Thursday, November 3, 2011

Tossing A Life Line

The computer is defragmenting, with the moving picture on the screen of molecules gadding whimsically between a pair of test tubes. When it's done, like it's time to wipe it's ass, a digital drain spout appears, vortex circling into the cyber-shit I dive into first thing every morning. Habits are always degrading.

There's no such thing as cyberspace. I'm still annoyed at the culture that grew from our failed dot com craze of 1990s. Great at holding a grudge, everyone was thrilled and smug about the new language, and the new Silly String jet of fresh perception. 'Cyberspace' was believed to be something so brilliant and accessible and intangible that it had to do a better job than God or Jesus at making them better off. And better than people who don't dig computers. I was still a pink ludite in the 1980s, and my ass is still stinging from the alienation that resulted.

I won't be mistaken for Noah. Last time I got a directive from on high, I was tripping. It was, like, take the things that made you an asshole, and place them in the forge. Then do an Aldous Huxley on the way people drink you in. Sell something. Wear a decent suit. Talk like a powerhouse.

You have to take your own turd-in-the-punchbowl dysfunctionalities and build an arc from the goofy timbers. The new salvation is in jettisoning from the boat the giraffes and zebras who might steal your job or default on the rent. Like Satan, a rhesis monkey is a liar. But you needn't sail alone. You will be needing an entourage when the raft of drift wood beaches. After the deluge, it's gonna be a gas.

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Dickhead's Fables

I was watching a rerun of The Untouchables, the black and white cop show from the wholesome 1960s, and there's a scene where a gangster pulls out a huge folding knife, pushes the blade through the back of an apolstered chair, and says, "See, with an eight inch blade you can kill a guy, like this."

Looked like a good idea. Better than trying it from the front, with an oyster shucker. Immediately, I went online to my favorite knife seller, a web site convenient as all get out, and like Jimmy Stewart stuttering, they had in stock an eighteen inch stilleto lock back knife with an eight inch blade, for ten bucks. I placed an order. It's a babe. Of all things, the quality of cheap tool steel has been improving wonderfully. The US is a debtor nation, and any four year old with a paypal account can cop a blade you can X people through a lounge chair with. You don't get blood on you jammies.


Deer round these parts grew lazy and trusting. Now don't y'all call PETA or the game warden, because this is all a kid's game of pretend, the buck behind the house is real as black plague.

The stiletto is in the inside secret weapons pocket of my Gap knock off of a Levy jacket. The knife is a cheap knock off of something Guido's utilize in film. The shoes are mail order from Wallmart, special for walking on modern synthetic office building floor. I'd like you to be fair enough to see how changing times are reflected in a different-from-last year fashion statement. It's punk.

I won't really try this at home. I just have to visualize charging into a large deer, doing a job on it before it realizes how serious things are. First I'd just stand still, looking calmly at the herd, like ususal.


Everywhere you looked, downtown was convivial as a barnload of white people doing the Hokey Pokey. We're a barn dance. Farmers. Farmers that drifed here thanks to the industrial revolution and failing family farms. I love it here. We have major league sports.

The dot com craze of the mid nineteen nineties made this town perfect because you can have anything cheap, and be anything cheap. That latter grace is because people are too inchoate to challenge each other's posturing. Why in Boston, people like me get picked apart. You can be anything you want here, because all folk are comparably delusional, made equal by mercury in the fish sandwich.

I'm optimistic about the whole crock of shit because. I'm armed with a brand new trademark weapon. I have my costume selected. My suit of lights. I believe I am a type of torreador. An unrecognized torreador. A bullfighter is quest of understanding. Toro. Toro.

None of this is real. It's about what can happen. I'm singing loud, deep, sonorous. The power ditty spiritual number I'm gutting off fills the passenger compartment of the paddy wagon. They picked me up like a blue plastic sack of empty beer cans on trash day. Using a long, cruel twist tie, like they close trash bags with, I can't use my hands for anything but finger snapping, and it's a pitiful rythme section to such an inspired type of song. I'm making it up, trying to drown out the siren, people in the wagon are squirming and bitching. We're like a a string of charms on a bracelet, linked together in this paddy wagon, going bumpety down the pot holes.