Blowtorch

"Frank settled down in the Valley,
and he hung his wild years on a
nail that he drove through his
wife's forehead.

He sold used office furniture out
there on San Fernando Road and
assumed a $30,000 loan at
15 1/4 % and put a down payment
on a little two bedroom place.

His wife was a spent piece of used jet trash
Made good bloody-marys, kept her mouth
shut most of the time, had a little Chihuahua
named Carlos that had some kind of skin
disease and was totally blind.

They had a thoroughly modern kitchen;
self-cleaning oven (the whole bit)
Frank drove a little sedan.
They were so happy.

One night Frank was on his way home
from work, stopped at the liquor store,
picked up a couple of Mickey's Big Mouth’s.
Drank 'em in the car on his way to the
Shell station; he got a gallon of gas in a can.

Drove home, doused everything in
the house, torched it.
Parked across the street laughing,
watching it burn, all Halloween
orange and chimney red.

Frank put on a top forty station,
got on the Hollywood Freeway
headed North.

Never could stand that dog."

Couldn't have put it better myself. No, really, I couldn't.
Picture by ~mtrutledge on DeviantArt.


TPH

She's my heroin

Therapy by derision

I find myself being dragged away from this persona to a more chivalrous one, day by day. It is not the first time it has happened, and by all means, it doesn't take much to make me shift and abandon different characters and views. However I feel I like this particular incarnation enough to allow it some sort of self-defense.

I came up with myself when I needed to cope with things in a spectacular way. There looms the possibility of me not having to do this anymore, the lure of a more tender emotion seems to be sneaking up on me. And it got me thinking - why should I activate different modules of myself with every other feeling that seems important enough to require emotional spring cleaning? If every time a bell chirped in my hat I'd suddenly turn to see it I'd probably just be stretched on some floor somewhere with my eyes long lost in permanent vertigo. And still, I seem to be doing exactly this on some level. I'm my own book of tricks.



Why would I suddenly write such a mushy post? Get over yourselves. I don't live in a conflict area and most ideas I have are stretched so thin they barely manage to link things together. Blogs inevitably fall in pits of personal confession, pathetic in nature and cozy for all those who wish to put off writing their own posts. I wish this was an exorcism.

TPH

The pros and cons of tanks

To have a tank - the dream of the founder of Virgin (the record-label, the legend, the myth) and by having it, knowing that it is yours to drive around in at any given moment is synonymous with security, control and "zazz".

To have a tank, in the most biblical of ways - the dream of a fellow harlequin, mostly charming, always full of presence - and to be able to run anyone down in it, at any given moment, becoming one with the motorized armored vehicle and feeling the bones crunch under your treaded soles, a certain gentleness involved - synonymous with the M.O. of any self-respecting sociopath bent on making the world a better place, even by self-sacrifice.

What else is there to hope for? Get a tank - paint it pink, make an impression, run everyone down in it, beginning with your best friend (he/she would go out with an orgasmic yelp, no doubt) and always avoiding those you despise most - the subtlety of knowing they know you could make guacamole out of them with the expense of nothing else than gasoline is punishment enough and it turns you in a sort of makeshift Batman.

This was me trying to empathize with my friend's dream. I would much prefer (much like Jesus) to have others blame themselves to the extent they'd jump in front of her tank, when she gets it. Such a creative partnership would indeed be our big show together...

TPH

Grin Reaper

It appears exactly when you'd think it's gone forever. It stretches from orifice to orifice on the horizontal and on the vertical, a leviathan of a cross cracking the head in four, like a knife drawing on a lemon. And then the chasm widens and sound comes out, cackling, snorting, bellowing, howling, contagious and infectious, bringing forth unrelenting deconstruction of all things serious, front row with popcorn, while at the same time underlining with many lines the very thing it mocks, much like a thong, all this somewhere in the vividly painted backdrop.

Cheese, Whiskey, Watch the Birdie (rough translation), etc - words that cut slits in peoples' faces like charm, magic words which bring the apocalypse of straight faces everywhere.

Serendipity

La sesizarea lui Hamlet, un control inopinat a constatat ca e ceva putred in Danemarca.

or, in the Bard's language,

Being called upon by Hamlet, a surprise inspection revealed that there was indeed something rotten in Denmark.

Words of wit from a high school graduate. I take a leaping bow.

TPH

To M.

Your words are so raw they make me feel like I'm touching open wounds. I'm sorry I couldn't see this, I'm sorry I'm one of the others, the rest, the idle crowd of hangers-on and onlookers who stand in a circle while the onslaught rages. It's not intentional, not on a conscious level, it's watching the bloodsport that makes you feel all the more safe, like you can't be part of it for as long as you keep your eyes peeled and focused on the tearing and the ripping and the scratching. I'm trying to perform now. I'm trying to be a rodeo clown, the man in the middle, the man with the sword. I really am. An empty can is at least able to make sounds, to stir resonance in the air, to vibrate and cause response and impact other surfaces, each sound circle one more knock, one more contact. Thank you.

Much anticipated

Right, so it's about time I live up to my promise, is it not? Especially since I got that which I choose to consider a nocturnal ultimatum. I'll tell you the story of this dream, as warm-up, I have to put on a black tear for that, just a second.

Right - have you ever been heartbroken in a dream? I have these epic dreams at times - I dream long, intertwining stories, scenarios which could fill many pages of pulp or psycho cyberpunk publication. The one last night was no exception - I woke to find myself near a female character of considerable beauty and magnetism, a girl as it were, a beauteous girl, an ancient druid girl, an officiator of forgotten rituals in strange, strange forests girl, a girl who exists in the real world also and whom I happen to know. We were together, we were happy together, we had been very happy together but a few minutes ago, but I (sincerely) didn't dream that part of your happy relationship. We were experiencing this familiar joy in a luxurious hotel room somewhere, which we felt was home. And like some sort of fine measuring device, some sort of industrial-revolution fantasy, Jules Verne-esque self-o-meter, I felt myself slowly beginning to disappear, to occupy less and less space in this female character's memory and consciousness, to the point that, while still considering the hotel room her home, she did not consider me part of it and could see me no more. And so she went in search for something. This is perfectly natural according to the rules of the dream, no? She went in search of two Italian male characters that she could use to search several depths, including that of her memory perhaps. It was not very difficult to find such characters - it was as if the twisted director of the dream had made them available at arm's length. In any case, she thus returned with the two Italian fellows of extremely stereotypical appearance. And, from my fly on the wall position I could easily observe the zeal with which they proceeded to plummet, as it were. Mind you, this whole scene had negligible erotic attributes for me, as I was merely a fly on the wall in their perspective - I had never ceased to have a certain feeling of devotion towards this girl. And so, taking into account the fact that the dream had the usual qualities of a dream, that is to say it greatly resembled reality, my reaction was that of the real me - I also plummeted, but not into an abyss of tunnels, but rather into heartbroken depression... Scroll back up and look at my black tear now. It's the end of the story. I woke up. And the dream had left me this beautiful reminder that I too have a subconscious life and the fact that it stays subconscious and chooses not to pierce through to my carefully constructed persona of patchwork must be compensated somehow. Hello everyone, my hair is fuchsia and I'm a person-that-lives-more-intense-lives-during-sleep-than-while-being
-awake-and-sometimes-these-lives-bleed-through. Umm, no, I mean, I might become an alcoholic.

Yeah, good idea! Could you imagine a preemptive strike at alcoholism? NYA.A. (Not Yet Alcoholics Anonymous) a place where people could go and speak about the things which they think have the potential to drive them to slowly dissolve their internal organs in a selected few alcoholic beverages. This should definitely be organized.

Right, it seems my introduction has indeed managed to take up enough space. I can now begin to tell other tales of depravity. I need a break. Coffee. Muffin. M&M.

I've decided to start using this blog as a pedestal for all the happenings I can't write about on my other blog. So stay sharp! Today is a blogging day, a day for such journals to be written and there shall be a deluge of scabrous and sinister goings-on for you to contemplate in utter shock. And so, after this very charlatanesque introduction, I beg you to keep your trousers on for another couple of hours, presuming you quiver with anticipation already.

P.S. - If it ever crossed your hairs that I'd give the URL to my other blog... I'll quote "what were you expecting from me? A round number?"

Late night laugh

Not many laughs to be had lately, I must say, with pronounced disdain and distress. And not enough tear-worthy events either. I was just pondering the mechanisms by which extreme sadness can be turned into trouser-wetting humor by a mere effort of will. However, as John the Revelator would put it, that which is merely warm shall be spit out of the mouth of God.

Not to be asking for a lightning-bolt jolt back to reality or purgatory, depending on the mood, but wouldn't a tobacco-spittin', six-shooter blastin', saloon-door kickin' deity have made any sane man quiver with hysteria in a rational world?

And further more, based on the assumption that paradontosis is an affliction common especially to older people, and the biblical fact that we have been created in the image of God, I say, shouldn't it be understandable that this respective deity should very much enjoy the presence of some warm and neutral-tasting food in his mouth rather than a hot or icy fluid that could easily cause jolts of universal pain?

Well, ranting has it's own pace. May it be be gentle and graceful. And if you have nothing nice to say, at least try to make it interesting.

Old McDonald

No, I haven't taken my spots off yet. Here, enjoy this. It might kill you with laughter, have someone with you at all times to deliver the final blow.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z4Y4keqTV6w

Smile, it's going to get worse

Fine day today in Germany. Hot weather and blooming trees, delicious wurst and liters upon liters of ale.

A game of tension lays waste to patience, tiresome tale in a hale of words, no results. It's like doing cartwheels in space - just not spectacular, just cold and pointless. This feeling, frozen from liquid state into a perfect mirror of absurdity, placed in front of me. I write these words at night, knowing that in the morning, the rejuvenated masks that I try so very hard to make my own, will probably be able to cover my face again, will silence my bells. Prepubescent dillemas still haunt. We have these thoughts that won't converge, we try so hard to make words merge and there's no end to our attempts, as jesters mock our weathered hands. Nothing said, nothing gained, no peace lost or muscle strained, I lay relaxed and upside down, bells shimmering around my crown.

Doctors and cards

Step right up folks, step right up and get your own personal diagnostic! Whatever you want, whatever fate and skill drop in your lap! A couple of cracked jacks sir, terribly sorry, you will have trouble with gender identity as a side-effect, but your voice will definitely improve. Wrapped up king mister, we'll fit you with a nice comfy long-sleeve shirt with original western-style buckles. Lodging for free, you won't get a softer deal anywhere. Madam, I'm sorry to tell you you've got a little joker coming. Bet you didn't expect that. There're ways to deal with him though (no pun intended). Your tens are acting up, take these pills and you'll just sleep it off...

Shuffle the deck, move'em around, there's plenty for eveyone, as long as there's still a free bed to play in. If you're really, really lucky, you get to draw three cards of the same kind and bet them over and over again. Unfortunately friends, we're playing black-jack, so the queen is not a good card to pull a hattrick with... Tough luck kid, we did everything we could.

It's times like these that I'd switch over the fence to my tuxedo-wearing amigos in mostly dellusional illusion land. Have them teach me a thing or two about that dissapearing act - I can pull it off with a couple of aces, but I can't make the dealer go up in smoke. And that's exactly what needs to be done. No fun here, just bitter attempts at cartwheels. Even harlequins feel angry at times. A system where clowns can become doctors and perform their daily routines on helpless, pale and wide-eyed mimes is a circus not even fools can bear.

I love you dear friend, you're an ace up my sleeve at all times. Get well soon.

Image courtesy of ~angel-blue on dA.

Sour grapes

Pretty rants is all I seem to be able to churn out of my bells today. So here goes - courtesy of "DmanLT21" - this pretty picture of a blockhead shape finding it hard to keep cool makes me think of my own desperate attempts at ingnoring the fetish qualities of the iPod. (with the iPod Shuffle I think they're finally getting the idea - make it rounder and then it'll have parts everyone can enjoy. Oh, by the way, they actually made a vibrator - there, I went and spoiled the subtlety of the entire previous wordplay - that shakes and stirs to music from an iPod... perhaps I should have selected a picture illustrating just that...) It may be pretty strong headed, it might come from a family that I personally have only mistrust for, it might be pompous and sometimes even flourescent pink, U2 might even have a signature model, but it's also slick, fragile, shiny, with perfect proportions, elephant memory and remarcable stamina. For all that I don't like, my mind has an unbeatable argument - pretty. There. I feel like a Gilmore girl without the witty dialogue.

Puppets and clowns

It's pretty hard to find a funny drawing of a puppet these days. I browsed through pages upon pages of pictures, drawings, photos, 3d renderings and I have to say there's no color left in the puppets' cheeks anymore. No spring in their step, no guiding line of personality, no twinkle. The downfall of the puppet as it were.
We've gone from laughter to despair at their approach. Children see puppets as funny sketches of a person. People see puppets as reflections, for why else would they exploit this ridiculous gothic theme so much? And indeed, if you see a puppet and your subconscious goes "What have I become?!" you should probably watch "Child's play" again and again, for some inspiration.
Puppets usually come in two varieties: on one hand we have the hanging kin - you know, those dominated from way above by a posse of creepy individuals with serious passive-agressive disorders. On the other hand, as it were, we have those who need a hand up their (rather generous) behinds, as motor skill substitution. I'm not even going to try to make a joke about the weilders' profile this time. I do however wonder which of these two little friends scare adults more...
Where, I ask, lies freedom for a puppet? In the master's nimble fingers or by means of mocking one's own strings? Electric cables, bills, dues, relations, relatives, affairs, puppet strings for the perceptive, brutal fisting hands for the not-so-perceptive. It's no laughing matter, lest you break a string.

Dancing on the corpses' ashes

As it is with most things, music inspires me to write this. People sometimes have feelings that they can't explain. Some of these people can easily find things in this reality to tie those feelings to, creating an artificial connection that reassures them of their sanity. Such is the case of a character highly distressed by the barbaric practice of clitorectomy that still goes on in certain parts of Africa, or of yet another character, Colombine for example - her spleen is triggered by the knowledge of women disappearing like slain dogs, by the tens and by the hundreds, somewhere at the border between Mexico and the United States. Further more, a neighbor here in the blogosphere keeps a very vivid and electrically charged account of the goings on in Iraq, ever since the war began. Very relevant, very strong - I suppose it can make great material for us wounded souls to find something to blame for our emo-ness, despite the very alive and first-person meat it has on it's virtual bones.
Where can one find the "funny" in all this. It's not the funny you'd laugh at out loud. It's the type of funny a fool has to point out first for the king to be able to chuckle. Picture, if you will, all the people with a rather large and colorful bell hat on their respective heads. These hats, with many a bell, can hardly wait to stretch a little tentacle and start ringing, one way or the other, to wherever insanity wreaks havoc in a most stimulating way. And so the tentacles fly all over the Earth - from individuals in Romania to Bangladesh, from people in America to the darkest deepest jungle in Africa (where the bell only dares venture, leaving the driving mind behind), from this clown in Romania to Iraq. And now, had you kept your mind focused, you see a web of these little arms, dangling away and ringing all over the planet, like microwave alarms. And out of nowhere comes this idea that we should do something as individuals. Pandemonium - each anchored fool with his/her colored hat starts yanking away, until we all, in pairs, crack our heads against each other. And the bells roar at first, then they lay silent until the bluebirds stop swirling around in a cartoon like fashion. Down here, we call this public uproar, collective action, Live8.

I refuse to formulate a moral to this exercise.

ML

"I would die hanging in a waltz of puppets, strings tied around my neck in majestic ties, from the delicate fingers of the thin paper harlequin. I would gamble my love away on a misfortunate jest only to be reminded of the equal beat of this song, only to bathe in the musical loss that it is to me. I would drown in a pool made of mimes' hands around me, a singular audience to a mute choir of black and white stripes. I feel my lungs like wings on the inside, flapping in the air like those of a monochromous blue parrot."

A song made me feel this way about three or four days ago. It's not really dry yet, but it will be in a week or so, a gentle reminder of ridiculous enthusiasm. It doesn't take people to make one feel like a fool. It just takes a brain (albeit a slightly disfunctional one). Hence the name of this fresh blog.

Image courtesy of Cristiano Siqueira - www.crisvector.com