ENTRY

The story here was "Second Coming" Copyright 1993 C.F. Roberts, 2019 Molotov Editions. Comic by William Landsburg, published in DIMINISHED RESPONSIBILITY, 1994.
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.
      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.
        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".
THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST: 
THE CLASH-Clash on Broadway
THE BUTTHOLE SURFERS-Independent Worm Saloon
HEAVY MEAT-(comp, various artists)

ENTRY

This entry was "Fort Apache the Exchange", pending publication in GUERILLA GENESIS PRESS

There are days when you wake up and realize your story has surpassed its best-by date. Such was the case today with "Fort Apache the Exchange".

      God knows it's not an OLD story and usually I feel justified in peddling these things 'til they have a long, white beard. The danger, though, of doing topical/satirical SF is just that because you're dealing with specific topics and specific issues in specific times, you end up putting an expiration date on your work....which is why for the most part I prefer to deal with BROAD, UNIVERSAL politics as opposed to specific issues tied to specific time frames.

     Obviously, a chunk of this spoofs colonialism, which is a pretty broad subject that you can do a lot with. Colonialism, though, is just a bug rather than the feature.

     At the time I wrote it the TEA Party had some wheels under them and the Occupy Movement was very much on the wane. I was still trying to process my own poor associations from my five-minutes in the local version of the Occupy Movement, but that's another rant for another time. So basing it around what I saw going on as well as my own years of experience as an activist, it was my own look at the way Neoliberals (my favorite targets), elites in general and/or the people in charge of any given system view and relate to activists, protesters and/or movements.

       From my own lens, having dealt with both power structures and their friends and mouthpieces in the media, elites do not understand activists, or at the very least they make a disingenuous show of not understanding them, instead dismissing their concerns as "incoherent" or "conspiracy theories". The Aliens in "Fort Apache" are actually on the benevolent side (or at least that's how they see themselves)...of course, there's the genuine culture barrier. 

      Thing is, at this point in time this chunk of history is just water under the bridge and there's really no pressing relevance to push. I can't really justify keeping "Fort Apache" in circulation so you all get it here.

THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:

1. WE'RE DESPERATE (Rhino L.A. Punk comp)

2. THE BOLSHOI-A Way: The Best of the Bolshoi

3. BLACK SABBATH-Vol. 4

ENTRY

                                                            
THIS ENTRY WAS "trinityTrinityTRINITY"

Copyright 2014 C.F. Roberts/2016 Molotov Editions 

THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:

Chris Bell-I Am the Cosmos

Big Star-Kangaroo

Boredoms-Super Coming

Flaming Lips-Zaireeka LP

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

Back, Dammit

Well, I'm back-----just went through the usual Holiday madness where I filled in for vacationing co-workers and did the chief editor thing for a couple of weeks and that ate up a lot of my capacity for constructive thought. So I'm back and I'm trying to work on building this furshlugginner thing.
      It's New Year's Day and after two weeks of  me and Dave Johnston killing it in general and attacking news video like a school of TV News Piranha, I'm decompressing and don't wanna hear jack about anyone's news, politics, trending topics, Year End Favorites or anything else.
      I was pleased, in my way out the door, to hear about Air Asia and the discovery of wreckage, bodies, etc. Don't get me wrong----I feel very badly for all those families who lost loved ones----but at least I won't have to hear any weird theories about where the plane is being hidden and who might be behind it.....(yawn)

      So, anybody wanna buy a painting? I've got tons of 'em. This stuff is taking up tons of room in my tiny-ass apartment and you should take it off my hands.
          Hoping you guys are going to have a good 2015. I hope nobody has died. Kick ass, do something that's meaningful to you and keepliving strong.

So I've been working, off and on, on this thing that might be a book-or-at-least-novella-length piece of whatever, tentatively titled DOO-DAH DAYS IN MAMMON. Here's another excerpt. Enjoy.

THE PRETTIEST GAS STATION IN TOWN

Downtown everyone is precious and witty. They throw words like “paradigm” and “dialogue” and “sustainability” around, and everyone refers to everything that happens to them as their “journey”. The pretty embankments cause cars to collide on all corners and in the grip of the car crash derby everyone adores the saplings that have been planted in the middle of the road. Members of City Council take turns scolding smokers and policing their litter. The Mayor even took it upon himself to carp at some slovenly ham-and-egger who left his engine running while parked. All in all a picayune utopia.

There’s little debating that we love our city and that we know we’re something special. Everything’s pretty---even the gas stations are pretty. Not like the old ones---just---you know….pretty. Places where people can gather and shop.

There’s even an ordinance for that now. We hammered that through. We have an ordinance for everything.

The last gas station was a thing of beauty----they knocked down slums for a block and a half and it was gorgeous---you drove past it and the lights were so nice you had to think there was a 24-hour fiesta happening there.

Nobody needed those dirty slums, anyway----that’s what the lower levels, the outer rims, Dogtown, Sherberville, The Holler, Betty Jo, the whole damned Southern Quadrant are for. The property values have already gone up and they’ll be able to put in a whole new row of condos later this year.

The parking lot of the new gas station is always hopping and there’s plenty of room to park, so the investors are already seeing returns. And jobs---yes, jobs---roughly a dozen—all part time, so they don’t have to pay benefits or anything sticky like that—further returns on investment and it keeps the kids off the street, doesn’t it? It’s a win-win.

Did I mention that it’s clean? Not like the old ones. Looks like a museum. The employees are all dressed like museum guards, too---collared shirts, blazers, the whole nine yards----there won’t be any “broken windows” here! No dirt, no scum, no shirt, no shoes, no service…you can buy groceries there, too---not just soda pop and microwave burritos---homemade tabouli. Almond Flour----the good stuff, with Bolivian Orphan Tears. Tahini. Yes, I said Tahini. Pickled Asparagus. Dried red chili peppers. No broken windows here…

There’s no litter or dirt in the parking lot, either. Ever. We have an ordinance for that, you know. Hell. I sat on the committee that wrote it.