story excerpt

"While it is true that all good things must come to an end, life is not good and it goes on forever. All life is unending. Though we may cease to breathe, love, and yearn for physical love, we carry on yet in the shadow of the world; in the realm of dreams. This is so for all things that live: wooden ducks, dead rats, and potatoes. Even Indians dream, though savagely of white women, horses, and wampum.

At Barrow Gulch, the dream shadows of the departed hung heavy, like the unmistakable residue of blood left in the streaks and creases of an exquisitely crafted wooden duck. The wooden duck laying sadly amidst the throbbing and bloody shards of Char's manly shattered brain was larger than one might have guessed. When Char had carried the duck wrapped in fabric, tied with rope around his neck, his broad and muscular back grew weary with its weight."

Magic Bird

Magic Bird,

I have a golden saddle.

On your radiant feathers,
we shall sail across the sky.

The clouds taste sweet
infused with honey.

This gentle rain that falls
silently past my ears
reminds me

I also have a knife.

Crazy guy on the bus

I am a crazy man and I ride the bus in search of tail. How magnificent is the din of my ridiculous and slurred Turkish sounding broken English ranting. In another world, woman, you would have worshiped me at the edge of a volcano! Here, on this bus, however, our communion takes another form. Why do you panic? I'm only screaming in your face! How lonely is this life, drawn out like spittle from the mouth of a dying and very thirsty lost dog. Always from bus to bustop to bus in search of tail. At night, I dream of death and in my cowboy's hat I wander slowly with a knife.

Free Sandwich Offer

Do you want a free delicious sandwich mailed to your home or office? I will send a delicious sandwich to the first five people to comment upon this post. If you are interested and one of the first five people to respond, please forward your mailing address to [offer expired]. In order to qualify for this offer, you must agree to eat the sandwich that I mail to you. Additionally, you must photograph yourself enjoying the sandwich and provide pictures of the experience that I can post on this blog. I want to help you share the sandwich I have shared with you with the world.

* Please indicate in your response if you have any sandwich related food allergies. I don't want to spoil the surprise, but if you are allergic to peanuts...you should not request a free sandwich.

Another Television Show Idea

Children of parents in many professions, I imagine, watch the long drawn out affair of their parents being snuffed out by their jobs with horrifying vividness day after day after day. If they could make a show that adequately captured that reality, I would probably watch it. I wish that my job could be watching such a show, and that the job would kill me slowly, and that my death from watching the show would be broadcast on the show. If that happened, my only regret would be that I don't have children to share that experience with. And by "share that experience" I mean unleashing all my pent up sadness and existential angst upon them through my constant unavailability, crushing depression, mild alcoholism, and my general pervasive attitude that life is meaningless and not worth living (but not bad enough to inspire a sudden and dramatically interesting self-imposed end).

Inside the Chair, Episode I

INSIDE THE CHAIR, EPISODE I

Opening shot is a dark screen and total silence. After what seems like a short eternity of silence, there is the soft sound of breathing. Not a human breathing, but the breathing of a large expressionless emu. Suddenly, the lights turn on and the stage is revealed. The stage is a medium sized empty bedroom with no furniture, one closed door on the back wall. The walls are painted a pale white, and in the extreme right foreground is an emu's neck and head. The emu stares with dead emu eyes, right into the camera. The lights flash off and back on again. The emu has an emu sized party hat on its beady little emu head. Still the emu stares directly ahead. The lights flash on and off again and the hat is gone. The emu does not blink. Perhaps it has stunning eyelashes, if emus even have eyelashes.

The light flashes off and on again. The emu always staring into the camera. This time, there is a baby in the corner behind the emu. Someone offstage is throwing ice cubes at the baby. Every shot is a direct hit. Blamo! each ice cube sounds a wet slap on the baby's crying stupid face. There is a pool of clear liquid next to the baby. It should not be clear to the viewer whether the pool is melted ice, baby tears, or both.

Suddenly, the room gets very bright...like the inside of a microwave. The walls of the room and everything in it become blurred by the light. Everything, that is, but the emu's hollow, soulless eyes. The emu turns into a puff of smoke. The light dims and the empty room is revealed. The door opens onto black space. Then, as rousing brass music starts to play, thousands and thousands of butterflies start to fly through the door, filling the room. The butterfly swarm comes together to form the shape of a chair. As the chair hovers in the middle of the room, the name of the show, "Inside the Chair" should appear across the screen, over the chair.

The butterfly chair disappears. There is now a dirty window in the back wall where the butterfly chair was hovering. It is coated with a fine layer of what appears to be soot. Some parts of the window are darker than others. The obscured form of shrubs are barely visible through the window. Next to the window is a chair. In the extreme right foreground the emu reappears. The emu does not move as the guest is announced. The guest is academic philosopher John Searle. John Searle walks onscreen and sits in the chair. He is not nervous at all. He is very cocky and looks just like he did in that cheesy photo on the cover of "Expression and Meaning" and "Intentionality." The emu asks him what his favorite TV show is. John Searle answers, "Prison Break." Then, catching the opportunity to ham it up, John Searle adds "...and Inside the Chair, of course." John Searle actually winks into the camera. The emu is not amused. The lights flash off and on again. The party hat is back.

But John Searle is gone. Then the back of the chair starts to move. It appears that someone is trapped...inside the chair. The outline of John Searle's horrified face can be seen pressing out on the cloth on the back of the chair. There is no sound. Slowly, from a slit in the seat of the chair, an index finger emerges while the horrified face continues to struggle against the inside of the chair back. The finger wiggles back and forth erotically. It is not clear whether the finger belongs to John Searle. The finger appears rather pale. Blood slowly soaks through the seat cushion, but the finger continues to wiggle. The emu walks to the finger and slowly sucks it off, while the face continues to struggle.

Fade to black.

Thank you for watching Inside the Chair, Episode I.

Clearly one of the best worst ideas ever

Ghost Cheetah

Protean ass kicking claw of once formless aggression
In his infancy, he skewered the wall of unending abyss
With the fang of his yearning for finitude and a reality
Against which his rage could take shape
His dark visage of nothingness against nothingness did clash.

Substance and Succession were both born of this clash.
Being's first condensation was the viscous will of Ghost Cheetah.
Substance grew red as rage: color born as the rage which gives it shape.
Being became as blood, the passive glory loosed through his aggression.
The blood of his rage, as it flew from his claws first expressed temporal reality.
The Fountain of blood hovered slowly, as did his fist burning across endless abyss.

Human, who do you think you are?—You chance excretion of fang pierced abyss.
Your flesh is naught but the yielding surface against which his claws will clash.
To him, all flesh is muslin that folds into blood. That is the extent of your reality.
Would that you were never born, as locusts fly forth from the garb of Ghost Cheetah.
In the beginning, his fang of vengeance left an imprint of aggression:
An abyssal vagina which excretes all that has shape

Like dice thrown for fate from the vaginal abyss, your life is chance given shape.
Had the dice fallen differently, your legs would be trees and your eyes, the abyss.
We all bow deeply before the lust lever of his aggression.
We are naught but the tarnish against which his vengeance will does clash.
Banal speaking ape, will you not look funny once flayed by Ghost Cheetah?
You are the fool who slips on a banana and falls into a meat hook-that's reality!

Do not say that people die from many causes. You do not understand reality.
When the veil is pulled back, you will see that you are not in good shape.
One minute you are a doctor, the next you may be a guest of Ghost Cheetah.
Imagine, your spine protruding from your headless neck. Welcome to the abyss!
Ghost Cheetah diverts our minds with magic puppets of molded blood, until the clash
when our heads explode like popcorn into his oscillating maw of absolute aggression.

Do you dare ask, "From whence comes this endless aggression?"
Putrid Dunce! You might sooner ask, "From whence does being come to reality?"
And do not think that your devotion will gain you a pass from the final clash.
If your blood was not fated to float as vapor in the abyss, you could have no shape.
A wise man once spoke of the chosen one; fated to fall unskewered into the abyss.
Wiseman, do you think your stupidity pleases the joyful liar called Ghost Cheetah?

"Immortal" poets have bemoaned divine aggression against man's puny shape.
Tell me about reality noble bards, as your flesh confetti floats across the abyss!
Being is this clash; it is spilled blood churning through the heart of ghost cheetah.

Record Review

I posted this review on amazon.com a year or two ago, but I think it's blogworthy:

Kathie Lee Gifford's Born For You. (5 stars)

If you don't buy this album, then you are an idiot.

Any third world child laborer could bang a stick on a very empty can, while screeching out barbaric and unmelodious jibber jabber, and it could properly be called music. But what should we call a more glorious, though baroquely bloated, and very jolly sonic emanation; one that sounds as revolting and sublimely insipid as the album, "I was Born for You [!]" by the newly "slutted out" Kathie Lee Gifford? This is an important question, so I shall return to it later in this review.

For now, we will pursue the issue of whether or not this music would be sold at Wal-mart. We have not yet determined whether or not Gifford's album can be properly called music, or musical. Thus, this question cannot be confidently asked of the album "Born for You[!]", for even if there is evidence to support this contention, we could not assume therefore that "Born For You!" qua musical entity even exists.

When does odiousness become a form of knowing? If you don't know the answer to this question, you need to crank up the Kathy Lee. Right now. Just as some silly Jesuit might proclaim: That is My dog, That dog is a father, Therefore that dog is my father-no one could deny the claim that because Gifford was born, it is therefore established that she was Born for You. Just as the name of her album implies.

So, I conclude that you really need to hear this album. It doesn't matter if you're a rum-jhumbi banging coconuts against your chest, or a transgendered methadone bride...Kathy Lee Gifford was Born for you! When one imagines the dialectical relationship between musical standards, such as those on Gifford's album, and the negative whirling bacchanalian swirl of the transgenerational continuum of prog-rock sexuality, one can sometimes become frozen in formal quagmire of a corroded yet sonorous hyper-consciousness. That is why it is very important to remember that Kathy Lee Gifford is a very bad woman, who serves the devil 24 hours a day.

Buy a copy for yourself, and that lady you like from church!

Is this Real?

Isn't it strange to think that we are being repeatedly molested by our pets while we are sleeping in our beds?

Observation

I am glad that I am not a toothbrush.