(An) AMBULATORY DUST BOWL

We're bombing down Mission Avenue when the tarp flaps on the little truck in front of us, kicking up gusts of its chalky discharge on us. And doesn't it just bring light to the self-inflicted stigma of going around acting like we're the Joads or something?

“Wooo!” She howls, “welcome to the rolling dust cloud a-go-go!”

“Yeah, home of the mouthful of dirt,” I add. “Future home of Little Burning Man, wherein I will open the festival with a set by my impending side band, Half Chub!”

And yes, if my ongoing duties for the S.E. Apocalypse Krew and 90 Lb. Tumor ever allow, Half Chub will conquer Little Burning Man and other questionable events, as well. We're going to play a lot of covers. What's that one band----that pseudo-ska band with the guy who died? Santeria? No----Sublime. We're gonna do lots of Sublime covers-----mental, free-form fusion jazz versions of Sublime tunes. Them and Saccharine Trust. Probably more Saccharine Trust than Sublime. I actually don't like Sublime all that much.

Wait 'til you see us. Half Chub, man....we're phenomenal. If only we could play....

Later, in an unguarded moment, I'm asked what inspired me to name a band Half Chub.

“Whaddya think?!” I guffaw.

In the ensuing hours we ghost around the main drag like sad detectives trying to find the dividing line between Burning Man Corner (or The Littlest Drainbows, as I like to call them) and Crime TeamTM. We're still not sure where it is.

       Why's it every time someone finds a weird item around here, everyone thinks it belongs to me?

                                                               ##############

       On a more serious note, after a river of time, I have an art show happening:

https://www.facebook.com/events/1091444057620401/

        That's right-----first solo show ever, in Rogers. Been unable to get a single foot in the door in Fayetteville, but Benton County has always been pretty good to me. They're lookin' better and better to me these days...

      More when I get a sec.

THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:

GARY NUMAN-SPLINTER

THE REPLACEMENTS-TIM

THE REPLACEMENTS-HOOTENANY

HUSKER DU-NEW DAY RISING

MY PART OF IT

Ugly, squalid, degrading little story I wrote a couple or three years ago under the influence of Rammstein. Sort of a cautionary fable about modern romance----I kinda think of this story as an ugly stepchild that doesn't know how to behave in polite society, so, like a good parent, I have to foist it off on you. Never published anywhere, exclusive to this blog.

                                                        http://www.cfrobertsart.com/

My chief complaint is, she took my dick. I know I’m getting no sympathy. Call me a whiner and a sore sport on all counts; I’m going to miss the damn dick.

You’ll tell me it was all in the contract---okay: Given. We did have an agreement.

Do you believe in love at first sight? I DON’T, but Dreamlover69 was about as close as I’ve ever come. Will ever come. It’s all downhill from there.

Her: SWM. Has a death wish. Me: Take a guess. Mommy issues? You betcha. Nothing that hasn’t been documented elsewhere, so I’m nothing special.

I was special for Dreamlover69, though. My Prince, she called me. My Proud Peacock. You wouldn’t understand.

Our courtship was very old fashioned…I mean, really. Dinner, movie, all that. We had our consummation lined out, though.

Being the Woman of the Relationship, of course, she had to take my dick---that was okay---it played into the aforementioned Mommy issues and she was good at what she did. She put me under and kept me on morphine and she braised it and served it with baby spinach leaves and sun dried tomatoes. I thought it was pretty good, but that may have been the morphine talking.

There was plenty of that to go around and it helped as far as my end of the bargain. I love this girl and I can honestly say she made all my dreams come true—she may have taken my dick, but she became everything I needed her to be.

I swear, those beautiful eyes---they broke my heart. Naturally, I had to scoop them out after a while and stick them in the freezer. It's better in the freezer....I've learned, through painstaking trial and error, that things go bad in the crisper.

You give this thing called a heart, metaphorically or not, and I guess it’s like all great romances, all great stories. It’s sad. I mean---you’re thankful to have had it, but that intensity burns out and then there’s just the aftermath.

Of course, I’m sad. Didn’t I just tell you that? I’m sad and so is she. Tell ‘em, Dreamlover69.

Hey! Dreamlover69? Dreamlover69?

Women….

Copyright 2013 C.F. Roberts/2015 Molotov Editions

THE SALACIOUS APPROVAL OF THE HIGH DOLLAR MARK AND THE (PREDICTABLE) DEGRADATION OF THE VESTAL VIRGINS

“The Customer is always right,” booms this week’s stand-in Martin Boorman, repeating the klaxon litany of every damned slave auction since antiquity.

The attention of any mark is desireable but when the High Dollar Mark asks for a jumper every fifth column middle management sweat pony in a thirty foot radius will yodel in gospel call-and-answer form, “how high?”

The High Dollar Mark is, after all, the one who greases the wheels of progress; the strength of his patronage is known far and wide and he’s always willing to pay those high import prices.

“Most people in the area don’t appreciate pure, unbleached honey almond flour,” he tells a rabbity-looking fourteen year old stock girl. “Not many people in the U.S. will pay for it, but it would be in their interests to do so.” He chews and licks his lips for a moment. The High Dollar Mark’s skin is pale and soft, almost translucent. “Write that down, would you? Pure, unbleached honey almond flour. With orphan tears. They have to be Bolivian Orphans….not those cheap, gamey Messicans.” He says this last part in a fast, breathy voice, knowing he is relaying information in the stock girl’s dialect. He claps his hand on his left buttock for emphasis and he throws his head back letting out an overly loud, effeminate laugh. The stock girl says nothing, fails to write any of the above down and tries vainly to blink away a tear.

The parade of fresh-faced young grunts in and out of the market is ceaseless, and supply and demand creates a hearty turnover. The light in their eyes is extinguished on a daily basis----they slave away in silent despair over donuts and juice spills, being harped on by Mama Lupo and her hot firebrand of clitoral mutilation; They weep over discrepancies at the cash register and they pick gingerly through maggot-infested vegetables. Now and again one of them gains a semblance of dignity and it’s over---out to the butcher’s for the “Special Treatment”.

No one over eighteen is ever used for hamburger meat---they’re no good to eat by then but it’s never necessary. You push them and push them and it’s only a matter of time before they snap. You tenderize them and then you go in for the finale. The meat is best virginal.

“Much better than that chuck beef the white trash dole out for, “titters the High Dollar Mark.

The minds of the Market are very industrious and they have a deal with all the food co-ops in the region. There’s always plenty of virgin meat to go around and it can easily garner an “Organic” Classification. Everybody wins and a sense of Community is fostered.

The Pillar of the Community nods sagely as the newest shipment of virgin meat comes in. “It’s an Wholistic Approach,” she says. She fingers herself lightly through her skirt and tries to imagine their final moments.

From DOO-DAH Days in Mammon, a work in progress