- Friday night's 'Tique was a bust. Following last month's 200+ night, this outing had 30 paying attendees and 15 or so early birds that avoided the cover charge. The best part: the venue wasn't expecting us. Still, it wasn't an altogether terrible evening: the low pressure meant that we could play whatever we wanted and have fun with our friends that showed (including Brian, who seemed in good spirits and has been extra-sharp on the jokes of late). Unfortunately, due to an earlier agreement Aaron made with the owner of the venue, our payment was, well, "nominal".

Shortly before the last 'Tique, we began a dialogue as to what's next. Although the majority of 'Tiques have done well, we'd like to move out of that venue and onto more. The argument to move is easy: the $5 cover charge is a bit ridiculous, the joker that runs the place is a nightmare, and -- save for the outdoor patio, which isn't functional during winter -- the venue isn't exactly pleasing to the eyes unless you love the personality and decor of a dental office. On top of that, I've never heard more complaints about a bar staff.

Ideally, we could split our current sets into a laid back weekly at a downtown cafe and take the 'Tique to another venue for the dancier side. At least in Ann Arbor, and probably other cities, the model for DJ nights and events could be toyed with a bit. Individual events are still far more appealing than routine weeklies so I'll have to consider that before proposing a night somewhere.

Somewhat surprisingly, it was one of my better nights on turntables and inspired me to consider curating and editing a long-playing mix complete with edits, mixes, original material, and possibly one or two forthcoming HOO! tunes. A title, Black Matter (or Dark Matter ), and design scheme have been tumbling around my head and a tentative tracklist has been prepped.


Will Eisner once commented that he combined his ineptitude as a struggling painter and his ineptitude as a struggling writer to create an aptitude in the field of sequential narrative (re: comic books). Richard D. James said that often the most interesting musicians are those that don't seek fame or must be prodded to release a record, and the best promoters often make the worst crud.

An important life lesson was learning that people often fall into great jobs by mistake or find strengths and success in roles other than (but related to) their original passion. My strengths may lie more in acting as a circuit between other peoples' music and new ears by DJing and releasing music, which I'm completely fine with. I've no doubt there will be a day when I release something of my own worth a damn but my greatest successes so far are not in that field.

The recent arrival of the P-Comb master has thrown me right back into ecstatic fandom and reassured me that releasing music is going to be really great. Roj should be sending his files along soon for a smash inaugural release and great things lie past that.

It can't always be an awful world.

Haha.

A WITNESS TO SEGOVIA TREMBLING

In the past week, at least two or three hours of each day has been devoted to recording. Although not without its benefits, eating, drinking, and pissing tend to take a backseat during that time.
Typically, my ears are exhausted from spending hours obsessing over a five-second section of a song and I'm so restless that sleep is ruff.

Nonetheless, there's a particular Andres Segovia record I can always put on. Pulled from the 50 cent bin at the shop, it was so terribly hacked it looked unplayable. Fortunately, my taste is so warped from endless listening of bad cassette dubs on blown car speakers during my teens that this was a plus. The sound is perfect: a mess of clicks, hiss and rattle with grit to throw the needle from groove to groove mid-note. Played loud enough, it sounds like Christian Marclay got a hold of a Derek Bailey album and gave it the business. Played quietly, ENB and I could fall asleep to it every night.

In terms of the actual sound of the recording, Stuart Scharf's score for George Dumpson's Place is somewhat similar. Opening with the same boxy acoustic classical guitar sound, Scharf's music eventually veers into jazzier territory without changing mood. It's a nice piece and a nice film I sometimes throw on when I'm overwhelmed.

Speaking of, ever read the A section of the New York Times? Cripes.

Last night was LH's going away party at the Elks Lodge. RSW and I were on the fence about attending but I didn't want to say no to visiting the Lodge before it's shut down or sold. RSW did end up passing and ACL and I went ahead. Unfortunately, it was pretty ritual. Same old shit. It was like a carbon copy of the last Lodge party but the jams were a bit more piss. And despite being the most packed I've seen it, excitement was a little low. Either I wasn't feeling it, or it was a pain in the ass because it stunk and you couldn't walk anywhere, or my tastes are changing.

A quote from Dan Clowes' story "The Party" would be appropriate but it's not handy at the mo'. In regard to attending parties, one's hopes are often that something amazing or wild would happen... but never does.

It could be argued that an individual gets one or two really good parties in his or her life. There's an age, a time, and factors that come together for a 100% experience. After that, it's 70% or below, 80% if you're lucky. I want more.

ZEUS / ICICLES

A few nights ago, ENB met me at closing time and we began riding home down Liberty. Between Division and Thompson, Wes Anderson and Jason Schwartzman were walking toward the theater. We were pretty excited so we spun around and approached them. They introduced themselves, shook our hands, and complimented us both (Wes liked my track jacket and called Erin's bike a "classic". Schwartzman said, "Yeah, classic! You're looking good on that bike." Hilarious.). They were both of smaller frames than I imagined, dressed nicely, and had excellent
skin.

ENB was wired for the rest of the ride home so we decided to watch The Royal Tenenbaums back at the house. The majority of it was very enjoyable but parts still felt... not as much precious as trite, I suppose. It still cracks me up when I think of RDS's parents going on and on about how "weird" Rushmore is. Then again, they had a sticker on their front door of George Bush hangin' with George Washington at what looked like a séance with the inscription "National Prayer Team". They were weird, not Rushmore.

I'd almost completely forgotten about the Tenenbaums scene in which the scope of Margot's infidelity becomes clear. Almost every male I know commented that they felt ill during the montage, which seemed like the most obvious and astoundingly stupid thing a male could say.
Perhaps I don't exactly relate.

A preceding scene certainly had more of an effect on me: Eli's dumping of Margot in broad daylight on an overpass walkway. It's fairly short and the emotions of the scene are stunted, but the cold of the city day is very apparent--all that cold, emotionless concrete. After one of the very first screenings of The Royal Tenenbaums, a life-long New York resident told Anderson he'd made the city look beautiful. This was very recently post-9/11, and while I don't completely disagree with him (being only an occasional traveler to NYC), this scene was almost enough to leave me cold for the entire movie. It was most likely Anderson's intention to match the setting to the mood as he has in other films but it's a relatively subtle part of his filmmaking and went beyond being simply a cinematic concept for myself.

Bottle Rocket and Rushmore both had excellent soundtracks and scores, and impeccable placement. The Royal Tenenbaums, on the other hand, had a fair share of duds and bad cues among some of Mothersbaugh's most arresting numbers ("111 Archer Avenue" & "Sonata For Cello and Piano in F Minor" being the gems). To nitpick, I would've scrapped "Scrapping and Yelling" from its scene, moved John Lennon's "Look At Me" to the end of the scene when Chas and the boys bed down for the first night back at the Tenenbaum house, and raised the volume on Dylan's "Wigwam" and cut the audio upon Henry & Ethel's kiss.

While watching Tenenbaums, I wanted to pay attention to the positives of the film. While I laughed hard at a few scenes and was close to tears during others, the ending betrayed the excellent 30 or so minutes ahead of it (from just before Richie's suicide attempt to just before the fumbled wedding). It's during those last 15 minutes or so that it becomes a bit more of a trite and obvious mess. At the very least, I still consider Anderson an auteur and imagine his body of work will one day be a bit of a juggernaut. Still, I'm holding out for the day he begins working more like one of his influences and starts taking more chances, making shorts, and perhaps even working with less. If he cut the nice cameras, the ensemble casts, and pageantry, he'd still come up with something worthwhile and interesting. But I may be in the minority here.

WAHUNSENACAWH'S DAUGHTER

All this time I've been making "Pokehercuntass" jokes when "Pocahaunted" was what I really wanted to say.

INFINITE LUCIFER

Aaron Dilloway came by the store a few nights ago with copies of his new record, Infinite Lucifer, a one-sided remix of Bobby BeauSoleil's music for Kenneth Anger's Lucifer Rising. It's a bizarre suite of loops and noise and just what I've been wanting to hear of late. Speaking of Satanic music, my quest to track down the Witchcraft 70 score has been less than fruitful.

Thursday night, Erin and I met up with Robert and Aaron at Eve. Erin began wearing glasses for the first time in her life and the feedback has been positive (especially from me, obviously--she looks beautiful and natural). In terms of ambiance, Eve might be my favorite place to get drinks in town. Unfortunately, the drinks aren't great and their mojito is inconsistent, to say the least. There have been a few really fun times there, including Mike's birthday and a stop with Thomas.

Woof -- I'm watching A History Of Violence and the score is killing me. Rough stuff. Ominous music cued with ominous scenes for an obvious redundancy.

S&R have an opportunity coming up: a monthly gig at the Pig supporting and MCing for Starling. Hilarious! Apparently, they were trying to figure out how to prohibit people from taking them seriously and we came up. At the very least, we're down for November.

FROM THE FORTHCOMING NOVEL "THE SHADES"

Mark took the handkerchief from his shirt collar and twisted the salty rag over the pail. The pail was now half-filled with salty water. Mark was so thirsty, he wanted to drink the salty water from the pail to quench his awful thirst. Later, Mark decided that after his work was done he would sit in the shade of his back porch and eat some pretzels. Washing down the salt with a cool hand-squeezed lemon-and-seltzer, Mark would imagine winding the day down and reeling in that old sun.

13 years earlier, Mark was so high on grass that he couldn't handle his rake in the autumn yard. The cold sun beat down on the man. And the cold beat the man. And he sighed, "I'm a slave to a hooker."

A History Of Witches, a book about Mark's exes, would soon reach its final draft. Mark removed his sunglasses and garden gloves and rubbed his eyeballs with his right hand thumb and middle-finger. The tension behind Mark's eyeballs was unreal.

"Unreal..." Mark said, and then lost balance for a moment. "Do you want unreal???" Mark stared off into the other side of the yard. Then Mark removed his eyeballs. happy halloween

MODA

Thursday is the end of my work week and I'm chomping at the bit to get it over with. I may catch a beer with a friend this evening and come back to hack out the Exotique and Soul Club posters. Soul Club is fast approaching their one year anniversary and we're doing a large fancy poster for it and possibly some shirts.

Writing more sounds fun but the sun just came out and the dog needs a walk.

CATS ESCAPING, LEAVES BUSTLING, AND GOLD

Feeling slightly beat at the moment, I wouldn't exactly be disappointed if this becomes an early night. The weekend was fantastic; a good mix of business and pleasure. The business was easy: got some work done on the Brent Van Daley book, recorded a fair amount, and time in the shop went by quickly. On the other hand, the pleasure was pretty grand.

On Saturday, Erin and I found a radical hill near our house, beginning at the corner of Pamona and Sunset. Until today, I had no clue that it happens to be the second-highest point in town. We almost crossed town going downhill, not breaking until we ran into a private block party. Upon plateau, we found an easy way back and took the hill again. The way the streets are arranged, one could coast in any direction for block after block and block. Very invigorating! The best part was listening to Erin scream with glee every time we rounded a sharp corner.

Soul Club was the night before. Aaron and I met up at his new pad and chatted for a bit, got our haze on and walked to the Pig. Downstairs at the Eightball, we each had a Guiness (on tap and excellent) and waited for Robert to show. His birthday started at midnight and we celebrated with velvet cake and more Guiness before taking it upstairs where things got jumping somewhat quickly. We sat in the back and marveled at Breck's selections whilst chatting with Mike, Lianna, and her sister, Amber. It was one of those rare nights when excess was balanced with a number of other factors to make a fun, messed up evening.

APPLICATION

Would your best friend describe you as a bachelor with babies? Did you drive a killer 'Cuda around Dead Man's 45° Angle? Are you the kind of person that will spend an hour jerking off to photos of transsexuals (but didn't know!?)? Have you ever considered how angry Birkenstocks must be at Crocs?

If the answer to any of these questions is YES, then there may be a job position waiting for you at Banana Republic!

GOING TO KAKAMURA

It's a real gem of a day out and I'm surprisingly not-too-groggy after an incredibly logy start. Erin and I slept horribly: Chacho's stomach was so loud it woke us at 5am and I spent a half hour with him outside as he paced the yard and took a couple leaks. Next door, construction continues: hammers, chainsaws, and loudmouths all before 8am!

Last night, Scott stopped over followed by Robert and both stayed for a few hours to smoke and laugh. We discussed a wide range of subjects before Brian began reading translations of a story I wrote in spanish. Using Altavista's Babelfish to run it through five different languages and back to english, the results were outright hilarious. To see the final translation, go here:
http://charlesatlasbythe.blogspot.com/2007/10/six-generation-translation-humidity-of.html

Erin and I made dinner (a "real pro-looking meal" quoth Robert). Though I promised myself I wouldn't become one of the people that posts pictures of their dinners and how they made them, I'll cheat and just say what we had: cous-cous, chicken, and a fancy portobello cap. To quote ACL, "when you have nothing else, at least there's good food." Of course, I was incredibly hungry and hazed out so I scarfed the fuckin' thing in a matter of minutes.

Also, I drank my first Samichlaus Bier. Dubbed "the world's most extraordinary beer", this sucker is 14% alcohol and made once a year on December 6. It's aged for ten months before bottled and can be kept for years. Thomas--if you're reading, find this beer! It's a unique beast. Read more here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samichlaus

Town & Country is getting some play lately after a long absence. Their last album, Up Above, didn't do a lot for me but methinks it was just a matter of me catching up to its sound. Along with some of Gavin Bryars work, T&C were the first group to seriously introduce repetition as a viable form of creativity in my own music. Like the minimalist drone music they developed after playing and touring with Tony Conrad, I imagine some of the songs from their albums prior to Up Above require quite a bit of endurance to play. That all their albums are recored entirely with acoustic instruments and no samplers is a real feat.

Conversely, after a recent survey of some of my past works, I'm inspired to record a short album of sampler-based tunes. Using rhythm tracks I made over a year ago from sampling myself pounding on tables and friends flicking lighters and clapping, I'll sample short organ and guitar phrases to make loose compositions inspired by some of the 1960s and '70s soundtrack music I've been so damn hot for lately.

SIX GENERATION TRANSLATION: HUMIDITY OF MILK

INT. NIGHT - FACTORY
Lazzar leeds Shana into the largest chamber of the factory through a
steel door labeled "Mantenga la puerta trabada. Ningún alimento" under
a black stenciled skull and crossbones. They stand on a metal balcony
overlooking several huge open vats of various liquids with Lazzar's
men huddled behind him.

LAZZAR: He here is, where we the cheese does Cheddar of the cheese.

SHANA: The cheese Cheddar is entzueckendes, exactly same Munster then
more. I will sit at the bottom of time in tanière of the mine with a
spirits and certain cheese and in am thus much... agreeably.

LAZZAR: Conséquentement aprecía cheese Cheddar? This is well to
concludes mark, you that the words "or cheese Cheddar will hear
cheese" that it was pronounced of uomo.

SHANA: What is it only?

LAZZAR: Knights sail in it in tub of bathe of late!

SHANA: They cannot fight the hands of the law, "more leper prince"!

EVERYTHING IS YOURS IN BERLIN

Reading an issue of Rolling Stone can be a fucking soul-crusher of a task. The latest issue, their infamous annual "Hot" issue, is the absolute worst: 142 pages of vapid tidbits. Kid Rock's cure for heartbreak? Devendra B. trading mix CDs with Lindsay Lohan? Celebrity might be a little lost on me, I must admit. To be honest, even watching eight minutes of David Letterman poking Paris Hilton about her jail stint was almost too much after seeing the Federline-taped youtube video of Britney high as a kite an entire week ago. It might taste like the whip for a moment but the hangover is the pits.

Meanwhile, a viewing of Lars von Trier's 1980 student film Nocturne yielded a positive experience: visually very beautiful, interesting soundtrack, and the dialogue wasn't nearly as bad as von Trier made it out to be in the commentary. Aside from The Five Obstructions, the two von Trier films I've seen (Breaking The Waves and Dancer In The Dark ) have made me uneasy to the point of near-illness, although for different reasons. Looking over his wikipedia entry, maybe it's time to give him another chance. How he didn't come up in a conversation with some pals about contemporary auteurs, I have no clue.

In between the last paragraph and this one, I read an interview with von Trier (http://www.signandsight.com/features/465.html) and it's blown me away a little bit.

BAGHEERA

Alarm clock or endurance test? I've either started waking up earlier or the construction next door won't allow for sleeping in. Speaking of the construction, there are two huge pits where a couple of condo basements will soon be and they need some exploring before it's too late.

Robert told me about his recent trip to Chicago and how, even if it's not the place to be, he feels a need to get out of A2. He then said, "I really feel you should get out too." No shit. I've lived in Michigan the entirety of my life but our love affair was brief.

Recently, Aaron mentioned that one of the city's better-known DJs was planning to move to NYC and that we should usurp his position. Woof--becoming one of the next "top A2 DJs" isn't exactly the advancement of place I'm looking for. This is a small city wih a low ceiling and I'm about ready to hurl.

A few places are on the mind but figuring out where next is should be soon. I'm holding out for the Pacific Northwest but StL and it's cheap living crossed my mind too. Erin and I are up for anything

WINDOW WATER BABY MOVING

Oof -- Brakhage could make a film. The best news I've heard recently is that four Brakhage films from the 1950s are included in the release of Kino's second volume of avant-garde films. My heart sank a little when I read this at the bottom of Kino's page on the set: "Music composed and performed by Sue Harshe, Larry Marotta and Jon C. Mirsalis."

Two of the films were made with sound: 'Interim,' Brakhage's first film, was scored on piano by James Tenney, and 'The Way To Shadow Garden' has an "unsettling soundtrack of whistles, creaks, and moans" similar to that of 'Desistfilm.' If the other two are given scores by one of the aforementioned composers, oh baby, shoot me. It's an artistic tampering of the worst kind.

The artwork for the latest AASC mix was finished this evening. Recording has been going well and I may have a little EP by winter but I don't want to speak too soon. Also, "Goodbye My Friend" by Guido & Maurizio De Angelis is the whip.

VIRGO ON MARS

Last night, Erin and I attended our first country & western-themed party. Walking up to the party, I was heard to remark, "This is the end of my youth!" Geezus--theme parties? I was skeptical. In actuality, it started out as a great time: excellent spread, hot cider & whiskey, and I spilled whipped cream on a middle-aged woman's leg. Classic! The party grew until it became near-impossible to stand anywhere other than the frontyard. I'd already watched someone puke all over the grass by the time we left shortly after midnight.

Regarding Evil Dead, Ash has to be the lamest and most inept movie heroes of all time. Then again, if you're thinking in terms of movie heroes, why watch Evil Dead?

BETTER CHANGE YOUR MIND

Biphasic sleeping is back on the mind. George Lois, a graphic designer I greatly admire, said in an interview that he sleeps in two 3.5 hour blocks, out of "part work ethic and part craziness." Polyphasic sleeping was something that interested me since college and came up again when I was getting divorced and living alone. It seemed exciting but my schedule would never allow it. Biphasic seems quite possible and maybe I can get Erin in on it as well.

This is a strange year in that my hankering to celebrate autumn and Halloween has returned. The last several years have seen a sharp decline in busting out zombie comics and laying in leaf piles. This year, the cool air is as wonderful and rejuvenating as I'd once thought it always was.

There are many Ypsilanti autumn memories that stick out: furious bike rides through Frog Island Park listening to SN's 'Wilderness,' sitting on a fallen trunk over rushing water and humming "The Right To Remain Silent" for hours, and then a few years later there existed the Garland Street Mens Society.

GSMS is still a bit of a mystery to me. Nevermind the amount of booze we slugged down, that time period is a bit hazy in general. It started out nicely: avant-garde movies, avant-garde soundtracks, good food, and cheap booze. As things went sour for my health and personal life, so did the GSMS. It became the least stimulating night of the week--mom jokes, brainless drinking, and I had to clean up the mess the next day. On top of that, my house was beginning to smell like a Black & Mild. In the end, I lost my mind a bit and needed to recover from everything that had been happening for me emotionally.

Erin and I wanted to start a night back up but in the back of my mind, a weekly get together seemed inherently flawed. It doesn't leave a lot of room for experimentation. I mean, you could go somewhere different or completely change the activities each week, but you'd still become worn out.

"Do you guys want a belt?," he asked. We each threw one back.

GO WITHOUT ME

It's been a lot of fun slowly tricking out E.'s bike. The best part
may be that I get to ride it downtown every time I can afford an
adjustment. The ride home was a breeze even without a jacket and I
fear the winter will grind my rides to a halt.

At home, we put together an antipasto dinner ala Zola's and it was pretty grand. Erin sprung for the majority of food (I'm particularly addicted to artichokes) and some Maker's Mark and cider. To say the least, it hit the spot. We watched about 1/6 of the US edition of Cinema 16 which is enlightening, enjoying, and grueling all at once.

Afterward, Brian and I talked for a long bit out on the front porch. It was probably one of the better conversations we've had in a long while. His times are ruff and he talked about the annoyance of affluent university kids while I went on about the agony of life. No, really.

Never satisfied.

STOCKYARD

Tonight is the nicest it's felt in days. It's a beautiful fall night with a cool breeze rolling over the back of my neck via a partially-open window. Slightly high and walking Chacho earlier, the street at the edge of a near-by school soccer field looked gorgeous below the blue sky. A huge gush of wind hit me, reminding me of the late '80s and early '90s and the perspective of being smaller and crawling through brush on nights like this. I'd forgotten about that perspective.

Right now is an incredibly busy time which, mostly, feels good. It could be argued that this year has been my busiest and most productive although I've been hit by a few periods of feeling low. It's a little confusing as one generally inspires the other to opposite effect. Attempting to figure out just what the problem is reminded me of the first time I felt this way: August, 1998.

The band I was playing in had a show almost every weekend that summer. It was an exciting time but I didn't have a job and we didn't practice so the week between each show was spent agonizing over the downtime. Going from the preparation, adrenaline, and release of a show was taxing but wonderful -- nothing like it in the world. Waiting to get back to that state... dreadful. That summer I read Get In The Van for the first time. Rollins described in great detail the nightmare of downtime and it was easy to relate.

Other enterprises have taken the place of playing in a band but my workload is a bit bigger. Luckily, the process of conception to completion has changed for the better (re: easier) and the energy is dispersed over weeks as opposed to a day. With that said, the DJ night went extremely well this month. It's the closest I come to performing and more satisfying. The downside is that it takes a few days to recover and relax. If I was DJing to this number of people once-a-week rather than once-a-month, I'd be a fucking mess. Still, the few days since then have been a little messy and I've wanted something to take my mind off this.

Tonight, Robert came to the store to work on the next soul mix. It won't be long before the relatively simple process of editing the songs and drafting the art is over and we start selling them. I was hoping he'd bring beer like last time but we had sushi instead. It didn't quite do the trick of bringing me out of the slight dumps so I was pleased to come home and finish off a j-bone some others had started. Unfortunately and not-so-surprisingly, it didn't do the trick either.

Also, I'm dying to move.

HUMEDAD DE LA LECHE

INT. NIGHT - FACTORY
Lazzar leeds Shana into the largest chamber of the factory through a steel door labeled "Mantenga la puerta trabada. Ningún alimento" under a black stenciled skull and crossbones. They stand on a metal balcony overlooking several huge open vats of various liquids with Lazzar's men huddled behind him.

 LAZZAR: Aquí es donde hacemos el queso del Cheddar.

 SHANA: El Cheddar es delicioso, al igual que munster. Me siento a veces en mi guarida con una bebida y algún queso y es tan... agradables.

 LAZZAR: ¿Así pues, usted goza del Cheddar? Bien, ésta es la vez última que usted oirá las palabras "queso del Cheddar" pronunciado por un humano.
 
 SHANA: ¿Qué?

 LAZZAR: Los caballeros -- la lanzan en la tina de la leche!

 SHANA: ¡Usted no puede luchar las manos de la justicia, "Príncipe Leper"!

NINGUNOS ADIOS

"Firecracker smoke looks like spiders."

Red Loc laughed and lobbed another M-80 into the sky. Years earlier,
Cece's mom cracked wise about how we were the type of kids that toy
with firecrackers on Christmas day. As if we gave a shit about figgy
pudding and singing carols.

Since that 25th of December, we've been practicing the art of the
perfect M-80 toss. It's now July 4th and we look like pros, tossing
one after the other into the air, almost bored with the routine.
Truthfully, we weren't the kind of kids to send cherry bombs into the
neighbor's eaves after first frost, much less light blacksnakes on
frozen lake.

Now, my yard has become a tangle of black widows and Honduran curly hairs.

UNEXPECTED FREUDIAN ISSUES

UNEXPECTED FREUDIAN ISSUES
by B. Thomas Hunter

She said she saw god at the 7-11.
They got shacked up and moved to Manhattan.
They walked the aisle and said they do.
And now he works miracles in the bedroom.

WRONGDOING

Lassar Tiara was a typical nerd sitting in the patio of a franchise bar. A waitress approaches him.

"The bald gentleman sent this over."

"What is it?"

"It's a tea made from a carny's ringworm sap."

"Carnie Wilson?"

"No. A carny. As in carnival."

Delicious, he thought. "Well, bottoms up!"

SINKING CHINESE GOLIATH OR "HOW I GOT HIGH IN PALESTINE"

"If loving you is evil, then I'm as guilty as Jack The Ripper." Geoff slid a small, slender zucchini -- the single fruit of the day's island hunt -- into a sneaker and lobbed it toward the turbulent blue-black waters. "Look at that old undertow.... Swallow it up...just as a famished Andalusian mare would."

 He pursed his lips and turned his head from the gale. After one minute, he exhaled sharply and said, "I want to get really fucked up. Secret Waarz is over."

 Sally, his bride-to-be, held tight to the ship's rail and leaned over to spit her gum into the choppy waves. Her eyes had swollen to the size of puckered clams from two days of crying in the "Penthouse Cabin" (actually below deck).

 "Do you hear me?! I broke up Secret Waarz for you!"

 This was not true. Having been re-elected Mayor of Old Navy Town for a second consecutive month, Geoff's ego was spinning out of control. He issued his resignation from the band he founded with Pittsburgh's top tennis twins -- Coney and D.H. Gloucester -- upon confirmation of his rank as top sales member. Geoff is perfectly aware that a third term at Hawaii's largest Old Navy outlet is under way.

 The sneaker belonged to the ship's lowliest and loneliest deckhand -- Pete "Reckless Peter" Schneider -- and the lobbing of the zucchini was Geoff's vindication. Earlier that day, he clandestinely observed Pete console Sally as she dolefully nibbled at the zucchini's stem. Old Navy's youngest debutante was not to be plundered by a seaman whose societal rank was clearly rungs below that of a man who has sold literal tons of board shorts and polar fleece jackets.

 "Where's that steak or whatever?!" Geoff patiently rubbed a turnip with a small piece of leather three times before sending a deckhand to check with the boat's kitchen.

 In the cargo hold of the Queen Jess Tandy, Dr. Tickle Zitronengelber rose from his cot with a brow ripened red and moist with fever.

 "The behemoth has set our path awry! Oh... what... the chinker... hath wrought!"

PUSHING TO THE TOP

 The scarf trick worked. Knitted into the elaborate ribs of my "fashion neck warmer" was an ounce of killer hash I purchased as a "taster" for my boss. It perfectly fooled Croation customs, and I imagine it'll be a bitch to seperate the hash from the weave. The real pity will be losing the scarf; it was the first one I ever wore and was muy becoming.

 During a layover in Presque Isle, I sat in Turner & Hooch Cafe and held the scarf to my nose, drawing in gasp after gasp of the potent scent between sips of Ron Tingley Tea. A Barbara Alton lookalike showed promise -- and a perfect view of her rosey snatch -- from across the oolong bar. She winked. I winked back ...but with both eyes.

 An hour later, we were in the women's lav smoking the Nepalese from a tea infuser. Her name was Clinique and she was smoldering.

 "Wait," she said. "Hold on a minute. I know it's in here. I know it is." From a macrame bag I'd mistaken for a plant hanger about a half hour earlier, Clinique produced a red velvet cummerbund.

 "I want you to wear this," she exhaled. With the sharp point of a Lee Press-on, she caressed the ridge of her heavy breasts as I wrapped the band around my neck. I had to ask:

 "Was this what you came to Maine for?"

AUTUMN NOCTURNE

 It turned.

 The news was grave and my stomach twisted further, deeper. My mother's death became my hangover, and I grabbed my rotted gut and boarded a Greyhound. Turning the fat as I exhaled, it was my hope to cough out the specter of the morning's liquor.

 In Idaho, an 8-year-old pulled a hypodermic needle from the station's trash can and pricked the little finger of her left hand. Her mother, an obese smoker with a streak of shit running up the back of her purple t-shirt, erupted. My head felt like a bully in a tornado. Pure murder.

FUTILITARIANISM AND ITS CONSEQUENCES

 I'm a futilitarianist. After a series of serious skateboard wipe-outs and totally un-kosher scrape-'em-ups, I decided: fuck it all. But, I won $2000 in an online poker tournament and as a symbolic gesture, spent $1000 on a fireplace poker. If we could forgo the credit check to allow me residency in your lovely two-bedroom home w/ fireplace, I would be happy to pay the security deposit in cash."

HASHBROWN TEST

"Yep, it's good!"

THAT OL' RIVER OF BLOOD IN C-A-L-I

Ms. Wray called every hour on the hour. When I finally answered, she said:

 "Bring your tonsils; we're playing hockey tonight."

At her bungalow, two costumes were laid out on the contemporary shag.

  "Do you prefer early Cher or fat Cher?," she asked.

The heat was incredible. Was it over 90 degrees? Over 100? I asked myself:

 "What has gone on in this room?!"

CANDOR

 Via undisclosed and possibly illicit means, Jenny had procured an unplayed first-generation VHS copy of Zombie Holocaust. She regaled me with tales of the film numerous times, my appetite whetted with each account. Mounting my bicycle, I shouted "Yeah, this is my shit!" to the night sky and made my way to Jenny's tastefully decorated second-floor studio.

 Half past midnight, I arrived at Jenny's rental to find her chopping and spicing carrots for a European dish she read about in Cats Magazine. She directed me to a beanbag chair large enough for two or three behinds (re: derrière) to sit comfortably. Sheila, a girl I'd never heard of but was allegedly a close friend to Jenny, sat next to me. She was a beautiful young woman with excellent calves.

 "Drink this," said Sheila, forcing to my nose a carafe flush with red elixir. "A friend of mine made this. It's Mad Dog 20/20 fortified with the blood of six quadroons."

 Fearing I'd never come down from the insane high this drink most likely produced, I politely declined.

 "No thanks, I'm engaged to be married and am saving my drinking stomach until wedding day."

 "Who are you engaged to?," Jenny wanted to know.

 "I dunno...this pair of scissors." A pair of 6" scissors lay on the table in front of me. Grabbing the red handle, I began cutting my curly locks at a slightly frenzied pace. "Don't I look like a famous actress having a nervous breakdown? 'I want to cut it all off!'"

NOTE FOR DICTIONARY: GROWING AN ERECTION

"Getting all Daddy Warbucks on Annie."

THE RAKE

J.T. was the hottest gigolo on Jersey Street, all snaps and shade, rubbing downy honeypots for quick cash, whip-its, and a den to spike. Mamma Coca Lee was his cunny honey and a tramp so hard-up for longjohn that she opened a pizza joint just to get on the bone. Make no mistake: Lil' Lappy's Slices & Pies was a smash hit.

 "Whoa, dood, check out his arm!!" Three teenage stooges -- blondes with perfect feathering -- ogled J.T. His right arm was a hardly a matchstick; here was a jeff that knew how to juice.

The stooges didn't have a clue: they still thought "juicing" was what you did with a few oranges and a little patience. Anyone a year older than the stooges knew better. J.T. was less accustomed to little tangerines as he was to bruising cataloupes, but he bragged to kids about having a "killer OJ groove" anyway.

SPANISH WAGGLE or "HOW MY CANTALOUPE PATCH SCORED THE BIGGEST HIT OF THE YEAR"

Dr. Raymond Tandy is a Professor of Science at Corn Nut University of Iowa. His most recent experiment is gathering attention from across the globe.

 "I've made many inventions. Some have rocked, some have not. This one will be hot."

Dr. Tandy speaks in rhymes and riddles.

 "I'd turn a ferrari on its head just to tangle with one of them hot cops."

After months of redesigning a graham crackers package, Dr. Tandy felt he was close to something big.

 "I love it."

The scientist melted over 1000 Skittles into the shape of a donut and sucked on it for over a month.

 "I call it a 'Skittle-nut'."

DEEVVVIIIIVVVVVIIIIIILLLLLLLSSSSSSSS ON MOPEDS!

 "Drink up, you dumb dick!"

 I'll admit my nerves are worn to nubs over the impending moped rally. Perhaps I'd been hitting the sauce a bit too hard. The Buttwipes, an infamous rival gang from Finland, will be in town. And I've got a mark on my head.

 My father, Captain Napkin, disgraced their previous leader, Oye Papi Daddy-O. During what should have been a standard old fashioned hair auction, my father asked Daddy-O's best gal, Chesty Dom, for her hand in marriage. The Captain and Chesty were in bed before Daddy-O had a chance to shave his eyebrows.

 "They're going to get you for what your daddy did, Kro-gar!" Chesty rose halfheartedly from her beanbag chair, the malnourished twigs she called legs barely able to support her distended belly. Inside that tank, a thing grew.

 "Shut up, Chesty! Shut up!"

 "I know what they're going to do with you, Kro-gar. Hee hee hee."

 I knew Chesty knew what they knew they had to know. To do.

TO BE CONTINUED!

WHY I LEFT THE DINNER TABLE AT AUNT TERRI'S THANKSGIVING

Mom,

 you asked why I left the table unexpectedly at Aunt Terri's '05 Thanksgiving dinner. Since Terri is your sister -- and your honor was at stake -- I feel you deserve an explanation more than anyone else.

 To be honest, for the longest time I couldn't remember why I left to use the bathroom that Thursday (after all, you didn't bring it up for nearly two years). While walking your Jaclyn last January, I remembered: I was crying about going bald and shit myself.    As the walk ended, a poem came to me. It was dictated to Charles who graciously transcribed it for me:

Boo hoo hoo
Your coiffure is spoiled
So let's play Caligula
I'll bring the petrolatum

 You'll be happy to hear that the poem won a number of awards and made me rich. Terri and I have since made-up and even got together for flutes of mineral water.

 If you ever want to see me again, bring $1,000,000,000 to the old warehouse with the wishing well out front on October 30. You're going to have to wish the whole thing away for a chance encounter at the very least, you old asshole.


 Signed,

 Tod(d).

I GREW UP ON THE REAL PEPPERIDGE FARM

The staff made excellent waffles. Totally bloodsugarsexmagik.

CROMO: PERSIGUE A SOBREVIVIENTES

 Samuel tore the tire iron from below the driver's seat. The left leg of his bluejeans had been ripped wide. Below the knee, the blue fabric turned black from the wound. The jeans could not be mended and the leg would need to be severed, but he was in rapture.

 "I'll give you the motherfucking of your life," he screamed. "You sweet bitch!"

 Samuel pounded the tire iron into his palm. Ten feet away, Clinique held a chrome toaster at neck level, every muscle of her frame taut with violent anticipation. The straps of her black gown had fallen to her arms and pulled; a red line will appear across each bicep by morning.

 "Cunt. Cuntflap! Puny." He cursed her.

 "You don't have a schlong, Sam," she said. "You have a schlort!"

 He cursed her.

 "You oaf! You boar of a man!" Clinique howled like a devil dog and gleaked a sour brown stream at Samuel. He was now holding himself upright with one hand on his sweet Jag. He dropped the tire iron and grimaced as he wiped the gleak from his reddened cheek.

 "I'm not a man, Clinique."

 "No, you're not," she whispered. "You're worse." She lowered the toaster. "I hope you hated toast," she rasped. Raising her gown to her hips, she took a big ol' turd on the toaster. "You never gave me your LSD hook-up!"

"WHO WANTS TO ROLL IN THAT PATCH WITH ME?"

 "Rubbing toes with Fred Savage, sexy encounters with other celebrities."

 "Whistling at all the attractive ladies. 'Hey, honey.' I know all the tricks."

 "I fear a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle stealing my beer!"

 "I love making friends like I love making money. It's like, 'It's the eighties again,' baby!"

 "My girlfriend says I look like Richard Gere if he were a Green Beret."

 "...that's why Japanime did so many... brilliant... [noise] uh...."

 "Yeah, I help my sister wash her dishes. Sometimes. AND FUCK YOU IF THAT MAKES YOU THINK I'M WEIRD!"

 "Yeah, I sold my cat for dope. AND ---- YOU IF THAT MAKES YOU THINK I'M WEIRD!"

 "Damn! Damn, man! ...Was that the sacrifice? [noise] Cuz, dog...."

 "I put my rubber shoes on and get kind of sloppy!"

TALES OF THE TAILS

 Sammy's knee cracked and shifted on the rock. He tripped on a vine near the edge of the ravine and now lay trapped before the creature. Tony turned around to see his friend shriek. And then cry.

 "Tony--please! PLEASE!!" Tony raced over. "Tony...rub a Whatchamacallit on the wound.... There's one in my snack pack!"

 Searching through Sammy's red-and-yellow fannybag, he knew something was wrong. He'd passed out the night before, drunk on Thunderbird and Buck Bunny MD 20/20. Before his lids shut, he'd set the Whatchamacallit on a Foreman Grill under his bed. He didn't remember shutting the grill off. He didn't remember shutting the grill off!

 "Tony, it's in my... Wait a -- wait...!" His eyes widened and he took a deep breath. "...Tony--I found the Whatchamacallit on a Foreman Grill under your bed last night!" His eyes were now crying again. "I hope it wasn't mine, Tony! I hope it wasn't my WHATCHAMACALLIT!!!!!!!!!! AHHHHH!"

 "I love warm choc-- SAMMY!!!!," yelled Tony!

 And then the creature ate Sammy.

TEENAGE BAD AXE 1991

 On his death bed, Jeff's granddad revealed that he had stashed money away under a floorboard. The money was in a back room of the house that Jeff had played in many times as a child. Jeff called me over. "Bring your tools," he said. "I don't know which board it's under. We may have to rip up the whole fucking floor."

 "War on the floor," I said.

 Upon entry, we noticed a 4" x 4" red 'X' painted on a board in the center of the room. "I didn't notice that before." We stuck seven pencils between the crack of the 'X' board and the one next to it and hammered at them until the board came up. Undearneath, we found the loot his granddad stashed: twelve very old dollars.

 "Twelve bucks!," said Jeff. "We're 'woman rich!'"

 "Dood, we could buy anything we want!" A string of saliva greased out of my mouth. "A cassingle! Hostess pies. Magic (tm) cards!"

 "You're right," he said. "Anything we want...." Jeff fanned and slapped his face with the bills. "I've got a better idea.
We put the cash in one of the shoes my granddad died in and hide it. In two years, $12 could multiply to $300 in that shoe. We could buy a Nintendo then. Imagine the advancements in Nintedo technology the next two years will bring."

 "Fucking pagan!," I said.

 Later, we dug up the body of Jeff's granddad. I cried into the night:

 "You're buying us a Nintendo, old man!"

ITEMS FOR A NEW GAME

A child age 5-9, an adult diaper, and a syringe.

THANKS, CRAFTY LADIES!

 Thank you God, for the resurgence in clothes making and design by just about every gal on the block. Designing clothes is responsible for bringing so much fun to people! Wow. I can count on my fingers as well as my friends' fingers all the clothing designers that are out there--and it still wouldn't be enough fingers. I just keeping running to girls wearing funky shirts and then asking my friends to hold their fingers up for counting. Thank you Women, for getting back into knitting and all that. Now if you could only do the same with cooking!

 Sadly, I'm almost completely unable to design clothes myself. It seems as though I've got nine thumbs and half a pinky finger when it comes to sewing. That doesn't stop me from pulling a bunch of fabric scraps out of a shoe box under my bed and laying them over my naked body. Just imagine what it might look like were I able to sew string or whatever it is through them into a snappy pattern. It's at that drunken moment that I can close my eyes and cry to the room, "I design clothes!" After that, I put the scraps back into their box and just cry to the room.

17 JUNE 2001

 "Take my photo." Steve sat on a bucket and rolled up his right sleeve. I was beginning to get used to the Polaroid. He lit a cigarette and put his arm up, flexing his small bicep like Charles Atlas. I loved his confidence. Not that I wasn't confident; neither of us gave a shit about what anyone else thought. But, I liked that I had a friend who was as equally attractive or unattractive as I.

 "No, wait," he said. He walked to the portable turntable we'd set up on the roof that morning. "Let me turn the record over." This particular record came out 13 years before I was born. My parents owned a copy but I'd never taken the time to listen to it until now. It was great. I snapped off a polaroid as Steve dropped the needle.

 "Dood--"

 "No, it'll be good. Sit down anyway." He sat down and rolled up his sleeve again. "This way you've been smoking the cigarette for a minute and it looks more legit." He grimaced and I took the photo.

 "Has it hit you yet?," he asked.

 And then it hit me.

I AM A FAMOUS PHOTOGRAPHER

Well, not famous exactly. My flickr account is watched by over 150 people. By today's standards, I may as well be famous. I'd love to share the address with you but the photos I've taken are of nude people. And if others were to find out that I photograph more others in the nude then the others might find out who the, uh, "more others" are and that would be trouble for both me and my subjects. Also, unlike other modern photographers and flickr enthusiasts, I certainly will not be taking photos of my "pals" in the pub, drinking Guinness and looking dopey. This is my artist manifesto!

KLORN VS. S.W. IN 19995!!!

 "If it isn't the creator of the Double-X.5 Lamborg-ini Ray..." It was Snapple Wigwam, the hottest zero-g prick-tease this side of Chilimac Gamma.

 "Need something glakked, Snapple?" I said. She leaned in, pressing her mini-knee into my laser-bone. The thought of her feathered muff--rumored to be the most similar to the feathering worn by young human women during the original 1980s--made my teeth itch.

 "Skeletonskeletonskeletonskeletonskeletonskeleton," said Snapple. "Lancelot Link already gave me rabies." She secreted a green drip of honey dew nectar from the mini-knee. She was already glakking.

 I'd heard that President Link created a smokable form of rabies popular among Pluto 3's gigolos. I had no idea it made its way to Star Sector Zagnutt's cyber ho-bags. I'm betting the vigilante police don't know either. Or they're hooked themselves.

 I reached for my portable Double-X.5 Lamborg-ini Ray and fired off a quick blast at Snapple. It ricocheted off her cup of DR.PEPPER14.7.5 and hit my bionode.

 "I...I thought...condensation was made..illegal...three...light years...ago..." I managed to sputter.

 "It was," Snapple rasped back. "I mean, IS."

TITA, COLORADO

Our food bag went
missing last night.

"I'm hungry,"
I said.

Maggie turned, took
my arm with her right
hand,

squeezed my bicep;

"Sit down."
She pushed me
to the earth.

"Eat this."
Maggie paused
as she heard music
leave the woods.

"Hey."
She called to me.
"Eat this."

Maggie stepped behind
me and I turned.
An axe and
my mouth.

My lips split right
down
the middle

I coughed once,
lungs filled with bad
smoke

and I lay
on the earth and
fill up.

MAL AMOR, MAL AMANTE

We could not agree
a trip to New York
a bucket of mussels.

We were lonelier after the fact.

I was lonelier,
especially so.

No,
you were
so lonely

so lonely.

You hated
the bucket of mussels
and I thought

"it could have been
better."