tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11456137670031570792024-03-12T19:01:15.266-07:00C.F. Roberts' Useless Filthc.f. robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10373817767704732392noreply@blogger.comBlogger109125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1145613767003157079.post-70488594086946050312022-08-13T00:07:00.000-07:002022-08-13T00:07:10.343-07:00IT MIGHT BE A BLOG...not sure<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz82KmxHCE5qJnbfrgcoPWeAjsHLmzvY2wrKQhfLB8lyfi0_RzxfHjMFdnQOg1fhHVvv7zYC0Hc4-SufifbqeWUdETUnJouw3ES6J3yEK1BzSZY02sbMvnOTYxnQwzKxBcgAZpWfFbi7vjFUdjQEcn1lKz3czZyAWQ-9tAgAQs-iO7C6hz8b2b1wTJ/s2560/IMG_20220813_014734.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="400" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1920" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz82KmxHCE5qJnbfrgcoPWeAjsHLmzvY2wrKQhfLB8lyfi0_RzxfHjMFdnQOg1fhHVvv7zYC0Hc4-SufifbqeWUdETUnJouw3ES6J3yEK1BzSZY02sbMvnOTYxnQwzKxBcgAZpWfFbi7vjFUdjQEcn1lKz3czZyAWQ-9tAgAQs-iO7C6hz8b2b1wTJ/s400/IMG_20220813_014734.jpg"/></a></div>
So I’ve hit (and am close to finishing) the penultimate chapter in book one of THE BIG UGLY. The actual last chapter is mainly falling action….the real action climaxes in this one. In many respects it closes the door on this part of the book and it opens the door on the next, introducing newer, better situations but also some new problems.
This has been one long, twisted process, transcribing/revising from both the original manuscript and the 2014 screenplay version, as well as adding new parts. With the whole drawing-from-new-sources thang a lot of it is, because, frankly, I’m a helluva lot better at writing dialogue than I was back then. Particularly the pivotal, story-changing conversation at the end of the chapter, which I feel is less forced and clumsy than the old version.
As far as new parts, that was something that originally came with the screenplay. The biggest elephant in the room is that the world is different now from the way it was in ‘89 and ‘90. Technology has changed the world drastically. Jack and his friends and enemies were originally living in a world that didn’t have social media—imagine THAT being folded into the story! How would Cyber Bullying play into the story?
You’ll hafta wait and see.
The societal landscape has generally evolved—granted the overall makeup of Brookdale High and Jack’s world have not changed that dramatically—he still lives in a buttfuck suburb and the bullies still run things. But we live in this whole other world, now.
Representation is a huge topic these days….racism isn’t a huge topic in the book—-there’s no bias against color—Blinky Epstein gets some antisemitism leveled at him, but it’s less because he is Jewish and more because he’s disliked, and the fact that he’s Jewish is just a handy excuse.
Homophobia, of course, is rampant…as far as gay representation, the only factor in either manuscript is Marc Hodge—--he’s awkward and effeminate and I never come out and say whether he’s actually queer or not—the fact of the matter is what happens to him is horrible, regardless of his orientation, so does it matter? The point isn’t his orientation—the point is that what happens to him is horrible.
As I’ve said before, as a teenager, I carried a kind of tacit homophobia in me which still had its remnants hanging on when I was first working on the book. I was shedding it at that time, but it took a while to rid myself of that kind of heteronormative thinking—it came from my upbringing, it came from the religion I was brought up in. It takes some time to deprogram yourself.
One thing I did in the current chapter (this dates back to the screenplay) involves the party at Doug’s house…it’s very much a split scene—-it’s a dual party thrown by Doug because he’s gotten a big art scholarship, and his older brother, who’s out of school and going into the military. So there’s an artificial and tentative divide between the basement and the rest of the house, high school kids and older kids/young adults who are out of school. The line blurs in this pseudo-dichotomy, because it’s a party, and everyone’s getting fucked up, regardless of what school they go to. Jack makes his way to the top floor to use the only available bathroom…on his way, he’s forced to fight his way past a situation where two guys are having some kind of an aggressive confrontation and it makes him afraid. On his way back he realizes that he completely misunderstood the confrontation and the two guys are making out. He stumbles through the scenario as a number of the guys’ friends have their cell phones going off and are chanting their approval. Jack, in his own thoughts, blunders through this tableau and becomes the accidental star of “half a dozen Tik Toks”. It’s a mindfuck to him, but in a positive way—as he notes, you don’t see this at Brookdale High. In a small way, anyway, it goes to show him that life after high school might offer a little less bullshit and a little more autonomy.
Anyway, I’ve got one chapter to go and it’s a small one and Book I is a done deal….so I’m fulfilling my goal of getting that bad boy knocked out. Book III is actually half-written, Book II is not done at all. In a lot of ways it will require the most change. It’s a mess. It’ll be the shortest—at least maybe the BRIGHTEST book of the novel before the bobsled ride through insanity of part three. This is not your standard Joseph Campbell Hero Journey…..I have no interest in following that. Jack hits a place where he can look at what he’s done and reaches the conclusion that in the long run things have turned out well and his work is probably done here. Whether you, the reader, agree with Jack’s assessment is entirely up to you. He’s that kind of narrator.
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In the Meantime, LOOK AT THIS DOG.
THIS WEEK’S PLAYLIST:
MAGMA-Udu Wudu
MAGMA-Attahk
REDD KROSS-Phaseshifter
<i>Copyright 2022 Molotov Editions</i>
c.f. robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10373817767704732392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1145613767003157079.post-63794393369642760922022-02-26T15:18:00.003-08:002022-02-26T15:36:18.692-08:00RANDO STUFF<i>I haven't posted much recently. You can tell I'm going through my files and
trying to consolidate some stuff. Throwing some stuff up because I don't want
y'all to get too lonely out there. Enjoy.</i>
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KEIN Will will will not be part Will will
will want to be a part Will want to be
a part not be part not of what was -
there was nothing not by what comes soon
not by anything of it ...
RED FLAG
Gwen was smashed . She dumped the contents of
her purse on the couch in a mad search for her cell phone. “Aw. What’s this?!”
She made a point of alerting my attention to the tiny wad of yellow, lined paper
among the trash. “How did this thing get here?” I honestly didn’t care about it,
but she followed herself up quickly and without prompting. “Okay, okay, it’s
coke,” she shouted, just a hair too loudly. “That doesn’t bother you, does it? I
mean, I do it sometimes. It’s not meth, I promise---I wouldn’t do that. Well, I
did do meth once, with my Ex, but I don’t do that anymore. You don’t mind, do
you? Well, I know you wouldn’t hold it against me…you wouldn’t, would you?
No….that’s what I love about you, baby. You’d never do that. I know you worry
about me, but you’d never judge 2 me, would you? I love you like that, babe…I’m
just sayin’ it, you know? I know hearing the ‘L’ word gets you nervous, but I
love you like that….you know? I’m just sayin’ it, okay, babe? I’m just sayin’ it
‘cause I’m sayin’ it ‘cause I’m sayin’ it…”
Copyright 2022 C.F. Roberts/Molotov
Editions
THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:
PINK FLOYD-Piper at the Gates of Dawn
PINK FLOYD-The Wall
BLACK SABBATH-Paranoid
STIC BASIN 3
<strike><strike></strike></strike>c.f. robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10373817767704732392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1145613767003157079.post-55690380333064645272022-02-26T14:46:00.004-08:002022-02-26T14:48:00.905-08:00I just found it lying around, so....<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZ3ZqdKdugBmoYU0agHn1xLv5SYUy7qUM1P9iTzUixSlJg0eIF1btsx0EqLLRtYNRT6Qr0iCNrIOZCJZih0EQhfqSSx4BoXjDKfAYjU14qZzTH1y_3JyKFXnnJG6_KvpvT43A_YMu-CqAjnJufvnmRgsig8sqqGRIAUviNs1-cYbOB-HoRThP7hkla=s3264" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="400" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZ3ZqdKdugBmoYU0agHn1xLv5SYUy7qUM1P9iTzUixSlJg0eIF1btsx0EqLLRtYNRT6Qr0iCNrIOZCJZih0EQhfqSSx4BoXjDKfAYjU14qZzTH1y_3JyKFXnnJG6_KvpvT43A_YMu-CqAjnJufvnmRgsig8sqqGRIAUviNs1-cYbOB-HoRThP7hkla=s400"/></a></div>
<i> It's the trajectory of every Little Hitler on every street corner in every godforsaken hamlet. You make a crack and get a wry laugh in return----is the laugh sympathetic, taken aback by the inappropriateness, resigned solidarity----or was it simple contempt you heard? Yes, you realize it was probably contempt. </i>
He loses; That's what he does. That's his primary function. He's not just a garden variety loser----he loses so spectacularly it feels like some kind of triumph. He loses at the top of his lungs, in broad, godforsaken daylight, screaming five miles down to the ground without a parachute.
He stumbles from one room to the next and contemplates the emptiness inside----literal, not figurative, due to the vast portions of innards that have been redistributed elsewhere for study. Maybe someday a cure for him will be found. Hope springs eternal.
Make no mistake---he's ugly. And not just on the outside.
His mind is a mess of sordid pictures---barbaric scenarios and bodily fluids---piss-and-jizz smelling backrooms, urine-and-tear-stained gauze curtains masking a legion of bleak sunrises, rectal residue pooling in bathtubs, violent, chaotic slapstick clown rape routines. The living end, hallmarks of what he tentatively terms “erectile therapy”. It's a long hit-and-miss process. He reckons there may be no silver bullet, no once-and-for-all boner pill, but he labors on like a mongoloid toddler, hoping the endless, degrading self-therapy will eventually help him feel like a man again....if he manages to remember how that feels.
“I thought I heard you say I'd never be a Man,” he remembers saying. It was some outing and the crowd in concern were his father and a group of his father's friends.
They all laughed obligingly. “Oh, no. it's okay! You'll be a man!” And clapped him on the back.
He was twenty-three.
The conversation still haunts him.
Tonight he will laugh and drink with friends, forget the ugly omens of tomorrow and ignore the terror in the cavities of his body left hollow.
He fantasizes about having no legs below the knees. He figures it's the next logical step in the rolling autopsy and hell, maybe he can live with it.
What kind of world will it be?
“A world where people like me don't have to be lonely.”
The marquis reads, TWO BILLION DEAD, NO WAITINGc.f. robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10373817767704732392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1145613767003157079.post-57018318569830764292021-06-08T03:48:00.000-07:002021-06-08T03:48:39.211-07:00DIOGENES<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gAn35FsqSzw/YL9KEAMU_cI/AAAAAAAABIk/YbZHYksqoVMdGUyI_-L3iKJPGc_HMclyQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/1280px-Diogenes_mit_der_Lampe_auf_Menschensuche_deutsch_17_Jh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="973" data-original-width="1280" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gAn35FsqSzw/YL9KEAMU_cI/AAAAAAAABIk/YbZHYksqoVMdGUyI_-L3iKJPGc_HMclyQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/1280px-Diogenes_mit_der_Lampe_auf_Menschensuche_deutsch_17_Jh.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> It seems as though I’ve spent
much of my life in search of a reliable narrator and they’re a lot
less frequent than you’d think. It’s way past the point of
Democrats and Republicans flailing in the dogshit of ideology; the
narrative of TruthTM these days is less a dichotomy and more a
smashed mirror, with various shards of divergent shapes and sizes all
over the floor, precarious to touch and hard to pick up and sift
through without cutting yourself to ribbons.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> On any given day I might ask,
father, what is the lesson? I might get nine hundred lessons from
nine hundred mooks all presuming to be a father of one sort or
another. Well, stand between the sun and me, douche…I might say,
tell me a story, storyteller, and it’s anyone’s guess what that
might invite….you might get the nice classic Jane Eyre or the
nudge-nudge-wink-wink edition complete with flesh eating zombies. Or
tomorrow’s grocery list. What passes for a story these days? Gone
is the time when you could leaf open THE NEW YORKER and find the new
literary lions cutting their teeth. THE NEW YORKER isn’t J.D.
Salinger anymore.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Then again,” I aside to my
neighbor at the bar, “I don’t think J.D. Salinger is even J.D.
Salinger anymore.” She gives me the side-eye and excuses herself.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> They all seem to do that these
days.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> It’s a lively night, regardless.
The noisy sons of bitches are engaged in their usual strip poker
match over at the big table. Taggart ups the ante by throwing in a
nine pound Silver Surfer doll. Pops throws all his cards down and
demands a new hand. Turk lights the whole pot on fire and it’s all
just in the middle of the table, burning merrily away, and it just
makes my heart swell with Patriotic sentiment---that’s when the
fire department bust in and hose the whole table down, and then
everybody’s throwing punches. Time to hit the floor.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I know this isn’t an ordinary
night when the reinforcements come in with the big hose. It’s about
a foot wide and gushes gallons of mayonnaise at a high
pressure----and when you see a big oak table like that collapse you
realize how much damage mayonnaise can do.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> It hits me that this isn’t the
regular town fire department when Beggs decapitates the fire
marshall. The big tip-off is when the fire marshall’s head sprouts
wings and grows to the size of a big man’s torso.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Goddamn killer androids.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> It flies around the bar cackling
for a while and eventually seizes Elsie, the barkeep’s daughter, in
its mouth---it flies around for a while before the real fire
department shows up. They’re all armed and they start taking pot
shots at the head.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> At this point I feel torn from my
role as terminal observer. “Watch out for Elsie,” I shout.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The fire department deserve the
benefit of the doubt, of course; they are professionals, after all.
Soon they’ve blown that confounded android head away and Elsie’s
safe and Taggart has even offered to mop up all the mayonnaise. He’s
a sport. It’s drinks on the house, and the barkeep’s two cats,
the blue one, Hitler, and the pink one, Bill Clinton, come to the
balcony, and the fire chief is pointing and laughing at the cats and
the cats are pointing and laughing at the fire chief.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> We all lose track of time. Old
Spike starts hammering away on the piano like a speedfreak and Elsie
leads everybody in a singalong of “Bonny Barbara Allen”. The
Denby boys from across the lake arrive on horseback and everyone buys
them a round---they buy their horses a round, too. And everyone’s
singing and laughing and joking and the barkeep and Elsie are
laughing and joking as are the crazy sons of bitches and the fire
department and the cats and the Denby boys and their horses and a
good time is had by all, and hell if I don’t even have a swell
time.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> And Bert, who works over at the
Reactor, grew an eleventh finger---really just kind of a
mini-finger….not utilitarian at all. Damndest thing.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VNT8KvOH2PY/YL9KPWLOLII/AAAAAAAABIo/R809hKH3VRwgXYK4Z_SYPdtcWqr0RB6hwCLcBGAsYHQ/s450/DiogenesAlexander.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="370" data-original-width="450" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VNT8KvOH2PY/YL9KPWLOLII/AAAAAAAABIo/R809hKH3VRwgXYK4Z_SYPdtcWqr0RB6hwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DiogenesAlexander.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><i>copyright 2021 C.F. Roberts/Molotov Editions</i><p></p>c.f. robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10373817767704732392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1145613767003157079.post-35686437132258225982021-05-23T12:33:00.000-07:002021-05-23T12:33:20.414-07:00DREAMING PART ONE<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PqH1gjd_u9Y/YKqrlDIvYmI/AAAAAAAABIc/1BBqclbxYoQhZlHNswnmK_uKIyCg427GACLcBGAsYHQ/s298/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="298" data-original-width="169" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PqH1gjd_u9Y/YKqrlDIvYmI/AAAAAAAABIc/1BBqclbxYoQhZlHNswnmK_uKIyCg427GACLcBGAsYHQ/s0/images.jpg" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><br /></p><p> I like to take all the nice things I see and collect them---it's a weird deal----I've got this funny collection full of all these peculiar items in the world that make me feel good; Memorabilia, souvenirs and all that, but mostly it's just stuff I can look at when I'm pissed off or stressed out and it puts me somewhere else and makes me feel a lot better about everything.</p><p> When I was eleven my Mom gave me a scrapbook. One of those scrapbooks you stick photos in, like a family album or something. She gave me this scrapbook and told me I could put anything in it that was important to me.</p><p> I think she wanted to get me off on the right start, so she kicked off the first couple of pages for me. They are easily my least favorite parts of the book; it's all snapshots of me when I was little and birthday cards and stuff from when I was like a year or two old, boring shit like that. Well, okay, maybe it's not totally boring, I bet anthropologists in a few centuries could have a blast with it, but to me it's just sort of depressing and I don't like to look at that stuff.</p><p><br /></p><p> So anyway, when she gave it to me, I started to throw stuff in there like there was no tomorrow. It got funny as hell, because I was eleven, and I was throwing anything in there that meant anything to me. I was just whipping out the scotch tape and throwing things onto the pages like a plastic army guy who had his head missing, stupid magazine ads, some pictures from a Batman comic, an Iris I picked, long-since wilted, a hot wheels car, an old shoelace....stuff like that. Pictures of meat in the newspaper supplement. Eleven-year-old kid nonsense. </p><p> </p><p> I got bored with it, because when you're a young kid you get bored with everything real quick, and then you move on to whatever. But I never throw things away if I can help it. This past Summer I unearthed the old scrapbook again and looked at it. It was great. I was all bummed out over something or other at that time and the contents of the scrapbook really busted my shit up. Being that it was such a dandy remedy for what ailed me, I decided to start collecting shit again.</p><p><br /></p><p> I'm older, now, and a little more mature, though I stress “a little”. I still have this scrapbook that's a heel of a lot stranger than most.</p><p><br /></p><p> I don't have too many personal things in it; no pictures of me or my parents or relatives, past the first couple pages my Mom threw in there---just different stuff. Big, splashy pictures of sunsets and mountains and islands and oceans and whatnot...places I'd like to go someday. I have this one page that's a cutout yearbook picture of Cheryl Kingsley from every year since eighth grade. It's the only reason I get the yearbook every year. It's the only use I have for it. All Cheryl's pictures are neatly arranged, all churchlike, on that one page. That's the shrine page, the holy page, the page page I have to prepare myself for up in my head before I look at it. </p><p><br /></p><p> Actually, though I largely don't like to stick personal pictures in it, there are always exceptions to the rule and I have my eighth grade school picture in the scrapbook. I hate pictures of me like a cossack, but that one was pretty mean. My Mom hates it. I think it's cool. I was wearing this denim jacket, and I looked all bedraggled and scruffy and dazed and my hair was all unruly and longish (Dad would have probably called it “long”. He thinks everything is “long”.). I looked like a real hoodlum or something. It was like I was in some old movie, getting my mugshot taken for prison.</p><p><br /></p><p> So there's that book, which nobody sees, but then there's this other one, like this little notebook, which I write in, and no one ever sees that, either. But it's a little red book, old-fashioned diary book I found in a flea market, with a little lock on it. I write in that book all the time. Yeah, I know, who writes in books anymore? I do. Poetry, ideas for stories, mostly dreams. The ones I remember, anyway. I hate the idea of “diaries”, or “journaling” but okay, so think of it as my dream book.</p><p><br /></p><p> Sometimes I think dreams are important----a lot of the time they're probably just your brain throwing up----sometimes I need to write them down, though, because I think about them and I think maybe they might mean something, and I'm wondering if they're trying to tell me stuff about the future, or everyone around me, or maybe just inner stuff about myself. I don't know, maybe it's all just brain vomit, but I always think about this stuff and wonder about it. </p><p><br /></p><p> The dream I had last night I remember in crystal-clear detail, which is real different....it is for me, anyway. Usually my dreams are all hazy and mixed up. This one wasn't, though.</p><p><br /></p><p> In the dream, I was home, sitting at the kitchen table, eating Cheerios. My parents were in the other room, watching TV. After I got done eating the cereal I decided to join them and see what they were watching. </p><p> </p><p> The Good Guy was on the screen, as was usually the case, going through the day-in-day-out, accepted ritual of emptying a gun into the Bad Guy. This time out, it was western times and they were dressed like cowboys. Sometimes it's modern times and The Good Guy is a cop and the Bad Guy is a crook. It's really always the same story.</p><p><br /></p><p> I looked over at my parents and they were frozen. They were just bolted in their chairs like a pair of zombies, staring straight ahead.</p><p><br /></p><p> I was crying, then, crying real hard. The Good Guy, on TV, kicked the fallen Bad Guy in the ribs and spat on him. The Good Guy always does those things. My parents just stared straight ahead.</p><p><br /></p><p> “Mom, Dad,” I said, and I was crying so hard I could barely talk, “I'm wrong. I'm always wrong. I'm sorry I'm wrong.” They kept staring straight ahead at the Good Guy, like I wasn't there.</p><p><br /></p><p> After trying a little longer to no avail, I left my parents frozen in their chairs. I walked halfway across the house so that I wouldn't have to see them anymore. Then I set about attempting to fly.</p><p><br /></p><p> I always fly in my dreams and I do it the same way every time. There's a knock to getting airborne, or at least I dream that there is. I guess it's similar to getting on a bike. Some people can ditch the training wheels faster than others. I was one of those flyers who needs a good head start.</p><p><br /></p><p> I got off the ground the way I always do in these flying dreams—basically the technique I use is to climb up the doorway in a spider walk and then just let go. If I get it right I can stay afloat in mid-air.</p><p> </p><p> I made it after maybe two or three tries, which is usually what it takes. The first few seconds of one's hover are the most tenuous, and it always feels wicked white knuckles to me. You need to be bouyant in that time and not do anything stupid, like land back on your feet. That could ruin the whole thing.</p><p><br /></p><p> I successfully got past those first few seconds of instability and settled gently into float-mode. It felt good, real, pure and alive, as it always does in these dreams. I felt myself rise from five feet off the ground to six as I swam through the air toward the front door. </p><p><br /></p><p> I seized and turned the doorknob, gave the wooden barrier a shove and let myself out. Once I'd gotten out the door it was easy to fly up to eight or nine feet. The best thing about flying is that once you get going the easier it becomes. </p><p> </p><p> I flew down the length of Dearden Street and turned left on Richdale Road, which I followed down half its length until it intersected with Cook Hill Road. When I fly in my dreams I find that I almost always stick to the roadways. I don't know why. Fear of getting lost?</p><p><br /></p><p> Cook Hill Road is this steeper-than-the-steepest hill that causes people in our neighborhood a lot of trouble in the Winter. I looked and saw these two kids barreling downhill on their bikes. The local kids live Cook Hill, riding downhill and playing daredevil. It's one of those roads you can build lots of speed on with your bike. It's cool, like being on a rollercoaster.</p><p><br /></p><p> The part which kids never consider is that the hill spills out onto Windham Street, which is the main road. The traffic there, and there's always a lot of it, careens by, both ways, at forty miles an hour. So it's always pretty dangerous. Kids never think about that shit. </p><p> The two kids hit Windham Street and swerve in opposite directions, one nearly falling off her bike. When they saw there wasn't any traffic headed their way, they both rode across the street to the 7-11.</p><p> Me, I can fly, though, so I bypassed the 7-11 and headed up Windham Street towards downtown Brookdale. I flew past the fresh vegetable stand that's only open part of the year, the garage that's owned by the old Korean guy, and the Delprete House, this old house that's been empty and rotting away for decades. The kids all say it's a murder house, but I don't know how true that is. </p><p> Further up I saw a dead squirrel in the road, another daily sacrifice we make to the cruel, grinning, chromefaced god of automotive convenience. </p><p><br /></p><p> I tried to look away, but I looked away too late. The little grey body seemed like it had been stretched out on the rack or something. Its inner meat dominated the scene, plastered all over the pavement looking like some creep had decided to garnish the poor thing with salsa for a joke.</p><p><br /></p><p> I shut my eye and my jaw loosened and tightened in involuntary spasms. I didn't see its face, but I'm certain that, had I chosen to look further, I would have seen the last expression it wore, and I know it would have been twisted in pain.</p><p><br /></p><p> I opened my eyes in time to see an oncoming tree before feeling my forehead scrape the bark and then I was in the gully in Springfield in the back of Freddy Dugan's house. I was in first grade again. Freddy and Lucci were there, throwing rocks at me. One hit me square in the forehead, same exact spot that had collided with the tree, and I saw the blood and then there was a loud screech.</p><p><br /></p><p> The screech turned out to be my alarm clock. It was Monday morning, time for school and once again my slumber and peace had been raped by the crazy house in my head.</p><p><br /></p><p> <i> Copyright 1989 C.F. Roberts/2021 Molotov Editions</i></p><p><br /></p><p> DON'T COME KNOCKING DEPT. # 947: Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know back as last year ended I was talking about doing a final bag-and-tag of the Trump years. It's been almost six months and to be honest I got less important things to do. There's enough stupidity and fuckery in all directions to go around and I divorced myself permanently from politics during the primary. The further away from it I get the better I feel, and if you ever need me to come help you get your boy, or girl, or whoever, elected, look elsewhere. I ain't your ally, buckaroo. I gave at the office.</p><p> Thank you, drive through----</p><p><br /></p><p>THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:</p><p>MAX ROACH & CLIFFORD BROWN-The California Concerts 1954</p><p>FUNKADELIC-Funkadelic</p><p>HAWKWIND-Astonishing Sounds</p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>c.f. robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10373817767704732392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1145613767003157079.post-64756293327213100342021-04-28T09:59:00.004-07:002021-04-28T09:59:50.282-07:00And Etc.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-azVT0jRPkzo/YImSul1CJBI/AAAAAAAABIA/J_w7Ta4MbGIIQCMteV-GgKUJYAAaqIg_QCLcBGAsYHQ/s1300/133684819-pink-musical-notes-on-pink-pastel-color-background-music-idea-concept-3d-render-.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="731" data-original-width="1300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-azVT0jRPkzo/YImSul1CJBI/AAAAAAAABIA/J_w7Ta4MbGIIQCMteV-GgKUJYAAaqIg_QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/133684819-pink-musical-notes-on-pink-pastel-color-background-music-idea-concept-3d-render-.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">THE PINK MUSIC NOTE CANDY</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I wanted the pink music note candy. I
saw it in a picture book. It looked exquisite beside the illustration
of the smiling child. The child in the picture was delighted; the
pink music note candy was within her grasp. I knew that, the way it
looked, the pink music note candy would be the sweet pinnacle of all
candy taste joy, its petal-colored softness melting into my palate
would be heavenly.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I went to the living room where my
parents were entertaining some aunts and some grandparents. They were
occupied in their austere, adult way, having coffee and talking. I
told them I wanted the pink music note candy. They told me there
wasn't any. I showed them the picture in the book. They told me there
wasn't any.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I threw a temper tantrum, then,
demanding the pink music note candy. I saw the picture. I knew it was
there. I upset some of the china on the coffee table. They scolded me
and sent me to bed. There I cried all night, weeping and screaming
for the pink music candy. I never saw that picture again, nor did I
ever hppen upon the pink music note candy. My life has a hole shorn
in it now and I suspect it shall ever be so. It will always be devoid
of something because of that ethereal childhood pleasure missed. The
long ago tantalizing picture burns in my memory. My days are a weary
quest. I crave the pink music note candy, and I must have the pink
music note candy.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
1993, rev 2021</p><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CnCRqNpIKcE/YImTdePXpaI/AAAAAAAABII/Mi4H5jAImZUxvoHwb_2ZNuHkNWBfAfwUQCLcBGAsYHQ/s626/pink-music-note-icon-isolated_53876-71270.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="626" data-original-width="626" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CnCRqNpIKcE/YImTdePXpaI/AAAAAAAABII/Mi4H5jAImZUxvoHwb_2ZNuHkNWBfAfwUQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/pink-music-note-icon-isolated_53876-71270.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">CITYSCAPE</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">all becomes abstract and
unreal</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">color and sense dulls</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">people gaggle and gobble
in the wings</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">like Thanksgiving turkeys
primed for martyrdom</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">life tumbles ahead in
oceans</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">distorted through the haze
of</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">tinted bottles</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">1993 rev 2021</span></p><br /><p></p><p><i>copyright 1993 C.F. Roberts, 2021 Molotov Editions</i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p>THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:</p><p>REDD KROSS-Hot Issue</p><p>REDD KROSS-Born Innocent</p><p>STARCRAWLER-Devour You</p>c.f. robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10373817767704732392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1145613767003157079.post-20901949395472551192021-01-27T03:07:00.004-08:002021-01-27T03:07:28.819-08:00THE GOOD GUY<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-I0XSuBulhsc/YBFH9wyyjPI/AAAAAAAABFo/0cV0Qhe9Si89Tp7jMiyqGRI8Q7oVJmd3QCLcBGAsYHQ/s720/suicide%2Bking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="720" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-I0XSuBulhsc/YBFH9wyyjPI/AAAAAAAABFo/0cV0Qhe9Si89Tp7jMiyqGRI8Q7oVJmd3QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/suicide%2Bking.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Excerpt from the forthcoming novel, THE BIG UGLY</p><p><br /></p><p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> jackie</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> JACKIE</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <i>I need all of you to
understand one thing</i></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> listen to us, jack</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <i>Pigs hung this man on a
cross because he was a GOOD GUY</i></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> they told us it was a bad
thing jack a VERY BAD THING</p><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><i>copyright 1990 C.F. Roberts, 2021 C.F. Roberts/Molotov Editions</i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9yJejGiNRTk/YBFJLDKWZiI/AAAAAAAABFw/yKVvEb3atP8G2Yskle_FevB3Wz0DxRaiQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/christ%2Bversion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1489" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9yJejGiNRTk/YBFJLDKWZiI/AAAAAAAABFw/yKVvEb3atP8G2Yskle_FevB3Wz0DxRaiQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/christ%2Bversion.jpg" /></a></div><br /><i><br /></i><p></p>c.f. robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10373817767704732392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1145613767003157079.post-27548871392147279282021-01-25T03:20:00.001-08:002021-01-25T03:46:54.315-08:00SCENES FROM AN IMAGINARY MOVIE: HELLO, UGLY 11-13<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_mJxHag9uXc/YA5MyaVtFmI/AAAAAAAABFU/E87MrDXETTwkpHgzyMu8Ii6m5zy4Ss0kQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/eagle.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1489" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_mJxHag9uXc/YA5MyaVtFmI/AAAAAAAABFU/E87MrDXETTwkpHgzyMu8Ii6m5zy4Ss0kQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/eagle.jpg" /></a></div>TRIGGER WARNING: AUTHENTIC DIALOGUE<br /><p></p><div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<ol>
<li><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">INT. THE GYMNASIUM, BROOKDALE HIGH
SCHOOL. A SECTION OF THE BLEACHERS IS PULLED OUT AND THE BOYS’ GYM
CLASS ARE SEATED ON THEM. MOST OF THE CLASS ARE DRESSED FOR GYM;
TEESHIRTS, SHORTS, SWEATS AND SNEAKERS---WITH THE EXCEPTION OF A
SMALL CONTINGENCY OF STONERS, WHO ESCHEW GYM WEAR AND GIVE OFF AN
AIR OF PRACTICED DISINTEREST. DOWN TOWARD THE FRONT, BRYAN HARRIS
AND A NUMBER OF HIS FRIENDS, ALL POPULAR JOCKS, HANG TOGETHER AND
LAUGH AND JOKE. SEVERAL ROWS BACK, THE CAMERA PANS ACROSS JACK AND A
MOTLEY ASSORTMENT OF CAST-OFFS: BLINKY EPSTEIN, A SMALL, INTENSE,
BESPECTACLED BOY, MARC HODGE. A LANKY, AWKWARD, EFFEMINATE BOY WITH
AN UNEVEN HAIRCUT, AND HANNIBAL, A SKINNY, MEAN-LOOKING KID WITH
RATLIKE FEATURES.</p>
</li></ol>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">THE CLASS IS BEING
LECTURED AND BERATED BY COACH BELLOW, A CRAGGY, 50ish GYM COACH. ON
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE GYM, THE GIRLS’ GYM CLASS IS SITTING ON
ANOTHER SET OF BLEACHERS AND THEY ARE BEING LECTURED BY THEIR GYM
COACH.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
BELLOW:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">I know a lot of
you ladies have been habitually turning up out of uniform (BRIEF CUT
TO THE STONER KIDS, LOOKING BORED) and not participating, and we’ve
been going real easy on you….that is OVER as of this semester. You
don’t show up in uniform, you don’t participate, you get a
failing grade for the day!</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">\</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK (V.O.):</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">There’s this
long-running myth that we youngsters go to P.E. to get some
much-needed circulation and to help build our young bodies. It’s a
crock of shit, of course. This class has, since the puberty heyday
of Junior High, revolved around our dicks, and not much else. It’s
a big, staged battleground, where we get our manhood tested, and not
everyone wins.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">DURING DIALOGUE
AND NARRATION, A SILENT SCENARIO PLAYS OUT:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">JACK GAZES OVER AT
THE GIRLS ON THE BLEACHERS ACROSS THE GYM. CHERYL KINGSLEY IS ONE OF
THE GIRLS IN THAT CLASS. HE STARES WISTFULLY ACROSS THE GYM AT HER.
SHE APPEARS TO BE LOOKING BACK. SEVERAL ROWS BELOW, BRYAN HARRIS
GAZES AT HER AND SMILES. CUT TO CHERYL, LOOKING BORED BUT ALSO
SMILING.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
BELLOW:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">Anyway, ladies. As
the weather’s bad and we can’t put your sorry butts through too
much wear and tear, I’ve got paperwork to do, so you get to play
Bombardment.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">(AN ASSISTANT
COACH DRAGS OUT A LARGE SACK OF PINKISH-PURPLE KICKBALLS AND DUMPS
THEM ON THE FLOOR.)</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">GENERAL RELIEF AND
EXCITEMENT FROM THE BOYS. THE ASSISTANT COACH PUSHES A SLIDING
PARTITION CLOSED, SEPARATING THE GIRLS’ END OF THE GYM FROM THE
BOYS. JACK WATCHES CHERYL DISAPPEAR BEHIND THE PARTITION.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
BELLOW:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">Harris and
Redmond! You guys are captains. Now, behave yourselves, girls…(HEADS
OUT BACK, LEAVING THE BOYS MORE OR LESS UNSUPERVISED).</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">BRYAN HARRIS AND
PHIL REDMOND, ANOTHER OF THE JOCKS, CHOOSE</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">PLAYERS.
EVENTUALLY IT WHITTLES DOWN TO THE STRAGGLERS.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
REDMOND:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Hannibal.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">HANNIBAL JOINS
REDMOND’S TEAM.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
BRYAN (pointing out Jack):</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Shit-for-brains. (JACK REFUSES TO MOVE) What
are you, deaf? (JACK STANDS, DEFIANT) Pettet! Come on! (JACK CONCEDES
TO STEP IN WITH THE TEAM, FOLLOWED BY SNICKERS. ONE BOY SAYS,
“DUUHHHH”.)</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
BRYAN:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Fuckin’ space cowboy…</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
REDMOND:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
I’ll take Hodge.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">MARC HODGE JOINS
REDMOND’S TEAM. ONE OF THE OTHER KIDS CALLS HIM, “FAGGOT”.
SEVERAL OTHERS LAUGH AND MAKE FART SOUNDS.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"> BLINKY, ODD
MAN OUT, JOINS HARRIS’S TEAM.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
BRYAN:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Hey, trade.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
REDMOND (LAUGHING):</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Yeah, right?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
BRYAN:
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Come on! Blinky for Levine---whaddya say?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
REDMOND:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Sure, guy….
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
BRYAN:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">Okay….check it
out. The Jew and the mouthbreather, here, for Levine. You outnumber
us.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
REDMOND:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Throw in Quinn.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
BRYAN:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Cut me some slack, man, you outnumber us!</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
REDMOND:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">Yeah, with cannon
fodder! (Bryan looks upset) Alright---tell you what---I’ll take
your trade and you’ll STILL be cryin’ for your Mommy at the end
of this game.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
BRYAN:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">That’s what I’m
talking about….now we’re cookin’ with gas.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
REDMOND:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">Jack, Blinky, come
on. (JACK AND BLINKY CROSS OVER AND LEVINE, A BIGGER, STRONGER KID,
GOES TO HARRIS’S SIDE. SEVERAL OF THE KIDS START CHANTING, “JEWBOY”
AT BLINKY.)</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
BLINKY:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
HEY! (STOPS HALFWAY. GETTING IN LEVINE’S FACE.)
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">You’re Jewish
too, you fuck. Why don’t you say something? (LEVINE SMILES AND
SHRUGS. ONE BOY YELLS, “COME ON. YOU PUSSIES!”)</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
LEVINE:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">I might be half
Jewish, but I’m not a whiney kike like you, Lipschitz.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">BLINKY LETS IT
DROP AND ANGRILY CROSSES TO THE OTHER TEAM AMIDST CATCALLS.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
HODGE (to Blinky):</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">They’re bigger
than you---they’re stronger than you. Too. Do you wanna be a hero?
Do you wanna die a virgin?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
BLINKY:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">Fuck you,
man---grow some balls, or at least some dignity!</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
HANNIBAL:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">Okay. Girls---you
can have your family spat later---let’s put the hurt on!
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">THE TWO TEAMS
CONVERGE IN BATTLE. BOMBARDMENT IS A VARIATION OF DODGEBALL, WHERE
TWO TEAMS ARE ARMED WITH A DOZEN OR SO BALLS. RATHER THAN BEING “OUT”
WHEN HIT, PLAYERS IN BOMBARDMENT ARE SIMPLY ABSORBED INTO THE OTHER
TEAM. THIS GOES ON UNTIL ONE TEAM REMAINS.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">BALLS FLY AND
SEVERAL BOYS ARE HIT. BLINKY TAKES A BALL DIRECTLY TO THE FACE. HODGE
IS HIT IN THE LEG AS HE TRIES TO FLINCH AWAY FROM THE BALL. JACK
MAKES IT PAST THE FIRST ROUND. HE SEIZES A
BALL FOR HIMSELF, THROWS IT AT BRYAN BUT MISSES. HANNIBAL HITS A
LARGER BOY POINT BLANK IN THE STOMACH. AS THE KID FALLS OVER,
HANNIBAL SEIZES THE REBOUNDING BALL AND HITS HIS FALLEN VICTIM IN THE
FACE WITH IT.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
HANNIBAL:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Suck on that, Biff!</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">MORE BALLS FLY
BACK AND FORTH. KIDS ARE HIT AND THEY TRADE BACK AND FORTH ON TEAMS.
AT ONE POINT, JACK ENDS UP ON BRYAN’S TEAM. DODGING A BALL, JACK
STUMBLES PAST BRYAN, WHO “ACCIDENTALLY” ELBOWS HIM IN THE FACE.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">CUT TO: THE GYM
LOCKER ROOM. CLOSE-UP ON BRYAN HARRIS, IN THE SHOWER.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
BRYAN (Booming like a foghorn):</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
CUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNT!!!!!!!</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
ANOTHER BOY (Picking up the yell):</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Clit-TORIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">THE CAMERA PANS
DOWN THE ROWS OF LOCKERS WHERE THE BOYS ARE CHANGING. DOWN ONE ROW WE
SEE A VERY LARGE BOY GRAB BLINKY BY THE SHOULDERS AND SLAM HIM, HARD
AND REPEATEDLY, INTO THE LOCKERS. HANNIBAL IS PULLING OFF HIS SHIRT
AND OBSERVING THE SCENE DISPASSIONATELY.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
LARGE BOY:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">WHAT?! WHAT?! You
little kike faggot----don’t you EVER! TALK! BACK! To ME! AGAIN!</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">THE CAMERA MOVES TO THE NEXT ROW. JACK
IS CHANGING UP. ONE BOY, BILL COURTNEY, ADDRESSES JACK.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
COURTNEY:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Hey, Jackie----whaddya think of Debbie Lord?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
JACK (V.O.):</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Bill Courtney is not my friend and he
doesn’t care what I think. He’s trying to fuck with me.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
COURTNEY:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Well, I think she’s fuckin’ hot,
man---I can just see her spreading her legs in front of me, that hot
monkey of hers open wide, and that clit of hers shooting out six
inches for me to taste….</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
JACK:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Hot Monkey”?
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">BEHIND JACK, A TUBBIER BOY NAMED BILLY
ARSENAULT SITS DOWN.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
BILLY:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Don’t waste yer time,
Courtney---Jackie’s not interested in girls, are ya, Jackie-Wackie?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">JACK GLARES AT ARSENAULT.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
COURTNEY:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Woah-ho-ho, careful,
Billy, I see his nostrils flaring.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
BILLY:
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Aw, it’s cool. Me and Jack have an
understanding. Why doncha come on over and suck my left nut just
once, Jackie?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
JACK:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Why don’t you come suck my ass
forever, Arsenault?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
BILLY:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Gee, Jack, I didn’t know
you were that kind of girl!</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">COURTNEY, AT THIS POINT, IS TEASING
MARC HODGE WITH PHIL LEVINE. HE HAS FORGOTTEN ALL ABOUT JACK.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
COURTNEY:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Hey,
Hodge. ever fart?
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
HODGE:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
What?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
LEVINE (stupid & slurring):</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Whuuuuut?”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
COURTNEY:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Do you ever fart?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
HODGE(after a long, nervous pause):</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Yeah. Yeah, I fart….</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
COURTNEY:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
I don’t!</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
HODGE(dumbfounded):</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
What? Y-yes, you do…..I….</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
COURTNEY AND LEVINE:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">\</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">ONLY DWEEBS CUT
THE CHEESE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (LEVINE SNAPS HODGE’S ASS WITH HIS TOWEL.
HODGE FLINCHES AND TRIES TO GET AWAY.)</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
LEVINE (laughing):</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Faggot! (FARTS LOUDLY)</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"> CUT TO: JACK
WATCHING THIS SCENARIO WITH DISGUST. BEHIND HIM, BILLY ARSENAULT
GRINS.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
BILLY:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Whatsamatter Jackie-poo----you saving it for Marc? You wanting to
give him the high, hard one in the butt? (JACK GLARES AT BILLY
ARSENAULT AND WALKS OUT OF THE AREA) Oh, Jackie, don’t walk out on
me now!!!!!!!
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">12. OUTSIDE IN THE
HALLWAY. THE BOYS ARE LINED UP IN THE HALLWAY OUTSIDE THE GYM,
WAITING FOR THE BELL TO RING. JACK,</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">LOOKING SICK TO
HIS STOMACH, IS TOWARD THE FRONT OF THE LINE.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">SNIPPETS OF
CONVERSATION POP OUT OF THE CROWD---“MY DICK, YOUR SISTER.”
“FAGGOT.” “POONTANG”.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK (V.O.):</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">We’re not
civilized. It’s a fucking Barbarian testing ground, and people love
and support the shit, top to bottom. It’s a joke. Making the Grade.
Proving you’re Man enough. Maybe, deep down, people have this
stupid-ass need to be powerful and strong and moronic and bigoted
and ass-kicking. Maybe it’s all just nature. Maybe that makes me
the unnatural one. They’d agree to that, I’m sure. I think I’d
rather be dead than have to live by their Nazi Jockstrap code of
ethics.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">DISSOLVE TO A
FLASHBACK OF THE MANDATORY PEP ASSEMBLY FOR THE HOMECOMING GAME IN
NOVEMBER.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK (V.O.)</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">It was an assembly
for the Homecoming Game. Brookdale Nuremburg. Why the hell are these
things Mandatory? I mean, why do we all have to go? All more Master
Race Mania. People can hype up all the bovines into a bloodthirsty
frenzy---we must be fiercely loyal to our alma mater and rally behind
those real men, The Brookdale Lions.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">THROUGHOUT THE
NARRATION THE CAMERA PANS ACROSS THE GYM AND WE SEE FACULTY MAKING
EXCITED SPEECHES, CHEERLEADERS DOING THEIR ROUTINES, THE LIONS
(Brookdale’s football team) CHARGING INTO THE GYM AND EVERYONE
CHEERING AND GOING BERSERK. THE CAMERA FINALLY SETTLES IN ON A
MALCONTENTED, APATHETIC LITTLE SECTION OF THE BLEACHERS. JACK AND A
NUMBER OF OTHER OUTCASTS SEEM TO BE STOICALLY TOLERATING ALL THE
GOINGS ON.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK (V.O.):</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">Everyone was
having the usual conniption fit, making the wave, stomping and
yelling. It’s been a black mark regularity since Junior High that
there’s always one Deviant little
section at these things who don’t act up, never make noise….that’s
cool by me, ‘cause I guess that’s where I belong in the scheme
of things. We are a sad lot….so unpatriotic. So lacking in pep.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
VOICE:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Jack!!!!!</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">JACK LOOKS DOWN
TOWARD THE FLOOR. CAROL GATES AND HER BEST FRIEND, ZOE MILLER, ARE
STRAGGLING IN. ZOE, DWARFED BY CAROL, LOOKS LIKE A BOHEMIAN
NIGHTMARE.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Zoe! How’s your attitude?!
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
ZOE (yelling):</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
My attitude sucks!!!!! (THE TWO GIRLS SHUFFLE OFF IN
AN ATTEMPT TO FIND SEATS)
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">SEVERAL MORE SHOTS
OF CHEERLEADERS FORMING PYRAMIDS, PEOPLE CHEERING AND JACK’S LITTLE
SECTION OF BLEACHER LOOKING APATHETIC.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">CUT TO: SCHOOL
LETTING OUT---JACK MAKES A QUICK EXIT INTO THE STUDENT PARKING LOT.
CHERYL KINGSLEY AND A GAGGLE OF HER FRIENDS CROSS JACK’S PATH. THE
GIRLS ARE IN MID-CONVERSATION.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
CHERYL:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
…Heard she’s going with Steve…</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JO ANN :</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
OH-MY-GOD!</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
AMY:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
He is SOOOO hot….</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JILL:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
But SHE’S so….</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br /></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">JO ANN BREAKS FREE
OF THE GROUP AND GETS UP IN JACK’S FACE.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JO ANN:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"> Oh, HI,
honey, you’re so CUUUUUUUUUUUUUUTE….</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">THE GIRLS EXPLODE
INTO LAUGHTER. JACK CONTINUES ON, HEAD DOWN. BRIEF SHOT OF CHERYL,
LOOKING BACK, NOT LAUGHING. JACK DOES NOT SEE THIS.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">A FEW ROWS OVER, A
MOB OF KIDS BURSTS OUT OF THE GYMNASIUM . IT IS MADE UP OF MEMBERS OF
THE FOOTBALL TEAM AND OTHER KIDS. THEY ARE CARRYING A LARGE, PAPIER
MACHE CAGE CONSTRUCT WITH A LARGE POSTERBOARD SIGN ON IT, READING,
“STOMP THE EAGLES”.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">JACK WATCHES AS
THE MOB STORMS ACROSS THE STREET AND OFF SCHOOL PROPERTY. THE KIDS
FORM A CIRCLE AND THERE IS MUCH COMMOTION, JUMPING AROUND AND
CHEERING. JACK DRAWS CLOSER, STILL MAINTAINING A COMFORTABLE
DISTANCE. IN THE CENTER OF THE MOB, TWO BOYS HAVE TAKEN THEIR SHIRTS
OFF. THEY BEAT EACH OTHER BLOODY AS THE OTHER KIDS CHEER THEM ON. THE
FIGHT EVENTUALLY GRINDS TO A HALT, AND EVERYONE BRINGS THE TWO TIRED,
BLOODY COMBATANTS TOGETHER TO SHAKE HANDS AND MAKE UP. AS THE TWO
ATTEMPT TO DO THIS, SOME OF THE CROWD VIOLENTLY SHOVES ONE BOY INTO
THE OTHER AND THE BRAWL STARTS UP AGAIN. IT DOESN’T LAST LONG,
THOUGH, AND EVENTUALLY, THE BOISTEROUS MOB BREAKS UP AND RETURN TO
SCHOOL GROUNDS TO PACK IT IN, CATCH THEIR BUSES, DRIVE HOME OR
WHATEVER.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"> JACK
PASSIVELY WALKS ACROSS THE STREET TO GET A LOOK AT THE TABLEAU. THE
GROUND IS ALL TORN UP, TORN BITS OF CLOTHING, RIBBON AND THE PAPIER
MACHE CAGE, WHICH LIES IN RUIN, ARE STREWN EVERYWHERE. THE “STOMP
THE EAGLES” SIGN BLOWS BY LIKE A TUMBLEWEED.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"> IN THE
MIDDLE OF THE MESS, JACK FINDS A DEAD BIRD, OBVIOUSLY A SACRIFICIAL
“MASCOT” FOR THE OPPOSING TEAM, THE EAGLES, THE BIRD HAS
LITERALLY BEEN STOMPED TO DEATH. JACK GLARES AT THE DEAD BIRD,
DOUBLES OVER, VOMITS AND BEGINS CRYING UNCONTROLLABLY. EVENTUALLY, HE
REGAINS SOME COMPOSURE, SUMMONS HIS STRENGTH AND DIGS A SMALL HOLE
IN THE DIRT. HE PUSHES THE BIRD INTO THE HOLE WITH HIS FOOT AND
PUSHES THE DIRT BACK OVER IT. HE PULLS HIMSELF TOGETHER AND LIMPS
BACK TO THE EDGE OF THE ROAD.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br /></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"> BEFORE HE CAN
CROSS, A SMALL, BLUE CAR ZOOMS BY. IT IS FILLED WITH KIDS. “STOMP
THE EAGLES” IS SCRAWLED ACROSS THE CAR IN SHAVING CREAM. ONE BOY
HANGS HALFWAY OUT THE WINDOW AND LEERS AT JACK.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
KID (tongue hanging out):</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
MUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">THE CAR SPEEDS
AWAY. JACK STARES AFTER IT, LOOKING WOUNDED.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK(V.O.):</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
It was the face of everything people stand up and cheer for.
(AS JACK’S NARRATION CONTINUES, THE SCENE DISSOLVES BACK TO HIM,
STANDING IN LINE IN THE HALLWAY.) This world is a meat factory. It’s
a slaughterhouse jockeyed by goons who wear the hallowed school
colors. I can dream up plenty of nice images and memories to make me
say, oh, it’s not that bad---then the dead bird pops up again and
proves me wrong. Hell, it was patriotic! It was good, clean fun! It
was for pride, for the fucking Lions! It was apple pie and “be
true to your school”.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">THE BELL RINGS,
JERKING JACK OUT OF HIS FUNK. HE BEGINS MOVING FORWARD, BUT IS
OBVIOUSLY STILL DISTURBED.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
BILLY (moving up behind him):</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">Move yer big, fat
smelly ass, you faggot retard! Some of us have to get to…</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">JACK WHIRLS AROUND
AND THROWS A RIGHT CROSS TO BILLY ARSENAULT’S JAW. BILLY FALLS
BACKWARD INTO THE CROWD. STILL HOT, JACK TURNS AND CONTINUES WALKING,
VERY QUICKLY. BILLY STAGGERS BACK UP THROUGH THE CROWD AND SLAMS HIS
LOOSELEAF NOTEBOOK DOWN SQUARELY ON JACK’S HEAD. HE STUMBLES OFF TO
THE SIDE AND JACK CONTINUES WALKING.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
What was that----a piece of paper??? (CONTINUES WALKING, VERY
QUICKLY) (V.O.): I figure I save about as much face as he did. I
pretend I’m walking away with dignity…just a little, just a tiny
bit….</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">13. INT. SENIOR COMMONS ROOM,
BROOKDALE HIGH SCHOOL. CLOSEUP SHOT OF ZOE MILLER. P.O.V. JACK. SHE
IS SCANNING JACK’S HEAD FOR ANY
POSSIBLE INJURIES. ZOE IS A PETITE, BOHEMIAN BRUNETTE WHO WEARS
GLASSES.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Any blood?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
ZOE:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">Nope…sorry,
Jack---no big, brave battle scars today. Only thing wounded is your
pride.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Figures. (TWO JOCKS LOOM INTO THE SCENE)</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JOCK #1:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Hey, Zook---isn’t this OUR usual seat?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JOCK #2:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Yep. Hey, Misery Chick! We’re evicting you.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
ZOE:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Suck me until I bleed.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JOCK #2:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
LISTEN, bitch…</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JOCK #1:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">Hey! Buddy! You
need to try and control your woman---keep her mouth shut!</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">She’s not “My
Woman”. And please---suck her until she bleeds. (THE TWO SEEM TO
SILENTLY DECIDE IT’S NOT WORTH THE TROUBLE AND THEY WANDER ON. JACK
AND ZOE SETTLE DOWN.)</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br /></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
ZOE:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Smell the genius in THIS room!</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> So,
Zoe, how’s your attitude?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
ZOE:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
My attitude sucks.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Atta girl. How’s your day been?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
ZOE:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">Well, I was up
‘til two in the morning, working on some new sketches, and that
wasn’t real good for me, but inspiration is sometimes a cruel
mistress---so I’m fairly exhausted, still.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">I’ll bet.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
ZOE:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">Then there’s
Home Ec, and I can’t stand LeBeau, she’s such a cow---I think she
picks on me, personally---takes out all her rage against feminism and
21<sup>st</sup> century thought on poor little Miss Miller. Sexual
Revolution? All my fault. Watergate? All my fault. The stupid
economy? Guess who? I’m her own private nightmare, you know…</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
That’s what I keep hearing. So, other than the heartbreak
of Cow Economics, how’s life with the Zoster?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
ZOE:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">Oh…..alright, I
guess….I was talking to Carol last night…..</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br /></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Yeah?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
ZOE:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">Oh, God, she was
going on about this weekend camping trip she’s going on with her
brother and a few of his friends…she kept giggling and laughing and
cutting out of the conversation and saying, “stop it! Stop it!”
And I asked her who she was talking to and she said, “oh, it’s my
boyfriend, he keeps tickling me!”
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Who’s her boyfriend?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
ZOE:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">She doesn’t have
one…she’s been doing this for a couple of weeks, now---she makes
them up.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Jesus Christ!</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
ZOE:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">I know, right?
God, Jackie, I just don’t know what to do with her!!!! (THERE IS A
LOUD RUCKUS OUTSIDE THE COMMONS ROOM) What the fuck?!</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"> KIDS
BEGIN FILING OUT TO SEE WHAT’S GOING ON.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Oboy! Go, lemmings, go!</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
ZOE:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">Don’t be so
cynical, young man---the entire foundation of our culture is built on
the desire to rubberneck at car accidents, and you know that you want
to! Future generations depend on it!</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br /></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK:
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">Yay, future!!!
Before too long we’ll be making toast with shoehorns and riding
around the skies in flying cars---we’ll be just like the fucking
Jetsons!</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
ZOE:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">I know, right?
Come on---before the carnage is over---let’s be good Americans!</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">(THE TWO GATHER UP
THEIR BOOKS AND BAGS AND HEAD OUT INTO THE HALL)</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">JACK AND ZOE
BLUNDER INTO A LARGE BOTTLENECK IN THE HALLWAY. IN THE MIDDLE OF IT,
BRYAN HARRIS AND A STONER ARE SQUARED OFF IN A FIST FIGHT. KIDS ARE
SURROUNDING THEM, THROWING THEIR FISTS AND CHANTING, “FIGHT! FIGHT!
FIGHT! FIGHT!”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">JACK SEES CHERYL,
LOOKING DISTRESSED, ON THE OTHER END OF THE HALLWAY.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
KIDS:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">JACK LOOKS OVER
HIS SHOULDER AND SEES SEVERAL KIDS HOLDING UP THEIR CELL PHONES. HE
LOOKS MOMENTARILY PERPLEXED AND ANNOYED BY THIS AND TURNS BACK TO THE
ACTION. PEOPLE ARE CHEERING ON EITHER ONE OF THE TWO BOYS. BEFORE
EITHER OF THEM CAN MAKE ANY HEADWAY, THREE TEACHERS INTRUDE AND BREAK
UP THE FIGHT.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
TEACHER:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"> Okay!
Break it up! Everybody get to your classes! (BRYAN AND THE STONER KID
ARE HAULED OFF BY THE TEACHERS. THE CROWD DISPERSES.)</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
ZOE:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">Gladiatorial
contest’s over---let’s go, Jack--- (GRABS JACK’S ARM. JACK
LOOKS BACK OVER HIS SHOULDER AND SEES CHERYL WANDER OFF LOOKING
DISGUSTED)</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br /></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
HANNIBAL (Turning up behind Jack & Zoe):</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"> Looks
like Biff got a chance to show off his dick size again….Cheryl has
to be on the bottom tonight.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK (looking annoyed):</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Biff…what, Hannibal? You mean Bryan?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
HANNIBAL:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Bryan. Biff. They’re ALL fuckin’ Biff!</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">ZOE PULLS JACK
BACK INTO THE COMMONS ROOM.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
ZOE:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">OKAY, back to
reality. Wednesday we do the library, right?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Huh?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
ZOE:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">The library. We
agreed on that, right? Hello? Report for Bannister’s Class?
Sacco/Vanzetti trial?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Oh. Oh. Oh. Shit---that’s due next week, huh?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
ZOE:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"> You are correct,
sir! You win the Prize. Wednesday is still good for you, right?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Yeah! Sure…</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
ZOE:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Cool! Am I driving?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Could you?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
ZOE:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">I
suppose…hey---hanging out with Blinky tonight---he’s wanting to
play Magic: The Gathering. You wanna come?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">Huh? Oh---no, I’ve
gotta work tonight, and then I gotta read a couple chapters….</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
ZOE:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"> You
sure? It’s gonna be me and half a dozen virgins----I’m going to
need SOME protection….</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK (laughing):</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Naw---wish I could----I’d prefer it. (THE BELL RINGS)</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
ZOE:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Damn!!! Okay---gotta go---seeya!</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">Yeah. Seeya. (THE
TWO GO THEIR SEPARATE WAYS. AS JACK WALKS DOWN THE HALL A WAYS HE IS
STOPPED BY MRS. ROSEN, AN ENGLISH LIT TEACHER)</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
MRS. ROSEN:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Jack!</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Hey, Mrs. Rosen….</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
MRS. ROSEN:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">Jack, you’re one
of my best students---how would you feel about doing me a favor?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Will if I can…what’s up?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
MRS. ROSEN:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">I have a student
in one of my classes…this student is finishing up the same unit you
are….she’s sort of floundering on Thomas Hardy. How do you feel
about tutoring?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Tutoring?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
MRS. ROSEN:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">Just help her get
through JUDE THE OBSCURE, Jack. I think she’s sincere in her desire
to do well----just see if you can prevent her from flunking the unit.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Yeah, I guess it’s mot much of a problem!</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
MRS. ROSEN:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"> GOOD! That’s
my boy. (SHE HANDS HIM A PIECE OF PAPER) So, how did you feel about
Mr. Hardy?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">I liked it---had a
really profound effect on me. (SECOND BELL RINGS) Hey, Mrs. Rosen…?
Could you do me up an admit slip?
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
MRS. ROSEN:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Oh, absolutely! (SHE SCRAWLS A NOTE OUT ON A NOTEPAD) Thank you,
Jack! (SHE HANDS HIM THE ADMIT SLIP AND HE HEADS OFF. HE GLANCES DOWN
AT THE NAME OF THE STUDENT HE WILL BE TUTORING)</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">CUT TO: A CLOSE-UP
OF THE NAME AND PHONE NUMBER. IT IS CHERYL KINGSLEY’S.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
JACK (V.O.):</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
Oh my god.</p><br /></div><div><i>Copyright 1990 C.F. Roberts, 2011 C.F. Roberts, 2021 C.F. Roberts/Molotov Editions</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>This little curio is from roughly a decade ago, when I took my novel, HELLO, UGLY, and over a couple of different drafts, adapted it into a screenplay. Special thanks in these efforts went to my eternal support system, Heather Drain, and to some other faraway friends whose screenplay work provided me with a template to work from. I'm aware of some basic theories on screenplays----the later draft was more an According-to-Hoyle workable screenplay, the stripped down sort of which I might hand to a film studio, where a lot of blank spaces are left for the director to work with and fill out as he or she might please.</i></div><div><i> This one...? Is from the first draft, which you might call my "Director's Cut". If I were the filmmaker, this is the version I'D make!</i></div><div><i> The new edition allowed me a good opportunity to update things---after all, in the late '80s, when I wrote the original book, everyone didn't have a cell phone. Things like YouTube and TikTok and Social Media were just a zygote in some media mogul's eye at that stage in the game.</i></div><div><i> Much of the dialogue stays pretty much the same and maybe some of my younger, more politically gentle readers might be taken aback by some of it----or maybe not. This is what locker rooms sounded like when I was a kid, and despite the hype I can't imagine they're any different or any more enlightened now.</i></div><div><i> Decided over the weekend that my first book-length project for 2021 is to do a final rewrite/update of the book, and I'm changing the working title from HELLO, UGLY to THE BIG UGLY. Be ready. </i></div>c.f. robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10373817767704732392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1145613767003157079.post-55485857981173429252021-01-01T16:49:00.002-08:002021-01-01T16:49:16.928-08:00NEW YEAR 2021: IT IS ACCOMPLISHED (Move Along! Nothing to See Here!)<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OsqcqLC3Kpk/X--9_UcFKaI/AAAAAAAABE8/82qVdqe-ii4ik_5Md70Eur9-RUgbsRfrACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG-5671.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OsqcqLC3Kpk/X--9_UcFKaI/AAAAAAAABE8/82qVdqe-ii4ik_5Md70Eur9-RUgbsRfrACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG-5671.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>BURNT SUNFLOWER: SELECTED POEMS 1991-2020</p><p>Johnny Kissed</p><p>About Your Cesspool</p><p>Good American</p><p>Sleeping on a Mattress</p><p>Indigo</p><p>The Icon and What I Plan to do to Her</p><p>Archangel</p><p>Paul said "Steel Pig Woman"</p><p>Urbanite Comedy</p><p>Coke</p><p>Rainbow Land</p><p>Meat and Chrome, Mockingbird Sonata</p><p>When the Big Car</p><p>Paisley</p><p>Bottom Level</p><p>Burnt Sunflower</p><p>The Sleek Young Elephants</p><p>My Own Private Jonestown</p><p>Last Will and Testament</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>THE EVANGEL: TALES OF THE IRRATIONAL</p><p>The Great Tradition</p><p>Three Significant Days in Othmar's Life</p><p>Snapshot of the Rural Pogroms</p><p>Faith</p><p>The Day the Sun got an Eye Gouge</p><p>Boil Order</p><p>The Crazy Fuckers</p><p>Hubcap Diamond Star Halo</p><p>Fat Chance</p><p>trinityTrinityTRINITY</p><p>After Carnival</p><p>Hannibal Shooting Fish in a Bucket</p><p>The Seven Virgins of Eufaula</p><p>Second Coming</p><p>Bottle Brigade</p><p>Blankenshipp's Confession </p><p>The Song of Roland</p><p>Queries as to the Well-Being of Officer Gurwitz</p><p>Fort Apache the Exchange</p><p>Junkyard King</p><p>The Windshield of a Moving Car is Hard, Especially when you Drop on top of it from 30 Feet</p><p>The Walk</p><p>Uncle Drew's Lysergic Backbrain Apocalypse (Slight Return)</p><p>Give Up the Sun</p><p>Wet</p><p>Coup d'Etat</p><p>The Shrill</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>*********</p><p>PROJECTED FOR 2021</p><p>HELLO, UGLY (rewrite)</p><p>HOME</p><p>zebra zebra LION zebra</p><p>INDIGO (A Novel)</p><p><br /></p><p>Happy New Year from the Firefly Abode</p><p><br /></p>c.f. robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10373817767704732392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1145613767003157079.post-64355401944314444102020-12-15T03:11:00.002-08:002020-12-15T03:20:49.054-08:00NOVEL EXCERPT-HELLO, UGLY<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-83akBERMJWU/X9iYh6f6cGI/AAAAAAAABEo/d6RKtXS_oUckr65yboXjzUL3lhP3BUqdQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/wiining2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1489" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-83akBERMJWU/X9iYh6f6cGI/AAAAAAAABEo/d6RKtXS_oUckr65yboXjzUL3lhP3BUqdQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/wiining2.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Now it's gym, a year ago, and we're
playing soccer outside. I'm the goalie, not by choice. Everyone wants
to kick ass in the field and be a Real Man. They also want to win,
which is funny as hell, because they made me the goalie.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “I don't want to be the goalie,”
I tell them. “I can't catch the ball, and... “</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “You get in that net and stop
those balls,” says Gossling, “or I will stop you. Hear me,
bitch?”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Get in there, faggot,”
helps Bryan.</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Ultimately, in spite
of these dickweeds, I decide, what the fuck? I'm stuck with it and I
may as well try my best with what meager sportsmanlike coordination I
have. I put a considerable effort into stopping the first goal. I
fail.</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “You fuckin'
faggot,” screams Eric Holmes. “Catch the fuckin' ball!”</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Stupid!”</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Hey,” I try
to tell them, “I told you I wasn't good at...”</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“UUUUUUUUUUDUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHHH!!!!!!” Slurs Holmes.</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Faggot!”</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Stop those
fuckin' balls, you faggot, you goddamn retard! And you'd better not
fuck up!!!”</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Twice I try,
for some reason. Twice I fail.</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Gossling,
screaming and spitting, “WHY THE FUCK DON'T YOU STOP THE GODDAMN
FUCKIN' BALL????? PETTET, YOU FUCKIN' MORON!!!!!!!”</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Well,” I begin.</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “DUUUUUHHHHHHHH,
OOOOIIIIIEEEEEE!!!!!”</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Well,” I
continue, as he keeps yurching, still hoping maybe the voice of
reason can squeeze itself in edgewise somewhere, “if you don't like
the way I do it, maybe get someone in here who can...”</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Screaming like a
tyrant and spitting in my face, “YOU FUCKIN' FAGGOT, YOU STAY IN
THIS FUCKIN' NET!!!! YOU STOP THOSE GODDAMN BALLS, OR I'LL KICK THE
LIVING SHIT OUT OF YOU, YOU FUCKIN' RETARD!!!!”</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Another round. The
other team goes for their goal. I stand aside and let them get it.</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “GODDAMN YOU,
FUCKIN' PETTET!”</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “FAGGOT!”</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “YOU STOOPID
SHIT!” Roars Gossling. “YOU STOOPID FUCKIN' FAGGOT, YOU LET THAT
BALL GO THROUGH, YOU FUCKIN'...”And <span style="font-style: normal;">I
spit in his face and start walking off the field.</span></p>
<p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“YOU FUCKIN' SONOFABITCH!!! YOU FAGGOT! YOU STUPID, SHITTY, FUCKIN'
COCKSUCKIN'...” He lands a nice, hard punch on my back.
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Let him go! Leave him alone,” hollers Coach Giras. I exit the
soccer field. I sit in the dirt and think about guns.</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Copyright 1990 C.F.
Roberts, 2020 Molotov Editions.</i></p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <i>This'll be my final
blogpost for 2020. Hope the end of the year finds you well. Yeah, I
know it's been a haul. Lost a kitty who meant the world to me. Got a
new precocious little runt that looks uncannily like both him and his
late sister. Lost a stepsister. Goddammit, though, I got a book
published (which you should buy)</i></p><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0858TY6M8?ref_=pe_3052080_397514860%22With&fbclid=IwAR1a_VhrXIvD6T8NhXdIhUG4GtBCfWNlBJmX2rNvAi_AF0tc_xB0K2GUXaw">https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0858TY6M8?ref_=pe_3052080_397514860%22With&fbclid=IwAR1a_VhrXIvD6T8NhXdIhUG4GtBCfWNlBJmX2rNvAi_AF0tc_xB0K2GUXaw</a><br /><p></p><p></p><p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <i>and just finished
writing a new one. So, blessings, curses, the whole shebangabang. Not
to sound flippant over the whole thing---just the crazy ebb and flow
of life.</i></p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <i>OH---YEAH----we
had an election, and the winner was....Goldman Sachs. Again. I've
pretty much divorced myself from electoral politics at this point and
consider it to be a destructive, worthless waste of time. In January
I'll probably pen a postmortem on the 2020 spectacle and/or the Trump
years in general. If you're in the tank for either Trump or Biden,
know up front that I hate them both with the intensity of a thousand
suns (anyone who knows me knows this) and you're probably not going
to like what I have to say. Be there or be square, Juice Dogs.</i></p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:</i></p>
<ol>
<li><p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>SNIPS-LaRocca</i></p>
</li><li><p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>THE ROLLING
STONES-Let it Bleed</i></p>
</li><li><p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>SHARKS-Jab it in
Yore Eye</i></p>
</li><li><p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>ALICE DONUT-The
Untidy Suicides of your Degenerate Teens</i></p>
</li></ol><br /><p></p>c.f. robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10373817767704732392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1145613767003157079.post-39234590025473953072020-11-23T01:21:00.002-08:002020-11-23T01:21:15.107-08:00BOTTOM LEVEL<p> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PvKszE7TSVU/X7t9yXP2knI/AAAAAAAABDs/z-XP1r16kc4xyRpCP1DlL-ljJDI214HZwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1404/Stendahl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1404" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PvKszE7TSVU/X7t9yXP2knI/AAAAAAAABDs/z-XP1r16kc4xyRpCP1DlL-ljJDI214HZwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Stendahl.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<ol type="I">
<li><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">momanddad tell measachild to avoid
ingestion of lead paint chips</p>
</li></ol>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> which have been clinically
proven to contain arsenic slash cyanide slash</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> strychnine slash lsd slash
cocaine slash heroin slash smog slash and slash</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> or less than the daily maximum
allowance of riboflavin</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> too late the heroes for i'd
already done my share of munching and so</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> was rendered fuckupforlife</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> later on in the screaming,
skinned knee schoolkid days other children
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> ran from me because i glowed in
the dark like an aurora monster model</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> icing vegetation within a
thirty foot radius o lookathim lookathim in my</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> superman suit but what was
happening wasn't my incredible powers it</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> was gang abuse, was alien
virus haunting, unshakeable
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> now older on my stage refusing
to act my age this is me let it be</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> BRAIN IN A CAGE and proud red
sign flickers for your loud, hoary
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> approval and i open my cranium
spurting
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> jizz</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
blood</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
tears</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
braincake</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
to show you.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--APPLAUSE--</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p>
<ol>
<ol start="2" type="I">
<li><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">meanwhile, in comfy
suburbianestledinnowhere, leaveittobeaverbradybunch
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">man finds himself irritated by BORED
meeting, comes home to ralph the
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">cocker spaniel and the kids who are
playing with their beav and wally dolls</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">while watching the cabbage patch kids
on tv. Wife has a rolling pin and is</p>
</li></ol>
</ol>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> using it to beat the
dust out of the cat, three weeks dusty but at a later time</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> determined to be three
weeks dead</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “hi, honey, got my
wall street journal and my beer in the fridge,” he smiles,
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> slipping the youngest son
into the sock drawer,
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “oh, i'm fine,” wife
trills, windexing the toaster</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> with a wistful, faraway
glance she dreams picturesque reveries of burying a</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> meat cleaver in his
forehead and WOULDN'T IT BE NICE sing the beach boys</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> on
environmentally-controlled radio</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<ol>
<ol start="3" type="I">
<li><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“hi,” i say to her sad eyes
as godzilla dismounts from his holy ass</p>
</li></ol>
</ol>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> 4 x 4 and caves my face
in for talking to his girl</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> i bite him in his flabby
alcoholic tit and run for pride, vaunted, exalted PRIDE</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> is a negligible frill in
the face of self preservation</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> tearful in my fool beer
it always ends this way</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> nursing my bruises i plot
to neuter the evil bastard and his porcine slut
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> while they sleep</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> this last, i think, will
be paramount, satisfying cruelty</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> getting them right where
it hurts most---in the raison d'etre</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> proud o scarred saint i
become of these wounds for they name me martyr,</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> carrier of a
little-recognized state of mind</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> and when they fade i am
full of chagrin
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<ol>
<ol start="4" type="I">
<li><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The convenience store spiel</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">it's 7-11 and he wears a harley vest</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">he leers and gags and spits and is
boisterous and loud and</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">unruly with his beer buddies and he
talks about “lynyrd skynyrd”
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">and “kickin' some faggot's ass” i
try not to let him see me</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">eyeing the comic books</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">why?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">He's on his own mission</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">he has own own fucking trajectory and
it has nothing to do</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">with that worm in the corner</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">the blasphemy in his mind</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">the flotsam barely thought or
whispered</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">the cardinal sin, fool,
you bite back on every day</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">in every aspect of this
aberration you call a life:</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I AM.</p>
</li></ol>
</ol>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<ol>
<ol>
<ol start="5" type="I">
<li><p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It was a dream i had
once</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">it was a sunny, clear day
and i was waist deep in a pool it was</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">my duty on that day to
keep an eye on the baby ducks</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">inordinantly large body
count that day bouyant they would</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">be but every now and then
one would forget how to swim and</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">so then drown
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
PAINFULLY</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> duty then under
circumstances saw me having to dredge</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">up the bodies that had
floated to the bottom of the pool and</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">in the distortions of the
dream the bodies had shriveled to the</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">size of breakfast cereal
marshmallows</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">at the same time the
abstract effect remained terrible and</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">disturbed me profoundly
because they retained the</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">shape and color of
ducklings</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">about then i would hear
the spectral burble of childhood</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">enemies preparing to pelt
me with rocks</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">i would hear bomber
squadrons droning in</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">can you relate?</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Dream as recorded has no
beginning and no formal ending</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">it's just there,
crucified in the time and the place of things</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">suspended and that is all</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p>
</li><li><p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">WHAT ARE YOU DOING?</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Playing with the ants.</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">WHY?</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Don't look at me that
way.</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">WHY ARE YOU PLAYING WITH
THE ANTS?</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Because they're more fun
than people and they cause me no pain</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">go away you suck you see
the world through a rose colored</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">vantagepoint of what
OUGHT to be linear limited in scope</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">deluded slash oppressive
slash happy slash like all the others</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">but is it real i think
not people like you make me long to be</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">attached to a respirator
(as in DEAD)</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">this is fun</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> it's theraputic for
me and</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">who are you to play judge
and jury because i choose to
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">play with the ants please
go away</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p>
</li><li><p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">i was sitting in a
small, family type eatery sipping</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">on a cup of bad coffee
gazing out the window i saw a
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">murder being committed in
the distance</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">a man in a tank top
chased a refined looking girl out</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">of a beauty salon he was
screaming at her smashing her</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">delicate frame against a
chain link fence she objected</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">and struggled, her face
beat red she tried to escape but
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">couldn't i felt very
frightened for her</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> my bovine waitress
poured me more bad coffee</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">stared and smiled at the
carnage “my husband did that</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">to me last week,” she
said warmly</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“why?” i asked</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“it was valentine's
day, he wanted to give me a romantic</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">evening”</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“i'm afraid,” i told
her, “i think we should get help, i think</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">he's really going to hurt
her”</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">the waitress eyed me like
i was a blasphemer</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“why?” she asked,
“it's so obvious how in LOVE they are</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">and who are you to come
between two LOVERS? You</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">make me sick, mister,
enjoy your coffee!”</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">she left me there to
watch</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">i became very upset and
before anyone came</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">to help the girl, the man
killed her</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p>
</li><li><p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">the cowboy movie
spiel</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">i'm the bad guy
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">yeah i'm the bad guy</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">i dwell alone in the
corridors of stone</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">and i lurk in the shadows
while you live a lie</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">i'm the bad guy</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">i reached behind the
mirror</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">and fell inside a
thousand hells
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">but they're inside you as
well</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">and i want you to see
them all</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">so i'm the bad guy</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">crowds cheer and canonize
you</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">when you seize the holy
grail</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">and i die puking from
your bullet</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">laughing at a private
joke because</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">THEY call you humane
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">sunny face you head off
with your lady</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">while i weasel away tail
between legs</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">plotting your demise
while she gnaws</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">on your gristle</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">there goes the bad guy</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">you win congressional
medals and
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">kiss babies for those
photo ops</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">but only i see the shit
piled up inside you</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">i'm the bad guy</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">quick</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">lock your doors</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">get the guns out of the
closet</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">it's the bad guy</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">here comes the bad guy</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p>
</li><li><p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">there is a lot of
life in this city</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">and much death as well</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">and joy</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">and sorrow</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">love, we ought to go find
it all, you and i</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">take my hand...</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">no, but no,</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">but no</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">we don't want to suffer
the consequences of</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">my having your hand, do
we, now?</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">i may be tempted to place
it in my lap</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">and so something
revolting!</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> --APPLAUSE--</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p>
</li><li><p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> ??!!SHROUD?!!!!!</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">pariah shrill on the
thundering hilltop</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">pariah tirade and scream
to the stormcloud</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">overwhelmed, overtaxed by
the juggernaut of circumstance</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">falling, imploding, live
cliffsummit in a futile, fetal sprawl</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">murmuring strange
litanies to the roaring, ravenous brine</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">i i can't no i hurt i
spike the sky the sky the ocean i oh no</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">blooming i no i bug crush
bug crush big looming i</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">you caterwaul for order,
definition</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">you subdivide and
subjugate</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">and pariah rattling i
splutter and inarticulate</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">how do you define the
scream of the nucleus in the</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
soul's midnight?</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">How can i explain OH GOD
the snapcrackle of my</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
circuitry?
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">How do i verbalize and
inventory you this?</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">i i i cliff crash wave
foam rage shake i no swallow no</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">consume no cry run hurt
night i shrink</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">on a cliff too high under
a sky too wide</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">over a sea deep and
impossible</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">i've become a paralyzed
golem hexed by my vision</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">this is not your priority
list!</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">This is not your
subdivision sorter!</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">This is not your
regimented file cabinet!</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The water is war its
tendrils clash in elemental incest</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">beneath that,</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
calm,
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
a big, new sky,</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
another world</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">fishfishfishfishfishfishfishfishfishfishfishfishfishfishfishfishfish</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p>
</li><li><p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">life slows and
stagnates congested</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">red and yellow lights
glare</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">where are these modern
gods, these heroes of the night?</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">They lurk behind the
churches and temples, torturing the</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
meek and laughing</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">i shall be hero-atheist,
he who is unbelieving in the hero,</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">the good man, the man of
action</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">for he is a lie and i am
a witness
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">i caught him urinating on
me while i slept in the street</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">he laughed and stood
revealed</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">the white knight's tinpot
armor is soiled</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">with the blood of
thousands and your</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">petty hopes and
expectations are for nought</p>
</li></ol>
</ol>
</ol>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<ol>
<ol>
<ol start="12" type="I">
<li><p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Hell street gasps,
grabs</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">suck</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> poisonous</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> vapors</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">we children strove in the
gas and machinery</p>
</li></ol>
</ol>
</ol>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<ol>
<ol>
<ol>
<ol start="13" type="I">
<li><p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">i woke to the sounds
of footsteps on my roof</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">(and the prancing and
pawing of each little hoof)</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">closed my eyes and
prayed for the sun</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">'cause a horrible
monster who walks like a MAN</p>
</li></ol>
</ol>
</ol>
</ol>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and speaks like a CHILD</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
saunters through the rows of ranch houses and split</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
levels</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
whose inhabitants dream away in false security</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
to those in troubled slumber there are lights</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
in the stinking, charred tunnels and the only way out</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
might
fail</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
but look to the end</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
look to the end</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<ol>
<ol>
<ol>
<ol>
<ol start="14" type="I">
<li><p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Suburban
leaveittobeaver man's eyes redden</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">as he scans the
shopping list:</p>
</li></ol>
</ol>
</ol>
</ol>
</ol>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
2 dozen eggs slash waffles slash 1 gallon of milk</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
slash bread slash cheese slash 2 cartons of cigarettes slash</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
2 sides of beef slash 1 tube of toothpaste slash vegetable oil</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
slash 1 hammer slash 1 ball of cotton slash 4 ingrids slash</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
4 deuces slash 5 aces slash 6 bottles of tylenol</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and realizes he forgot to go shopping</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
he pulls up in his driveway beside the ambulance</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
two white-coated simians emerge from the two-car
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
garage carrying a stretcher sheet covering a</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
tiny, humanish shape</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> he
wipes the sweat off his brow and asks tearful wife</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> who is
waxing the cocker spaniel,</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“what's for dinner, honey?”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--APPLAUSE--</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Shockbox Press Chapbook #3 copyright 1991 C. F. Roberts/ Shockbox Press. </i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>rev. 11/20 Molotov Editions</i></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p>c.f. robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10373817767704732392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1145613767003157079.post-36534749920208305242020-10-30T15:04:00.008-07:002020-10-30T15:04:33.967-07:00MICROS AGAIN<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2fUGhPGzbDg/X5yEqREfJ3I/AAAAAAAABC8/S1RaFoY_QAkHDWOKypJGiQPBXXHVl17jQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Moment%2Bof%2BImpact.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2fUGhPGzbDg/X5yEqREfJ3I/AAAAAAAABC8/S1RaFoY_QAkHDWOKypJGiQPBXXHVl17jQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Moment%2Bof%2BImpact.jpg" /></a></div>Anyway, so once again, dipping my toes into the Micro Novel Pool. I was scrolling down the blogs to see the first time I'd done one of these only to discover I'd never actually done Micro novels on the blog 'til the last blog. Sweet Jesus, I must have started those on MySpace, or Facebook Notes, or some similar sinking ship......<p></p><p>As such I'm kicking off with an oldie. This is one of my favorites.</p><p><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> EXISTENTIALISTS
AGAINST NEUROPATHY</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A Micro Novel </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p><p>
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Neil tore across the second floor
hallway. “Fuck this shit,” he roared, “I’ll take on all
comers!!!!” He flung himself headlong down the stairs. It was a
good day to be alive.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The rest are new:</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> FIVE
STUPID TURKEYS DROWNING IN THE RAIN</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A Micro Novel</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> It wasn't a move of great
intellect, but you had to give me points for ambition as I scaled the
levels of the queen to access that small stack of glass bowls &
then lost my footing and went careening to the floor....careening?
Carombing? Either way it was one helluva rush....the glass bowls went
carombing (carooming, maybe?) off to the side and I think they may
have broken....to make things worse the plastic pitchers rained down
on me, bonk, bonk, bonk, all off my noggin.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Monique picked me up with her
strong, sturdy arms and sat me up, asking if I was okay. I tried to
be all nonchalant & I may have been concussed. Mild concussion,
maybe? Yeah, I think so.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “I'll have to figure that out
later,” I told her, “I think my brain's in the butter right now.”
And I laughed & she laughed & we kissed.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
REVALATION ACCORDING TO CHARLES</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A Micro-Pseudo-Gospel</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Some rank amateur on AM Radio
callously supposed one day we as a species might all blow ourselves
to Kingdom Come in a nuclear war, well, buddy, that's my reality day
in day out, no joke. Every morning me and my brother strap on our
power packs and head out the door with our ray guns and we spend all
day firing nuclear rays at people and objects. I mean, we clock in,
power up the guns, spend the whole day skulking around the ruins
shooting rays and then, after about a twelve hour day we punch our
cards and go home, eat beef stew, etc. Rough days. The apocalypse is
really that banal.</p><p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> You should see the
shopping centers. They're in warehouses that are only open two or
three hours a day---randos set up stalls as they can grab them and
everyone gets to haggle over what's left. One guy had a couple of
lobsters. Real, according to Hoyle lobsters. I've already got a
battalion of testy ocelots. I don't need any pets. Someone needed
lobsters, though, I'll betcha. Someone always needs something.</p><p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> They have upside
down bowling alleys, it's nut, I don't know how they do it. The lanes
are all on the ceiling, they're all lined with blue and white neon.
Folks are up there in the middle of everything, rolling balls around,
knocking over pins that fall up. I dunno....anti-gravity fields, or
something.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p><p align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I have seen the
future, skeezix, and you're not gonna like it. </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
GURVITZ (An introduction)</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A Micro Overture</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> About eight cars from two
towns, plus the feds, pulled up outside the bungalow. Right away it
felt like no place anyone actually lived.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> We'd all taken our places by
the cars and hadn't yet gotten our shit together when people started
moving out the front door---the perp, on his knees, pushed forward by
Gurwitz and the other kid, what was his name? Nally. Gurwitz, I mean,
right from the outset, is pistol whipping the guy, and it's terrible.
You're not going to get a confession out of a guy if you knock all
the stuffing out his noggin, and Christ forbid his damn lawyer's on
the scene, right?</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> But Gurwitz keeps pistol whipping
the guy, and the guy almost seems to be laughing at the whole
thing......stunned, I guess, maybe concussed. Nally's not doing a
goddamn thing, he's coming down the steps with his arms at his sides,
watching the whole thing. Anyways, so there's this whole pull-apart
and they cuff the guy and start reading him his rights, and as far as
I can tell he was lucid enough to understand it....everyone kept
having to hold Gurwitz back and he collapses into a pile, weeping
like a baby, and he just keeps saying, “the bodies, all the bodies,
Jesus Christ, the bodies”...</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> So we went inside.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Copyright 2020, Molotov Editions </i> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">That last one is to be continued, obviously. You'll see.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The rest of the year, obviously, is dedicated to finishing two books. Seeya on the flip, assuming we don't all die. Screw it----it don't matter....</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fsyrOynA2t4/X5yMohnSe1I/AAAAAAAABDI/9T0NXk81bxgpdJmEaPo_h3M2cV-A1TYnACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_20201004_150346.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fsyrOynA2t4/X5yMohnSe1I/AAAAAAAABDI/9T0NXk81bxgpdJmEaPo_h3M2cV-A1TYnACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_20201004_150346.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>1. MO' HEVY CRUD: THE SEQUEL STRIKES BACK (comp)</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>2. TRICK OR TREAT: MUSIC TO SCARE YOUR NEIGHBORS-Vintage 45s from Lux & Ivy's Basement</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>3. ALICE COOPER-PARANORMAL</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>4. SNFKR (homemade comp) </i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>c.f. robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10373817767704732392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1145613767003157079.post-71533941714443656162020-10-09T14:27:00.004-07:002020-10-09T14:29:37.322-07:00BACK ON THE MICRO TRAIN<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-x1ScEFeZV48/X4DRy0_kgRI/AAAAAAAABCk/XjmytUWYE60reHilphCkYOcC0jC9i0ASgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_20201005_220812.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-x1ScEFeZV48/X4DRy0_kgRI/AAAAAAAABCk/XjmytUWYE60reHilphCkYOcC0jC9i0ASgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_20201005_220812.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><i> So I actually started coming up with the long-neglected form that is the Micro Novel this past week. I wrote like 6 or 7, I'll give you a few here. Don't say I never did nothing for ya.</i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p></p><p lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">BUKOWSKI AND ALCOHOL</span></p>
<p lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">(A Seriocomic Micro-dissertation in one act)</span></p>
<p lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><br /><br />
</p>
<p lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">"You could toss the idea of cause and effect all
day long, but consider this: If the hero of the story shows up in an
Oldsmobile, what's the central point-----that he was in an
Oldsmobile, or that he showed up?"</span></p>
<p lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Wally skulked toward the back. The lecture had just
begun and it was already too boring and pretentious.</span></p>
<p lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;"> <span style="font-size: medium;">He
found the restroom and locked himself in. His salivary glands were
going crazy. He knelt over the throne and spat repeatedly. His entire
torso felt like it was about to implode. Finally the feeling passed.
He sat down and shat like a horse. After that he stood up, turned
around and threw up.</span></p>
<p lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">He
puked standing, and all the blood vessels in his face exploded. He
felt it burn hard across his cheeks and knew his face would be all
red and blotchy when he came back out. He lay down for maybe twenty
minutes. When he stumbled out the damned lecture was still going on.</span></p><p lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> ************</span></p><p lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">STABBY STAB STAB</span></p><i></i><p></p><p lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">A Micro Novel</span></p><p lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><br /><br />
</p><p lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
Meet and Greet did not go well. Some people can bring the whole room
up and some people can bring the whole room down. Jeremy had some
imagined beef with Knuckles and he was going to sink the whole room
with it.</span></p><p lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">"What happened to the other singer?" Jeremy
demanded.</span></p><p lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">"I'm the singer," said Knuckles.</span></p><p lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">"You weren't the original singer..."</span></p><p lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">"Yeah, I am."</span></p><p lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">"You aren't the guy on the first album," said
Jeremy. That guy had a really low voice. You sound like Janis Joplin
on a crack bender." Knuckles' face was darkening, but Jeremy
seemed unphased by the whole thing. "I liked that first album.
What happened to that singer?"</span></p><p lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">"I am that singer," Knuckles growled.</span></p><p lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">"How come you changed your voice, then?"
Jeremy stared daggers through him.</span></p><p lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
</p><p lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">"It's called throat cancer, you idiot,"
screamed Knuckles. Jeremy glowered and decided that sounded like it
might be important or something. He kept his mouth shut the rest of
the time.</span></p><p lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> ****************</span></p><p lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;"></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
THE NIHILISTS OVER IN DOVER</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A Micro Novel</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> All holy hell over the
fragility of furniture and anything on the upended coffee table
legally belongs to the floor. It's not an easy night as the goddamned
spanking paddle has broken clean it half, cheap piece of crap that it
is.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Was”, not “is”.
There's no time to get sentimental about these things.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The sad malfunction's not
going to slow me down, though---I'm a bull in the China Shop writ
large, bashing down norms, guardrails and your Mom's old bread
pudding recipe. What'll I wreck next? What have you got?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I couldn't tell you word one
about god, whatever that is---all I know is I go nuts when her lips
form the word, “fondue”.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> ****************</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span><p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> HOW TO GIVE
PEOPLE SEPSIS AND OTHER PARTY TRICKS</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A Micro Novel</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> All over the kitchen, up and down
the stairs, losing consortium and tearing her hair out, “all the
bags, so many bags, where are all the bags coming from?!” She
hailed from the Midwest, so “bag” kept sounding like, “baig”.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Punky just laughed the whole
thing off. He was eating like a King.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> ********************</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>So there's some of the latest fun. I go back and forth on "Stabby" because to me it's less a Micro Novel and more flash fiction. But who am I to split hairs? I think I said what I wanted with it; you clowns can bandy theory back and forth----I got less important things to do.</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Copyright 2020/C.F. Roberts/Molotov Editions</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><br /></i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>DAVID BOWIE-Heathen, Aladdin Sane</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>VAN HALEN-Van Halen I, Diver Down</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>THE RHINO BROS PRESENT THE WORLD'S WORST RECORDS</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p>c.f. robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10373817767704732392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1145613767003157079.post-10920740213471586432020-08-06T14:54:00.002-07:002020-08-06T14:54:37.229-07:00I AM THE EXCREMENT: "The Second Wound" and fun with rejection letters<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r1Yqz3JEPnM/Xyx51hC7npI/AAAAAAAABBY/oP3FP-lhQdwOUtL-5KJ0zCeMo8AuEaX4QCLcBGAsYHQ/s960/abombom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="813" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r1Yqz3JEPnM/Xyx51hC7npI/AAAAAAAABBY/oP3FP-lhQdwOUtL-5KJ0zCeMo8AuEaX4QCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/abombom.jpg" /></a><h1 class="western" style="font-weight: normal;"> <span style="font-size: medium;"><i>A
few months ago, when Alien Buddha Press announced their “rejection”
issue, allowing writers to bring forth their favorite rejected pieces
and rejection letters, my first thought, was, damn....I wish I could
find “The Second Wound”----moreover, I wish I still had the
rejection letter from that one goth mag....</i></span></h1>
<h1 class="western" style="font-weight: normal;"> <span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Well,
lo and behold, here I am on the tail end of a move, going through
some rando boxes of cripcrap, and guess what turns up? </i></span>
</h1><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rIV2kclOrR8/Xyx6PphoyYI/AAAAAAAABBg/ANlPGf2kb0Q11TAuazArCXrKCCQgS18sQCLcBGAsYHQ/s960/abombom%2Bclose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rIV2kclOrR8/Xyx6PphoyYI/AAAAAAAABBg/ANlPGf2kb0Q11TAuazArCXrKCCQgS18sQCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/abombom%2Bclose.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--the SECOND wound--</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> You are the second wound. Does
that distress you or please you? If it helps any, you're the second
behind her and somehow the worst. It came as a jolt, because I never
thought, in all my wildest, blackest dreams, that you would draw more
blood than she. There you are, my dear, secondhand but ultimately
lethal, but I still have to thank you, because your sting eclipses
hers and I thought I'd never get through hers alive.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> She was the golden, whirring
blade of the west, a jewel, a sapphire turning into diamond in the
setting sun of my youth's distressed autumn. Hope. A word I laughed,
barking stonily at. Joy. Light. Love, for light and all such dazzling
things. Excited, hands clapping with glee as though she were at the
circus. She was the first wound, the bitter plateau that made my
heart foolish, caring, expectant, insane.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Reckless was the name of my fall,
all the while begging favors. Divination, ghosts lurking in cabinets,
the voices I ran to, the voices I screamed for, an easy answer, a ray
of hope, off on my hobby horse, examining frivolous trace elements of
matters unscientific. All the while I was buoyant yet sinking in
quicksand, groping for a branch, a root, an imaginary hand to hold
on to, invisible warmth, a cold lie, a mountain untamed, and what it
was, was sacred ground too high and foreboding for a lowly immigrant
palmer, a fortress, the shrine untouched and unseen.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> All bridges and paper towers must
fall beneath the unsure feet of a mad, sad fool and with time these
steps were torn asunder as I tried to balance myself on them. The
Prettiest Girl in the World is groomed into royalty and so knows well
her station in life. Her criteria are demanding and fruitful in
achievement. Who shall she choose for her consort but the Prettiest
boy in the world? And so in flash, a clear, sparking wonder, a
world ends, a tiny world, insignificant, one that will never be
missed, imbedded in the grainy pavement to be scrubbed away by a
wretched civic lackey after the wailing morning editions.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> And so she was the golden blade
which struck me and drew that unlucky first blood—she was like the
wide golden pathway paved with gems and adornmemnts. My body and my
soul trembled, my hands shook and my knuckles whitened, on my knee
alone and bowed, cowed against those castle walls, the unscalable
fortress. No, over and over in a shaking, feverish litany, no, no,
no, don't let it hurt, no, don't do this, no, not again, don't let it
happen to me, a telltale sign, a sealed, oaken door, a dead end that
cackled and proclaimed, fool! It happened to you before you even
realized it! A world untouchable, untouched, a relentless cliff never
climbed, never to be, never to be, foremost in an endless string of
tragedies and aches and unheeded prayers.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> An ending, but not an ending,
because you are the second wound, the silver knife sheathed lovingly
in an ornate, touching icon, camouflaged in a fairy tale skin. Your
cool waters drove me helplessly your way and again I was pilgrim,
beaten against the torrent, wanting and needing for a cure, an
antidote for the leprosy, the damage of my soul.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> But the soft, quiet glory sought
was glory superficial, for you held that concealed blade and when
salvation grinned at my addled eyes like a snake hypnotic or a tiger
voracious the illusion laughed and pulled away. The Sacred Virgin is
a statue, forged of granite, eyes of cold stone and this false,
eleventh-hour hope, that small faith I held to my heart and so
fleetingly entertained turned savage and gaping and tore me in half.
This timid pilgrim approaching with bent reverence and the cautious
eye of an injured child only seeking the warmth, the calm, the
shelter of grace, an exit from these dark, lugubrious corridors, was
surprised to be mauled by such treacherous beauty. I liken you to
pitcher plant, fragrant, irresistable, inescapable and carnivorous.
This is how we bleed and die, we impetuous insects, bleed and die,
bleed and die. The rose in its blooming, pink allure entrances us,
blinds us to the barb and leaves us torn.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Callous, iron multitudes passed my
chalk outline and in despair I dragged myself away. Off the sidewalk
and out of the rain-beaten gutter which was at this point sanguine
with my dark discharge. I was half-paralyzed, wondering how to ever,
ever walk, function, live or look straight ahead into the world again
like I wasn't wounded and dead. I was seeing everything around me
with shocking, new, crystalline eyes that weren't condescended to or
lied to by futile hope or eager desperation. Mine were the stark eyes
that saw through the shadows, the lyrical summers, the lovely screens
and this world's lush, seductive contradictions. In my rage and
disappointment I bellowed like a lost, trapped animal (which is what
I was) and prayed to be struck blind forever.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I never asked for these
feelings you and she have visited upon me and were I given the
opportunity, the offer of false hope once again, if I had a choice in
the matter, I would choose to be petrified, a thing of stone, and
feel nothing. I am the excrement, the beggars in gray legions who
crawl these cold streets. We try to rise above the flurrying traffic,
holding up a frightened hand to reach out, seize a handhold and then
our grasping fingers are trodden upon, broken.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Bedraggled and frozen, I crawled
to the cathedral, held my battered body against its walls and cut my
forehead on the stained glass. Bloodied forever, the pain, the ache
drove me to my knees, drove me into a ball, a giant fetus on God's
doorstep. Noooo, I cried, while the heavenly host sang in their
intangible jubilation, noooo, not again, not again, don't let it
huuuuurrrrt anymoooorrrrrre, crying out, shattered and choked like a
broken mother bereaved of a soldier son. Not again not again nooooo,
but yes, again. Again. Again, like a revolving door, like an assembly
line, ongoing, repetetive, unending.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
******</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The ice, the roar of the vacuum,
the disease unholy and toothsome in my innards I stumbled about the
parchment harbor and I came to the blades, the mill, the
concentration camp, the noisesome grinder where the fish are taken
every day to be disposed of. The mass grave, surrounded by gratings,
rusty, bloodstained tin walls and bridges which ride, brazen,
discolored and unmoving, like the baleen of a long-dead whale and in
between all of it, the dirty, used-up water is confined,
semi-stagnant, where it lashes out against the structure with feeble,
dying waves. The nets are dragged up mechanically from the water,
pulling the fish up again and again for sorting, butchering and
separation. Different bins are filled with different parts---the
stripped flesh, the various internal organs—the bins are
individualized for easy and even shipping and distribution. In the
meantime, the bones and the heads, those visages, pictures of their
shredded souls now wiped away, are dropped like so much mechanized
stool into a Dispose-All Unit the size of Yankee Stadium and the
blades whirr like those of a giant blender, pureeing it all into muck
and the stench fills the air for miles.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I sit and watch it all and my
face becomes dry, stretched, like leather. After a million bodies are
destroyed, blessed oblivion creeps in to conquer me and it is all
rendered abstract, meaningless.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Pysg5MZY9Zw/Xyx6rhUBnaI/AAAAAAAABBo/kIs__6sxplooqmhDXLXwnNXCyjmEgsRwwCLcBGAsYHQ/s960/nows.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="823" data-original-width="960" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Pysg5MZY9Zw/Xyx6rhUBnaI/AAAAAAAABBo/kIs__6sxplooqmhDXLXwnNXCyjmEgsRwwCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/nows.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Copyright 1990 C.F. Roberts, 2020
Molotov Editions </i>
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “<i>The Second Wound” was the
granddaddy of all the Guy-Who-Can't-Get-Laid stories, along with the
way-the-hell-too-long “The Night is for Lovers”, which I wrote
concurrently in 1990, after I'd finally polished off my first novel.
I found this manuscript for the first time in many years and ran it
by my wife, who was sort of taken aback by the whole thing. “There
are a few words and phrases that jump out,” she said, “but I've
been reading your writing for years, now, and this doesn't read like
you.”</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <i>Do with that what you will.
You're on my blog---there's plenty to read.</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <i>The “story”, such as it
is, is simple: When you strip away all the imagery, metaphor and
flowery language, it's like, “I liked this girl, but she liked this
other guy and I was bummed. Then I fell for this other girl and she
rejected me, too. Now I'm really bummed.” Kind of a textbook
example of raw emotion and very little substance wrapped up in a lot
of fluffy, overwrought prose.</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <i>It was the early 90s, I was
starting to actually pick up some publications and an ad came up in
one of these zines I contributed to soliciting for poetry and fiction
for consideration in this forthcoming Gothic magazine.</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <i>Gothic. Okay. “Gothic
Literature”, as I understood it, was very purple, angst-ridden,
fatalistic romance of the sort that was churned out by the likes of
Goethe, the Bronte Sisters and so on. Gothic MUSIC was the label, as
I understood, being fixed onto bands I enjoyed listening to like the
Sisters of Mercy, the Cure and Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds....again,
gloomy, overwrought, depressing and fatalistic.....I'M THERE. You
want Gothic Fiction, lil' magazine coming out of Maine? Have I got
the ticket for YOU!!!!!</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <i>I sent out “The Second
Wound”, which was a mainstay in my story arsenal at the time, as
well as a newer one, “Fat Chance”, an equally depresso piece of
work which you can find elsewhere on this blog (happy hunting!)</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <i>The lil' magazine out of Maine
wasn't havin' it. I became well-acquainted with the editor at this
point, who was not shy regarding constructive criticism nor about
sharing her philosophies on writing, themes, philosophical approach
and a variety of other things.....</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <i>She gave all kudos to my
talent and my wordplay, but told me that, surely I must know how
dangerous it was to objectify an individual as a “wound” or a
“blade” or any such thing.....</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <i>Do WHAT, now?????</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <i>I learned a few things about
political correctness at this time. So you couldn't use metaphors or
allusions or other such writerly tools to describe an emotional state
of being, because that's “objectifying an individual”. </i>
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <i>SUUUURE.</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <i>Wanna tell me the story sucks?
Sure, I'll buy that. Overwrought, solipsistic garbage? Okay. This
“objectifying an individual” horseshit? No. Just fuck off a cliff
with that nonsense. </i>
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <i>She further told me that the
character in the story deserved the heartache he suffered because he
was weak and left himself open to it....she tried to sell me on Ayn
Rand's ANTHEM, which I gave a pass to.....so, politically correct
AND an Ayn Rand freak? Points for versatility, I guess.....she would
later declare that she categorically refused to read all 20<sup>th</sup>
century authors with the exceptions of Rand and Anne Rice----well,
yeah, this lady was one of a kind.... </i>
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <i>She came back and told me,
later that she'd decided that she'd be willing to run “TSW” as
part of a compilation of “feminist horror stories”, as kind of a
cautionary tale....I responded, not just with a no, but a HELL no,
because that was never my intention with the story. Seriously....this
lady was calling herself “Gothic”?</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <i>But I'm never one to throw the
baby out with the bathwater, and I became a reader and supporter of
the mag, which lasted a year or two....</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <i>VAMPIRES, huh? Wow. Didn't
realize up 'til then this shit was supposed to be about VAMPIRES.
Okay....</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <i>I did get several
stories and poems run in the mag over the span of its existence,
anyway---although I always found it kind of odd that my whiney
guy-who-can't-get-laid stories were considered beyond the pale and
“objectifying”, but my stories about predatorial psycho killers
(who looked at their victims, more or less, as food, and usually came
out of the stories with no comeuppance for their actions) were a
shoe-in.</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <i>You never know.</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <i>There was perpetually a dig
between us, though....she began pushing her idea of a literary
revolution she called “outsiderism”, which near as I could figure
was supposed to combine many of our underground/DIY ethic with her
Ayn Rand aesthetics.....she described me in some editorial as ”a
writer who uses his elastic command of language to promote ideas far
afield from Outsiderism”....uuuhhh....not sure what “ideas”
those might have been.</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <i>I think that she always
perceived some imagined “rivalry” between us which was honestly
never interesting to me. She projected this kind of highfaluttin'
pseudointellectualism where in one instance she would be challenging
“Miltonians” (people who like John Milton, I guess) over one
thing or another and it was difficult to discern what her issue with
Milton was---at another point she extended an invitation to me to
attend some soiree up at her place in Maine, where he announced (in
the mag) as drinks and discussion over the place of romance in
contemporary art and literature....</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <i>NUH-UH!!!! Sorry, lady, it
don't work that way! I'm not driving all the way up to Maine to be
your foil in front of all your hoity-toity drinking buddies!!!!!</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <i>I'm not the champion of some
supposed genre, nor do I have an agenda in pushing some abstract
philosophy. I'm a fucking guy who writes stories, and THAT'S IT.</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “<i>The Second Wound” would
get a second lease on life in 1995, in the pages of BIZARA, an
interesting little fly-by-night mag that used some interesting, if
now-outdated computerized fonts and graphics that would become more
commonplace in the next decade. So, at the end of the day, life was
good.</i></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i></i></span></div></div>c.f. robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10373817767704732392noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1145613767003157079.post-7995933371285602632020-07-18T12:53:00.000-07:002020-07-18T12:53:32.522-07:00JEZEBEL'S WIG (A Caustic Lament)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yYoMszOAJiA/XxNSHjTnbHI/AAAAAAAABAo/w1aXdi6Q0Fg7kf4OgYlbiEiIxcubrULqgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Your%2BAcolytes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1238" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yYoMszOAJiA/XxNSHjTnbHI/AAAAAAAABAo/w1aXdi6Q0Fg7kf4OgYlbiEiIxcubrULqgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Your%2BAcolytes.jpg" width="247" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<ol>
<ol type="I">
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'd gotten tired of peoples'
expectations, which is to say everyone expected me to get over it,
and none of them would have settled for my dirty shoes on a bet.
They're soiled; they're venal. I'm white napkins on spiffy tables.
And I know they want to railroad me.</div>
</li>
</ol>
</ol>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Deal with it,” she says,
and he eyes are all gethsemane, e.g. don't pass this cup under me,
Dad.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I grow weary of explaining these
things.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Bustling multitudes of walking,
phlegm-blasting, yellowjacket casualties ghost over the desert and
beat on Jerusalem's door. They're carted off to well-wishing and tea
on 18-wheel hearses of sad glory and obligatory fish fountains.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
She readjusts her interchangeable
coiff and that makes her blonde this week. She likes being a blonde.
She excels at being a blonde.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The bodies stink around her, but
even in the puke-and-piss-mired nightfall she retains a kind of
infernal, unflagging stature. She'll burn all the bridges she must to
get her heap of flapjacks. All others be damned, she is the
Quintessential Entropy Device.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
(Here it should be noted my
Better looks over my shoulder and prods me, reminding me of the
danger involved when one objectifies an individual as a “Device”.
I hawk an erudite loogie and continue)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
She rides in state among the
festering carnage, trying to be subtle as she pulls up a stocking.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<ol>
<ol start="2" type="I">
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There are too many Bathroom Gods
wielding ball peen hammers to impress the compulsions of the weak.
We need renovations.</div>
</li>
</ol>
</ol>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Give me strange dogs, a la
Bunuel and Dali. Throw it all out in the open. Give me the primal
play of a baby's eye. Give me nails and tacks in technicolor.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Give me irresponsible rhetoric and
action—only through unreasonable maneuvers can one hope to subvert
the zeitgeist.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Give me a piss-and-vinegar outlook
and a mask, a cap and a burlap bag so I might be a burglar of th
latent mind. Give me actions above and beyond the deadweight of conscience and consequence.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Give me a horrific effigy god
with a blunt barbecue tree stump snout. This deity will be the last
word in terror. So terrible that he causes mean-spirited little men
to weep in supplication and reconsider their paths in life.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Give me a crew of soaked
miscreants too get drunk, ridiculous and sentimental with while
oldsters in traditional lederhosen honk on alpine horns and batter
accordions with percussive, padded cell furor.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Give me the raw of the movie
stripped past the mind's vain distinctions of time and place, revert
personage back to archetype, subtle aberrations of nuance and
characterization to the most base level of grunting moral and
skeletal campfire yarn.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Give me a life without
apologies, a clear, uncut conscience not hampered by the nervous
tremors of Should.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Give me a premature,
hereditary widow's peak. Give me the best thighs on the regional
poetry scene after she gets done fucking his image off her body. Give
me the knife of her words to twist hard. It's the only defense I have
left.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Give me a quaint
coastal town, the platonist dream, the dullard standard of a
writer's paradise, to strafe and raze and obliterate along with its
entire population of fishermen, franco-american blue collar yobbos
and yuppie tranquility fiends. What sane scribe can write in
paradise?</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Give me the ability to
piss on a tiara and get past all of this.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>'96 or '97, early days
in Fayetteville, I think. Never published.</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Copyright 2020, C.F.
Roberts/Molotov Editions</i></div>
<br />c.f. robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10373817767704732392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1145613767003157079.post-67188826646140053622020-03-04T02:42:00.000-08:002020-03-04T02:43:28.858-08:00"THE MEAT FACTORY" has landed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DcdQmzNERHw/Xl-AqP0PHtI/AAAAAAAAA-Y/DAThN9Btp2Ao2biPWsm7O7_FzrMiMHEdQCEwYBhgL/s1600/gSYFL1582137509.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="541" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DcdQmzNERHw/Xl-AqP0PHtI/AAAAAAAAA-Y/DAThN9Btp2Ao2biPWsm7O7_FzrMiMHEdQCEwYBhgL/s320/gSYFL1582137509.jpg" width="247" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">THE LOST
DINER</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">THE MEAT
FACTORY</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">ZONED
INDUSTRIAL</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">MONSTER
KID</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">SHIT
FLAVORED SHIT</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">RETURN TO
THE MEAT FACTORY</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">HANNIBAL
AND SANDI IN THE AFTERGLOW</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">THURSDAY
(The Sound of Tiny Planets Dying)</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">THE
AQUARIUM</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">GHETTO
HEAD</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">LOVE AND
DESPERATION IN THE MEAT FACTORY</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">THE KING
OF MOTHS</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">THE SCOWL</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">THE
JENNIFER TREE</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">AFTER THE
BATAAN DEATH MARCH</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">ACQUAINTANCE</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">MAGGIE AND
MERRILL GET REAL</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">THE MASK</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">I HEARD
HER CALL MY NAME (A Story of Devotion) </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">JESUS,
SUPERMAN AND RICE PATTIES</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">SON OF THE
MEAT FACTORY</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">ACTION,
REACTION</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">CARTOON
LAND</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">This protein laden beast available now from the fine folks at Alien Buddha Press (Distributors of fine contemporary literature)</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0858TY6M8?ref_=pe_3052080_397514860%22With&fbclid=IwAR1a_VhrXIvD6T8NhXdIhUG4GtBCfWNlBJmX2rNvAi_AF0tc_xB0K2GUXaw" target="_blank">https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0858TY6M8?ref_=pe_3052080_397514860%22With&fbclid=IwAR1a_VhrXIvD6T8NhXdIhUG4GtBCfWNlBJmX2rNvAi_AF0tc_xB0K2GUXaw</a></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
MINIVAN-Debut album</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
ALICE DONUT-Mule</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
THE WHO-Tommy</div>
<br />c.f. robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10373817767704732392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1145613767003157079.post-24083132852721373502020-01-01T16:03:00.000-08:002020-03-04T02:17:31.900-08:00KINGS, QUEENS, ACES AND JOKERS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gYEhXMXS_1I/Xg0yI03ve5I/AAAAAAAAA90/DT2jyTwwdZI50CCi6nn-33awx2T0Pd7JwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/yellow%2Bvests.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="383" data-original-width="575" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gYEhXMXS_1I/Xg0yI03ve5I/AAAAAAAAA90/DT2jyTwwdZI50CCi6nn-33awx2T0Pd7JwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/yellow%2Bvests.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<object class="BLOG_video_class" contentid="UPLOADING" height="266" id="BLOG_video-UPLOADING-0" width="320"></object></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
take another wild stab at</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
an entire damned house of</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
cards collapsing</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
where mortgage bubbles pop and</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
austerity grimaces from the ramparts</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
dogs and monkeys tell
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
cheap futures</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
when the next gaggle of regular joes</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
crumble under the weight of a</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
thousand dollar emergency</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
when the next dozen grenfells fall</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and the yellow vests multiply</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
will I see you there</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
brothers and sisters?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Will you break bread with me</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
over oligarchs roasting on spits?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Eventually</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
it all comes down to physics</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
entropy</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
erosion
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
applied pressure</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
escalation</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
eventually</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
it all comes down</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
12/31/19</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />c.f. robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10373817767704732392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1145613767003157079.post-35811306463916803942019-12-31T02:57:00.000-08:002019-12-31T02:57:29.985-08:00PUG HATES HIS NAKEDNESS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9lD-NZXpZ0E/Xgsot1uywnI/AAAAAAAAA9o/Lv9Td9z7aF82WNZ8kqsHHsLNafHwG6yuwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/pug%2Bhates.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="715" data-original-width="916" height="249" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9lD-NZXpZ0E/Xgsot1uywnI/AAAAAAAAA9o/Lv9Td9z7aF82WNZ8kqsHHsLNafHwG6yuwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/pug%2Bhates.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
reviling the mirror perversion, mercury
blasphemy, this stain, this ache, this blot on his soul. Pug is true
to his stigma—chases those parked cars, bashes his fool nose
in---pokes, heaves. Pug huffs and crawls, humps cruel linoleum.
Climbs, laughing, cursing his forsaken flab, his opaque, his
fishwhite. Mounts porcelain face first, groans, retches---cascade of
resentment and broken expectations. Purulent dream. Shuddering. Pug
natters, ugly powdered hailstones, pelted with psychic pains, learns
no lessons, hands over his head, sputters, rattles. Blessed mess,
immaculate decline.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Muscles grind, constrict and Pug
bites at the strings of a liquid rainbow, vivid filth. Permanent
stains in toilet, in sets color, decoration. Bitter bane, gastric
walls of acrid colors...shit tube wells in revulsion, forever a
graffiti salad. Pug heaves, pulls remnants of spew away from his
flat, unrequited face—Pug pelts off-sterile white from his drudgery
and existential bathroom woe. Throws darts at his own eyes---conjures
thorns for your braincake.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Hitting the floor with a meaty
pug thud, Pug whispers curses to his dull, limp pallor, throws hatred
and disdain toward his genitalia dangling sorry—exercise in vile
science Pug cools forehead on cold appliance---fever broken reverie,
indulgence suicide. Pug hates full-on, jealousy smashes bugs in
multitudes----</div>
<br /><br />
<br />
Copyright 1991 C.F. Roberts, 2019 Molotov Editions<br />
<br />
<br />
THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:<br />
THE GUN CLUB-Mother Juno<br />
SWANS-Leaving Meaning<br />
KING CRIMSON-Larks' Tongues in Aspicc.f. robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10373817767704732392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1145613767003157079.post-79444381826467144372019-10-23T01:24:00.000-07:002019-10-23T01:24:52.876-07:00THE WINDSHIELD OF A MOVING CAR IS HARD, ESPECIALLY WHEN YOU DROP ON TOP OF IT FROM THIRTY FEET<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NnNvOaBW0p8/XbABlP-XtOI/AAAAAAAAA8w/LcXEZ8EExJ4O4XIU-iayqiWWsb8d3NLgQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/CA_HowardHeader.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1080" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NnNvOaBW0p8/XbABlP-XtOI/AAAAAAAAA8w/LcXEZ8EExJ4O4XIU-iayqiWWsb8d3NLgQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/CA_HowardHeader.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Okay, so, note: I said I was going to do this thing over a year ago. It was the most outrageously stupid idea for a short story imaginable.......if you knew me back then you'll remember the quote: "I'm going to write a story about a guy who legally changes his name to Howard the Duck. And I'm going to make it good. And I'm going to get it published."</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i> And I did, too. Here ya go. </i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Howard the Duck stumbles through
the intersection of North Street and Mission Boulevard. He coughs.
The light changes halfway through his crossing, because the light,
the confounded crossing sign, is never up long enough for anyone
trying to cross the street. He coughs again, almost trips, and cars
begin honking. He finally makes it across and the stream of traffic
headed up Mission Boulevard continues on its way. A van full of kids
in baseball caps is one of the vehicles that rolls past him. As it
goes by, the door slides open and one of the kids leans out bodily.
The kid yells, “hey, buddy! Fuck you!!!!”
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It sounds, probably due to
the wind, the general street ambiance and what have you, as though
the kid yelled “puck you.” or maybe “buck you,” but Howard
the Duck gets the point.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He doubles over and lets loose
a loud, hacking cough and then he tries to flip the kid the bird. The
door has closed back up and the van is now safely in the distance,
well past his revenge.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Most of the suffering in the
world is created by kids wearing baseball caps, Howard the Duck
thinks. He looks down at the base of his hand and notices a wad of
blood. Goddammit, He thinks, and tries to wipe it off on his jacket.
He keeps walking.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Howard the Duck has problems.
First and foremost, he has Tuberculosis. He is dying. He's also a
pedestrian, which only belabors the point.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There are other problems,
though, that only create greater impact in his life.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A. Howard the Duck has a
price on his head. He is almost sure of it.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
B. He is a walking
copyright infringement. And he must allow that this is not an
accident of birth but a choice he made, a moral stand that has had
ramifications in his life.</div>
<ol>
<ol>
<ol start="100" type="I">
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Nobody understands him----not
his girlfriend, or the guys at work....not even his best friend.</div>
</li>
</ol>
</ol>
</ol>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
All of which brings him back to his
primary goal. He's walking to McDonald's. He's going to meet his
friend Spider-Man, to tell him he disapproves of his lifestyle
choices.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Howard the Duck shakes his
head. Skippy, he corrects himself, not Spider-Man. I refuse to call
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
him Spider-Man.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Skippy does not understand the
weight and the stress of being a walking copyright infringement.
Skippy is young, of course, and only sees the glitz and glamour of
naming yourself after your favorite character. Howard the Duck
realizes all of this and hopes to make Skippy aware of some of the
pitfalls he has to live with.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He hears a shout back toward
the intersection. He half-turns. He's always looking over his
shoulder these days, because he knows Marvel Comics are following him
and he is sure that they mean to kill him.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Nothing. This time.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Besides, he thinks, changing
your name legally to “Spider-Man” is stupid. Spider-Man is a
popular character consumed by the masses for no good reason and to no
good end. There is nothing special, risky or meaningful about such a
move.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Changing one's name legally to
“Howard the Duck” is a bold and deeply personal move that invites
hardship and misunderstanding.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A. Few if any people hear
“Howard the Duck” and think of Steve Gerber's brilliant,
existential satirical comic. They usually think of the horrid '80s
movie if they think of anything.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
B. There is nothing fun or
glamorous about filling out paperwork and signing it as “Howard the
Duck”. Try renting an apartment that way. Buying a car. Shit, try
VOTING.</div>
<ol>
<ol>
<ol start="100" type="I">
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And again, the afformentioned
understanding that you are a marked man, your days are numbered
and Marvel Comics are trying to kill you. And in the case of
Howard the Duck, it's just an arrogant grab for intellectual
property. There's not even a goddamned profit motive.
</div>
</li>
</ol>
</ol>
</ol>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He will set Skippy straight on
this and more, if it's the last thing he does. And it might be.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
His real last given name is
“Vlierboom”. He hates it. The guys at the factory simply call him
“Boom”, which he's fine with. They can't pronounce “Vlierboom”.
Past the bosses who hand him his paycheck and the personnel
department who he had to clear the change with he has no desire to
share this with his co-workers for all the obvious reasons. He
doesn't need any of the wise guys pointing out that he is not
actually a duck. He knows that.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It's a point that Jessie, his
girlfriend, makes frequently. “I'd be happy to meet you in the
middle and call you 'Howard the Man',” she tells him. “I mean,
you are a man, you know.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“That's not the point,” he
retorts, “I'm trapped in a world I never made. I literally am that
character.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You're making a world you
never made by calling yourself a duck,” she says. She always falls
back on that one and he thinks it's all beside the point but then
they smoke up another big fatty, he hacks up a lung and she starts
talking to him about how he needs to see a doctor. So nothing is
really ever solved in this circular exchange.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It might be a problem of the
therapist in question. Jessie says she's a playwrite, although she's
never written a play in the whole time he's known her.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Howard the Duck busts his hump for
a couple of miles before finally reaching the big intersection and
heading to McDonald's on the other side of the street. He winds
himself getting across the intersection but makes it in good time. He
crumples up by the light post. “Uh-hriiiii-hriiiii-hriiiiii-hriiii,”
he coughs.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
To get to McDonald's from the
corner he has to hike up a steep hill and cross a couple of different
parking lots. He thinks that motorists don't know the painstaking
difficulty required in going everywhere on foot----needing to walk
miles for a futile meeting at McDonalds because your best friend has
made a stupid life decision. Of course, the whole process only
exacerbates the coughing. He
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
tries to apply some thought to this.
Spider-Man. Why Spider-Man? And for the love of God, how the hell did
Skippy slip that one past Judge Dunn?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Judge Dunn hates legal name
changes. Jessie had actually told him this back when he first decided
to change his name to Howard the Duck. She had a friend, she said,
named April Morgan, who decided, for religious reasons, that she
wanted to change her name to Purple Vanguard Trixie Diatribe 6. Yes,
the number six, that was her last name. Judge Dunn grudgingly gave it
to her but not before forcing her to give a long, detailed
explanation as to why she wanted the name change and what it meant.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Later on, like a year
later,” Jessie told him, “she thought maybe her choice went a
little far and she was having trouble getting jobs...she went back
and got it shortened to just 'Trixie Diatribe', and the Judge yelled
at her about how much of a burden she was putting on taxpayers. She
gave her the name change but told her she didn't ever want to see her
in her court again.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Howard the Duck encountered
similar wrath. He explained to the judge that he wanted the name
change because he was trapped in a world he'd never made. She told
him that such frivolous petitions like his were putting state
taxpayers into a world they'd never made, but she grudgingly granted
him the name change.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He does not know Trixie Diatribe.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
After a herculean hike (and
another good, hard cough), Howard the Duck finally makes McDonald's.
Skippy is sitting in the booth closest to the exit. He's sipping on a
shake. “Took ya long enough,” says Skippy.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You know how far I had to
walk,” rasps Howard the Duck, and this causes him to lurch into
another coughing fit.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You oughtta take a
Riccola,” Skippy adds. Howard the Duck stops and regards Skippy's
hairy moonface, peering at him guilelessly from underneath a mop of
greasy, brown hair. He stops short of ripping him a new one.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You eating, smart guy?”
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Skippy looks down at his
shake and then looks back up. “Nah, I'm good. Been waiting for you.
For a while.” He holds up his wristwatch for emphasis.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Alright, well, I've had
a long walk, so I'm getting something.” Skippy nods agreeably and
Howard the Duck gets in line.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
His McDonald's order looks
like this:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A. Quarter Pounder, no
cheese.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
B. 10-piece McNuggets.</div>
<ol>
<ol>
<ol>
<ol start="100" type="I">
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Sweet-and-Sour Sauce.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
D. Hot Mustard Sauce</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
E. Large Fries.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
F. Medium Diet Coke.
</div>
</li>
</ol>
</ol>
</ol>
</ol>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Howard the Duck does not
drink Diet Coke because he believes it will make him thin. He drinks
Diet Coke because regular coke drinks are too sugary for him.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Upon receiving his order he
sits down with Skippy at the booth by the exit.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Skippy,” he says, and
then, seeing Skippy frown, he corrects himself.
“Sorry....'Spider-Man'.” Skippy's face softens slightly---apology
expected.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Been missing you at
Munchkin, dude,” Skippy says, glazing over the faux pas. “Where
ya been?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Sick,” says Howard the
Duck, coughing again.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah, no shit,” remarks
Skippy. “You oughtta take something for that.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I have TB,” Howard the
Duck grunts.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Skippy takes another sip off his
shake. “Sucks,” he says.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah,” Howard the Duck
says. He tears into the burger and begins coughing again. This time
it seems like the ketchup is setting it off, but everything sets it
off. The cold air. The car exhaust. The food. You name it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Damn, dude,” Skippy says
again.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I'm dying,” says Howard
the Duck.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I guess,” Skippy muses.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You're a goddamned
idiot,” says Howard the Duck.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What do you mean?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“First and foremost, you
don't listen to anything anyone tells you. That's just for starters.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Huh?! Dude, I have
absolutely no idea what you mean!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I bet you don't, but
that's just for starters!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What the hell, pal????
We haven't seen you for weeks at Munchkin.....months, maybe----and
then you're all yellin' and attackin' and callin' names?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Howard the Duck regards
Skippy with a hard look and several vignettes go through his head:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A. Impalement</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
B. Castration</div>
<ol>
<ol>
<ol start="100" type="I">
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Waterboarding, however hot, hip
and trendy that may come off.</div>
</li>
</ol>
</ol>
</ol>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
All of the above scenarios are
accompanied by happy whistling music. There are a multitude of
grievances at work in his head right now, but he puts them all aside
in favor of one, which in his mind represents everything.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Spider-Man,” he sighs.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Skippy smiles. “That's my
name, don't wear it out!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Are you on crack, you
fuckin' moron?! Seriously, are you sure your parents weren't related?
Answer that for me, will ya?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Dude!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Don't 'Dude' me again,
okay, ya mongoloid? Just what the fuck is wrong with you???”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What do you mean???
Dude, what's up your ass????”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Okay, so first off, I
have to know, how hard did Judge Dunn jump down your throat when you
told her you wanted to change your name to Spider-Man?!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Not at all! Man, she
was a stand-up Judge!”
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah, I'll bet she
was.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Listen, just because
she was a cooze to you doesn't mean she didn't learn something and
lighten the hell up, man.....”
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah? Yeah? What,
exactly, do you figure she learned, huh?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Skippy stammers for a few
seconds and licks his lips. “Ah, maybe she got more tolerant of
other peoples' individuality? And maybe you could re-learn some of
that?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh, really? And whose
individuality did she get more tolerant of? Explain that to me, will
ya?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“People like US, dude!!!!
People who have their own ideas! People who don't march to everyone
else's drummer, you know?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“People like us,” crabs
Howard the Duck, half under his breath. “Explain to me, exactly,
how calling yourself 'Spider Man' helps you assert your
individuality.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well,” says Spider-Man,
look a little nonplussed, “you know!” He gestures frantically to
Howard, as if that should speak for itself.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No,” Howard the Duck
smiles. “I don't. How about you explain it to me?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Spider-Man now has a look of
concern and frustration on his moonface. It reads a mix of “you
should understand this already, dude,” coupled with a dash of “I
thought you were my friend”.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You know....being the Hero.
Being your OWN hero! What you always tried to tell me!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Howard the Duck is not placated.
“I don't remember ever telling you that.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well, not in so many
words....”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It's my moral obligation to
call you on your shit, genius,” Howard the Duck sneers. “I'm
dying, do you understand that? I'm DYING. And on top of that my life
is shit. Marvel Comics are coming to kill me. And if they're coming
to kill me, you'd better believe they're coming to kill you! Do you
have any clue as to the can of worms you've popped upon yourself?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Skippy cocks his head, not
unlike one of those pug dogs who doesn't understand what it's being
told by its owners. “No one's going to kill you, my friend! How
could you think something like that?!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Fuck you!” Howard the
Duck says though gritted teeth. The dumpy employee cleaning tables
across the way stares their way and it's over. Howard the Duck knows
he's been made. “Calling yourself 'Spider-Man'-----what kinds of
sacrifices does that really require you to make? How much harder has
it made your life? Do you have any idea of the cliff you're headed
for???”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Again, the quizzical
expression. “What are you talking about? You're starting to worry
me, bro!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Why 'Spider-Man'?!” Howard
the Duck is trying his damndest not to scream in Skippy's face right
there in the restaurant now. “Justify that to me, will you please?
Why the hell was it such a big deal for you to call yourself
'Spider-Man'? What made you think that was such a good idea?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Skippy stammers, “it's
just my own personal choice!” He waits expectantly, as if that
should be a satisfactory response.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I get that part. What the
hell is so great about Spider-Man to where you're going to change
your name to that?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Skippy looks agog as if to
say, how can you even ask that? “Dude! What's so great about
Spider-Man? What's so great about Howard the Duck? So, see how easy
that is?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You're avoiding the
question! What the fuck does goddamn Spider-Man say about you?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Skippy looks contemplative
for the first time ever and he chews into his answer with some level
of deliberation. “Well,” he says, as if thinking about it for the
first time ever, “Spider-Man is cool.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Howard the Duck fights back
a scream. “Please continue.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Skippy searches for the
words. “Spider-Man is a badass. And by taking the name I become a
badass!” He smiles hopefully.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Kill me,” groans Howard
the Duck. He lets loose a frail, spluttering cough.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Now Skippy goes on the
offensive. “Listen, where do you get off? I made a personal choice
that's very important to me. Spider-Man is cool, everyone knows that!
What the hell's so great about calling yourself Howard the Duck?! I
saw that movie when I was a kid----it sucked ass!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Howard the Duck affixes a dead
stare on Skippy.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah, you heard me,”
Skippy says, more emboldened. “I saw that movie. Howard the Duck
sucks ass. So don't go trying to judge me!”
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Howard the Duck gets up out of his
seat. He suffers an explosive coughing fit.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“That's right, buddy,” grins
Skippy. “So how do you like it?” Howard the Duck hobbles out the
door, hacking uncontrollably.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
With great difficulty, he makes
it across the parking lot and into the woods out in back of the
shopping plaza. He finds a treestump in a clearing and rolls himself
a cigarette. He smokes and coughs and smokes and coughs and then he
just sits there for several hours, thinking and yet trying not to
think because thinking hurts too much.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It's getting dark. He's wasted
his entire day on this worthless errand. He hobbles at least a mile
to the Gas Mart. There's at least one good reason to stop
there---they've got one of the few still-functioning
payphones----hell, maybe the very last----in town.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He sees that it's fifty
cents per call and he wistfully remembers back when a dime was
required.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He stops for a second and remembers
when there were payphones.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Howard the Duck doesn't have a
cell phone. He dislikes and distrusts them. He had a little flip
phone at one point---he got rid of it because it was problematic and
everyone was looking at him as if they thought he was a drug dealer.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He dials up Jessie. “I
need to see you,” he wheezes</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“That's cool,” she says, her
aloof, baked tones coming across the phone line. “Dude, this is
amazing---I have to show you!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What?” Howard the Duck is
irritated. His head's still back in McDonald's with Skippy, who
legally changed his name because he thought it would be cool.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Spider-Man, he corrects
himself.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Jessie disrupts his personal
hell. “I'm back! I'm done! I wrote a musical! A whole musical! It's
finished!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Howard the Duck is not in the
headspace for this. “What?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I wrote a musical-----big,
broadway, all the bells and whistles-----I wrote a musical based on
WATERSHIP DOWN!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It's as if someone hit him in
the face with a brick. “WATERSHIP DOWN???”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Omigod, babe, it's so
amazing....I feel like it came out of me through some other
force----this is going to change everything!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Hold on, back it up a
sec. WATERSHIP DOWN, that's a book about rabbits, isn't it?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No! It's an
allegory----it's an epic and an exodus about people who leave their
homeland and fight to make a new existence.....”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Epic and an exodus,
Jessie----are the characters in the story or are they not rabbits?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I....they are but they're
not,” long silence. “Dude, you're really harshing my buzz, okay?
Come over----I'll play you the songs. They'll make you believe, just
like the world is going to believe!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A harsh wheeze turns into
another coughing jag. He manages to eke out “I'm dying,” into the
phone.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“God, there you go being
negative again! Come to my place! I'm going to play you my songs
and....”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I saw Skippy. He changed his
name to Spider-Man.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Wow. That's crazy.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“He doesn't even know. He
doesn't even know.....”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Howard, you need to stop,
okay? It's a little weird, just like changing your name to 'The Duck'
is a little weird, but it's fine! That's his choice!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No, but his reasoning,
Christ, it's so dumb! “</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Boy, there's the pot
calling the kettle black! Dude! Drop all your crazy no-hope and come
hear all the songs. And quit worrying!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“ 'Kay,” he grumbles.
“I'll be over soon.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“ 'Bout time! Love you!”
She coos.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah,” he grumps and hangs
up the phone. He ambles past the front window of the Gas Mart and
sees that there's a comic rack in there.....understocked and lonely,
but goddammit, it's an According-to-Hoyle comic book rack. A
twentyish, unkempt, long haired kid is loitering by it, thumbing
through a dog-eared Archie comic.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The kid looks up and stares
through the window at him, as does the fat clerk with the muttonchop
sideburns behind the counter.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Payphones. Comic book racks.
There's something not right about this place....these people. Time to
leave.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He worries that they might all
be agents of Marvel Comics, sent to watch him. Or apprehend.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He walks along the dark road and
hits the trailer park where Jessie lives by eight thirty in the
evening. Several things happen:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A. Jessie plugs in her Casio
synth and plays Howard the Duck all the songs from her WATERSHIP DOWN
musical, in sequence. She talks about how she wants all the actors to
wear hats with bunny ears and she shows him some of her choreography
ideas.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
B. Howard the Duck goes out to
the tiny kitchenette, grabs a steak knife and stabs Jessie forty
times.
</div>
<ol>
<ol start="100" type="I">
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He lights a number of
glass-encased Catholic saint candles around the house and places
them all around the gas stove.</div>
</li>
</ol>
</ol>
<ol>
<ol start="500" type="I">
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He opens up all the gas valves on
the stove and heads out.</div>
</li>
</ol>
</ol>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
E. He begins the arduous
hike back to his own place. He never gets there. He's found dead by
the side of the road the next morning. The eventual autopsy report
mentions exposure and exhaustion. And Tuberculosis.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
News of the oddball
murder/death makes the rounds on all the local news affiliates,
everyone has a good laugh over the whole thing and it is quickly
forgotten. He is consistently referred to in the reports as “Howard
Vlierboom” instead of his legal name, but everyone takes a moment
out to laugh over his given name. No mention is ever made of his
obsession with an arcane cult comic book character.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Skippy is overcome with
grief because of the death of his friend.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A. He belly flops off the
overpass on Exit 76 one Saturday morning.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
B. He goes straight through the
windshield of a Mini-Cooper, accidentally killing a family of four
who were visiting from Oregon.</div>
<ol>
<ol start="100" type="I">
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Several state highway workers are
wounded in the wreck.</div>
</li>
</ol>
</ol>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The entire region is shocked
and saddened by Skippy's death. Roadside tributes are erected in his
honor. His sister tearfully tells the local media that he had been
very despondent over the last several weeks. She describes him as “an
old soul” and says that he loved comic book heroes like Spider-Man.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Spider-Man ephemera pops up along with
the usual bouquets and crosses along the spot where Skippy ended his
life. Years go by but sad and haunting stories are handed down and
exchanged for decades to follow, regarding the tragic story of The
Spider-Man of Exit 76.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Copyright 2018 C.F. Roberts, published in UNLIKELY STORIES MARK V. Copyright 2019 Molotov Editions</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i>THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>ALICE DONUT-Pure Acid Park</i><br />
<i>WAYNE SHORTER-Juju</i><br />
<i>SWANS-The Seer</i><br />
<i>SWANS-To Be Kind</i><br />
<i>VIC BONDI/ARTICLES OF FAITH-Fortunate Son EP</i>c.f. robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10373817767704732392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1145613767003157079.post-58044483736496812282019-07-06T15:29:00.001-07:002021-12-04T01:44:42.526-08:00ENTRY
The story here was "Second Coming"
<i>Copyright 1993 C.F. Roberts, 2019 Molotov Editions. Comic by William Landsburg, published in DIMINISHED RESPONSIBILITY, 1994.</i><br />
<i>As I'm going through a lot of old writings trying to pull things together for collections this one is tentatively falling into the "near miss" category. Maybe that'll change, I don't know. Originally run in mine & Alfred Vitale's maxi-chap, "Fairy Tales from the Urban Holocaust", it was picked up, shortly thereafter, by this William Landsburg cat who wanted to run it in his zine, DIMINISHED RESPONSIBILITY, as a comic. It kind of bears the whole standard Rhett and Link query, "will it comic?" Apparently so, much to my surprise. I like it. My favorite part is on the last page, where the mob attack Jesus and he goes into a karate pose. It cracks me up that the one guy jumping him looks like some kind of mutant potato monster. Nice that some dude thought enough of my story to turn it into a comic. The overall tone of the zine is very anti-religion....Landsburg asked me if I was a big atheist---I told him not necessarily, I just disliked organized religion. Still do, obviously.</i><br />
<i> The genesis of the story for me happened at some point in the late 60s or early 70s when my Dad and I were in a car one night and I heard a newscast on the radio telling a story about some guy entering a church during a service and smashing up statuary and causing a ruckus, claiming he was Jesus Christ. Obviously the story stuck with me.</i><br />
<i> The ending ties directly into my from-the-ground-up mess of a forthcoming novel, HOME. So I guess at some point you're going to see "Mr. Jesus" turn up at the asylum. What happens after that, God knows. But I guess I ought not dismiss it out-of-hand. Anyway, for now, there it is, "Second Coming".</i><br />
<i>THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST: </i><br />
<i>THE CLASH-Clash on Broadway</i><br />
<i>THE BUTTHOLE SURFERS-Independent Worm Saloon</i><br />
<i>HEAVY MEAT-(comp, various artists)</i>c.f. robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10373817767704732392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1145613767003157079.post-1205978224578877912019-05-18T12:34:00.000-07:002019-05-18T12:34:09.450-07:00OLD MAN DELPRETE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mGt_TeJP9t4/XOBbJGi3IkI/AAAAAAAAA5k/qwaa8wfrsDMCaX86WQUBSimyO0-D3W3ZACLcBGAs/s1600/abandoned%2Bhouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mGt_TeJP9t4/XOBbJGi3IkI/AAAAAAAAA5k/qwaa8wfrsDMCaX86WQUBSimyO0-D3W3ZACLcBGAs/s1600/abandoned%2Bhouse.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Another chunk of the
“Brookdale Mythos” or “Brookdale Cycle”, here....this one is
more or less a kind of “Prequel” to my novel, HELLO, UGLY, taking
place in the '60's. Old Man Delprete is kind of a peripheral
“character” in the book in that the teenagers who are the main
characters bust into what, according to urban legend, is an old,
abandoned “murder house”, wherein they find sheets over a lot of
the old furniture and they party, socialize, wear the sheets and run
around acting like ghosts....they drink a toast to Old Man Delprete,
the historic murderer the urban legends are all based around.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>This is Old Man Delprete's
story.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>In the act of compiling short
stories for two collections I've decided to drop this one from the
list (so I'm putting it here). Reason one is that whenever I revise
HELLO I'm probably dropping the section in the Delprete House...it's
excessive and heavy-handed and I don't think it adds anything of
substance to the story. So “OMD” ends up with less of a context.
I also have my doubts as to how well the story, as a whole,
“works”...kind of overwritten, and I'm not too sure the
multipart, multivoice structure functions well, particularly the kind
of dark folk ballad sections---you could tell I was listening to a
lot of Nick Cave at the time. Does it work? You tell me....</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Nothing earth-shattering went
into the guts of this---a little Faulkner here, a little Bloch there,
some Selby frosted over the top----the “cake” of it all is my
interest in the case of John List, and if you don't know who he is,
you should look him up. It's an interesting case and I'm not gonna
say anything else.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Oh---yeah---because you can't
take such things for granted these days, the “N” word gets used
in this story. Sorry, I'm not taking it out. This character's entire
motivation is his fear of all the change and social upheaval around
him....that's the way he thinks and that's the word he uses. I'm not
in the habit of self-censoring for the Politically Dainty, so rather
than engage in mealy-mouthed apologetics</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>I'm doubling down. The word stays. I
don't think I should have to lecture you lot like a goddamned grade
school teacher but evidently these days you need to preface
everything because everyone's like a goddamn child.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>And get offa my lawn.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Anyway, enough ranting.
Here's “Old Man Delprete”. </i>
</div>
<br /><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
OLD MAN DELPRETE</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Old Man Delprete sits with his
wife and two sons in the basement sitting room he has constructed for
them. He leans forward in his easy chair and scowls at the television
set. His boy Liston once again failed to beat that uppity,
loudmouthed commie nigger who'd claimed he was a Muslim rather than
fight for his country. Disgrace, yes, a disgrace. And funny business,
as far as he could see. That wasn't any kind of a punch. Dirty
Italian Mafia Fixers, no doubt---anyone could see the Mafia were in
cahoots with the Commies. They ran everything now----ran the U.S.
Mail, ran all the shows in Atlantic City, for sure. Just as well, he
figures. If this were the old days he'd have most likely gone down to
Sully's and shot his mouth off. Old Man Delprete isn't much for going
out these days---more content to stay home with the family and watch
it all go to hell from the basement.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Still, it's a disgrace about
Clay, or whatever it is he's going to call himself now, and he tells
his wife so. No reply. No reply needed. She's smiling and she
understands. He loves her so much. And the boys. Perfect young men.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Old Man Delprete sits back and
reflects upon the ominous state of the world. Portent, he believes
the word is. It's different from the old days. Can't tell who your
neighbors are. Crime. Immorality. Widespread acceptance of Communism.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Where are our values going? Old
Man Delprete asks himself this a lot.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But a man shouldn't dwell on the
negatives, he supposes, but instead look on his fortune and thank the
Lord for simple things. Home. Family. The things that have real
meaning.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Old Man Delprete thinks this
and smiles at his wife. He looks at her, closely. Something's wrong.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
II</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The obsidian cloud settle over
the small town of Brookdale. Visitation of the evil and the madness O
woe O day O woe to little Brookdale. The shadows clutch n drown poor
little Brookdale.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The grass grow long an a monster
keeps his little hell in Brookdale. The secret cloaked in a decayin
paint on a quiet little street in Brookdale.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
III</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Old Man Delprete takes a walk
over to his workbench and looks for the needed instruments---oh, he
must heal his wife---the larger ones----no, he needs the finer ones.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A few minutes later he returns
to the sitting room and heals his wife. Magic. The magic of love. He
touches up her face, the perfect shade of red, replenishes her
winning smile...</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Much better.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
IV</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Mabel Watson put down her
teacup. She thought about the friends she'd known all her life, those
she'd grown up and gone to school with, how it seemed that all moved
away a long time ago. No jobs in Brookdale. No life in Brookdale.
Honey, thjis town just isn't going anywhere. It'll die where it is
right now.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Even young Agnes had stopped
coming over to play Rummy, like she used to.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Mabel's son and daughter said
they wanted to move her into a rest home. They said they'd been
worried about her.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Terrible. Locking her in a rest
home.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
She thought about looking for Irv
out in the back yard and calling him in for lunch. Then she
remembered that, of course, there was no point to that. Irv had been
dead for at least five years.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Maybe ten.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Could you blame a girl for
getting lonely? And now all this business with the rest home. Just
look at the way all her old friends had moved away, as had her
children---so long ago.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Even young Agnes had stopped
coming over to play Rummy, like she used to.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
V</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Enter the Electric Man.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Christ, thinks the Electric Man
stalking through tall grass headed round back the house to read the
meter, don't these people ever mow the lawn?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Finally he finds the meter next
to the window and takes the reading</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Job done the Electric Man turns to
go one stray bored eye peering casually in the basement window</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Storefront display</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
What the----?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
VI</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Horror, freezing cold, digs deep
into Old Man Delprete. It was there. He's sure, this time. Again. The
phantom. The pervert. Peeping.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The face. The face in the window.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
God almighty, a man and his
family aren't safe in their own home anymore.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Old Man Delprete frowns, grimaces
with iron resolve.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--I will not, he screams, will
not lie down to the decay the immorality swallowing America---they
can't do this to me!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Gun</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
VII</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Electric Man
doubles over and weeps.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
VIII</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The children in the schoolyard
loiter and talk.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--Yeah we went downa the
cranberry bog yesterday tryin to catch some frogs. Didn't find any.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--Aw, man, the cranberry bog?
Down by Delpretes?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--Yeah, An' what about it? Ain't
nobody lives down there.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--I hear Old Man Delprete still
lives down there.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--Oh he died years ago.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--You mean 'e's a ghost?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--Naw, I don't mean 'e's a
ghost. Grow up, will ya? All I'm sayin' is there ain't no Old Man
Delprete an' he's just dead, he ain't no boogeyman in his cave,
stewin' kids, is all.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
---That house is empty an' has
been for years. Ain't no Old Man Delprete, he was just this old fart
moved away a long time ago.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
---Scary house, though.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--Pshaw!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
IX</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Old Man Delprete finds the
pervert cowering by the side of the house. Grovelling. Drooling.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Aims, fires. Justice is
dispensed.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
X</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The boys gather 'round Sully's
after work for a few rounds of beer.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--Well, sighs Levesque, godda go
back to the missus before she starts suspectin' . Round of laughter
from the boys.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--Ah, Levesque, chuckles
Thibodeau, ya Missus is in good hands. Another round of laughter. I
gotcher Missus right here.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
---Seeya. Hi to the wife. Etc.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
More drinking. Talking.
Reminiscing. The boys grow a little older and smile. They are the old
boys of Brookdale. Pushin' for that pension. Every night work. Every
day Sully's. They are comfortable. Waiting to die.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--Ah, says LaPierre, ain't the
same. Alla good people, the ole folks, movin' outta town...</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--Ain't what it used to be.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--Nope.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--Know what we could use around
here? Asks Old Jean.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--Some life, cracks Thibodeau.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--We could use ole Delprete.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--Ah, go on.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--No, no! Hear me out!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--Get outta here. Delprete was a
crazy old cuss.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--He was one of the boys! An'
lemme tell you he had some life in him...</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--All Delprete ever did was go
on an' on about this'n'that'n'the world goin' to hell an' such.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--Here, here.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--Delprete was a bore. An' he
only got worse after his taxidermy business went under. Went buggy.
Good riddance.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--No, no! Says Old Jean. Ain't
nobody could replace Delprete...ya may have disagreed with his grumpy
ass on the time of day, but you remember every conversation you ever
had with him, yeah?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--Can ya believe this?!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--Ain't nobody could replace
Delprete, nobody. Look at alla you, ya deadasses, you go from here to
there an' back again. Whaddya do, huh? Whaddya do? Delprete, he was a
character....</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
---Ah, go on....</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
XI</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Old Man Delprete manages to weigh
down the Electric Man using cinderblocks from the cellar. The
cranberry bog sucks him down.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
XII</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A hole opened up where a life
once was, and a name, a tiny world, is blotted out in Brookdale.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ravens in heir solemn ritual
pace dropping roses down 'round Brookdale's shame....</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
XIII</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Legend.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The children for generations will
ring their laughing, dancing plague circles round, chant the grisly
legend of Old Man Delprete.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The stories vary. The number of
victims shift. The misdeeds grow and distort and intensify in Legend.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
XIV</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Old Man Delprete sits and beams at
his fine family. Agnes smiling, starry-eyed. The boys now perfect
young men. Steadfast. Tall.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
When things get too much, one must
fight. There are very few things in this world that are of lasting
importance. A man must defend and protect those that matter. Nothing
must come between a man and his home, his family.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Sometimes, one has to make the
hard decisions. One must sacrifice. Sometimes harsh measures must be
followed in order to teach those who might make wrong turns, so that
they might eventually pursue the right course. He has no doubt about
that now.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Old Man Delprete frowns
thoughtfully. He figures he ought to tend to the lawn.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Maybe later. It seems to be one of
those things he always puts off. Maybe later.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Thooming raps on the front door
upstairs. Damned IRS. Best to just ignore it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
XV</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
cranes in the cranberry bog. The yellow
line. Brookdale opens its eyes and screams at its face takes up the
mask nails it to its face in terror, never to remove it again.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Smash the mirror, little Brookdale.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
XVI</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In the tiny room Old Man Delprete
sits frail in the wooden chair and he smiles a nervous smile. A
parade of men walk in and out.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It all frightens him a little bit.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He asks when he might be allowed
to go back to his family.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
XVII</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A tiny, hunched and humble man
crosses the threshold on a gray horizon and shuffles into myth.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
copyright 1992 C.F.
Roberts,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
2019 Molotov
Editions</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<i>Old Man Delprete” was
picked up and run by a zine out of Maine called GOTHICA. Don't know
what ever became of it----the editor, who's apparently one more
person from back then who just dropped off the face of the earth, ran
a couple of things of mine---she respected me as a writer although
for some bizarre reason we never got along. A lot of it may have been
our different approaches to the word “Gothic”, which to her meant
Anne Rice----to me it meant The Sisters of Mercy and the Cure, or on
a literary angle, Goethe, the Bronte Sisters, et. al. So we didn't
necessarily get off on the right foot...she always perceived us, for
some inexplicable reason, as being diametrically opposed on some
ethical or philosophical level. Even her glowing mention of me in
editorials were undercut by bizarre little “digs”. Hey, my ethics
and philosophies amounted to this: I'm just some fucking guy who
writes stories. </i>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>However, the lady was kind
enough to publish me in her mag, and she also supported a good many
writers I knew who were worthy of the attention. So wherever she may
be, hats off to her.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
THE KINKS-Arthur (Or the Decline and
Fall of the British Empire)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
FAITH NO MORE-King for a Day, Fool for
a Lifetime</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
FAITH NO MORE-Angel Dust</div>
<br />c.f. robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10373817767704732392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1145613767003157079.post-42395652196737214082019-03-23T01:31:00.000-07:002019-03-23T01:31:44.440-07:00REMEMBERING RICHARD<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jX65m-dXjn4/XJXi631zbdI/AAAAAAAAA4c/JE9BIhELBYMIpawqQRsPyeRZllE-A2dRACLcBGAs/s1600/richard%2Bstudio.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="405" data-original-width="545" height="237" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jX65m-dXjn4/XJXi631zbdI/AAAAAAAAA4c/JE9BIhELBYMIpawqQRsPyeRZllE-A2dRACLcBGAs/s320/richard%2Bstudio.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The City of Fayetteville has lost
a giant. Richard S. Drake, former GRAPEVINE journalist and editor,
founder and editor-in-chief of THE OZARK GAZETTE and long running
host of Fayetteville's own ON THE AIR WITH RICHARD S. DRAKE, passed
away on 3/ 4/ 19 after a period of illness.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Richard has been a part of my
reality for almost a quarter of a decade...certainly not as long as
he looms with more old school Fayettevillians, but at this stage in
the game I reckon I can shed some of my “New Kid” sheen. I moved
here from New Hampshire in early Spring of 1996. I became involved
and aware of the close-knit community I adopted and eventually of
the little free paper, the OZARK GAZETTE, that could be found in
racks everywhere in town. It was a fun and acerbic little
publication, very in touch with its grass roots base. I became aware
of Community Access Television and the scene (somewhat symbiotic)
they had going on----many of my friends were poets and musicians and
most of them had appeared on CAT (at that time better known to most
locals as “The Open Channel” since that was the name of the
previous long-term contractor. I learned that the same passionate and
sometimes cranky GAZETTE editor who did a column called “Street
Jazz” was the guy behind “On the Air with Richard S. Drake”,
and on that access show he conducted intelligent and thoughtful
interviews with people of all stripes; activists, writers,
historians, artists, academics, musicians and many others.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My roommate had bugged me
several times at this point about the notion that we should hit the
Open Channel and see what it took to become producers and learn to
put out product ourselves. I had my own things distracting me at the
time----I was like, “yeah, okay, maybe we can do that,” the idea
pretty much remaining an abstract in the back of my brain. One day,
either toward the end of 1996 or very early '97, he told me, “I
went up to CAT and signed us both up for Orientation.” OKAY. I was
on board while barely aware of it.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We signed up and our package
covered Studio, Field and Edit classes, which still remain a crux of
the curriculum today, although the technology has changed a lot.
Studio Training was our first class, and I was blown away when we
went in and it was revealed that The Great Man would be our trainer.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“AW, NO WAY! The guy running
our classes is the Ozark Gazette guy??? I LOVE that guy!!! ” I was
starstruck.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Richard not only taught us the
basics of studio production, from set building to interviewing to
punching a show in the studio, he gave us an overview of Public
Access Television, its history both nationally and locally, and why
it was there. Over the years Richard's history with Public Access and
his knowledge thereof, as well as his passion for it, would be a
constant source of inspiration to me. Having come out of the
xerographic zine scene, I found the independent, radical aspects of
Public Access very accommodating and very close to home.</div>
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RZOvfItiS3M&index=42&list=PL0cs_SrWxKfUXOl47_dVnqPfM7nrvNehF" target="_blank">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RZOvfItiS3M&index=42&list=PL0cs_SrWxKfUXOl47_dVnqPfM7nrvNehF</a><br /><br />
<i>Follow this link to watch ON THE AIR featuring Film Historian Frank Scheide</i><br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=czAufQWhJh4&index=26&list=PL0cs_SrWxKfUXOl47_dVnqPfM7nrvNehF" target="_blank">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=czAufQWhJh4&index=26&list=PL0cs_SrWxKfUXOl47_dVnqPfM7nrvNehF</a><br />
<i>Follow this link to watch Richard's interview with "The Last American"</i><br />
<br />
We got our Access Producer
stripes and went off on our own, helping out Richard and other
producers in volunteer gigs but also began forging our own path...and
our path (believe it or not, it isn't like we walked into this gig
with anything resembling a PLAN) wound up becoming Fayetteville's
most controversial public access show. EVER.<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In this capacity---and he might
have, at varying junctures, been either a dedicated public volunteer,
a member of the City's Telecom Board or a member of CAT's Board of
Directors.....and he might not have always liked what we were doing,
but he frequently found himself in the position of having to defend
us, and he did so all the time, like a good First Amendment trooper.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
At one point, following our
perseverance after a trumped-up obscenity charge in 2003 (wherein a
few journalists friendly to the City Administration at the time wrote
some conveniently-timed hack jobs on us), Richard (who was writing
for the Little Rock Free Press at the time) told me, “I want to do
an interview with your cast. I want people to see that you're serious
about what you do.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In many ways Richard became our
greatest champion, interviewing us both in print and on television.
And he may have even occasionally ribbed us for our lowbrow approach,
but he always stood by our right to do it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SyaNuuW_kRo&list=PL0cs_SrWxKfUXOl47_dVnqPfM7nrvNehF&index=10" target="_blank">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SyaNuuW_kRo&list=PL0cs_SrWxKfUXOl47_dVnqPfM7nrvNehF&index=10</a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i> Follow this link to watch Richard interviewing Shannon X. Caine about Obituaries</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I found myself working with
Richard on many fronts...I wrote occasionally for the Ozark Gazette,
penning anything from letters to the editor to guest articles to
poems. When the Gazette fell into trouble I found myself invited to
brunch at Uncle Gaylord's, for a meeting of writers, supporters and
other hangers-on, to brainstorm and be part of a kind of “owners'
co-op” setup to save the paper. Nothing panned out and the Gazette
did ultimately fold.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
After illness and a coma
(which Richard himself has referenced many times on multiple media
platforms) Richard was anxious to start doing television again and
put “On the Air” back together. He called on me, and I became his
cohort, director, chief editor and Chief Cook and Bottle Washer (as I
used to call myself) and he and I kept “On the Air” going.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We faced some interesting challenges in production in the ensuing years. At one point many of the flats, backdrops and other setpieces were jettisoned by the station. Forced to improvise and evolve, we opted for more of a minimalist, "Charlie Rose" look for the show going forward.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
By the end of the oughts I was
probably one of the most prolific producers at Access TV,
commandeering a number of shows, including “On the Air”, our own
long-running show, “The Abbey of the Lemur”, “Intellectual
Property” (a questionable show featuring local political meetings),
“The Caine Interviews” (another talk show that was a spin-off of
TAOTL) and some random other projects, as well as assisting on my
wife's show, “Mondo Pazzo”. I had spearheaded two independent
film festivals. When my roommate came to me in 1997 and said, “I
just enrolled us in orientation at CAT,” I never envisioned all
that, even less that I would eventually find myself working in
television professionally.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Throughout all of this, Richard
remained a constant, providing me with guidance, a conscience and a
wall to bounce ideas off of. He taught me a lot of lessons---not to
preach to the choir, how one should never accept civility over
victory, not to take oneself too seriously and to never condescend to
my audience---to enter into any project thinking of my audience as
intelligent people capable of critical thought.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A notion that won me some
friends but also got me into a lot of trouble----but that's another
story for another day.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Richard was a wellspring of
historical knowledge, of both Public Access and its various
contractors over the years, but also Fayetteville in general...he
could tell you about anything from the divisive Incinerator Issue,
which galvanized a lot of activists in the community but also set the
tone for those activists' relationships to the local newspapers (who
sneered at them as “Aginners”) . Those relationships never really
changed. He could also tell you about the woman the city had hired at
one point to play violin to the flowers growing on the town square at
night.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He also frequently found himself
in the position of playing Cassandra on the walls of Troy, screaming,
“don't bring that horse in here!” Only to be listened to by no
one. He shot (and I helped edit) a documentary called “The Death of
the Fayetteville Open Channel”, which covered the Great Access War
of the early '90's. He detailed how a rogue faction of the Open
Channel's Board of directors (of which he freely owned up to being a
member) broke off from the main board and wound up losing the Open
Channel its contract with the City. The contract was later awarded to
Access 4 Fayetteville, who would eventually be known as Community
Access Television. A lot of people complained over his constant
references to it, saying Richard was “living in the past”.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yJWuhUtQwe8" target="_blank">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yJWuhUtQwe8</a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Follow this link to watch "The Death of Fayetteville Open Channel"</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He wasn't. He was urging people not to
repeat his mistakes.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It fell on deaf ears.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Fortunately, he was still
with us. When a rogue CAT Board began violating its own by-laws,
engaging in intimidation and harassment and trying to access
personnel files they had no actual right to, Richard threw in with
VIPA (The Producer's Group I was, at the time, President of) and
after a long public struggle we forced a slew of resignations.
Another Access War was cut short and the contractor (known today as
FPTV) still exists and is flourishing, thanks in large part to
Richard's efforts.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Life went on and we kept
doing what we were doing. Richard on some fronts tried to embrace
new media but by and large things like YouTube and Podcasting seemed
to mystify and alienate him. He mourned the loss of the local
newspaper, a point on which he and I agreed to disagree. What good
was local journalism if its prime function was to side with regional
oligarchs and degrade and demean activists and the disenfranchised?
My attitude was (and still is) good riddance. Richard, however, still
mourned the death of localism, such as it was.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As he got older he developed
more of a curmudgeonly attitude, sometimes coming over like a grumpy
old man yelling and shaking his fist at the rain---the thing about
Richard, though, is there was never a time when he couldn't step
outside himself and see the humor in all of this. This played into a
lot of the comedy vignettes he and I put together in the later years.
Sometimes the pieces had some heavy, intense meaning going
on---sometimes it was just a fun story. Either way we had a ball
doing it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WhPt1WdMeIA&t=36s" target="_blank">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WhPt1WdMeIA&t=36s</a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i> Follow this link to watch "Richard S. Drake's DVD Commentary" (short comedy bit)</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
For the most part 2018 saw “On
the Air” go on hiatus, with only one episode being produced as both
Richard and I endured health problems.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0rXi66vXWGc&list=PL0cs_SrWxKfUXOl47_dVnqPfM7nrvNehF&index=48&t=1s" target="_blank">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0rXi66vXWGc&list=PL0cs_SrWxKfUXOl47_dVnqPfM7nrvNehF&index=48&t=1s</a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Follow this link to watch "On the Air: The Willow Heights Controversy"</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Right up until the end, we were trying
to pull it together to start producing new shows. And I mean, right
up to several days before he died. His wife, Tracy, informed my wife
and I, on March 4<sup>th</sup>, that he had passed that morning.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We were very intimidated going
into last weekend---this idea of doing a televised memorial had blown
up and we were all kind of swept up in it....in the end I think it
went well. As daunting and discomforting as it sounded, I can't help
feeling that Richard wouldn't have had it any other way.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Utktva8lN68/XJXtCTjaO2I/AAAAAAAAA4w/Hh0o4_17x7MGFIs9qeGSj9A6Vs4eOS-_gCLcBGAs/s1600/richardtrib.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Utktva8lN68/XJXtCTjaO2I/AAAAAAAAA4w/Hh0o4_17x7MGFIs9qeGSj9A6Vs4eOS-_gCLcBGAs/s320/richardtrib.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ei7id9663b4/XJXtJzyUO0I/AAAAAAAAA40/Eb2BDeezoxcnezmMRdgZyZ502n8dGGD6QCLcBGAs/s1600/richardcake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ei7id9663b4/XJXtJzyUO0I/AAAAAAAAA40/Eb2BDeezoxcnezmMRdgZyZ502n8dGGD6QCLcBGAs/s320/richardcake.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Special Thanks to FPTV and Tracy Reeves Cutaia</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Copyright 2019 Molotov Editions</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<br />
<br />c.f. robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10373817767704732392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1145613767003157079.post-28586277176224505432019-02-28T03:18:00.000-08:002019-02-28T03:18:16.992-08:00THE MEAT FACTORY and Etc.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KUxrtoMGCng/XHe7ADp0jEI/AAAAAAAAA3o/NeAaLrolvnAB6_V81tfMhA0d1zjJRh_OACEwYBhgL/s1600/hobart%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="496" data-original-width="539" height="293" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KUxrtoMGCng/XHe7ADp0jEI/AAAAAAAAA3o/NeAaLrolvnAB6_V81tfMhA0d1zjJRh_OACEwYBhgL/s320/hobart%2B1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
THE MEAT FACTORY</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
HOBART, read the logo on the big
dish washing machine.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
On his first night as a
dishwasher for the Chalet, Wolf got to know ole Hobart a lot better
than he bargained for. Scotty, Bob and Jeremy, the pukes who were
supposed to train him, cut out on Wolf at nine thirty,
unceremoniously leaving him holding the bag.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It was a lot to be left with.
Restaurant dishes landed, no end in sight. Wolf's hours were supposed
to be three to eleven. He was alone and the dishes kept coming.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Wolf was excited about being
hired. “Your first real job!” His mother said, embracing him.
“I'm so proud of you!” Wolf was nineteen. He'd steered clear of a
job until after graduation. He felt that any obligation, even
part-time, might hurt him scholastically. Beyond a few neighborhood
odd jobs, like mowing lawns, Wolf never looked for work.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Post-graduation lofty ideals were
abound in Wolf's head. He wanted to go to college and become a
journalist, and maybe from there a famous writer. He wanted to attend
the Joe Kubert Art School and become a comic book illustrator. He
wanted to sing lead for a heavy metal band, and given his name, Wolf,
he figured he had a good stab at that enterprise, even if he couldn't
sing.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
With all these conflicting
possibilities dangling before him, Wolf saw the necessity in taking
the year off and making a few bucks. Besides, given learning
experiences in “the working world”, it all seemed to lean toward
the positive.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He originally applied for
anything the Chalet would give him---he fancied himself a bellhop in
one of those old fashioned hotel monkey suits, running luggage and
begging for tips.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
When he was called in for an
interview with Joseph Barr, he was told to go to the receiving area.
Receiving Area. Where applicants are received for interviews, Wolf
imagined. He heeded every word of job interview primer ever handed
to him in school. Soft-spoken but firm. Good handshake. Radiate
confidence. He had it all down.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
When he got there, he discovered
the Receiving Area was actually “shipping and receiving”---the
loading docks. He found out that Mr. Barr, the honorable interviewer,
was really the dock supervisor, Joe Barr, a scruffy, no-nonsense type
only three years Wolf's senior.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Wolf came to the quick assumption
that he had primed himself for the wrong job. It wasn't one you
dressed up and spoke softly for; it was a job lugging crates around
on dollies, unloading trucks. As he left the interview he knew he
wouldn't land the job, that Barr had pegged him as a softy, which
Wolf supposed he was.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Two weeks later, Wolf got a call
from Bob LaMontagne, who didn't mention what job he wanted Wolf for,
but invited him down for an interview.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
LaMontagne's interview wasn't
so much an interview as it was a sales pitch, a hard-sell. “We
gotcha insurance benefits after ninety days, we got free use a' the
health club every Tuesday, ya can't find a better place in this town
ta work,” he rattled, showing Wolf around the hotel kitchen. Wolf
was delighted over actually being ASKED to work a job, as opposed to
the disinterested grilling he'd experienced with Barr.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The job, he discovered on the
grand tour, was dishwashing. “An easy job,” LaMontagne told him
at least twice. Filling out his signature on the ob description form,
he read his official title, “kitchen help”. The job was said in
the form to consist of cleaning the kitchen and occasionally
assisting the culinary crew with food production. LaMontagne shook
his hand and told him to come in on Thursday, and so Wolf had been
hired.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Wolf's training consisted of the
pukes showing him a few keys steps of operation---loading dirty dihes
onto the conveyer belt, taking them clean off the unloading end and
storing them on the correct shelves---then popping outside for a
smoke that lasted an hour or two while Wolf floundered. The pukes
blew out the door for good around half past nine, Wolf holding the
bag and uninformed as to what happened next. Dining room waitstaff
hauled in an endless barrage of dirty dinnerware and
garbage----steaks, lobster, salad, cream and cheese
spreads---leftovers that mixed and meshed in the disposal trough.
Leftovers blobbed off the dishes as Wolf loaded them and would become
stuck in the conveyer belt, only to land in the Hobart's washtubs and
boil. The stink rose and filled Wolf's senses. The parade of dirty
dishes was unending, carried in, over and over. Waiters and
waitresses were still hauling in the dirty wares and food scraps.
Eleven o'clock, quitting time, had come and gone.Wolf felt like his
head was spinning. It's a meat factory, he thought, a dumping ground.
When does it stop, and when do I get to go home, like everybody else?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The first lull in the action that
occurred, Wolf shut off the machine and ran. Christ, did he imagine
it? As that busboy brought that last tray out to the dish machine,
was he laughing at him?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
'Hey,” yelled one of the fry
cooks as Wolf made his break, “where ya goin'?” Wolf didn't
reply.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
****</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lKpMIYVjR-A/XHe8NTiQ9bI/AAAAAAAAA3w/a96OxIrRwKAQyKLrcfgTmJtOoX-LJtPlQCLcBGAs/s1600/dishwasher.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="117" data-original-width="260" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lKpMIYVjR-A/XHe8NTiQ9bI/AAAAAAAAA3w/a96OxIrRwKAQyKLrcfgTmJtOoX-LJtPlQCLcBGAs/s1600/dishwasher.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
On his second night working,
Wolf learned a new word and that word was BANQUET.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
At the height of the action
there were ten guys working on the Hobart. Even LaMontagne was
getting his hands dirty at one point.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There was commotion and traffic
everywhere. The kitchen was jamming with wait people carrying trays.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Wolf thought it best to stay on
the unloading end of the machine, removing and sorting clean dishes.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
LaMontagne was animated, rattling
off commands like a gattling gun. He shot a big, harried smile at
Wolf. “This is it, son---the big one!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Whu-what's going on?”
Spluttered Wolf, who was genuinely shaken by all the activity.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I'm not gonna lie to ya,
son; we're gonna be buried,” said LaMontagne, scrubbing a few
plates.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Great,” groaned Wolf.
LaMontagne's words from a couple of days prior came back to him--
“It's an easy job!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The scene was claustrophobic;
bodies everywhere, hustling, fighting for an inch of space.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
FIRST COURSE: Wait people dropped
trays full of champagne glasses onto the counter and placed the
glasses twenty-five at a time into plastic racks. The glass racks
eventually jammed the expanse of the counter. The saucers and the
paper doilies that underlined the cocktails were all pushed
haphazardly into the disposal trough along with a few stray glasses,
which smashed. More trays landed, faster than they could be dealt
with. There was no end in sight.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Let's go, Wolf,” yelled
one of the dishwashers on the loading end. Wolf couldn't keep up. He
tore as many clean dishes off the conveyer belt as he could. His
progress was slowed because the dishes came out hot and they burned
his hands. When too many dishes accumulated on the unloading stand,
Wolf would have to stop and put them away. When he did, the belt
would crowd to capacity and stop moving. Then the yelling would
commence.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Let's go, Wolf! My grandma
unloads faster than you!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Scotty, an effeminate,
pimply-faced teenager who was on hand the day before, came down to
the unloading end. “Listen,” he seethed, “I know it's hard.
But if you keep stopping, we're going to get killed up there! Now,
can you please move this thing?!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“There are ten of you and one of
me,” Wolf complained.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Goddammit,” Scotty pouted,
“pick up the pace!” He stormed back to the counter and whined to
LaMontagne. Wolf resigned himself to unloading, unloading, unloading.
Meanwhile up front, the counter was jam-packed and several waitresses
were bitching, telling the dishwashers to hurry up.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
LaMontagne turned and headed
toward Wolf. Scotty was whimpering some sour interjection that Wolf
could not hear. LaMontagne whirled on Scotty and yelled at him, all
unintelligible, except for the last sentence, “if you're not happy
with it you can go the hell home!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Scotty turned back to the work,
looking sullen. LaMontagne hopped onto the unloading end to help
Wolf. “Come on, Wolf,” he shouted, “let's show 'em how to run
this thing!” There was a heavy liquor smell on his breath.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The two toiled and managed to
stay ahead of things. Wolf was staggered by the mess on the counter.
“Is this that banquet I've been hearing about since I got in?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh,” chuckled LaMontagne,
“this is just the beginning!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Wolf shuddered. The two worked
on. The feeders had glutted the belt with saucers, which were now
overlapped, ten to a row where only four should have fit, and one or
tow would periodically roll off the side of the conveyer and break on
the floor.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Come on, come on!” LaMontagne
hollered to the feeders. “You're going too slow, ya bunch of
lightweights! Me and Wolf are falling asleep down here!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Up front somebody yelled, “come
on, y'old fart! We'll bury your ass!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
On the counter, the saucers and
glass racks gave way to the second course---salad plates.Hundreds of
salad plates came back from the banquet. Most of the salads were
half-eaten, if touched at all.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Halfway through the salad
course, LaMontagne left. “I'll be right back,” he grumbled. He
wandered out back and Wolf was alone again.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Let's go, Wolf,” urged
Jeremy, at the helm of the Hobart. On the other side, waitresses
complained and shouted. The Banquet Chef harangued the lot of them in
his sharp, annoying voice. “Gawdamn dishwashas! Whaddaya here for?
Whadda they pay ya for?!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
LaMontagne returned, wearing a
light jacket. “Wolf, I'm going home. Do a good job! Hey,” he
shouted to everyone else. “I'm leaving, now! One a you c'mon down
here, help Wolf out!” And he was gone.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Wolf was helped, thereafter, by
Rob and a tall, vacant-looking kid named Steve. The counter was chock
full of dirty pots and pans, salad plates, sauce bowls and dinner
plates. More trays were landing than could actually fit on the
counter.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I don't believe this,”
muttered Wolf. “Does it get any worse?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It should,” Steve
deadpanned. “We're hitting the busy season, now. It'll be this way
every weekend.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh, my God,” Wolf said. “How
late does this shit go? I'm scheduled to leave at eleven-thirty...”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Steve nudged Rob. “Hey,”
he grinned. “He thinks he's leaving at eleven-thirty.” They
laughed.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I don't think it's funny,”
bittered Wolf. Oboy, Wolf, he thought. Your first real job.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The onslaught kept going. Gooey
stacks of dirty dinner plates landed along with hundreds of little
monkey dishes that contained half-eaten chocolate sundaes. When the
monkey dishes came through, many of them were still soiled with
chocolate syrup and had to be sent back. The backup was incredible.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Finally, amidst squawking and
bitching from wait people and cooks, Jeremy shut the dish machine
off. “We're all going on break,” he announced.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Glasses broke and a waitress
whined. Jeremy's call seemed the equivalent to a declaration of
mutiny. Wolf didn't know if it was a good idea to pull out; all he
knew was that he wanted to.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Who's in charge?” Asked Rob.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I dunno,” said Jeremy. “I'll
go find out!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Wolf and the others stood about
and waited for Jeremy. Wolf heard more dishes breaking, wait people
snapping and yelling, “what's going on back there?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“The dishwashers stopped!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Why?!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“They say they're all going on
break!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“All of them at once???”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“They're always on break, the
sons of bitches!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Come on, you guys,” a
waitress shouted. “We need room!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Jeremy returned, grinning.
“What'd they say?” Asked Steve.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Jeremy snickered. “They said,
'please don't go!' “</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Should we go?” Asked Wolf.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What do YOU think? Wolf didn't
know what to think---he just knew he had to get out of this.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A stout, tight-lipped woman in a
navy blue pantsuit stepped into the dish area. All eyes turned to
her.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What's going on here?” She
demanded.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I don't know,” said Steve.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
She looked at Wolf. “I don't
know, either,” he answered. Everyone shrugged their shoulders;
nobody knew.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“We're on strike,” cracked
Jeremy.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I see,” said the woman.
“Would you gentlemen like to keep your jobs?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“That's questionable,” said
Bob.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Is it?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Everyone reconsidered the
situation. “No,” they all answered. Wolf was actually still on
the fence, but he opted to say nothing.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well,” she said, “let's
get rolling.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
They turned the Hobart back on.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Inconceivably, it got worse.
Eleven -thirty, quarter to twelve and Wolf couldn't believe it was
all still coming, wouldn't stop, wouldn't even slow. “Jesus,” he
kept repeating, “oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus.....”
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Junk piled in upon junk. He'd gone
to an orientation meeting earlier that day. He'd felt somewhat
secluded there among the newly-hired waitresses, busboys, sales reps
and aerobics instructors, being a lowly dishwasher, bottom of the
hotel's caste system---the personnel director, a smiling, maternal
woman, was pumping the enthusiastic catechism of heavy business, the
Chalet Team Brotherhood spiel, how they were all salesmen and women,
working to promote a winning, positive image of the Chalet.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Garbage upon garbage. In the
disposal trough, wasted food mingled and clashed with scrapped paper,
wads of wax from candles, spent cigarettes and ashes and the
occasional broken champagne glass. Big pots, pans and soiled, sticky
dinnerware bombarded the counter in heaping, unstable piles. Sections
of the mess were systematically wiped out, then replaced by more
almost immediately.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The catechism of promotion stops
here, thought Wolf. We're the toilet cleaners of the universe.
Nothing got sold or promoted here. It's just where they brought the
leftovers to be destroyed.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Assortments of burning wares
rolled out on the conveyer belt in a relentless procession. Wolf
blundered through it and eventually learned there was no place left
to put anything. The belt stopped with greater frequency while Wolf
had to look further and harder for places to put the dishes and pans.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Hey,” smiled Steve. “Think
this is fun? Look over there. We gotta do all that, too.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Wolf peered over a storage shelf
at the pot sink on the other side of the kitchen. In the three big
washing tubs, dozens if not hundreds of pots and pans, in all varying
shapes and sizes, formed a jumbled mountain that rose three feet
above all three tubs.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I can't believe this,”
moaned Wolf. “I can't. Oh, Jesus, oh, esus, how do we ever get out
of here?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Just leave,” offered Rob.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Whu—no. No, I can't! Look
at all this!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Hey,” said Rob, “you've
done your eight measley hours. It's all volunteer from here on in.
One more or less person won't get this shit done any faster!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“But you guys---I can't---”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Sure you can! You did your
eight hours. You can get the hell out! Hey, you're new at this!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Wolf looked at the scrap disaster
again. “Huh. Uhh, you sure?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Hell yeah---go!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I don't wanna shaft you
guys...”
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You're not shafting us. Go!”
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Wolf headed out of the kitchen.
“Hey,” yelled one of the fry cooks after him, “where ya goin'?”
Wolf didn't look back and didn't reply.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He ran down the stairs and
clocked out. He headed down the hallway and up those last two flights
of stairs at a brisk, fearful getaway pace. He hit the night air and
was astounded for a moment by the stillness, the quietude. His first
real job. Christ. Wolf ran all the way home, the stench of the
garbage and the steamwash sticking hard to his senses.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-B7RvusOZXv0/XHe8ZYoWG0I/AAAAAAAAA30/7AAXfr-bj-kfpTgukj5LLaTIQOHUkU9pgCLcBGAs/s1600/Flight-Machine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="319" data-original-width="553" height="184" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-B7RvusOZXv0/XHe8ZYoWG0I/AAAAAAAAA30/7AAXfr-bj-kfpTgukj5LLaTIQOHUkU9pgCLcBGAs/s320/Flight-Machine.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Copyright 1992 C.F. Roberts/2019 Molotov Editions</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
******************</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As I've kinda been spinning my wheels on several novels in the last couple of years I've decided to put more energy into what's working out for me like gangbusters----short prose and short fiction.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Shit, a good many writers I know and admire have succeeded in banging out book length product for public consumption at this point. Me? NUTHIN'. I feel like that's gotta change.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
To this end, I've started compiling two book-length collections of short stories, which I hope to have completed by the end of the year. Card is subject to change, as we rasslin' fans like to say, but the rough lineup presently looks like this:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<ol>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
THE MEAT FACTORY AND OTHER STORIES</div>
</li>
</ol>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
NOW:
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Lost Diner</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
---originally published in
SHOCKBOX</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Meat Factory</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
---previously unpublished</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Zoned Industrial</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
-----Originally published
in THE BIRDS WE PILED LOOSELY</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Monster Kid
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Shit Flavored Shit</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
----Originally published
in VAGABONDS: Anthology of the Mad Ones</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Hannibal and Sandi in the Afterglow</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Thursday (Sound of Tiny Planets Dying)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Aquarium</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
-----Originally published
in BLIND IGUANAPRESS</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The King of Moths</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
-----Originally published
in FEARLESS</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Scowl</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
-----Originally Published
in ILLITERATI</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Jennifer Tree</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
---Originally published
in ALIEN BUDDHA ZINE</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
After the Bataan Death March</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Acquaintance</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
-----Originally published
in THE MOWER</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Maggie and Merrill get Real
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
-----Originally
published in PARAPHILIA</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Mask</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Superman, Jesus and Rice Patties</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
----Originally Published
in UNLIKELY STORIES V</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Cartoon Land</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
SPECIAL FOR THE COLLECTION:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Return to the Meat Factory</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Love and Desperation in the Meat Factory</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Son of the Meat Factory</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--- In the works</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
ALSO SOUGHT/PROJECTED FOR BOTH COLLECTIONS</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
(i.e., I'm presently hunting to locate this stuff!)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ghetto Head
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
---Originally Published in MASSACRE
ANNEX (Shockbox Press Chapbook)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Seeing</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
---Previously Unpublished</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Second Wound</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
----Originally Published in
BIZARA</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Second Coming</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--Originally published in
FAIRYTALES FROM THE URBAN HOLOCAUST (Yorkville Press), DIMINISHED
CAPACITY</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Night is for Lovers</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
----Shockbox Press Chapbook</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Scorched</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
------Originally published in
FAIRYTALES FROM THE URBAN HOLOCAUST (Yorkville Press)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<ol start="2">
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
THE EVANGEL: Tales of the
Irrational</div>
</li>
</ol>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
NOW:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Great Tradition</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
---Originally published in
FAIRYTALES FROM THE URBAN HOLOCAUST (Yorkville Press)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Snapshot of the Rural Pogroms</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Faith
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
---Originally published in
ALIEN BUDDHA ZINE</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Day the Sun got an Eye Gouge</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
--- Odd Books Chapbook</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Boil Order</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
----Originally Published
in CORVUS REVIEW</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Crazy Fuckers</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Hubcap Diamond Star Halo</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Fat Chance</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
----Originally
Published in THE MOWER</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
trinityTrinityTRINITY</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
After Carnival</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
----Originally published
in CRAB FAT MAGAZINE</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Hannibal Shooting Fish in a Bucket</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Fort Apache the Exchange</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Junkyard King</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
------Originally published
in VOX</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Old Man Delprete</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
----Originally Published in GOTHICA</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Windshield of a Moving Car is Hard,
especially when you drop on top of it from Thirty Feet</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
----Originally Published
in UNLIKELY STORIES V</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Walk</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
---Originally published in
FAIRYTALES FROM THE URBAN HOLOCAUST (Yorkville Press)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Uncle Drew's Lysergic Backbrain
Apocalypse (Slight Return)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Give Up the Sun
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
----Originally Published
in PRESSURE PRESS PRESENTS</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Wet</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
----Originally published in
THIS ONE TIME THE ALIEN BUDDHA GOT SO HIGH (Alien Buddha Press)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Seven Virgins of Eufaula</div>
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---Presently in the works</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Night they Shut the Geek Show Down</div>
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----Molotov Editions
Chapbook</div>
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The Shrill</div>
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</div>
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-----Originally
published in RANT</div>
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Both collections are gonna be bent, because being bent is just in my DNA---but THE MEAT FACTORY will be a little more earthy in tone, whereas THE EVANGEL will be more along the lines of "somebody dropped something in my egg nog---WOAH NELLY!!!"</div>
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Anyway----any takers? </div>
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<br /></div>
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THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:</div>
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THE BOLSHOI-Friends</div>
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BRIAN JONESTOWN EXPERIENCE-Strung Out in Heaven</div>
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Whatever else you got</div>
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<br /></div>
<br />c.f. robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10373817767704732392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1145613767003157079.post-55830588922655766442019-02-26T02:25:00.000-08:002019-02-26T02:55:26.388-08:00YAY!!!! I get to be the 9,000th person on the internet who makes fun of "The Room"!!!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8qgJSgSDiyo/XHUMlTjvLaI/AAAAAAAAA20/CrzKrXExs0oK9VyatFqdq-_2udd480s6QCLcBGAs/s1600/Tommys-1024x576.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="180" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8qgJSgSDiyo/XHUMlTjvLaI/AAAAAAAAA20/CrzKrXExs0oK9VyatFqdq-_2udd480s6QCLcBGAs/s320/Tommys-1024x576.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Heather got me a fascinating
batch of birthday presents a coupla weeks ago---everything was in
couplets. Two albums by The Brian Jonestown Massacre (“Strung Out
in Heaven” and “Thank God for Mental Illness”) two books by or
about Punk Rock/Counter culture legend Penny Rimbaud and a DVD copy
of Tommy Wiseau's “The Room”, accompanied by its companion piece,
Greg Sestero's making-of-the-movie book, THE DISASTER ARTIST (Don't
get me started on the James Franco biopic. He's a tourist in this
neighborhood at best---a condescending hipster colonialist with the
stench of Hollywood Trash all over him----to quote John Waters, “here
in Mortville we don't like social climbers!!!!”)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So, last night we finally
cracked open “The Room” and watched it, and by the last half hour
Heather was apologizing to me, which was unnecessary, but...</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
SWEET JESUS!!!! What the hell,
Tommy Wiseau?????</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I mean, I've seen enough comedic
breakdowns on this thing to where I knew everything about it and
everything that happens in it, but to see it all laid out in front of
you, unexpurgated, back to front, naked, raw, ugly and sad, that's
different....</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My relationship with “The
Room” has become a complicated one—I remember waking up one night and throwing on “Adult Swim” only to see “Tim
and Eric”----in fact, AS's ENTIRE SCHEDULE—was pre-empted by this
horrid soap opera-looking thing where some greasy freak named Johnny
was racing around having conniptions over who knows what and all the
other cast run around wringing their hands over him, and I'm like,
“who the fuck is this Johnny idiot and why am I supposed to care?!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Years later, here it is, full on,
and if that's not call enough for a Silkwood Shower, go pay attention
to politics for a while.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Wiseau in recent years has usurped
Ed Wood for the worst filmmaker ever mantle. To be fair, Wood never
deserved that. His naïve charm, his pure gumption and his love for
his profession rose above his deficiencies, or in many cases created
a nice melange. Wiseau, likewise, probably doesn't deserve such
distinction, as luminaries such as James Nguyen and Neil Breen are
already making him look like Eisenstein. Wiseau, to his credit, seems
to have an understanding that there is this thing out there somewhere
called cinematography, and that it can be a nice creation.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
If there's any value to “The
Room”(Outside the memeworthy quotes---”oh hai Mark! Oh hai Lisa!
Oh hai Denny! Oh hai Doggy! Oh hai gun barrel!”) it probably exists
in the incredulous conversations one can have during or after
(“Oh---damn---that was an hour and a half of my life!”---”What
the hell were they thinking?!”). It's a similar phenomenon to what
happens in the wake of “Cannibal Holocaust”, except that, with
the former, there are bigger questions about the morals of
filmmaking, beyond even the intended metanarrative, whereas with “The
Room”, it kind of dies on the level of “The Room”----that was
terrible, amirite?! Let me count the ways in which it was terrible...</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As kind of a side note, a
trailer is included on the DVD that undoubtedly happened after “The
Room” started attaining cult status...Wiseau was trying to remarket
it as a “Black Comedy”. HOLD ON. BULLSHIT. Sorry----you are not
permitted to enter Annexia. I am the Black Comedy Police, and I said,
NO. I'm an aficionado of Black Comedy----I'm a Black Comedy PURIST, a
Black Comedy FUNDAMENTALIST, and my crazy-ass Black Comedy Madrasa
says, NO, for the love of Yossarian, you don't get in, sir! Tough titty.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Not that I fault the guy for
trying to make a buck, but NO---your pretensions of Black Comedy stop
on the end of my fist, sir.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I could rip up “The Room” on
any number of fronts---bad green screen, shit performances (although
I have a hard time faulting the actors for being unable to convey a
script that has no idea what it is to be a human), the sheer,
destructive egomania of the auteur---but what I'm going to focus on
is the real elephant in the room (or the elephant that ate the
room)---the writing. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Great Googly Moogly. Let me take
a second out to run my hands across the top of this desk just to make
sure there are actual MOLECULES there. Okay. Okay. Okay. I think the
universe is stabilizing. So, first you get the “Johnny”
character (Wiseau himself), and he's a nice guy, very trusting and
altruistic and he's all goodness and light, and (in view of the
narrative) a man beyond reproach. It's almost like “Rashumon”,
minus any of the cynical, knowing irony.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then you've got Lisa, Johnny's
fiancee---we learn over the course of the film that Lisa is “very
beautiful”, a litany repeated endlessly by Johnny and
others---she's also callous, duplicitous and completely self-serving,
as evidenced by her mantra, “I'm going to do what I want.” You
hear THAT a lot, too, as well as her constant response to anyone
else's woes, “oh, don't worry about it, it'll be okay!” Lisa
would probably qualify as a sociopath, but that's assuming, for five
seconds, that “The Room” had any remote understanding of how
human beings work.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Third of all you have Mark. Mark
is Johnny's best friend. We know this because he repeats it
continually, usually while preparing to bone Lisa. In fact, half the dialogue in this film is so repetetive and constant
it's like an endless mobeius loop....to quote Heather, “if you made
a drinking game out of half this dialogue you'd be clinically dead by
the end!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The last main character is Denny,
a weird and disturbing boy-man who also lives in the building. We
learn along the way that Johnny thinks of him as a son and pays both
his rent and his college tuition. Denny is arguably the creepiest
character on the story---he's a constant tagalong/human dingleberry
and he has an unhealthy desire to be with Johnny and Lisa especially
when they're trying to get intimate. Why? I don't know why.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There are other characters and
other plot points, too (I'll get to those in a sec) although the main
gist of it is the very simplistic structure of Lisa and Mark's
betrayal of Johnny leading to his eventual hissy fit and suicide at
the end. Other characters and plot points pop in and out for no
reason whatsoever. Some rando couple pop into Johnny and Lisa's
apartment and have sex for no discernible reason. Characters appear
and disappear. Lisa's mother announces she has breast cancer, with
all the crushing gravitas of last week's fender bender. Lisa blows
off this revelation like she does everything else in the movie and it
is never mentioned again. Denny is in trouble with a local drug
dealer. This becomes an issue once and is then completely forgotten
about. There is a scene at a coffee shop where we are treated to two
sets of customers placing their full orders and being seated before
Johnny and Mark come in, place THEIR full orders and are seated,
whereupon the “important” slice of dialogue starts. WHAT THE HELL
IS THIS-----SILAS MARNER???? Fuckin' TOLSTOY????</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Throughout the story people
behave in a way that is categorically unlike the way humans act
ANYWHERE. People perpetually show up for visits or deep,
heart-to-heart conversations that last 3 to 5 minutes and resolve
zilch before getting back up and saying, “well, I've got to go,”
and walking back out the door. I mean, this motif is CONSTANT. It's
COPIOUS. It HAPPENS IN AN ENDLESS STREAM.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And then there's the football.
THE FOOTBALL. THE GODDAMN FUCKING FOOTBALL. MEIN GOTT. Not that
actual football games are taking place, but a perpetual bit of
recreation and bonding the males in this movie engage in is that they
go off somewhere with a GOD DAMN FOOTBALL and they all run around and
toss it back and forth...these endless games of catch with the
goddamn football!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So my theory is that Tommy Wiseau
is actually a space creature---his mission is to report back to his
alien brethren regarding life on earth and that “The Room”,
rather than an actual film for human consumption, is his report back
to the homeworld about us and what he believes we're like. His
hypothesis is laughed out of the building and now he's stuck here, a
la “The Man Who Fell to Earth”.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Heather did me one better and
suggested “The Room” is actually a sly reboot of “Robot
Monster”. Tommy/Johnny is actually supposed to be Ro-Man. Lisa is
the oldest daughter Ro-Man must kill but develops feelings for. Mark is a hybrid of the
patriarch/scientist and also the alpha male boyfriend of the
daughter. Denny is the kid who dreams the whole thing (or DOES he???)
Lisa's mother...? She might be one of those lizards they crib in from
a different film, pretending it's a “dinosaur”. Yeah. I'm sure
that's it.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There seems to be this whole
school of film criticism out there, now, that encourages you to throw
any sad, demented theoretical comparison out there, and posit it
whether it can be backed up or not. Heather's “Robot Monster”
theory is as sound as any of the others. I think it's time to
nominate her for a Rondo....</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In the meantime, do yourself a
favor and check out “Robot Monster”----it's better than “The
Room”. Or check out “Plan 9 from Outer Space”. Or “The Star
Creatures”. Or “Manos: The Hands of Fate”. Okay---that last one
was a tough call...nope. Sticking to it. </div>
<br />
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<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Later on we got some better
entertainment going----ALL THE COLORS OF GIALLO featuring four hours
of classic Giallo trailers with commentary by the great Kat Ellinger.
A much more rewarding experience, and, dare I say it? Infinitely
better than “The Room”.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
UP NEXT: “The Meat Factory”
(previously unpublished!) plus 2019's long range-but-attainable goals</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
'Til
then....Aloha! </div>
<br />c.f. robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10373817767704732392noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1145613767003157079.post-58213628838904492152019-02-15T17:41:00.000-08:002019-02-15T17:47:09.503-08:00WRONGDOING WROULETTE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XQJZUEUY-LE/XGdHvDEIVTI/AAAAAAAAA1A/-5M_B4vG9rAvtuGVGnI0yBrpUfcYgffJgCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG-2663.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XQJZUEUY-LE/XGdHvDEIVTI/AAAAAAAAA1A/-5M_B4vG9rAvtuGVGnI0yBrpUfcYgffJgCLcBGAs/s320/IMG-2663.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I've been sitting on this one for an
inordinate length of time for absolutely NO GOOD REASON other than my
own stupid lack of organization and distraction with other (mostly
asinine) things. But I've been wanting to do it and there's no time
like the (while I've got a brief, sane window) ever-fragile
present.......Uncle Chuck has been on an INCREDIBLE ROLL these past
few months as far as placing short stories and other sundries....some
publishers out there have been VERY KIND to your strooly and I think
it's crucially important to help promote these good people and their
efforts.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
While I'm running hot and cold
on a lot of my bigger, more ambitious projects, the art of the short
story is one that I've always had a particular liking for, and lately
I've glommed on to it, HARD. I like playing with these compact
narratives and I feel like I'm producing a lot of good ones. So I'm
emphasizing that, but I've got other goodies in store. Anyway, here
comes a laundry list of publications, webzines and publishers that
kick ass and they deserve both your attention and your support, so
pull out yer spiral notebooks and take note......</div>
We're gonna go back to October 2018 for the first couple. I teased my contributions to UNLIKELY STORIES MARK V a few months back, and they're HERE. I mean, THESE ARE THE LINKS TO THE STORIES.<br />
<a href="http://www.unlikelystories.org/content/jesus-superman-and-rice-patties?fbclid=IwAR0up52UbYy4hQNgD80VII3UNReo1zfk5K2wCHCu6r3dw4VlGcZ5c3eupDg" target="_blank">http://www.unlikelystories.org/content/jesus-superman-and-rice-patties?fbclid=IwAR0up52UbYy4hQNgD80VII3UNReo1zfk5K2wCHCu6r3dw4VlGcZ5c3eupDg</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.unlikelystories.org/content/the-windshield-of-a-moving-car-is-hard-especially-when-you-drop-on-top-of-it-from-thirty?fbclid=IwAR0ogh1j0BKouCLK3Nek4h6zBE0gsAt9AEEWBtKv5MBeMAf-HwF4ZyzUg8Y" target="_blank">http://www.unlikelystories.org/content/the-windshield-of-a-moving-car-is-hard-especially-when-you-drop-on-top-of-it-from-thirty?fbclid=IwAR0ogh1j0BKouCLK3Nek4h6zBE0gsAt9AEEWBtKv5MBeMAf-HwF4ZyzUg8Y</a><br />
<br />
"Jesus, Superman and Rice Patties" is an OLD story, very early, recently rewritten. "The Windshield of a Moving Car is Hard, especially when you drop on top of it from thirty feet" is FAIRLY NEW. Some friends might remember me threatening to write a story about a guy legally changing his name to "Howard the Duck" YEAH, WELL, I WENT THOUGH WITH IT. You can read it RIGHT THERE.<br />
In general you need to check out UNLIKELY STORIES MARK V when you get a chance.....Jonathan Penton has put together a fine rolling periodical with piss, verve and color.<br />
<br />
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Another person deserving of your interest and support is Sreemanti Sengupta at Odd Books and the ODD MAGAZINE. She puts together a unique pastiche of webzine and tiny-but-mighty publications. Fourteen bucks gets you a year's package, and you really need to experience the joy yourself (as I did) of getting this beautiful stack in the mail...<br />
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Not that I'm not part of the cavalcade or anything....<br />
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"The Day the Sun got an Eye Gouge" is a weird one, and you need to consider that in light of the last one I linked to. If you like stories about all-day eclipses, animals wearing sun visors, kids with Asperger's Syndrome and flying, talking pot roasts, then fire up a big spliff and check it out!!!!!! (Not that I advocate that kind of thing or anything). While you're at it, though, check the Odds and their entire catalogue out at length.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.theoddmagazine.com/" target="_blank">https://www.theoddmagazine.com/</a><br />
<br />
Okay----next up: FEARLESS!!!! Goddamnit, what can I say about FEARLESS???<br />
Kevin Hibshman and I go back, WAY back to the Mesozoic Era, when we both crawled out of the primordial ooze and started lobbing xerographic molotov cocktails around. Somewhere amid that ferocious melee we peered around the swamp at each other and said, "hey, buddy!"<br />
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FEARLESS (originally DISTURBING DREAMS AND DRIED BLOOD) is an underground lit INSTITUTION and it's been around forever. Anytime FEARLESS appears in any incarnation it's an event. This time out it's pretty extraordinary, like a little poetic thoughtbomb, and it gives me all the nostalgic feels for the days when we were running out to places like Kinko's or Staples to print up en masse and drop all our sodden product on an unsuspecting public. Despite our current digital mileu Kevin replicates our old DIY, cut-and-paste ethic to PERFECTION.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a data-lynx-mode="asynclazy" data-lynx-uri="https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=https%3A%2F%2Farchive.org%2Fdetails%2FFearless66&h=AT1XNSMYPEgwcXLhaErr4J8_s4d1xGGUBT1HJXAqC5Px7NN3e_0lzMzFCI1MJShpODgC5ri2cd86AQzYD5zDPyxC7AF3vhjYR9RCTLTn3lvMS7aKEdRTxRrXxAYZr9UY84kFwFw" href="https://archive.org/details/Fearless66" rel="nofollow noopener" style="background-color: white; color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: inherit;">https://archive.org/</span><wbr></wbr><span class="word_break" style="display: inline-block; font-family: inherit;"></span>details/Fearless66</a><br />
<br />
THAT'S IT, RIGHT THERE. THAT'S THE LINK TO THE MAG ITSELF. Click that and you can read it and you can download it for your very own. Don't say I never gave you nothin'.<br />
I've got a few poems in here, although the biggest point of excitement (for me) is the first appearance in publication of the Fugues....little dream logic prose pieces I started doing recently (Actually, the first Fugue seen publicly was Fugue Seven, which I ran back in September and which was written explicitly for this blog). I think my original thought was that the Fugues were going to largely be erotica, but...y'know...I just can't do anything straight down the middle....but I've got more of these things to throw around, so....don't forget your helmets!<br />
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1794097392?fbclid=IwAR2tFbjvm4aw6Z-R94dm1hPclj7gHrHK8C4GFg4gphCjL23ZEsjYOy3reog" target="_blank">https://www.amazon.com/dp/1794097392?fbclid=IwAR2tFbjvm4aw6Z-R94dm1hPclj7gHrHK8C4GFg4gphCjL23ZEsjYOy3reog</a><br />
<br />
Last but hardly least I need to give a shoutout to the fine folks at ALIEN BUDDHA PRESS who are running a monster of an operation and are more productive than any small press I think I've ever seen. Red Focks and Co. have their game DOWN. I'm appearing in three of Alien Buddha's jams, right now, all of which look great and all of which have emerged at a startlingly fast rate. OH---YEAH---and as you can see from the link above, they're all available through Amazon.<br />
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I was pretty excited when the call went up for a drug-centered anthology as I'd been thinking for a while about a new strain of literature that I referred to as "Pharma-Punk" (and I'm sure there are plenty of folks who've been writing along those lines forever)----in writing this kind of open-ended speculative fiction revolving around substance abuse I'm following the lead of writers like Hank Kirton and Shannon X. Caine, both of whom are exceptional with the pseudo-genre. My entry with Alien Buddha is "Wet", set in a bleak, dystopian future (what a dull, stagnant term) where we follow several sketchy characters in search of their drug of choice. I'm real proud of this one.<br />
ALIEN BUDDHA ZINE #3 and TALES FROM ALIEN BUDDHA 4 feature my short stories, "The Jennifer Tree" and "Faith", although I'm actually a little fuzzy on which story appears in which publication. You know what, though? You should pick 'em all up. Chase 'em down on Amazon.<br />
Anyway, that's the roundup and that's what I've been up to these past few months. So curl up with something good to read and give some of these outfits some much deserved attention.<br />
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THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:<br />
1. IDLES-Brutalism<br />
2. BRIAN JONESTOWN MASSACRE- Strung Out in Heaven<br />
3. BRIAN JONESTOWN MASSACRE-Thank God for Mental Illness<br />
4. SKINNY PUPPY-Rabies<br />
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<br />c.f. robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10373817767704732392noreply@blogger.com0