by Tomorrow's Man
Hallowe'en Road Notes: San Fran to Chicago
37,000 feet above the planet as the veil falls,
here there's streetlights, there I see demons,
Detroit tonight is a warm bath of glow,
the sky is Aurora from coast to coast,
demons slip by cavorting at the wisp of your dead uncle,
or maybe your dead uncle was the one cavorting,
there's a slyph's spirit riding the wing,
tonight it isn't on a dare,
once there were cetaceans who could fly like this
at the whim of a witch's brew tossed into the sea,
today it's just a jetliner on Hallowe'en,
and the only cavorting demon in the sky is me.
Road Notes: San Francisco
I want her moist love biscuit; it's filled with the meat she craves.
I want her hot brown ring and its earthy, addictive smell.
I want her sweet little hole; gonna devour it.
I hate when someone on the train has a Dunkin' Donuts breakfast sandwich, coffee, and a Munchkin, and I don't.
Road Notes: Antioch, CA., 2PM
Vacation and a 45 minute shower. Do you know what this equals? It equals an unprecedented, rubbery length of out-time during which one's thoughts wander through the minds of your minds like a suave host of a very high to-do party; though,, more accurately, without a differing opinion to abound, it feels like an Algonquin Roundtable, but with those curved-arc tables, four of them together, so that there is an open bit of space in the middle. At each luxurious chair around the table in a mirror; in the middle of this eloquently intelligent donut is me, speaking, talking to the mirrors, talking and turning, talking and turning.
[sidereal sidenote]
Superman. It just occurred to me. Kryptonite doesn't kill him; it is merely a chemical defense mechanism - it makes him normal. It is camoflague, enabling him to fit in and appear as flawed and human as we, forcing him out of his Super-Nest, so that he may develop actual human talents, traits, and strengths.
Kryptonite was just Superman's high school.
Kryptonite wouldn't kill him; that was all a lie. But being 'Super' and being forced to feel like so many of us do every day...who wouldn't want to die?
Road Notes: Antioch, CA., 12:49AM in Newfoundland
You haven't been to the town of Buttplugger, Nowhere until you've passed miles of power towers and oil pipelines cutting across a MadMaxian landscape that, curiously, is often reported in the news as being without power. Luckily they do have enough traffic to choke off an ice age and a Best Buy to assure them they're part of civilization.
Spent 10 hours getting here, then 2 hours passing by San Francisco with the whoosh of a writer's deadline. Now time has dripped into my ears like taffy, all sonics have elongated to three hours within every one, and I envy the sleepers in Newfoundland.
Meanwhile, my electric toothbrush in my checked luggage was not confused for my dildo at the airport, just "a" dildo.
My dildo was, of course, in my carry-on.
Road Notes: O'Hare Intl. Airport, 9AM
"Everybody's...talkin' at me..."
Actually, it's just the President. Wonder what he's on about...in yet another momentous wrenching of blood from the stony irony of his incumbency, I do believe he is prattling on in a drony poo-poo against...propaganda. I have got to get famous, so I can party with this man.
Greeks, .Gypsies, the Eye-tal-iennes, and a Pole took a look around...the gauntlet is O'Hare, and we're all in the Running Game. Makes me want a cigarette, but I'll settle for the Bloody for now.
Oh, yes, I almost got arrested leaving Madison. Just before the security check is a large red sign warning of prosecution up to and including chemical castration for trying to bring a lighter onto a plane. Two feet later there is the security guard, leaning on his podium, against the left of which stands a trash barrel. TMan, ever the compliant traveler, and also still morning-groggy, remembered he was carrying a lighter and compliantly chucked it into the barrel.
Ten minutes later and with impressive efficiency, the three security guards, two Dane County Sheriffs, and two janitors re-filled the noisome contents of the trash barrel, after finding my discarded, now coffee-soaked lighter. I was let go with a harsh scolding about the horrific dangers of butane disposal, but it still makes me wonder:
Does anybody else always spell 'sheriff' with two rs - 'sherrif' - before correcting it? Or is that just me?
I plan to breathe you in, finally, plan to inhale you as if you are my atmosphere, which, of course, you have been for years, you just had no idea you were so connected to what makes me thrive.
I do not care how good it is, no spicy pasta soup should ever be served that, in fact, is so spicy, it makes one sneeze so hard that from one's nose flies the very pasta that makes up the foundation of said soup, fly in a way that only great bald eagles can fly, with the one note being that great bald eagles do not often fly all over your boss's silk blouse in the middle of a business meeting although, right now, you certainly wish one would.
Imagine All the People...
Imagine Mother Theresa hang gliding;
Imagine George Bush asking, "You want fries with that?"
Imagine Salvador Dali ran a preschool;
Imagine Katharine Hepburn laughing at one of your jokes.
Imagine Bruce Springsteen talking about operational effectivity;
Imagine Nefertiti bowling.
Imagine Albert Einstein winning at hopscotch on a cloudy day in Prauge;
Imagine David Lee Roth needlepointing.
Imagine Lucille Ball fronting the Plasmatics;
Imagine Emiril leaving the McDonald's drive-thru.
Imagine all the people.
11:11am somewhere, 11:18am here:
I just fished a big ugly once-flying now-dead something out of my Sam Adams. I am moved by it's sacrifice to the flight gods, but it still should have asked before bogarting my beer.
UPDATE: The bartender saw the bug corpse on my napkin, freaked, and...poured out what was still a decent 5/8ths of my perfectly good Sam Adams!
What a world, what a world...
This plane leaving Syracuse in the rain has got I must admit some lovely young lasses with lovely young asses wrapped in tight denims & cloth like candies: but imagine them all in a row? A row of dozens of human buttocks, metaphored into a hillocky flesh landscape...
...it even creeps me out.
frustration: I've developed a way to turn rocket fuel into dandelion seedlings, all pretty and white on the breezes, but it's a shame this is so impractical due to the cost of rocket fuel.
1,3,7,trimethylxanthine: 1000MG
.........................................................................
vmt
.... .. .......---- ----............ ....
bld
_____________-
sht
..........--........_
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dd
dd
dd
dd
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.
1,3,7,trimethylxanthine: 900MG
no no no no no no no no no
it was a cup of coffee it can't
h urt this muhhh muh
kiss
head splod
ee
nomorecofff e
1,3,7,trimethylxanthine: 800MG
No blood
b lood isn't in my ears not where I can hear
keys tympani
can't throw a bile no more stomach a wall
wall
a nut
small and hard don e
ringing in ears blood
steam
str
stream blood and tympani and
keys
one mo
more drink sip drinks ip
one more sip of cough
cough
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
1,3,7,trimethylxanthine: 700MG
Not fun anymore not fun many, or never days no time slippy nausea
breaking yet? No, just need a pizza.
need to sop up the acid
sop up the acid
op sup the acid
p ousp he taci d
sop
1,3,7,trimethylxanthine: 600MG
No sleepy, itchy itchy, my skin is crawling buggy not like flesh sores but with feet hurty feet like on centipedes they ripple over me then down through my dermis, through muscles, through organs and seem to settle in my belly where tey're turning every bit of solid energy I try to put in my body into a thick ichor that I am so sorry to report is voluminously finding its way out with much stench and circumstance.
1,3,7,trimethylxanthine: 500MG
Yesterday was it was 10/10, and today is 10/11. At 10:11 today I booked my flight to San Francisco, NOTE - that's at 10:11 on 10/11; isn't that weird? I almost booked it at 11:11 on 10/10, which is also weird, but I'm not sure which is weirder. As long as it wasn't at 11:11 on 11/11, cos who knows what would have happened then.
1,3,7,trimethylxanthine: 400MG
Can't do mondays can't do mondays can't even capitalize this monday it doesn't deserve it. I hate this, this....working. Always working. Actually don't always hate working, hate always working. There's a difference, and it usually makes itself clear on little-m mondays.
1,3,7,trimethylxanthine: 300MG
God, what did I do to myself last night...was that dancing? I remember dancing...I remember the dancing, but not the driving. Who was driving? I hope it wasn't me. It couldn't have been. It was cold last night, I would have been awake for that. I was awake for the llamas; that's how I know I wasn't driving.
Llamas, everywhere. No idea how I got there or when I passed out, but I woke up at the llama farm with the back of my head in a warm pile of the result of whatever it is llama's eat. I still smell like that pile, like some sort of rancid, crazy barley.
This coffee isn't helping. Three cups to get my limbs moving and my stomach jittering. Oy.
1,3,7,trimethylxanthine: 200MG
Sorta better, yes! What's it about 10AM? Beautiful Saturday morning; think I'll pour this into a travel mug and take a little walk around the cemetary. Love the changing colors of the leaves; so vibrant!
1,3,7,trimethylxanthine: 100MG
Just a little pressure, maybe I gotta pee. Not a lively morning. Need a lively morning. Maybe a half-cup of coffee.
Fog
Once in a while, a second's got to be taken to think not about the silver lining, but about the god's breath denoument, as it sighs to the ground, satisfied.
So. Last night. Me and Snuffleupagus. Four whiskeys, neat, no chaser, each. Red Label. The good stuff.
Snuffy, he usually stops at three. Last night, fight with the bird. Big fight. Big bird. Snuff called late, I dressed. Nearly closing time by then, so we had to pound them. Snuffy slammed #3 empty to the bar, had #4 in his big furry paw before I could say 'Halt, friend.' Boom. 2 oz no longer whiskey, now Whiskey + Snuffy.
Snuffy...he got ugly. Not a place to be at 2AM, country bar, country music, country men under cowboy hats testosterone-testy and percolating with ethanol when your drunken friend Snuffleupagus begins cursing out his lover in nasty, nasty language. When asked to stop the cursing by the bartender, it took one swing of that big brown trunk to send the place into chaos.
Snuffy woke me with trunk-nudging. I'd blacked out. Came to in the church parking lot four blocks away. Maybe three. Presbyterian. I could already tell - broken rib. Broken knuckle or two. Definitely I had a broken nose.
Snuffy though, he always managed to get off easy. He looked fine, big limpid eyes blinking, not a scratch on him. He does this to me every time. I swear - it's like they never even see him.
A French Fairytale
Ce petit porcelet est allé mettre sur le marché. Alors, ce petit porcelet est rentré. Quand ce petit porcelet a obtenu à la maison, il a commencé faire un petit déjeuner dernier. Les oeufs frisaient, le jus orange a été queezed, et l'odeur merveilleuse de viande érable-guéri a rempli la petite petite maison du porcelet.
Mais...the odeur merveilleuse...it était alors le petit porcelet s'est rendu compte il avait acheté...LARD FUMÉ! Non, sur non! La dépendance était arrière!
Avant qu'il ait ait su qu'il faisait il avait écrasé le verre de juice orange au plancher, envoyé les oeufs frisant dispersant leurs jaunes cassés à travers le réfrigérateur, et avait éclaboussé son museau dans la viande de cuisine. "Lard!" Il a marmotté dans la graisse, son museau frit. "Lardon!" L'odeur de son museau frisant seulement l'a fait plus fou pour le délicieuxment salé, le défi l'est le parfum céleste de sa propre cuisine de genre.
Les bruits tronqués venant de dans la petite maison du porcelet étaient sinistres et alarmant...but l'odeur était fantastique.
I caught the world premiere of the latest remake of "Dawn," this morning, and I have to say off the top that it started slowly, and I feel the exposition could have been cut down a bit more by a decent ACE; it played very much like a 'director's cut' from the kind of ego-high Hollywood favorite who feels everything they put to film is masterful and not a second should be left on the cutting room floor - think Vincent Gallo with even more time on his hands.
However, after the slow intro and dreadful exposition that nearly put me to sleep, the subtlety of the score brought a minimalistic, though varied sensation to the proceedings, adding a decent bit of drama and emotion via a few well-timed bird calls and the distant sound of a car engine. However, the masterstroke was the curious inclusion of a cicada buzz, despite the film taking place in early October; this anachronistic addition to the plot was dazzling, as with that single flourish of sound - this last lingering insect, likely the only one left of its kind, droning on proudly despite zero chance of completing its mating cycle before its demise - the director (who also scripted the story much in the vein of one of Robert Altman's more subtlely improvised endeavours) overcame the earlier downfalls to create a masterpiece.
For those interested, a sequel will be playing locally tomorrow morning around 6:53AM; check your local listings for national showtimes.
The possibility of life on other planets; A close encounter of the third kind (meeting an alien being).
A close encounter of the third kind (meeting an alien being); Anal probe.
Anal probe; Lubricate that thing!
Lubricate that thing!; I know I am thirty-six years old now and it is inevitable, but I'm going to put off getting the age old butt-guffaw of a rectal check until my prostate has swollen to the point where people will be able to see it from across the street.
I know I am thirty-six years old now and it is inevitable, but I'm going to put off getting the age old butt-guffaw of a rectal check until my prostate has swollen to the point where people will be able to see it from across the street; Compulsive shopping to the point where one would run through traffic for any oversized, gaudy trinket dangling in a shop window if it glittered the right way.
Compulsive shopping to the point where one would run through traffic for any oversized, gaudy trinket dangling in a shop window if it glittered the right way; Cher.
Cher; The possibility of life on other planets.
There is a term (for a band, for a song, perhaps for a touching novel containing points of view from disparate middle-aged women around the globe and how they feel deep in their hearts about the recent discovery that Georgia O'Keefe snored like a bandsaw in a bucket of bees) that I can't help but feel should be used for something, somewhere; the problem is, calling anything "Asparagus Micturation" guarantees it stinks.