tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52591755688514212092024-02-20T16:55:37.235-05:00Rick HorstarrHandcrafted humor and fiction, like a splintery chair, or one of those mugs with fingerprints on itRichardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06388085087424216649noreply@blogger.comBlogger77125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5259175568851421209.post-5960396595096669122009-09-17T07:18:00.000-04:002009-09-17T07:20:25.686-04:00Significant Things with the Madonna of Conflagration<p>“I’m no longer interested in significant things, okay?”</p> <p>I never know how to respond to the Madonna of Conflagration when she says something like this. There’s usually an edge in her voice, a light in her eye and a hand on her hip. A Momentous Decision Has Been Reached and It Is Now Time to Talk About It.</p> <p>“Um, how are we defining significant things here?”</p> <p>“Anything that isn’t, like, minutiae. Matters of life and death. Matters of import. Matters of great moment. That stuff. I am no longer paying attention to it. From now on, I am going to sweat the hell out of the small stuff. I am going to take care of the little things and let the big things take care of themselves. Actually, the big things can do whatever they want. The big things can get fat and start smoking again for all I care. They no longer exist for me. I'm totally through with significance.”</p> <p>She stands and starts pacing up and down the sidewalk. The very first of the autumn leaves are falling and a light wind is blowing them around her feet. There aren't many other people around, as it's one of the first colder days of the season and most everybody else has rediscovered how much they hate the cold. Even the traffic going by on Rawson Avenue seems slower and lighter, squeezed down by a bridge construction project going on a few blocks away. They're racing to finish before the first snow. They're not going to make it. I find that comforting for some reason, perhaps because poor public works planning is one of the few constants in this world.</p> <p>The Madonna of Conflagration loves the cold. While the season itself often brings her down emotionally, the weather invigorates her mentally and physically. For most of October she's a blend of moping and extravagant gesticulation, hopeless sighing and vigorous pacing. Things usually reach equilibrium by the end of November, but these early weeks are often quite trying.</p> <p>“Maybe I'll start collecting something,” she says. “I bet you can get really mired in the details if you collect something. That's pretty much, like, the definition of being a collector. There's rituals and conventions and message boards. Filing and labeling and organizing. All that shit.”</p> <p>“Sounds like a clerical job. Are you looking for a hobby or are you thinking about temping?”</p> <p>There's nothing quite like the thrill of a beautiful woman giving you the finger. This particular finger goes flying by as her pacing has intensified.</p> <p>“This is bigger than a hobby, motherfucker. This is a philosophical thing. This is me readjusting how I interact with the world. It is heavy heavy business, is what I'm saying."</p><p>I nod, but her pacing has carried her too far and too fast to see it, sending her up the block and away from our bench. I watch her almost vanish from sight, but she abruptly swivels around and comes marching back benchward.<br /></p><p>I’m going to collect antique bottles!" she declares. "I’m going to get really into collecting them. I’m going to have price guides, and a tool box full of instruments specially designed for antique bottle cleaning, and solvents that have been approved for use on old glass. I'll subscribe to a quarterly magazine about antique glass, and at least two glass discussion news groups. Maybe more! I'll go to antique stores and flea markets. Every weekend! After a while --and sooner than you would think-- I'll be able to identify and describe a bottle just from a little fragment of glass.”</p> <p>“Like an archaeologist.”</p> <p>Another finger goes whizzing by. “And…and….and…I’ll specialize. I'll be, like, the country's foremost expert on one particular kind of bottle. Bottles from the northeast! From dairies! If someone is making a movie about an old eastern dairy, they'll totally consult with me to get the bottles right. But I won't know all the bottles. I'll specialize in one specific kind of dairy bottle. And not milk bottles either!”</p> <p>“Did they bottle anything else?”</p> <p>“Butter bottles. I'll be the country's, no the world's go to source for the history of butter bottles of northeastern dairies. From 1919 to 1925.”</p> <p>“Pretty sure butter didn't come in bottles.”</p> <p>“It didn't?”</p> <p>“Little crocks, I think. I'm almost positive it came in little crocks.”</p> <p>She suddenly stops pacing. I realize the cold breeze I had been enjoying was entirely generated by her. The weather almost seems hot without it. She flumps back on to the bench.</p> <p>“That’s sorta taken the wind out of my sails,” she says. “I’ve got no interest in collecting crocks.”</p> <p>“Are you sure? It would be pretty, uh, minutiae-y? Minute?”</p> <p>She frowns.</p> <p>“No, it’s like, I dunno, trying too hard? I want to get involved with <span style="font-style: italic;">organic </span>minutiae. Something small and real like, trainspotting or botany or...” she looks around and her eyes light on my shoes. “Or people's habits. Their weird little things. I could investigate that. Like that fucked up thing you do with your shoe laces.”</p> <p>“Huh?”</p> <p>“They don’t cross. Why don’t they cross?”</p> <p>“These are dress shoes.”</p> <p>“And?”</p> <p>“Proper dress shoes are straight-laced.”</p> <p>She stares at me.</p> <p>“It’s, you know, traditional. It’s where the term ‘straight-laced’ comes from. It...presents a neater appearance than, uh, crossing the laces.” </p> <p>She continues staring at me. She leans in, keeping eye contact, further and further, until our eyelashes nearly touch. She has found some minutiae clinging to my soul and is giving it a good scrutinizing. In the scales of the universe, the Madonna of Conflagration's desire to study people's habits is sitting in one pan. In the other is the reality of things like straight-laced shoes. She sees that it's only the tip of the iceberg, hinting at a great frozen mass of banality beneath.<br /></p> <p>“My god,” she says, “I think you’ve cured me.” She stands up, gesturing for me to follow. “C’mon, c’mon, let’s go find something significant to do. Right now.”<br /><br />I follow (of course), idly wondering what significant thing we'll find to do, and how many more weeks life will be like this, and whether I really want it to stop.Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06388085087424216649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5259175568851421209.post-15288564219451623952009-09-09T07:30:00.005-04:002009-09-09T20:41:45.798-04:00The Anarchist, the Saint and the Foreign VisitorA purple cloth, made from cheap and badly dyed material, is draped across the stone. Through it, one can see the outlines of a cross, perhaps a crucifix. Those lumps could be the agonized limbs and countenance of our savior, or could just be folds and imperfections. Who knows? Who knows?<br /><br />The anarchist stands bowlegged before the saint's grave. It is he who has covered the memorial, as a sort of insult in drapery. His apocalyptic eyebrows follow a blasphemous arc across his buttery forehead. They are worms of corruption swimming in this wrinkled pool of pale ichor, whose wellspring must surely be his cancerous brain. He drinks a mixture of absinthe and mercury from a silver flask (the mercury as a vain attempt to cure his syphilis) and thinks about how terribly decadent and transgressive he is. How the saint would squirm if he knew the cloth had recently been the bed upon which the anarchist had violated a depraved prostitute in the most abominable way imaginable. She (she? Is he positive? So young, so young...) was vacant eyed and ready for anything. He is enjoying a private and sinister chuckle about the whole thing when he hears the voice.<br /><br />"Wow, is this place classy! I mean we've got nice graveyards back home, but this place is just another....It's like a museum. Boy I tell ya, they do everything up real nice and beerokey over here."<br /><br />The anarchist turns and has his senses immediately attacked by a lime green track suit that must surely be a representation of everything he despises.<br /><br />"Oh HI!" says the creature inhabiting this crime against humanity disguised as a garment, "this a friend of yours?"<br /><br />The anarchist smirks.<br /><br />"A...friend? Ah, who can say? Our deepest enemies, somewhere within the crucible of our loathing perhaps become friends, perhaps through that alchemy that men call hatred, perhaps-"<br /><br />"Only I'm not from around here, and I was wondering if you knew anything about this place. Figgered if you knew the departed here you might know the lay of the land so to speak."<br /><br />"The gentleman who rests here was known to me, yes."<br /><br />"Oh that's great, cuz I- Oh geezum, listen to me puttin' my foot right in it: I don't mean it's great that your friend is dead and all, but it's great that you know the place. So, this place is pretty old right?"<br /><br />"It is the oldest cemetery in the country madame."<br /><br />"See that's what I thought, but I wasn't sure cuz I couldn't find a info desk."<br /><br />He allows himself a small smile. "Such things are not our way. We find them...lacking in respect." his glance wanders briefly to the purple cloth. "But yes, this place is very old indeed."<br /><br />"So who's the oldest?"<br /><br />"Do you regard that basalt monument there?"<br /><br />"Basalt? What's that, hon?"<br /><br />"A type of volcanic stone, famed for its tendency to be found in strangely regular fields of geometric forms. That large gray column is a fine specimen of the stone."<br /><br />"Oh the tall one. Wow it's big!"<br /><br />"Fix it in your mind. Beneath that column are the remains of a tribal chieftain who lived 2500 years ago."<br /><br />"What, before Jesus? Goodness, I didn't know things over here got that old!"<br /><br />"Indeed. What we know of his behavior shows he came before the gentle savior: the chief was know as Ludovico the Black-Blooded Kin-Rapist. By his friends."<br /><br />"What did his enemies call him?"<br /><br />"<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">'</span></span>That bastard who cut my tongue out and then used it do unspeakable things to my children while making me watch'."<br /><br />"So he was a terrorist?"<br /><br />"He was a sculptor whose medium was terror. He used the meat of humanity and the rivers of fear that course through it to create strange and eternal works, ones that echo down the centuries and millennia to bring their depravity and sublimity here to this spot, today, here now."<br /><br />The track suit looks at him puzzled, smiling politely.<br /><br />"Here madame. These feet in these blood red boots, support the spiritual heir of Ludovico. These legs, in these black velvet trousers, lift those feet above the faces of the innocent. These shoulders, off of which hangs this black silk cape with lemon yellow lining, go up and down when I laugh at the torments of the helpless. The sight of this profile, including this hair piled high into dizzying shapes using only the most costly of pomades, destroys the goodness in any soul and leaves it comatose in a puddle of its own fluids."<br /><br />"Now is that your job, dear, or is it a, a, 'lifestyle choice'?"<br /><br />"Madame, I am only as I have made myself."<br /><br />"Well good for you! Everyone admires a self-made man! But look at me, jawing away, when you're here to pay your respects to your friend in peace."<br /><br />The Anarchist looks at the covered grave of the Saint, remembering the look on his milk white face as the velvet rope pulled ever tighter around his throat, even as the detailed arabesques lovingly carved onto every inch of his flesh bled out a new alphabet of scarlet betrayals. He had seen peace there, a peace that said "I forgive you." He had rejected that peace, spitting in the Saint's blue eyes as light faded from them.<br /><br />"You have a good day now. It was awful nice of you to point out that old grave."<br /><br />"It was my pleasure."<br /><br />Yes, yes, yes, it was his pleasure, as were all things in life. All was pleasure to him, from the deepest pain, to the sublimest ecstasy, from the gray mindlessness of a tedious afternoon, to the most violent cocaine-spattered wild night, all was pleasure, all was pleasure, all was-<br /><br />"Oh, before I leave you in peace could you point me to the, well, um, facilities?"<br /><br />He pointed a foppish finger towards the mausoleum of a family well known for decades of charitable works.<br /><br />"you may do your business in there madame. I apologize if the fixtures are a bit...European for you, but I'm sure you'll adapt."Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06388085087424216649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5259175568851421209.post-81787616859984522152009-09-02T07:50:00.011-04:002009-09-04T10:33:33.067-04:00Two Named Women Taking Shelter From the StormFlashing and frightening, the lightning comes down around them. Nancy and Andrea huddle by a puddle, under a tall tree, childhood lessons about storm safety forgotten in the rush for shelter. Fate will smile upon them this time, but there will be adjustments to be made later. In the end it will be one more bad debt to pay off, when they least expect it. But for now they are dry.<br /><br />"God damn is this wet," says Andrea, looking up with furrowed brow.<br /><br />"Yes, rain usually is," says Nancy, looking down at her glasses as she tries to dry them off with her soaking wet shirttail.<br /><br />"Yeah but this is like, extra wet rain. Like it's got more hydrogen in it or something, you know? I'm pretty sure I read about that."<br /><br />"I...can't say I've ever heard that myself."<br /><br />"Yeah, no, it's a thing. They call it 'super rain' and it's because of jets or something. Maybe missiles. Anyway there's like chemicals in the atmosphere and they get in the water and make it more hydrogen-y, which makes it more wet. It's a real problem. You haven't heard of this?"<br /><br />"I haven't heard of this," says Nancy. She puts her glasses back on and finds them unsurprisingly streaky.<br /><br />"I can't believe you haven't heard of this, Nancy. You have got to start living. In the real world." Andrea taps herself on the side of the head with her index and middle finger. It makes a tiny splashing sound that is somehow audible over the sound of rain falling. "You spend way too much time up here, in your head."<br /><br />"Do I? I didn't think I did."<br /><br />"No, yeah, really you do." Andrea looks up. "Still raining. Cripes. Anyway, some people think it's a good thing that we've got more hydrogen in the rain now. Because hydrogen can be used for fuel, right?"<br /><br />"I've heard about that."<br /><br />"Sure you have, everybody has. So if the rain has more hydrogen in it, and we collect the rain, and then get the hydrogen out of it-"<br /><br />"How's that done?"<br /><br />"Chemicals and electricity I think. So like if we get the hydrogen from rain instead of normal water we get extra hydrogen. It's a bonus."<br /><br />"Everyone likes a bonus."<br /><br />"Of course they do. And it's more efficient and environmental too. Because you're using water that's been contaminated in the first place, yeah? It's totally sound."<br /><br />"It certainly sounds sound." Nancy tries to clean her glasses again. "I think it's letting up a bit."<br /><br />"How can you tell?"<br /><br />"I can almost see out of my glasses now." Lightning flashes across the sky, turning everything briefly to day. "Still pretty wet though."<br /><br />"Still pretty <span style="font-style: italic;">extra</span>-wet."<br /><br />"Extra-wet, right." Nancy frowns. "Andrea are you absolutely sure that's a real thing?"<br /><br />"Positive. Just because you don't know about something doesn't mean I made it up."<br /><br />"No, that's true."<br /><br />"You don't pay attention." Andrea taps vigorously on the side of her head again.<br /><br />"Guilty as charged."<br /><br />Lightning strikes the tree across from them, shattering it into fragments and filling the air with the smell of vaporized sap.<br /><br />"Huh," says Andrea.<br /><br />"Indeed," says Nancy.Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06388085087424216649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5259175568851421209.post-56956006660551352512009-08-31T19:39:00.016-04:002009-09-01T23:02:15.666-04:00Life at the Mountford Institute"The problem was-"<br /><br />Mountford smashes him in the face with a coffee mug. Blood and teeth seem to be everywhere, but this is no doubt an exaggeration, and a good example of how we often mistake the personal for the universal. It's a way of insulating ourselves from an unfeeling and random universe. The sort of universe that's populated by arbitrary and unpleasant types like Mountford.<br /><br />He'd been in a mood lately, the kind that was difficult to get a handle on, but probably boded ill for all. He'd taken to wearing straw boaters and oversized college sweatshirts. At first there had been hope that this was an endearing quirk beginning to manifest itself, a sign that maybe Mountford was some sort of human thing at heart. But a few weeks went on and Mountford remained his deeply unpleasant self. It came out that the sweatshirts had been trophies collected by a particularly perverse serial killer —they called him "the Lord of the Islet of Langerhans"— and had come into Mountford's possession via an unsavory private auction. They had never been washed, and everybody suspected they never would.<br /><br />The hat was much more insidious. Apparently one of the interns had had the temerity to compliment it. Mountford went berserk, pelting the poor serf with slaps from his bony hands, and nearly drowning him in a torrent of spittle and abuse.<br /><br />"This hat? This hat, you shit-steeped primate? [slap] You think this hat is nice, you placenta-fed ectomorph? [slap] You want to compliment it [slap], you workshy syphilitic? [slap] You think I wear this hat to get compliments [slap], you boy with bats in his bowels? [a backhanded slap here, with Mountford's spurred knuckles used to full affect] You couldn't be more wrong, you droopy foreskin of a half-man. I wear this hat to make me look like an asshole. So when someone compliments me on it [slap], I know for certain [slap] just how much of a craven [slap] vermiculous [slap] toadying [slap] urinal cake of a man I am dealing with. [another vicious backhand here, hard enough to draw blood] You disgust me."<br /><br />The intern was in the grip of what would later turn out to be the first of many grand mal seizures. Mountford, never one to waste words (or invective anyway), delivered the rest of his rebuke in the form of kicks and spit, eventually muttering "Get it out of my sight" before stalking off to his office.<br /><br />After that the illusion was broken, and Mountford's sinister aspect rose again. He roamed the hallways of the building for hours, glowering at everyone. It wasn't unusual to find him napping ostentatiously in the men's room, pants around his ankles, stall door open. The yes men on staff nodded sagely and pointed out how this was just like LBJ, but they were a minority. Everybody else was unsure. More than one person whispered that they had caught Mountford stealing small and valueless personal items from their desks. Often he made no attempt to hide his crime, as if daring them to call him on it.<br /><br />Pain was also the order of the day. Beyond the poor intern, Mountford had begun to make physical abuse his go-to management technique. The top level of executives were constantly dealing with bruised and broken coccyges as he handed out literal ass-kickings left and right. A stream of admins came and went, rarely lasting a day in the face of mistreatment. Even the overnight cleaning staff felt the effects. Beyond the strange stains they had to deal with, there was something palpable and depressing hanging in the air.<br /><br />So when Mountford smashed yet another subordinate in the face with yet another coffee mug knocking out yet more teeth and spilling yet more blood it was hardly a notable event. Even Mountford himself was finding it all a bit much, though of course he'd never admit it out loud. A new tack was needed.<br /><br />"I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me. You were saying something about a problem?"<br /><br />It was a noble effort but all he got in return was a stunned stare and silence. He realizes that pulling back from the historic levels of unpleasantness exhibited in the past few months is not a simple thing. The course of things can't be changed that abruptly. He's going to have to play this smart if he wants things to get interesting again. And in a moment of inspiration that could only be called Mountfordian, he remembers that delegation is the heart of leadership. He summons today's admin into the office, using the old fashioned intercom that he refuses to decommission.<br /><br />"Hold this," he says, handing her the boater. She takes it with sweaty hands. He pulls the sweatshirt over his head and hands it to her.<br /><br />"Put it on."<br /><br />She wavers for a moment, horrified by the unwashed condition of the garment. But Mountford is imposing and times are tough, so she puts it on.<br /><br />"Now put the hat on."<br /><br />She does so.<br /><br />"Not at an angle, you animal. It's a hat for civilized beings." She adjusts the hat so it sits perfectly straight on her head.<br /><br />Finally he hands her a fresh white coffee mug. She compulsively tries to drink from it, but it's empty. Mountford shakes his head.<br /><br />"Now then. You, on the floor," this to the bleeding man who hasn't moved since Mountford's apology, "I want you to know that things are going to be different around here from now on. Times are changing. So stand up. Now why don't you tell this innocent young lady the thing you were going to tell me. Something about a 'problem,' I think?"<br /><br />The man is terribly uncertain. His eyes move from Mountford's to the admin's. She looks terrified and unreal, like a paper doll in a tacked on hat and sweatshirt. His eyes move back to Mountford, who nods encouragingly. He even adds a toothy smile and a double thumbs up.<br /><br />It's the most horrifying thing the man has ever seen.<br /><br />"Go on, tell her!"<br /><br />"We, uh, we found out what the flaw with the Waterloo project was, The problem was-"<br /><br />"Stop there!" Mountford shouts. He grasps the admin by the shoulders and pushes her towards the man.<br /><br />"Now then sweetie, bash this loser in the face with that mug. Do it for me."<br /><br />She feels Mountford's breath on her neck. She worries that it will leave a scar.<br /><br />"Mr. Mountford, I-"<br /><br />"Do it!"<br /><br />She shrieks and flings the mug away from her, only incidentally towards the desired target. It grazes the man's forehead. No obvious physical damage is done, but the shock of this new attack is too much for the poor man's system and he slumps into unconsciousness. The girl bursts into tears and runs from the room.<br /><br />Mountford goes back to his desk,contemplating this new tactic. Done right, not only would the staff be terrified of him, they'd be terrified of each other too. It's a marvel of efficiency. And honestly, he can't be everywhere at once. Not yet, anyway.Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06388085087424216649noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5259175568851421209.post-48115362458428403032009-08-24T20:30:00.004-04:002009-08-24T20:45:00.804-04:00Interim Post: Customers Who Viewed This Item Also Viewed-24 oz. bottle Durian juice<br />-<span style="font-style: italic;">Sanford and Son: The Best of Grady</span><br />-Oscar Wilde wig, size 7 3/4<br />-<span style="font-style: italic;">Cock Deep In Coeds: My Erotic Life and Adventures</span> by Harold Bloom<br />-Asst. flavor Chiclets (case of 400)<br />-Sengoku Style Home Ohaguro Tooth Blackening Kit<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(Proper updates to rickhorstarr.blogspot.com resume on September 1st! In the meantime be sure to check out <a href="http://www.telecult.com/">the Summer issue of Vex</a>, which features my short story "The Taste of His Own Mustache"!)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">(Wait, September 1st? Crap, I gotta start writing again!)</span>Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06388085087424216649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5259175568851421209.post-52040955146531826812009-08-14T06:36:00.003-04:002009-08-14T07:06:55.050-04:00Interim Post: A Terrible IdeaA terrible idea I once had was the time I got a load of old dog booties and then used a hole punch to repurpose them as sweaters for rats. I didn't know about the notorious cheapness of rat owners at the time. Eventually I ended up putting the sweaters on wild rats, just to get rid of the damn things. And that's how I know what a course of rabies shots feels like.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-size: 85%;">(Real updates to rickhorstarr.blogspot.com resume September 1st!)</span>Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06388085087424216649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5259175568851421209.post-85064590361790599522009-08-12T08:23:00.004-04:002009-08-12T12:45:34.097-04:00Interim Post: Test ResultsEvery time I take the Meyers-Briggs it comes back INRI. I think this has something to do with my messiah complex.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >(Real updates to rickhorstarr.blogspot.com resume September 1st!)</span>Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06388085087424216649noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5259175568851421209.post-84643229964945344022009-08-09T10:16:00.002-04:002009-08-09T10:19:46.228-04:00Interim Post: We all Make MistakesJust the other day I was trying to find the "NASA Image of the Day," but I accidentally typed "<span style="font-weight: bold;">NSA </span>Image of the Day." Embarrassing, but at least I know what my neighbor looks like naked now.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >(Real posts to rickhorstarr.blogspot.com resume September 1st!)</span>Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06388085087424216649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5259175568851421209.post-15790682444968922332009-08-07T23:12:00.005-04:002009-08-07T23:22:36.204-04:00Interim Post: Doesn't ScanThe wheels on the bus go round and round,<br />Round and round,<br />Round and round.<br /><br />The wheels on the bus go round and round,<br />So if you're wearing a long flowing scarf be careful<br />Or you'll end up like poor Isadora Duncan.<br />I hear her head popped clean off.<br /><br />Allllll over town.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:78%;" ><br />Real updates resume September 1st!</span>Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06388085087424216649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5259175568851421209.post-73187425136918284652009-08-05T19:22:00.003-04:002009-08-05T19:28:25.182-04:00Interim Post: My Most Shameful Googles<ul><li>Hugo Award sex act</li><li>stamp collecting incontinence</li><li>Mr. Opportunity <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">fanfic</span></li><li>Miranda July snuff film torrent</li><li>aviary defacement penalties Michigan <span style="font-weight: bold;">OR </span>Pennsylvania <span style="font-weight: bold;">OR </span>Nevada <span style="font-weight: bold;">OR </span>Colorado</li></ul><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Real updates resume September 1st!</span></span>Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06388085087424216649noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5259175568851421209.post-7049953064351929972009-08-02T15:34:00.001-04:002009-08-02T15:35:25.956-04:00On Approaching 36In a tight white t-shirt<br />I look like a weisswurst.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Regular updates resume September 1st!</span></span>Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06388085087424216649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5259175568851421209.post-19302667803869845832008-12-06T07:34:00.004-05:002008-12-06T07:42:20.856-05:00Twelve Simple Rules for Leading a Consequence-Free Life<meta equiv="CONTENT-TYPE" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><title></title><meta name="GENERATOR" content="OpenOffice.org 2.4 (Win32)"><style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { size: 8.5in 11in; margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } --> </style> -Get rid of those fingerprints! They're like carrying ten little snitches with you everywhere.
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<br />-Nod and smile, until you get to a position of sufficient power. Then frown and shake your head.
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<br />-In any group of five people or more, never speak the same language as more than two of them. Failures to communicate are failures to be responsible!
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<br />-Diversify your greed! Gastric bypass surgery is easy to obtain when you're rich.
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<br />-Cultivate two signatures: a legible one and an illegible one. Use the illegible signature for any documents of consequence. When you inevitably need to get out of one, claim it's a fraud and present documents with your legible signature as proof.
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<br />-Having non-powerful friends with no influence is like having an umbrella that can't keep you out of jail.
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<br />-If you're a woman, cry publicly whenever things don't go your way. If you're a man, punch walls and mutter to yourself in the same situations. If you do this enough times, people will make sure things go your way!
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<br />-When arguing, it doesn't matter if you're right, it only matters if you're loudest.
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<br />-No one ever went broke by arranging matters so that someone else always pays.
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<br />-Be known for being brilliant yet unpredictable! This allows you to walk away from anything (artworks, political careers, relationships, pets) whenever you're bored with it, while looking like you're following your passions. Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06388085087424216649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5259175568851421209.post-40919967733712254602008-11-23T07:47:00.009-05:002008-11-23T09:04:53.365-05:00Aldred Up a TreeThere's a frame of reference that would be useful to have here, Aldred imagines. Its absence is leaving perception a jumbled mess, like a Cornell box that has been given a good shake. He has a few facts to deal with:<br /><br />He is up a tree, a gnarled and ancient affair.<br /><br />He's holding on to a branch for dear life, but this seems to be unnecessary, as the afghan is still wrapped around him, now transformed into a sort of sling. The knotted ends are on top of the branch, and Aldred hangs beneath.<br /><br />He is currently facing the sky. It's bright blue and calming, and part of him wants to relax and leave well enough alone. But another part of him can't resist a turn of the head to see what the whole situation is.<br /><br />The branch sticks out over a cliff.<br /><br />It appears to be a long way down.<br /><br />It is morning and it is cold.<br /><br />He pulls himself to the side a bit and looks down at the foot of the tree. Mercury and an old man (oh yes, Kliet, that was his name) are there. Mercury is wearing a bright red cloche hat with an ostrich feather pin. The hat and pin don't really go together, making her head a smaller jumble within the jumble.<br /><br />Kliet is holding a large yellowing map of the continental United States, mounted on plywood.<br /><br />Mercury has an old fashioned cheerleader's bullhorn to her mouth, and is slowly overpronouncing the names of American cities through it. Her accent is the sort that only comes from elocution classes at a young ladies finishing school. A disreputable one.<br /><br />"NEEEUUUUWPOOOHHHRRRRRRRT."<br /><br />Aldred takes his hands away from the branch and rubs his face. A wind comes up and he starts to swing gently. Aldred glances at the knot. It looks solid and reassuring. He lets his arms flop back and now hangs in the sling, staring up into the sky.<br /><br />"AHHHNCOOOOUUUUURRRRAHHHHGE."<br /><br />There's something infuriating about that.<br /><br />"SHEEEEEEECAHHHHGUUUOOOOOO."<br /><br />That's slightly better. The wind picks up and he begins to swing with more vigor. He resists the urge to wrap his arms tightly around the branch, ignores the screaming voice in his head, and concentrates on the sky, willing his eyes to stay open and take in the blue when all they want to do is clamp shut.<br /><br />"TOOOHRAAHHHHHHNNNTOOOOH."<br /><br />Oh for heaven's sake...<br /><br />"Mercury?"<br /><br />"FEEEEEEEENIIIIIIIIIIICKS-Yes, dear?" She gestures to Kliet, who adjusts the angle of the map.<br /><br />"That's very irritating."<br /><br />"What is, dear? SEEEEEEEECAAAAAAHHCUSSSSSSS."<br /><br />"You naming cities that aren't on that map."<br /><br />"No it isn't. BAAAAAHSSSSTUUUUUHHHHN."<br /><br />"Really, it is."<br /><br />"No dear, it isn't. It's <span style="font-style: italic;">annoying</span>, not irritating. FEEERRRRRAAAAHHNKFOOOOOOHRT."<br /><br />"The difference being?"<br /><br />"Irritants just happen. Annoyances are there on purpose."<br /><br />"I wasn't aware of that-"<br /><br />"HOOOOOHNOOOOOOOOELUUUUUAHLUUUU."<br /><br />"-particular distinction."<br /><br />"Well, that's something for you to think about then, isn't it dear? But I wouldn't spend too much energy on it as-"<br /><br />The sling swings to the right and he feels a sickening lurch. His eyes snap to the knot, the twists and turns of which are now in motion. Rapid motion. Aldred grabs the branch with his arms and as much of his legs as his gut will allow. The afghan falls away, and he hears Kliet mutter something about cavalier treatment of family heirlooms.<br /><br />"FAAAHREEEEEEHSSSSNUUUOOOOOO."<br /><br />Aldred begins to inch his way down the branch, towards the trunk. He hasn't gotten very far when a definitive cracking noise tells him what the immediate future is going to hold. The branch is still partly connected to the trunk, and Aldred's weight causes it to swing in rather than simply fall off. The far end of the branch arcs towards the foot of the tree, carrying Aldred with it, gaining speed like a wrecking ball. At the last second Aldred lets go. The forward momentum hurtles him towards Kliet who seems to be expecting this. He takes a quick step to the side and swats Aldred with the mapboard, deflecting him into a conveniently placed (if dew dampened) haystack.<br /><br />Aldred closes his eyes, and, though partially winded, breathes in as much of the smell of damp hay as he can. He is greedy for it, in love with all things that stay near to the ground. The impact has driven him halfway towards the center of the stack, and for a moment he considers burrowing in. Instead he pulls himself out and collapses onto the ground, his back resting against the hay. Mercury wanders over and points the bullhorn down at him. He can see up it, all the way to her pursed lips. He thinks he reads some satisfaction on them. They slowly part and one last name comes rolling down the cone of the bullhorn.<br /><br />"GUUUUUAAAHHHHHHMMMMMMMM."<br /><br />Aldred considers.<br /><br />"That's not even a city."<br /><br />"Does that annoy you?"<br /><br />He shrugs.<br /><br />"Right," says Mercury. "I think we've made a fair bit of progress here this morning."Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06388085087424216649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5259175568851421209.post-70950511670797075982008-10-18T15:15:00.006-04:002008-10-18T15:24:29.257-04:00The Reichstag Follies is Real?So somebody got here in the past week or two by doing a Google search for "Reichstag Follies", which lead them to <a href="http://rickhorstarr.blogspot.com/2008/08/movies-i-have-hallucinated.html">this old entry</a>. The odd thing is now <a href="http://www.google.com/search?q=%22+Reichstag+Follies%22&hl=en&filter=0">Citysearch</a> is showing results for performances of something called "The Reichstag Follies" at some place called Cinema Classics in NYC, throughout October and into November. I can't find any references to this title on the IMDB or elsewhere, just these Citysearch listings and my old post. Any of my NYC peeps faimiliar with this Cinema Classics place? I'm a little worried that parts of my brain are dripping into the real world.Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06388085087424216649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5259175568851421209.post-29038743091189386732008-10-16T22:25:00.000-04:002008-10-16T22:26:41.729-04:00Books for Buddhist PlayersGetting A Piece is Every Step<br /><br />Zen Flesh, Zen Boning<br /><br />Living Buddha, Living Hefner<br /><br />The Tibetan Book of the Laid<br /><br />Be Here Now, With a GirlRichardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06388085087424216649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5259175568851421209.post-55595472669471627192008-09-30T19:20:00.010-04:002008-09-30T19:58:28.931-04:00Successful Lies I Have Told"I'm sick of productions of <span style="font-style: italic;">Waiting for Godot</span> where they cut out the car chase."<br /><br />"I don't know how all that blackberry jam got in your car."<br /><br />"During the summer I'm the substitute mayor of a small Ukrainian village. So of course I can officiate at your wedding."<br /><br />"LASIK gave me x-ray vision. But I only use it for good."<br /><br />"I used to work as a house painter, but I quit when it got too commercial."<br /><br />"A childhood injury rendered me incapable of giving change to the homeless."<br /><br />"Reading is a wonderful town and I wish I still lived there. I especially miss all the outlet malls and Klan rallies."<br /><br />"I love it when you talk about bacon."<br /><br />"Of course I know what an <span style="font-style: italic;">ostinado </span>is. Asshole."<br /><br />"I wrote that book you're reading."<br /><br />"I haven't really cared about anything since 1992."<br /><br />"I don't know how all that blackberry jam got in your safety deposit box."<br /><br />"I'm late because my chemo appointment ran over."<br /><br />"See that building over there? It's made of Lego."<br /><br />"I know the guy who invented silicone bakeware."<br /><br />"I'm scared of clouds, especially the pretty ones."<br /><br />"I was born with my bones on the outside."<br /><br />"I was the voice of the pets.com dog puppet. The puppeteer was Colin Farrell."<br /><br />"I collect pictures of abandoned drug stores."<br /><br />"I don't know how all that blackberry jam got in your mouth while you were sleeping."<br /><br />"I lived in a storage unit in Metuchen for eight years."<br /><br />"Here's how you make a real Mojito: take three ounces of Triple Sec, muddle it with shredded carrot and serve at slightly above room temperature by warming it with your hands. That thing you're claiming is a Mojito? Real Cubans call that a <span style="font-style: italic;">Batista</span>."<br /><br />"Carol Channing died."<br /><br />"This blog updates 4-7 times a week."Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06388085087424216649noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5259175568851421209.post-33244154762622798102008-09-21T06:57:00.006-04:002008-09-21T08:16:10.479-04:00Two Named Women Participating in Our CultureThe other day I went to a political rally in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Elmire</span> Park. I was unclear as to what it was for exactly, but I felt the need to engage with the democratic process. I was surprised to see Nancy and Andrea there. At first I thought they'd had the same impulse, but when they mounted the speakers' platform, I realized they were there in a more active capacity.<br /><br />Andrea spoke first.<br /><br />"My friends...Jesus, 'my friends,' how can I say that? Calling someone 'friend' is a big deal. There's like what, eight hundred of you here? Maybe a thousand. I know almost none of you, and the ones I do know aren't exactly friends of mine. They know why. Oh boy, do they ever know.<br /><br />"I'll start over. My strangers: we live in a time of great upheaval. That means shit is fucked up. Way fucked up. It's all broken and scattered. It reminds me of the trash in our awful streets. That trash is evidence that something is going on, but you ever tried to put it together into a coherent picture? I have. I've spent whole afternoons dong it. What I'll do is pick up a bottle, a glass one, and some newspapers. Then I'll wrap the newspapers around the bottle, good and tight. When I've got that done, I look for the dirtiest part of the sidewalk. then I roll the bottle down that patch of sidewalk, pushing hard. I do this for about a block. It's a hard thing to do, because people will stare at me or call me crazy or try to mess with me. A lot of the time I end up getting into a fight and have to use the bottle as a weapon. Usually if that happens I have to get a new bottle and start over. I have to do this five, six, seven times some times. Often there's a hold up, because glass bottles are getting harder to find these days. But I keep it up, because this stuff is important.<br /><br />"Anyway, when it works out right I get to roll that bottle all down the block. At the end I'm left with two types of evidence. I'm no egghead, but I know it's good to have more than one kind of evidence if you're investigating shit. The first type of evidence is the crap that's been pushed in front of the bottle. Usually this is what you'd call 'powder based,' because there's usually a nice sized heap of powder and bits by the end, all mixed together. Some of this stuff in the powder is pretty identifiable: grit, dust, ash, bits of dried tar from the road. But there's other stuff in there too, stuff that just confuses me. Like the purple stuff. You guys know about that?"<br /><br />She paused, looking out at the crowd. She wiped one of her large arms across her forehead, joining the individual beads that had been sitting there into an even film. The pause went on, and Andrea started to look frustrated.<br /><br />"Okay, I guess not. That wasn't a rhetorical type question by the way: I was really hoping that somebody here might know what this purple stuff is, because I think it's probably important. It's usually a good ten percent of the 'powder based' evidence, and it freaks me out that I can't identify it. It's this really dark shade of purple. The bits are usually no bigger than a match head, but sometimes they're as big as a pea. One time I found one that was the size of my thumbnail. I've got it here in my pocket, if anyone wants to have a look later. I thought maybe it was gum at first, but it's kinda more like stone, and it's got little holes in it.<br /><br />"My point is, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">something's</span> going on.<br /><br />"The other type of evidence is all the liquids picked up by the newspaper. I know you're thinking 'Gross! Liquids!', and yeah, you're right. Pretty gross. There's always spit, there's always piss, there's always something sticky, and there's always something that smells really rank. And of course it all mixes together, into one thing, so I can't look at the individual liquids. But let me tell you something: that blend of liquids means something. Because the thing is, liquids evaporate, right? So even if these things are separated out on the sidewalk, they eventually get up in the air and blend together. I'm pretty sure that's how it works. Do you see what I'm saying? This is in the air we breathe. You can't tell me that's not bad. Or at least important. It's gotta be doing something.<br /><br />"So, in summary: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">something's</span> going on and I've got evidence. Uh, thanks."<br /><br />Andrea left the platform to a smattering of applause. Later, I saw her talking to a couple of old black guys in matching pork pie hats. She had her hand out in front of her, so I assumed she was showing them the purple thing. One of the guys was nodding really slowly. The other was shaking his head. Andrea looked irritated.<br /><br />After a few more speakers it was Nancy's turn.<br /><br />"Hello," she said. "It may be of interest to you to know that not far from here, in this very park, when I was a child, I used to come and feed the ducks in the pond. Around the age of fourteen I stopped. I don't know why. Then I went away for a bit. Then I came back. When I came back I was a different person. I think now I might be the kind of person who feeds ducks as an adult."<br /><br />Here she started rummaging in her handbag, eventually producing a surprisingly large bag of breadcrumbs.<br /><br />"Today I intend to find out. Thank you."<br /><br />No one applauded as she left the platform, but there was a murmur in the crowd that lasted a surprisingly long time.Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06388085087424216649noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5259175568851421209.post-83807565262878679212008-09-18T06:06:00.009-04:002008-09-18T07:04:37.500-04:00Recent Acquisitions IIA silent 8mm film of Orson Welles sitting on the toilet and drinking scotch. Possibly filmed by Peter Bogdanovich.<br /><br />A stack of loose pages, apparently from an old dictionary, stapled together at the top right corner. Not in any discernible order. All entries for adjectives have been crossed out with a ballpoint pen.<br /><br />A wooden box full of yellow and white glass marbles. Weighs approximately 60 pounds.<br /><br />A poster for a regional theater production of Equus. "MATINÉES CONTAIN NO NUDITY" printed across the bottom in large red letters.<br /><br />A pair of ceramic clogs, painted with flowers. I believe these were meant to be sculpture, but there's evidence that the previous owner wore them at least once (see below).<br /><br />A "set" of four mismatched antique wagon wheels.<br /><br />A red enameled gooseneck lamp with some very faded Pac-Man stickers affixed to the base.<br /><br />A mostly empty photo album. A few Polaroids are stuck in haphazardly: a blurry shot of Mount Rushmore, A blurry shot of a man's arm featuring a heart tattoo with an indecipherable name in the middle, and a blurry shot of a woman in a flowing blue dress who appears to be wearing the clogs mentioned above.<br /><br />Some WWII era blackout curtains. The bottoms are weighed down with what appear to be hand-stitched sachets of lead shot. Most of them are leaking; a few are completely empty.<br /><br />A printer's job case, filled with a nearly unreadable Gothic typeface. Appears to have never been used.Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06388085087424216649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5259175568851421209.post-41034327702633103272008-09-15T20:13:00.013-04:002008-09-18T12:22:50.401-04:00Aldred and Enforced HospitalityThere's something ludicrous about a rocking chair, thinks Aldred. They're meant to be so cozy and homey and relaxing, but the reality doesn't measure up. They creak in a way that refuses to take a proper rhythm. They require far too much effort and attention to keep rocking, distracting you from fully devoting your attention to woolgathering. The ones with arms (as is the case with the model he's currently stuck in) are never built with the portly gentleman in mind. Worst of all the wicker seats are puritanical in their lack of cushiness and have a tendency to poke one. Intimately.<br /><br />He's been here for six hours now, waiting for Mercury to return with the promised drop of something restorative. Rogue bits of wicker have firmly embedded themselves in his person. He's almost too distracted to worry about infection, or becoming permanently affixed to the rocker, but manages to devote a small part of his mind to this idle fretting. Mostly he's wondering what's become of Mercury. It wouldn't be the first time she's been gone longer than expected (her disappearance for the entirety of 1998 springs to mind), but she usually has the graciousness to not leave him bound with an afghan to an infernal device while she's off and about. He hopes that nothing has happened to her.<br /><br />The door creaks open and a quaint and ancient man comes hobbling in, holding a trembling tray in his hands. He gives Aldred a carefully composed quizzical look that doesn't quite hide the fact that he knows, if not exactly what's going on, enough to not be as innocent as he's pretending.<br /><br />"Ah, Mr. Aldred?"<br /><br />"Yes?"<br /><br />"Miss Mercury called. On the telephone. Says she's been unavoidably detained. At the, uh, antique mall. Looking at antiques." The man gestures with the tray. "She said I should maybe bring you something. Said you were indisposed. Stuck in the room. Resting."<br /><br />He looks over the afghan, lets a little more of his wry amusement slip out.<br /><br />"Comfy?"<br /><br />"Okay."<br /><br />"Not too warm? I hope?"<br /><br />"Yes, fine."<br /><br />"Rocker treating you alright?"<br /><br />"It's lovely."<br /><br />"Great. It's a terrific old chair. Handcrafted."<br /><br />"It shows."<br /><br />"It's for sale. If you're interested."<br /><br />"I'll have to get back to you on that."<br /><br />"Just say the word. We can come to a price easily."<br /><br />"I'm sure. You'll excuse me, Mister-?"<br /><br />"Kliet."<br /><br />"Mr. Kliet, but as Mercury mentioned I am feeling under the weather and I'm afraid I don't have the strength to discuss this wonderful chair."<br /><br />"That's real Belgian wicker-"<br /><br />"Not. One. Second. More."<br /><br />Kliet can see that he's pushed the doddering a shade too far. Aldred notices the tray has stopped trembling, is in fact now deadly still.<br /><br />"Right you are. Well, there's coffee here for you. And some cookies too. They're from an old family recipe. The wife-"<br /><br />Aldred looks a polite amount of poison at him.<br /><br />"Okay, okay. Cripes, can't an old fella have any fun?"<br /><br />"Have your fun when you total up her bill."<br /><br />Kliet snorts as he lays the tray across the arms of the rocker. He carefully untucks just enough of the Afghan to free up Aldred's right arm, leaving the rest of Mercury's sigil or combat origami or whatever it is in place. His movements are deft and professional: Aldred doubts Mercury had to tell him what to do. Crafty old bastard.<br /><br />Aldred reaches for the mug of coffee, spilling a bit as the rocker follows his shifting bulk. He gulps a good half of it down. It's strong and hot and perfect, the definition of perfect in this case including a generous portion of very good rum. He can feel it working immediately, blotting out the accumulated irritation of the last six hours and making a dent in the enervation that led him to this point in the first place.<br /><br />"That's...very good coffee."<br /><br />"She said to give you the good stuff. Said you'd be needing it. Said it was an apology of sorts. Said she won't be back for a bit longer. Said probably not until tomorrow morning. Said-"<br /><br />"Said 'keep him tied up'?"<br /><br />"Said that too."<br /><br />Aldred sighs, but he can't find it in himself to get too angry at Kliet, who is certainly going to follow her instructions to the letter. He knows how persuasive Mercury can be. Confining him to a chair for a day will hardly by the worst thing she's ever put him through. And the rum is very, very good indeed. "Breaking the embargo" good. Maybe even "smuggled out of Fidel's private stock" good. Raoul's, anyway.<br /><br />"It seems a pity to mix this with coffee."<br /><br />"It does indeed sir."<br /><br />"And to drink it alone."<br /><br />Kliet gives him yet another complex look. He has quite a repertoire.<br /><br />"Well, I imagine there's no harm in a friendly drink or three with one of our guests. I imagine."<br /><br />Kliet leaves the room. Aldred hopes he'll be back soon. He doesn't begrudge the man his calculating suspicions, but really, he has no intention of trying to escape. He's just terribly, terribly bored.<br /><br />When Mercury returns the next morning she's greeted by a very hungover Mr. Kliet. Aldred's snores come rolling down the stairs and play about the room like drunken puppies. They don't cause the pictures to rattle on the walls, but it's a near thing.<br /><br />"my god," she says. "This is going to cost me a fortune, isn't it?"<br /><br />Kliet nods, then winces.Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06388085087424216649noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5259175568851421209.post-3176166646462038322008-09-12T14:40:00.005-04:002008-09-12T16:47:12.493-04:00Desperate to Get Into ProgRun from the nightmare dwelling thing of fear<br />That drips with dread and creeps so near<br />To perch on your shoulder on its <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">feculent</span> rear<br />And speak the unspeakable into your ear.<br /><br />(ANYBODY WANT TO START A <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">PROG</span> ROCK BAND?)<br /><br />The thunder of the morning<br />Was the new age boldly dawning<br />While the giants were still yawning<br />In their castle down below.<br /><br />(I CAN'T PLAY AN INSTRUMENT, BUT I SING OKAY AND CAN WRITE LYRICS.)<br /><br />The alphabet of sorrow<br />Wrote the story of tomorrow<br />And the ghouls down in the barrow<br />Gnawed the bones of Mia Farrow.<br /><br />(I'M THINKING WE COULD BE SORT OF MODERN LIKE THE MARS VOLTA.)<br /><br />Across the singing galaxies<br />The stars crowned a new king<br />To challenge mankind's fallacies<br />And stroll on Saturn's rings.<br /><br />(OR MAYBE <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">MARILLION</span>.)<br /><br />A million bright green changes were brought forth by Father Time<br />To push the evolution of the primordial slime.<br />But devilish Death was waiting by the ocean with a scythe<br />To fight his endless battle with the living host of life.<br /><br />(WE COULD DO SOMETHING MORE OLD SCHOOL THOUGH.)<br /><br />Earth turns in flagrant beauty<br />From cold to tropical and back.<br />Each man will do his duty<br />To keep the sun from turning black.<br /><br />(I KNOW A GUY WHO OWNS A COUPLE OF KEYBOARDS.)<br /><br />The swordsman swings his weeping blade<br />Through the tears of Guinevere<br />Each one a diamond in the glade<br />Of Arthur's horned and cheated fear.<br /><br />(BUT ONE OF <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">THEM'S</span> BROKEN.)Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06388085087424216649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5259175568851421209.post-58922049839009860082008-09-10T19:31:00.013-04:002008-09-10T20:36:59.947-04:00Bored in DreamlandHopefully, by the time you read this I'll have been found. I seem to have gotten lost in a dream, and I have to say it is not at all what I expected. For a start, it's terribly dull. I always assumed that being lost in a dream would be an exciting and vibrant experience, if at times a little harrowing. Turns out it's a bit like having an anxiety attack and being very sleepy at the same time. I imagine it might be like spending too much time in a country where you don't know the social mores and eventually get tired and frustrated from constantly doing the wrong thing because you simply have no concept of what the right thing is, or could possibly be.<br /><br />That's not to say there aren't some nice things about it. I can summon up a talking penguin anytime I want, for instance. Unfortunately the only thing it wants to talk about is how disappointed it is that I never went to grad school. Which I guess means the penguin is a manifestation of my father. Except my father is here already. In fact, there's several little clones of him milling about, and all they want to talk about is fish and how frightened they are of polar bears. Which suggests that my father is just a manifestation of a flock of penguins. This is precisely the sort of thing that I don't know how to properly react to. It's pissing me off. I get enough of this in real life.<br /><br />Then the other night I had a lovely dinner with Gurdjieff and Mamie Van Doren. But again, it was terribly frustrating. Gurdjieff's English is dreadful, and he overcompensates for this by bugging his eyes out a lot and gesticulating wildly with a forkful of spaghetti Bolognese. It's unhelpful and messy. Then I managed to derail things entirely by asking Mamie what it was like to be dead. Turns out she isn't. This cast quite a pall over the proceedings. Gurdjieff told me "you verra bad man," and then they both ignored me for the rest of the meal, carrying on a completely unintelligible conversation between themselves. I would have made my excuses and left, but it took me hours to figure out how to get out of the insanely complicated chair I was sitting in. There were straps and buckles involved.<br /><br />After that, I tried to keep to myself. I couldn't find much to do, so I ended up spending a lot of time napping. Except of course that would just put me back in the dream world. It was a bit like walking out of the front door of your house and finding yourself back in the hallway, in that it was equal parts fascinating and irritating. I suppose if I was a mathematician or a psychologist I would have something insightful to say about this sort of folding of reality, but I'm just a schlub with a BA, so all I could come up with was "Whoa, that's kinda trippy." The penguin was terribly disappointed.<br /><br />I tried all the touristy things one does in dreamland. You know, the classics: flying, going to class naked, being chased by an unknown assailant, being the president and starting a nuclear war. The usual stuff. It was all fun, but rather unsatisfying, like I was just doing the things so I could cross them off the list. Oh and consequence-free sex with whoever I wanted turned out to be a <span style="font-style: italic;">disaster</span>. Like anybody would, I tried it with myself first and apparently my technique is really lacking. I thought that I knew what I like, but when I caught myself checking my watch, well, it was emasculating to say the least. I lost the taste for experimenting after that.<br /><br />Eventually I decided to concentrate on asserting normalcy. Perhaps I could escape by turning the dream world into the real world. I created a passing simulation of my house and office, and tried to follow the same routine I do in the waking world. I'd get up in the morning after lying in bed pretending to be asleep for what I judged to be eight hours or so. Then I'd make myself a cup of coffee and feed the cats. This took a long time as the house was populated by every cat I'd ever owned or wanted to own. Then I'd have a shower, get dressed, kiss my wife, explain to the penguin why an MFA wasn't for me, and head out to work.<br /><br />Work was always a blur. I mean, literally. I couldn't get it to come into focus at all. Vague walls, ill defined cubes, shadowy co-workers who made sounds like papers rustling and keyboards clacking at the bottom of a well when they spoke...None of it resembled reality in the least. Well, maybe it resembled my reality, but now that I was paying attention to it, it certainly didn't resemble real reality. I managed to keep this up for what felt like a few days, but the passing of time kept slipping away from me. I suppose a few months must have actually gone by, because I eventually ended up having a midyear review with my shadow boss. Overall, my performance had been "<span style="font-size:78%;">rustleclickrustlerustle </span>," but I needed to concentrate more on "<span style="font-size:78%;">clackclickrustleclack</span>" if I ever expected to make "<span style="font-size:78%;">clickityshufflerustleclack</span>." I promised to do better, and then let the whole thing evaporate into thin air.<br /><br />And now I stand on a flat white plane that stretches to infinity in all directions, a white, perfectly hemispherical sky overhead. If you happen to see a place like this in your dreams, please do stop by and see if I'm still there. I'd love for someone to lead me out of this boring place, or at least explain to the penguin why an MBA isn't the guarantee of success it used to be.Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06388085087424216649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5259175568851421209.post-88627262554551314852008-09-08T20:34:00.011-04:002008-09-08T21:30:50.163-04:00A Private Moment with MountfordThere are tears all down the front of his dirty undershirt, because as is often the case Mountford is upset. There are also tears down the front of his dirty undershirt, because he believes in getting as much wear as possible out of a garment. The tears leave wet and salty spots and release a strange animal scent from the fabric. The tears allow a surprising number of hairs to poke through, and expose sad patches of sallow skin.<br /><br />He cares on some level of course, for he knows that a man who has made an enemy of...well, <span style="font-style: italic;">everybody</span>, is never truly alone. There's a terrible risk of exposure, that some cunning paparazzo with a telephoto lens will capture those deep underarm stains when Mountford stretches his apish arms above his head while standing in front of the french doors; that this man who never leaves his palatial estate without a hat will be caught showing his true colors (a sort of sickening yellow). True, said paparazzo would be swiftly and fatally dealt with, but if even one person saw such a thing the damage to Mountford's psyche would be incalculable.<br /><br />Perhaps he courts this exposure and subsequent pain as a masochistic act. Or perhaps he is simply tired and wants to unwind in a horrible t-shirt and boxers. As a sort of human being and a kind of American, doesn't he have the right to his slovenly leisure? Isn't that what we all aspire to? Stained undergarments and threatened dignity?<br /><br />Mountford limps over to his favorite recliner. The hamstring injury he suffered in Singapore has been playing him up again. For the thousandth time he curses the aim of his doublecrossed business partner, feels the spiky durian slam into his back and send him tumbling over a second floor balcony at the Raffles. Fifteen years later he still can't eat the damn things though he has several crates flown in at great expense during the season. It's a point of pride.<br /><br />The recliner receives his slight body. His bony ass nearly pierces the well worn seat. His fingers reflexively scratch the armrests, pulling up flecks of cheap and cracking leather. It's something of a miracle that there's any left to scratch away, but Mountford has always had an instinct for pulling the meat from a carcass.<br /><br />The tears have stopped flowing now, and the ones that made it to the horrible undershirt have begun to dry already. The upsetting thing has passed from his mind so quickly that he is having difficulty remembering what it was. He's almost certain it had something to do with money, but all he remembers now is the petulant rage, the deep but transient sense of loss that comes with losing .0000001% of his fortune.<br /><br />He reaches for the television remote and begins to flick through channels, pausing at any black and white image, trying to turn it into a rerun of <span style="font-style: italic;">Sergeant Bilko</span> with the sheer force of his will. It was his favorite program, and airings were once plentiful. Now it never seems to be on. A newly hired assistant once suggested he watch <span style="font-style: italic;">Top Cat</span> instead, claiming it was the same thing but "better, because it has cartoon cats instead of that weird guy with the fake glasses." Mountford attempted to drown him in the bidet, only pulling back at the last minute because the paperwork involved with an accidental death of this sort was more trouble than the deep satisfaction would be worth.<br /><br />But again today Phil Silvers remains elusive. A fantasy begins to form in Mountford's head. He goes into broadcasting, creating a cable network that resembles the UHF channels of his youth: <span style="font-style: italic;">F Troop</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Bowling for Dollars</span>, a sea captain who hosts an afternoon cartoon show on the weekdays and a monster movie double feature on Saturday, a farm report every morning, a prayer at sign off, and of course his beloved Bilko. It would be a relic from the past brought lovingly back to life in the present age. it would be his cultural legacy.<br /><br />For a moment it shines before him like a tawdry and pathetic jewel. Then it winks out, Mountford's interest having abruptly ended when he realizes that most likely there would be no money in it. He's through with labors of love. Labors of avarice are so much more rewarding.<br /><br />He continues to flick through the channels for another twenty minutes, but finds nothing worthy of his attention. Eventually he dozes off, awaking an hour later with a stiff neck and a foul taste in his mouth. He rises and lopes upstairs, where a very fine suit awaits his attention. Enough of this lollygagging.Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06388085087424216649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5259175568851421209.post-45322046505870496092008-08-21T20:57:00.011-04:002008-08-21T21:36:07.676-04:00Things I No Longer Do-Fry Daddy Roulette: Like Russian roulette, but involving your hand and six Fry Daddies, only one of which is plugged in. The main reason I'm now left handed.<br /><br />-My hilarious Jonathan <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Richman</span> imitation. Turns out it's not that funny.<br /><br />-Write the scenarios for Hungarian porn films. You can only see the note "NEEDS MORE SYMBOLISM" so many times before you begin to question whether these Magyar bastards get where you're coming from artistically.<br /><br />-Sneak into Philip Roth photo shoots and shout "Come on, love! Give us a smile!"<br /><br />-Take banjo lessons. I was good, but I was only in it for the aesthetics and not the music, and that's just not genuine, no matter how good you look in overalls.<br /><br />-Drink any clear liquid without first asking the person offering it what it is.<br /><br />-Send care packages to Matthew <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Friedberger</span> of <a href="http://www.thefieryfurnaces.com/">The Fiery Furnaces</a>. They were addressed to YOU, Matthew. Your damn sister can find her own supply of homemade gorp.<br /><br />-Rescue non-fly insects from the twists of fly paper hanging off our porch. I had to face the fact that my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">OCD</span> was not an excuse to play God. Insect God, anyway.<br /><br />-End my signature with "Esq." Apparently even if I had completed the course and become a Notary, I <span style="font-style: italic;">still </span>wouldn't have had the right. Madness.Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06388085087424216649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5259175568851421209.post-45037518387731404192008-08-19T18:41:00.016-04:002008-08-19T20:07:59.737-04:00Aldred Comes Out of the FogThe darkness is overpowering. He imagines it as a layer of moss growing between his brain and his skull. He ignored it for too long, and now the space between the soft and the hard is packed tight, and he is blind. Coherent thoughts and sensations that once moved freely between the inside and the outside now burrow halfway through the mossy darkness before being stilled, stopped and suffocated.<br /><br />"What are you thinking about? <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Hmm</span>?"<br /><br />He wishes he knew.<br /><br />"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Oy</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Aldred</span>. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Oy</span>! Yo! Hello? Hello?"<br /><br />Fingers snap beneath his nose. The sound comes to him through the olfactory center, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">synesthetically</span> hitting his brain as the mixed smells of vinegar and burning moss. The smell overpowers the darkness, lightly, but enough that thoughts and sensations begin to move again.<br /><br />The needy face of a small dog.<br />A sunny morning in Crete.<br />A heap of green oranges and orange bell peppers.<br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Mountford</span>, in a tattered undershirt, yelling something about "foul cologne-drinking Portuguese ruffians."<br /><br />"Oh lord, I remember that! They completely ruined his bootlegging operation and flipped him to the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Guardia</span> into the bargain. He was furious. He ran out and bought an atlas, an expensive one too, just to rip out the page with Lisbon on it to wipe his ass with. Appallingly childish gesture that, but that's <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Mountford</span> all over, isn't it?"<br /><br />It's a woman's voice, a voice he should know.<br /><br />"I saw him recently," <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Aldred</span> mutters. He is blinking, trying to see anything other than grayness, but his eyes are apparently a few minutes behind his nose and ears.<br /><br />"And?"<br /><br />"It didn't end well."<br /><br />"It usually doesn't." He can see a bit of motion in the gray now, and her voice seems to be coming from there. "Frankly, I don't know why you continue to have anything to do with him. Or he you for that matter. You're both terribly terribly bad for each other, and you're both terribly terribly aware of that fact. Yet you persist in getting in each other's way."<br /><br />There is shape now to the movement.<br /><br />"Couple of latent homosexuals if you ask me."<br /><br />There is now sharp outline to the shape.<br /><br />"You ought to let him <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">tup</span> you and have done."<br /><br />There is now color within the outline.<br /><br />"Or you him, whichever. All I'm saying is that it would do the universe a world of good —or maybe just the world a universe of good— if you boys would give in and get your silly repressed lusts out of your systems."<br /><br />There is now a gray haired woman in her mid-fifties in the outline. She wears a smart tweed suit, a muted green check affair. She has the air of someone who has practiced at being clever long enough that it has become a near substitute for wisdom. A lit cigarillo is in her hand, an affectation designed purely to distract people by getting them to ask themselves the question "Where on earth does one even <span style="font-style: italic;">buy </span>cigarillos in this day and age?"<br /><br />"Did you say '<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">tup</span>'?"<br /><br />"I'm afraid I did."<br /><br />"You do know it's the 21st century, right? Has been for a while?"<br /><br />"I realize you're coming out of a bit of a fog and might feel a touch grumpy, but try not to be too much of a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">smartass</span>, dear."<br /><br />"Sorry, I don't know where my manners are. Hello Mercury."<br /><br />"Hello <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Aldred</span>."<br /><br />"Pardon the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">cliché</span>, but where am I?"<br /><br />"Would you believe Bucharest?"<br /><br />"I would not."<br /><br />"Good. We're in Bethlehem."<br /><br />"The Jesus town or the steel town?"<br /><br />"The latter. You were found wandering around downtown Philadelphia, waving a reindeer antler in a threatening manner and shouting something about geometry. Spheres, I believe."<br /><br />"Oh dear."<br /><br />"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Mmm</span>. Luckily, I happened to be in town, attempting to clear my own head with a bit of history."<br /><br />"What, the Liberty Bell and all that?"<br /><br />"Don't knock it. Lots of strength to be drawn from an object like that, if one knows how to approach it sensibly. At any rate, I found you and instantly knew that you needed to be taken someplace quiet yet industrial."<br /><br />"That's a very specific thing to know instantly."<br /><br />"You're quite easy to diagnose dear. Oh, and I was already planning on coming out this way for some antiquing anyway. So things had lined up nicely. They often do."<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Aldred</span> is finally able to make sense of the room. It appears to be the sort of oppressively tasteful space that she has always favored. Probably a bed and breakfast, probably owned by an old married couple, probably banal and deadening and far too cozy. He's never understood why she favors places like this, but he can't deny that she draws a certain energy from them. Her witchery has always been a clandestine thing, disguised with tweeds and doilies. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Aldred</span> finds it baffling, but he's respected it ever since he saw her garrote a man four times her size with an eyeglass chain.<br /><br />He tries to stand, and the room lurches sickeningly, gray pouring back into his field of vision. She grasps his shoulders and pushes him back down into what turns out to be a rocking chair.<br /><br />"No dear, I don't think you should get up just yet." She tosses an afghan over him, binding him down with a series of sinister tucks and folds. "You stay right there. I'll just go and see if they've got something pleasant yet medicinal for you. Tomorrow we'll see about getting you back in...alignment, shall we say?"<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Aldred</span> smiles vaguely and watches her leave the room. As soon as the door closes he struggles against the afghan, but it's no use, he's bound tight to the rocker. He tries to resign himself to his fate, but the last time Mercury used the word "alignment" at him it resulted in a three month physical and metaphysical training course and a near psychotic breakdown. He'll have to start planning an escape soon , but for now there's nothing to do but let the accursed cosiness cover him and try to mend.Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06388085087424216649noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5259175568851421209.post-84318860801288236662008-08-13T20:54:00.010-04:002008-08-13T21:41:53.418-04:00Movies I Have Hallucinated<span style="font-style: italic;">Stabbing the Day Away: The Louisa May Alcott Story </span>(Nutmeg):<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>A heartwarming family oriented biopic about the author of <span style="font-style: italic;">Little Women</span> and her lifelong secret passion for murdering transients.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Reichstag Follies of 1933</span> (Peyote): It was sort of like <span style="font-style: italic;">Triumph of the Will</span>, but it had W.C. Fields, a very blond kickline, and several songs by Eddie Cantor. An extremely wooden comedy sketch featuring Der Führer and Olsen and Johnson was a particular lowlight (seriously, what''s funny about him saying "Vas ist dis HELLZAPOPPIN'?" over and over again?). The ghost of Keith Moon told me this was his favorite film, but he was pretty high when he said it.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Muppet VALIS</span> (Mescaline): That special Jim Henson magic brought to bear on Philip K. Dick's thinly fictionalized account of his Gnostic experience/psychotic break. The scene where a beam of divine pink light pierces Kermit's forehead and fills him with cosmic knowledge is beautiful, though somewhat marred by the fact that you can totally see the top of the puppeteer's —sorry, <span style="font-style: italic;">muppeteer's</span>— head for most of the shot.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Cleveland, Cleveland, Cleveland</span> (LSD): 40 hour film consisting entirely of shots of helicopters flying over "The Forest City" and dumping buckets of brightly colored sand on it.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Jackie Chan Hits You in the Face With A Hammer While Laughing Hysterically</span> (DMT): I think this was in 3D. Or maybe I hallucinated Jackie Chan actually stopping by and hitting me in the face with a hammer, instead of just hallucinating a movie about it.Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06388085087424216649noreply@blogger.com0