Peter “Pete” pRatchetpeels prised up his buzz buzz with the following pronouncement: “Department of Practise and Legality of the Fifth Realm of Crapcago, member pRatchetpeels replying.”
“Pete, it’s Dirty. I need help.”
“Vouschafe a moment’s reprieve; my mugga-joe, made monstrously a twinkle ago, is making my maw muddled. There’s a sit-a-plop. Now pray tell the nails and nunnery of your need?”
“There is something here killing people in my office. Whatever this thing is it's been turning people into these living corpses that are trying to kill us.”
“Lying Coupses?”
Dirty dug through his desk drawers demonstrating abundant dexterity in finding the Disseminating Word Book. “A Crank Creepo.”
“Right,” replied Mr. pRatchetpeels. “The Crank Creepo Creator: narry malicious nor mean in nature, the Crank Creepo Creator compulsively needs companions. To hatch this task, the Crank Creepo Creator torrents the spirit with traipsings of the most tantamount intimacies throughout a lifetime.”
“This thing is making us feel happy to death?” Dirty demanded.
“So it seems.”
“Okay, well how do we make it stop from creating new friends?”
"Why would you not want a comrade?"
"Because, Pete, we want to stay alive."
"Right." More tickity tackitys tickled acrost Peter “Pete” pRatchetpeel's type type. “Ah ha! Your devoir: A vial of a virgins vital fluid, the commiserations of comedy and an olive branch.”
“Fuck. We don’t have any of those things.” Dirty eyeballed Satchel and Bel considering if either was un-plucked.
“Something else! Bribe the brute with your being, then subdue the savage with sweet sing-sing for two minutes and sixty-six seconds, finally the fellow will follow you to the chiffonier, firkin or coffer of your finding.”
Dirty’s cerebellum cycled through small spaces that could house the monstrosity.
“An accidental idea of paltry consideration. The subdued beast shall proceed anon, though the singer should grasp the two minutes and sixty-six seconds is all the space that the spell will last.
“Thanks Pete. Thanks a lot. That could help us.” Quiet consumed him then Dirty continued, “Look if I don’t talk to you give my love to Lilly Liverroot.”
With that he broke off the buzz buzz. “This is going to take crackerjack timing.”
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Reckoner
Your mixtape of the month. Don’t know if anybody wants a copy but psst me through an email (click on the handy “Contact Us By Email By Email” button directly to your right) and I’ll send you a copy.
Ball and Chain – Social Distortion
Social Distortion
(I Don’t Want to go to) Chelsea – Elvis Costello
This Years Model
Myriad Harbour – The New Pornographers
Challengers
Michigan Girls – Califone
Quicksand/Rattlesnakes
300 M.P.H Torrential Outpour Blues – The White Stripes
Icky Thump
Reckoner – Radiohead
In Rainbows
Valentine – The Get Up Kids
Something to Write Home About
Your Honor – Regina Spektor
Soviet Kitsch
Mushaboom (Postal Service Remix) – Feist
Open Season: Remixes and Collabs
How a Resurrection Really Feels – The Hold Steady
Separation Sunday
Angel in the Snow – Elliott Smith
New Moon
Eyes – Rogue Wave
Descended Like Vultures
Sorry Somehow – Husker Du
Candy Apple Grey
Judy – The PipettesWe are the Pipettes
Someone Great – LCD Soundsystem
Sound of Silver
Reflections – Atmosphere
Seven’s Travels
The Most Beautiful Girl in the Room – Flight of the Conchords
The Distant Future
Ball and Chain – Social Distortion
Social Distortion
(I Don’t Want to go to) Chelsea – Elvis Costello
This Years Model
Myriad Harbour – The New Pornographers
Challengers
Michigan Girls – Califone
Quicksand/Rattlesnakes
300 M.P.H Torrential Outpour Blues – The White Stripes
Icky Thump
Reckoner – Radiohead
In Rainbows
Valentine – The Get Up Kids
Something to Write Home About
Your Honor – Regina Spektor
Soviet Kitsch
Mushaboom (Postal Service Remix) – Feist
Open Season: Remixes and Collabs
How a Resurrection Really Feels – The Hold Steady
Separation Sunday
Angel in the Snow – Elliott Smith
New Moon
Eyes – Rogue Wave
Descended Like Vultures
Sorry Somehow – Husker Du
Candy Apple Grey
Judy – The PipettesWe are the Pipettes
Someone Great – LCD Soundsystem
Sound of Silver
Reflections – Atmosphere
Seven’s Travels
The Most Beautiful Girl in the Room – Flight of the Conchords
The Distant Future
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
chapter fifteen
Balddee’s shoulder hurt from where the desk had dug into him. He constructed the new barricade with little help from the rest of the group then pulled a smoke and rested.
Then, an explosion from the break room.
“Mule.” Balddee said, his hand crushing the cigarette out.
Baldee rushed down the hall to see Mule’s leg rip at the ankle, the foot still nailed to the floor, and follow the rest of the body being folded into the Shredder Commando. His nose smelt burning flesh as Pedro stood on the counter, a spent match laid on the counter giving off smoke.
What looked like an exploded cannister of propane mixed with the remnants of Dead Gonzo. Balddee walked over to the Shredder Commando and hit the kill switch. He spoke with his back to the group in the hall, “Best not to come in here.”
Balddee lit another cigarette, the last in his pack. “What can we do to stop this bad guy.”
“Shouldn’t the bad guy have a better name?” Satchel or Bel questioned.
“Yeah, we don’t even know who the bad guy is.” Bel or Satchel continued. There was no response except the burning of Balddee’s cigarette.
“I suppose I could try to call Crapcago?” said Dirty Orpheus, looking in the dark at the rest of the group.
“No good.” Balddee remarked, “All the phone lines are out.”
“No.” Dirty said, pushing his glasses up higher on his nose, “The mirror I use doesn’t work with phone lines. It’s, well, it’s complicated.”
“Do you think that it could work?” Satchel or Bel asked.
“I have no idea. They’re not the most forthcoming with information. That’s why all my articles sucked.”
The group fell silent. Dirty spat out, “Well, somebody could’ve at least said they kind of didn’t. Come, on. The phone is in my office.
Then, an explosion from the break room.
“Mule.” Balddee said, his hand crushing the cigarette out.
Baldee rushed down the hall to see Mule’s leg rip at the ankle, the foot still nailed to the floor, and follow the rest of the body being folded into the Shredder Commando. His nose smelt burning flesh as Pedro stood on the counter, a spent match laid on the counter giving off smoke.
What looked like an exploded cannister of propane mixed with the remnants of Dead Gonzo. Balddee walked over to the Shredder Commando and hit the kill switch. He spoke with his back to the group in the hall, “Best not to come in here.”
Balddee lit another cigarette, the last in his pack. “What can we do to stop this bad guy.”
“Shouldn’t the bad guy have a better name?” Satchel or Bel questioned.
“Yeah, we don’t even know who the bad guy is.” Bel or Satchel continued. There was no response except the burning of Balddee’s cigarette.
“I suppose I could try to call Crapcago?” said Dirty Orpheus, looking in the dark at the rest of the group.
“No good.” Balddee remarked, “All the phone lines are out.”
“No.” Dirty said, pushing his glasses up higher on his nose, “The mirror I use doesn’t work with phone lines. It’s, well, it’s complicated.”
“Do you think that it could work?” Satchel or Bel asked.
“I have no idea. They’re not the most forthcoming with information. That’s why all my articles sucked.”
The group fell silent. Dirty spat out, “Well, somebody could’ve at least said they kind of didn’t. Come, on. The phone is in my office.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Brenda
Brenda is the picture of what real men envision a woman to be. Her emerald colored eyes glisten in the sun, her hourglass curves are a sight to behold, subtle thighs and taunt perky breasts.
Ahh to see her, there is not a man alive who cant envision her firm thighs wrapped around him as you bring her closer to ecstasy, fantasies of nostalgic Poster Girls of days gone by like Rita Hayworth, Sophia Lauren, Marilyn Monroe, and Betty Page spring forth.
Yes Brenda was blessed with looks but as we all know(with exception of yours truly) no one is perfect. So is the case with Brenda.
Our story starts in a College Campus in Kansas
(Yes Brenda is Corn fed I get the jokes now shut it and keep reading.)
Her upbringing was the kind that Britney Spears should of had, firm yet fair parents make all the difference especially when you have a kids who's ass is so beautiful it could make a Bulldog kiss a Hound.
There were guys always after her and she knew how to get what she wanted without whoring it up, when your a beautiful women the world is a vampire, around every turn there is a pariah waiting to suck the youth out of you Brenda knew this.
She knew her biggest mistake would be to open her legs for just Pleasure she knew there was more to her then just getting a high paying job in Kansas.
Fortunately for her old Brenda was pretty smart and Computers were her things, it turns out there was an internship at BLAH BLAH BLAH (Please note no Companies will be mentioned in this piece because I don’t get any residuals)
So the good thing about this internship is aside from learning at BLAH BLAH BLAH it pretty much guarantees you a high paying position in the Company and above all, the headquarters are located in a Major Metropolitan City, which Brenda had always wanted.
It sounded to good to be true there was however one tiny little problem she had to beat out 1000 other students to be accepted and above all else to even be considered you have to get a perfect score on there Entry Level Examine which, if you passed, it set you up for the big money once your internship is over so you can imagine the pressure.
She knew she had everyone at her Campus beat but her faith in the Force was not enough she got wind of the only person who stood between her and BLAH BLAH BLAH.
Phillip Thorn despite the cool name Phil was a hot mess, he looked like he just slept in his clothes the night before, he could pass as an extra from Pirates of Caribbean just overall scruffy looking, never seen with anyone, not that popular not even with the Nerds. Despite his unsavory appearance simply put.
Phillip is the guy you will one day end up working for. And part of his plan to becoming the next Bill Gates is to get a spot working for Blah Blah Blah.
He will not be denied.
Ahh to see her, there is not a man alive who cant envision her firm thighs wrapped around him as you bring her closer to ecstasy, fantasies of nostalgic Poster Girls of days gone by like Rita Hayworth, Sophia Lauren, Marilyn Monroe, and Betty Page spring forth.
Yes Brenda was blessed with looks but as we all know(with exception of yours truly) no one is perfect. So is the case with Brenda.
Our story starts in a College Campus in Kansas
(Yes Brenda is Corn fed I get the jokes now shut it and keep reading.)
Her upbringing was the kind that Britney Spears should of had, firm yet fair parents make all the difference especially when you have a kids who's ass is so beautiful it could make a Bulldog kiss a Hound.
There were guys always after her and she knew how to get what she wanted without whoring it up, when your a beautiful women the world is a vampire, around every turn there is a pariah waiting to suck the youth out of you Brenda knew this.
She knew her biggest mistake would be to open her legs for just Pleasure she knew there was more to her then just getting a high paying job in Kansas.
Fortunately for her old Brenda was pretty smart and Computers were her things, it turns out there was an internship at BLAH BLAH BLAH (Please note no Companies will be mentioned in this piece because I don’t get any residuals)
So the good thing about this internship is aside from learning at BLAH BLAH BLAH it pretty much guarantees you a high paying position in the Company and above all, the headquarters are located in a Major Metropolitan City, which Brenda had always wanted.
It sounded to good to be true there was however one tiny little problem she had to beat out 1000 other students to be accepted and above all else to even be considered you have to get a perfect score on there Entry Level Examine which, if you passed, it set you up for the big money once your internship is over so you can imagine the pressure.
She knew she had everyone at her Campus beat but her faith in the Force was not enough she got wind of the only person who stood between her and BLAH BLAH BLAH.
Phillip Thorn despite the cool name Phil was a hot mess, he looked like he just slept in his clothes the night before, he could pass as an extra from Pirates of Caribbean just overall scruffy looking, never seen with anyone, not that popular not even with the Nerds. Despite his unsavory appearance simply put.
Phillip is the guy you will one day end up working for. And part of his plan to becoming the next Bill Gates is to get a spot working for Blah Blah Blah.
He will not be denied.
chapter fourteen
“Who needs a drink?” Mule asked looking at the bloody corpse of Harmon that Balddee had just savaged. When nobody answered and more to justify needing the drink Mule continued, “Well there is more alcohol in this break room place.”
“Don’t go on your own.” Dirty Orpheus remarked standing in the doorway.
“I won’t,” Mule said, “Harmon should be in his office, put the rest of them in there too. I’ll take Pedro. He can’t help anyway.”
Pedro, the cat, went along with Mule and they walked down the corridor towards the break room. No words needed to be exchanged between either of them but for good measure Pedro ran his claws along the wall so that they would know their way back.
They entered the break room and saw the corpse of Dr. Gonzo. Mule looked on, “I completely forgot about her.”
Pedro took a more cautious approach, knocking a jar off the counter down onto its' head.
“Well, if she is going to turn it doesn’t look like she’s there yet. I guess we’ll have to,” Mule paused, looking around the room before continuing. “I guess we’ll have to dispose of her."
Pedro, ever the helpful cat, rubbed himself against the industrial sized Shredder Commando that Dirty Orpheus, in a freak moment of drug induced paranoia, had purchased from Worst Lie. “You’re a sick fucker, Pedro, but God bless you.”
Mule removed a cleaver, the only real knife that was in the office and lopped off Dead Gonzo’s leg. He pressed the power button, there was a slight whir before nothing. Frustrated he pressed the power button again: nothing. “Fuck. The building doesn’t have electricity.”
He sighed and slumped down taking a greedy final glance over Dead Gonzo's body.
Pedro examined the Shredder Commando then flicked a switch that caused the shredder to come to life and Mule to comment, “Who the shit builds an emergency power source into a paper shredder?”
Re-energized, Mule picked up the leg again and began shoving the foot, then calf and thigh into the Shredder Commando. A fine pink cloud came off as the shredder did its’ work. Mule lopped off the other leg, then the right arm. He began whistling, taking pride in his work. Pedro looked on in his typical disinterested fashion.
Then something unexpected happened and out of it came pain. Mule looked down to see Dead Gonzo’s remaining hand clutching onto a take-out chopstick that had been shoved through his foot, nailing him to the floor.
He attacked with his other foot crushing it into Dead Gonzo's nose and sending the remaining torso, arm and head flying across the break room.
Dead Gonzo responded by throwing a ceremonial serving platter that connected with Mule’s head, sending him back onto the Shredder Commando.
Woozy, blood dripping down over his eyes he felt the back of his shirt suck into the teeth of the shredder, making it so that he couldn’t move.
Dead Gonzo began the slow and tedious process of crawling across the floor. Pedro attacked but Dead Gonzo was expecting it and hit him mid-flight, sending him sprawling through the air.
It arrived at Mule as his lower back was grabbed by the teeth of the shredder. Reaching up Dead Gonzo grabbed Mule by the groin, twisted, pulled and castrated.
“Don’t go on your own.” Dirty Orpheus remarked standing in the doorway.
“I won’t,” Mule said, “Harmon should be in his office, put the rest of them in there too. I’ll take Pedro. He can’t help anyway.”
Pedro, the cat, went along with Mule and they walked down the corridor towards the break room. No words needed to be exchanged between either of them but for good measure Pedro ran his claws along the wall so that they would know their way back.
They entered the break room and saw the corpse of Dr. Gonzo. Mule looked on, “I completely forgot about her.”
Pedro took a more cautious approach, knocking a jar off the counter down onto its' head.
“Well, if she is going to turn it doesn’t look like she’s there yet. I guess we’ll have to,” Mule paused, looking around the room before continuing. “I guess we’ll have to dispose of her."
Pedro, ever the helpful cat, rubbed himself against the industrial sized Shredder Commando that Dirty Orpheus, in a freak moment of drug induced paranoia, had purchased from Worst Lie. “You’re a sick fucker, Pedro, but God bless you.”
Mule removed a cleaver, the only real knife that was in the office and lopped off Dead Gonzo’s leg. He pressed the power button, there was a slight whir before nothing. Frustrated he pressed the power button again: nothing. “Fuck. The building doesn’t have electricity.”
He sighed and slumped down taking a greedy final glance over Dead Gonzo's body.
Pedro examined the Shredder Commando then flicked a switch that caused the shredder to come to life and Mule to comment, “Who the shit builds an emergency power source into a paper shredder?”
Re-energized, Mule picked up the leg again and began shoving the foot, then calf and thigh into the Shredder Commando. A fine pink cloud came off as the shredder did its’ work. Mule lopped off the other leg, then the right arm. He began whistling, taking pride in his work. Pedro looked on in his typical disinterested fashion.
Then something unexpected happened and out of it came pain. Mule looked down to see Dead Gonzo’s remaining hand clutching onto a take-out chopstick that had been shoved through his foot, nailing him to the floor.
He attacked with his other foot crushing it into Dead Gonzo's nose and sending the remaining torso, arm and head flying across the break room.
Dead Gonzo responded by throwing a ceremonial serving platter that connected with Mule’s head, sending him back onto the Shredder Commando.
Woozy, blood dripping down over his eyes he felt the back of his shirt suck into the teeth of the shredder, making it so that he couldn’t move.
Dead Gonzo began the slow and tedious process of crawling across the floor. Pedro attacked but Dead Gonzo was expecting it and hit him mid-flight, sending him sprawling through the air.
It arrived at Mule as his lower back was grabbed by the teeth of the shredder. Reaching up Dead Gonzo grabbed Mule by the groin, twisted, pulled and castrated.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
LCD Soundsystem, Tegan and Sarah
LCD Soundsystem -- Sounds of Silver
Tegan and Sarah -- This Business of Art
Angst for the memories...
It's been a weird week... it's been a good week... it's been a week... The older I get in life the more I have embraced the ideology: it is not a party unless I'm there. Egocentric at best but at the same time it has allowed me to accept many of the sliders and curveballs that life has thrown at me or at the very least, deal with them.
Madison is a tough city no matter how you approach it. With friends it is an occasion for a hangover and trouble on all fronts. With family it is an emotional needle, a tool designed to help you but first it must break the skin. I found out about dead uncles, raped aunt's, sleep walking grandfathers that walk into the room eating pie. And yet this was extreme quality time with my Mom where the two of us connected on that level of people that love each other.
I had no intention of going to Chicago. A friend of mine, (well sister of a friend) wished me Happy Thanksgiving and so I went- I was of course a day late. There was no itinerary or rough plans it was just to be there. I had high intentions for my eventual return but now they're all gone and some other city must discover itself on my horizon.
Plangents bray loud and new directions must be taken. I've been lying low at work for calling in sick, last weekend, mildly praying I'm discovered so they fire me, scared to death they will. I've been missing Chicago for the memories which is at once beautiful and wrong. An old friend of mine instructed me to get over it move on, which feels like the vomit I left somewhere on State Street. But she is most likely right...
How do you choose the parties? Is it the people, the place or the possibilities?
When I go to the record store I need to have an album in mind or else I make an unwise optio
n (see: Orange Peels). I picked up LCD Soundsystem only because it was on Pitchfork’s picks list. James Murphy cannot sing. His lyrics aren’t really fantastic. But the sound is… wow… It is an album you listen to as a soundtrack to life.
You start by pressing play and the disc spins Get Innocous! to be modest your start playing at five then, by increments, the song is eventually turned to eleven. It is a listener’s album giving itself to you in movements. Someone Great, All My Friends, New York I Love You, But You’re Bringing Me Down make a day, a trip, a life flow by in such color that living experience are augmented and your life seemingly improves.
Other Reviews
Pitchfork, Metacritic
I had w
anted to pick up Tegan and Sarah’s new album The Con off of reviews by the Current, however I couldn’t remember the name. Therefore I ended up picking up This Business of Art, from 2000 and their first album.
I am a fan of Ani Difranco. That said I am a fan of Ani Difranco and don’t understand why their needs to be more people trying to steal her sound. I love where Tegan and Sarah ended u; the songs that I have heard from The Con sound fantastic. But I've been disappointed with this album and have yet to make it all the way through.
I left Chicago on a Monday, stabbing North to the Sota. That day I did achieve the hangover I so richly deserved. And so from the Northside to Wisconsin I listened to one song. Wash, rinsed and repeated; wrong song, right chord.
New York I Love You, But You’re Bringing Me Down
LCD Soundsystem
Tegan and Sarah -- This Business of Art
Angst for the memories...
It's been a weird week... it's been a good week... it's been a week... The older I get in life the more I have embraced the ideology: it is not a party unless I'm there. Egocentric at best but at the same time it has allowed me to accept many of the sliders and curveballs that life has thrown at me or at the very least, deal with them.
Madison is a tough city no matter how you approach it. With friends it is an occasion for a hangover and trouble on all fronts. With family it is an emotional needle, a tool designed to help you but first it must break the skin. I found out about dead uncles, raped aunt's, sleep walking grandfathers that walk into the room eating pie. And yet this was extreme quality time with my Mom where the two of us connected on that level of people that love each other.
I had no intention of going to Chicago. A friend of mine, (well sister of a friend) wished me Happy Thanksgiving and so I went- I was of course a day late. There was no itinerary or rough plans it was just to be there. I had high intentions for my eventual return but now they're all gone and some other city must discover itself on my horizon.
Plangents bray loud and new directions must be taken. I've been lying low at work for calling in sick, last weekend, mildly praying I'm discovered so they fire me, scared to death they will. I've been missing Chicago for the memories which is at once beautiful and wrong. An old friend of mine instructed me to get over it move on, which feels like the vomit I left somewhere on State Street. But she is most likely right...
How do you choose the parties? Is it the people, the place or the possibilities?
When I go to the record store I need to have an album in mind or else I make an unwise optio
n (see: Orange Peels). I picked up LCD Soundsystem only because it was on Pitchfork’s picks list. James Murphy cannot sing. His lyrics aren’t really fantastic. But the sound is… wow… It is an album you listen to as a soundtrack to life.You start by pressing play and the disc spins Get Innocous! to be modest your start playing at five then, by increments, the song is eventually turned to eleven. It is a listener’s album giving itself to you in movements. Someone Great, All My Friends, New York I Love You, But You’re Bringing Me Down make a day, a trip, a life flow by in such color that living experience are augmented and your life seemingly improves.
Other Reviews
Pitchfork, Metacritic
I had w
anted to pick up Tegan and Sarah’s new album The Con off of reviews by the Current, however I couldn’t remember the name. Therefore I ended up picking up This Business of Art, from 2000 and their first album.I am a fan of Ani Difranco. That said I am a fan of Ani Difranco and don’t understand why their needs to be more people trying to steal her sound. I love where Tegan and Sarah ended u; the songs that I have heard from The Con sound fantastic. But I've been disappointed with this album and have yet to make it all the way through.
I left Chicago on a Monday, stabbing North to the Sota. That day I did achieve the hangover I so richly deserved. And so from the Northside to Wisconsin I listened to one song. Wash, rinsed and repeated; wrong song, right chord.
New York I Love You, But You’re Bringing Me Down
LCD Soundsystem
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
chapter thirteen
“Light ‘em!” yelled Harmon.
The Molotov cocktails, constructed out of the bottles from Mule’s desk, sprung to light; their blue alcohol burn illuminating more light than the office had seen in hours.
Dead Remo crawled through the broken doorway and onto the top of the desk. Dead Johnny and Dead Chuck came through next while Dead Todd remained in the hallway, not quite knowing what was going on.
“Throw!” Harmon commanded and three Molotov cocktails arced through Mule’s office, connecting with the corpses. A high-pitched shriek scared through the office: Dead Remo’s body howled in pain.
“Again!” Harmon said and the remaining bottles of alcohol were lit then thrown.
The corpses tried to retreat but were too flustered by the pain to go through the door.
Harmon walked towards them, his Kent Hrbek special crashing down into the chest of Dead Remo, who let out a guttural sigh, its’ doll like eyes rolling back then flipping over white. He moved towards Dead Johnny and repeated the process, the sickening thud of its’ rib cage cracking reverberated through the four cornered room.
“C’mon Balddee, help me move the desk so he can finish off the two in the hall.” Mule said, grabbing an edge of his desk.
Harmon walked into the hall, alone. The cold grip of Dead Todd reached around Harmon’s ankle forcing him to his knees. In a reflex, the ash bat swung through the air crashing down upon Dead Todd. Harmon struggled to his feet and whacked him again but Dead Chuck incisors sunk into Harmon’s thigh.
With a gasp of pain, Harmon turned his natural upper cut swing into the jaw of Dead Chuck, the piece of flesh that had been gripped between Dead Chuck’s teeth ripped from Harmon’s leg as the corpse broke away. Harmon brought the bat above his head and the deathblow fell down through the chest of Dead Chuck all the way to the office carpet.
Harmon winced in pain, leaning for support on the bat, the remainder of the group looked at him. A smile crept onto Harmon’s face as he indicated his leg. “I guess there is no sense in me trying to cover this up.”
His legs buckled and he sunk to his knees. Grabbing the bat by the barrel he offered the handle to Balddee. “You know what you have to do. Make it quick.”
Balddee accepted the bat and raised it up before crashing it into Harmon’s skull. The bat splintered from the effect.
“Broken bat single.” Mule said, “He would’ve liked it that way.”
Balddee took the splintered handle of the bat that remained in his hand, driving the handle through Harmon’s chest.
The Molotov cocktails, constructed out of the bottles from Mule’s desk, sprung to light; their blue alcohol burn illuminating more light than the office had seen in hours.
Dead Remo crawled through the broken doorway and onto the top of the desk. Dead Johnny and Dead Chuck came through next while Dead Todd remained in the hallway, not quite knowing what was going on.
“Throw!” Harmon commanded and three Molotov cocktails arced through Mule’s office, connecting with the corpses. A high-pitched shriek scared through the office: Dead Remo’s body howled in pain.
“Again!” Harmon said and the remaining bottles of alcohol were lit then thrown.
The corpses tried to retreat but were too flustered by the pain to go through the door.
Harmon walked towards them, his Kent Hrbek special crashing down into the chest of Dead Remo, who let out a guttural sigh, its’ doll like eyes rolling back then flipping over white. He moved towards Dead Johnny and repeated the process, the sickening thud of its’ rib cage cracking reverberated through the four cornered room.
“C’mon Balddee, help me move the desk so he can finish off the two in the hall.” Mule said, grabbing an edge of his desk.
Harmon walked into the hall, alone. The cold grip of Dead Todd reached around Harmon’s ankle forcing him to his knees. In a reflex, the ash bat swung through the air crashing down upon Dead Todd. Harmon struggled to his feet and whacked him again but Dead Chuck incisors sunk into Harmon’s thigh.
With a gasp of pain, Harmon turned his natural upper cut swing into the jaw of Dead Chuck, the piece of flesh that had been gripped between Dead Chuck’s teeth ripped from Harmon’s leg as the corpse broke away. Harmon brought the bat above his head and the deathblow fell down through the chest of Dead Chuck all the way to the office carpet.
Harmon winced in pain, leaning for support on the bat, the remainder of the group looked at him. A smile crept onto Harmon’s face as he indicated his leg. “I guess there is no sense in me trying to cover this up.”
His legs buckled and he sunk to his knees. Grabbing the bat by the barrel he offered the handle to Balddee. “You know what you have to do. Make it quick.”
Balddee accepted the bat and raised it up before crashing it into Harmon’s skull. The bat splintered from the effect.
“Broken bat single.” Mule said, “He would’ve liked it that way.”
Balddee took the splintered handle of the bat that remained in his hand, driving the handle through Harmon’s chest.
Cats
Half in, half out.
Ready to party, ready to crash, ready for the crush.
Pasts and pasts of pasts.
Lakeview is crisp on a late Fall after the first snow has melted. The truck could be parked closer to the redline, but this is an important part of the trip; the front of an old place to rest and reside.
The legs walk down Waveland. Redeyes from the night before drink it all back in. Welcome feelings flush in, wash out, leaving unresolved messes of: is this it or was this just some stopping off point.
The train drags on and phones don't work in the underground nor does the brain remember which station to get off on. The sick realization: “This might be a metaphor for it all...”
It plays like a greatest hits album as old haunts are stumbled through and old contacts are remade, touched. True happiness; fearful loathing. Insisting to friends that they must have vodka and juice. Comrades not missing a play from the deck. The happy couple making out on the couch then retiring to bed. A firm stance at the window, observing the construction across the alley, remembering all those evenings looking East, off a fire escape, towards the lake and Wrigley Field.
Sick realizations that drinking has become too much of a crutch when the sun comes without a hangover. More trains, more drinks, shots of V.O. line-up in front of text messages finally placed and sick results ensue. A friend writes a scathing message to another friend and another phone sighs an apology and maybe a surrender: I'm sorry, I understand why you did it, I did it too.
Screams, like a victim, erupt through the halls of 440 Plaza as a sober lawyer tries to deal potent law advice but has been humbled by the recent discovery of a projector that produces an image that humbles his recent purchase of a 48 inch, high def, plasma screen. A poor Russian from Brooklyn seeks directions and is accosted by derelict dogooders trying to help him find Dearborn then absconds.
The epiphany of being surrounded by that sweet happiness of a hug from half a dozen people at once. Final embraces as they leave to meet their boyfriends, for work, back to their apartment. And a redline train is boarded that makes every single construction stop.
Can I make everybody love me; is everybody capable of happiness? The waves of lake Michigan continue to crash. The great wheel of life rolls and everybody’s life continues to crash into its' rocks. I drank it all down and loved them all... it is a good run...
Ready to party, ready to crash, ready for the crush.
Pasts and pasts of pasts.
Lakeview is crisp on a late Fall after the first snow has melted. The truck could be parked closer to the redline, but this is an important part of the trip; the front of an old place to rest and reside.
The legs walk down Waveland. Redeyes from the night before drink it all back in. Welcome feelings flush in, wash out, leaving unresolved messes of: is this it or was this just some stopping off point.
The train drags on and phones don't work in the underground nor does the brain remember which station to get off on. The sick realization: “This might be a metaphor for it all...”
It plays like a greatest hits album as old haunts are stumbled through and old contacts are remade, touched. True happiness; fearful loathing. Insisting to friends that they must have vodka and juice. Comrades not missing a play from the deck. The happy couple making out on the couch then retiring to bed. A firm stance at the window, observing the construction across the alley, remembering all those evenings looking East, off a fire escape, towards the lake and Wrigley Field.
Sick realizations that drinking has become too much of a crutch when the sun comes without a hangover. More trains, more drinks, shots of V.O. line-up in front of text messages finally placed and sick results ensue. A friend writes a scathing message to another friend and another phone sighs an apology and maybe a surrender: I'm sorry, I understand why you did it, I did it too.
Screams, like a victim, erupt through the halls of 440 Plaza as a sober lawyer tries to deal potent law advice but has been humbled by the recent discovery of a projector that produces an image that humbles his recent purchase of a 48 inch, high def, plasma screen. A poor Russian from Brooklyn seeks directions and is accosted by derelict dogooders trying to help him find Dearborn then absconds.
The epiphany of being surrounded by that sweet happiness of a hug from half a dozen people at once. Final embraces as they leave to meet their boyfriends, for work, back to their apartment. And a redline train is boarded that makes every single construction stop.
Can I make everybody love me; is everybody capable of happiness? The waves of lake Michigan continue to crash. The great wheel of life rolls and everybody’s life continues to crash into its' rocks. I drank it all down and loved them all... it is a good run...
Monday, November 19, 2007
chapter twelve
“Balddee, you fuck-moot! You built the fucking barricade the wrong way!” screamed Mule, running up next to Harmon who stood holding the Kent Hrbek special, watching the four corpses knock over the cube walls that were in front of them.
Harmon’s grip around his bat tightened. “We need to fall back.”
“No! We have to fight them. If not now, when?” exclaimed Balddee.
“I don’t believe this is a fight we can win. We outnumber them but they’re stronger, we still don’t know for sure how they die and we don’t have any weapons.” Harmon said, grabbing Balddee’s forearm, easing it back down. “We’ll hole up in Mule’s office while we think of a way to take them all out.”
Harmon held the bat aloft while the rest of the group retreated into Mule’s office. Once inside they moved Mule’s desk to barricade the door aware, this time, of which way the door swung. As they moved the desk bottles of alcohol dropped out from the desk.
“Mule,” Satchel or Bel commented, “You might have a drinking problem.”
“Yeah, well I aim to change that real fast.” Mule said, removing the top of a bottle of whiskey and taking a heavy pull.
A hollow thumping sound began as the door creaked but did not give. Balddee leaned his back into the desk and did his best to keep it flush with the door.
Harmon looked around the room, “What do we have and how do we stop them? Mule, do you keep any weapons in your office?”
“Why, in fuck’s name, would I keep a weapon in my office? We posted a fucking sign saying that guns were fucking banned on the premise.”
Dirty Orpheus, sprawled against the back wall between Satchel and Bel. “We could make Malotov Cocktails out of all of this booze.”
Harmon looked over at Dirty, “Good idea. Use your socks for wicks and get started.”
“Wait,” Mule exasperated. “Do you have any idea how long it takes to amass a collection like this? I am aware that our lives are in mortal danger but maybe we should all consider that a good secondary plan. There must be something else we can do. What about the emergency exit plan that Maxey was looking for?”
“No good,” Balddee said, leaning into the desk to force it back against the door.
“That emergency exit was out of Dr. Gonzo’s office.” Harmon spoke, “She reinforced that wall so she could hang up all the pictures of her cat. Besides we would have to go through those guys in the hall just to get there.”
“Well, this just fucking sucks.” Mule said, holding onto a bottle of Johnny Walker Green which Dirty snatched forcing one of his dirty socks into the mouth.
The door began to give way. “How much longer can you hold the door?”
Balddee grimaced from where one of the desk drawers was digging into his back and looked at Harmon with a face of rage, “Not much.”
The top of the door exploded and the savage fury of the dead peered in.
Harmon’s grip around his bat tightened. “We need to fall back.”
“No! We have to fight them. If not now, when?” exclaimed Balddee.
“I don’t believe this is a fight we can win. We outnumber them but they’re stronger, we still don’t know for sure how they die and we don’t have any weapons.” Harmon said, grabbing Balddee’s forearm, easing it back down. “We’ll hole up in Mule’s office while we think of a way to take them all out.”
Harmon held the bat aloft while the rest of the group retreated into Mule’s office. Once inside they moved Mule’s desk to barricade the door aware, this time, of which way the door swung. As they moved the desk bottles of alcohol dropped out from the desk.
“Mule,” Satchel or Bel commented, “You might have a drinking problem.”
“Yeah, well I aim to change that real fast.” Mule said, removing the top of a bottle of whiskey and taking a heavy pull.
A hollow thumping sound began as the door creaked but did not give. Balddee leaned his back into the desk and did his best to keep it flush with the door.
Harmon looked around the room, “What do we have and how do we stop them? Mule, do you keep any weapons in your office?”
“Why, in fuck’s name, would I keep a weapon in my office? We posted a fucking sign saying that guns were fucking banned on the premise.”
Dirty Orpheus, sprawled against the back wall between Satchel and Bel. “We could make Malotov Cocktails out of all of this booze.”
Harmon looked over at Dirty, “Good idea. Use your socks for wicks and get started.”
“Wait,” Mule exasperated. “Do you have any idea how long it takes to amass a collection like this? I am aware that our lives are in mortal danger but maybe we should all consider that a good secondary plan. There must be something else we can do. What about the emergency exit plan that Maxey was looking for?”
“No good,” Balddee said, leaning into the desk to force it back against the door.
“That emergency exit was out of Dr. Gonzo’s office.” Harmon spoke, “She reinforced that wall so she could hang up all the pictures of her cat. Besides we would have to go through those guys in the hall just to get there.”
“Well, this just fucking sucks.” Mule said, holding onto a bottle of Johnny Walker Green which Dirty snatched forcing one of his dirty socks into the mouth.
The door began to give way. “How much longer can you hold the door?”
Balddee grimaced from where one of the desk drawers was digging into his back and looked at Harmon with a face of rage, “Not much.”
The top of the door exploded and the savage fury of the dead peered in.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Regina Spektor, Sonic Youth
Regina Spektor – Soviet Kitsch
Sonic Youth – Dirty
It is interesting how much darker it is here than Chicago. It is eerie how the blackness blankets you; not in an uncomfortable way but in a way that things jump out at in unexpected shadows. These are welcome fiends when the coldness is setting in and the only light comes from the fire station kitty corner the park.
This is not unlike Verizon Wireless. Recently I switched over to a new plan and was screwed over by them accusing me of not paying my bill. Not being one that enjoys talking on the phone I opted to pay everything all at once via my credit card.
Thus, dear reader, you must imagine my shock when I went online to pay this month and showed another negative balance in excess of one hundred dollars. Ergo, cursing myself, Verizon and any other name that immediately sprung into my mind I re-allocate the necessary funds only to watch the negative balance move in excess of $250. My concern level is raised to orange and a well placed call is made to Verizon where I’m informed that I’m over by $250. This is better than owing but… fuck’s sake! Who puts a fucking minus in front of balance!!??!!?
Speaking of anxiety, I had a pretty bad attack last Sunday night while trying to go to bed. Sleep deprived, the brain fills with images of everything that you’re not going to do with your life; your eyes close and a feeling that if you do go to sleep you’re not going to wake up. I tried walking around, tried stretching, relaxing, tried to feel my pulse. After two hours I put my headphones on and accepted it; if this was the end then I might as well go out to good music (current album of choice to die to: In Rainbows by Radiohead). Eventually, as was the case of Wilbur, sleep and I finally found each other.
After fa
lling in love with Regina Spektor over Begin to Hope I had great expectations for her first album Soviet Kitsch. And, in a way, I feel bad for reviewing it as Begin to Hope had already hit me on both the sonic and personal level. Meaning that there was no way that Soviet Kitsch would ever be able to measure up.
This is not a bad album. It captures her left hand piano, right hand playing a drum and body screaming into the mic. Track 8, Your Honor, might be one of her better songs of all time and her voice is there throughout the album capturing melodies and then releasing them in unforced gestures leaving the listener giddy with excitement and rewarded for their anticipation. This album is nowhere near as good as Begin to Hope however it still is a fine album.
Other Reviews:
Pitchfork, Metacritic
Markin
g their ten year anniversary as a band Sonic Youth released the album Dirty. An album that has it all: epic overtures in Sugar Kane, the 1992 ready made single of 100% and JC a song dedicated to their murdered friend and roadie Joe Cole.
Listening to this album again it is interesting just how much Sonic Youth influenced what came out of and into the 90’s. I now prefer Thurston to Kim although that might be an anachronistic punch in the balls at suffering Courtney Cox for too long. A good album and an important album for anybody locked into a serious music collection.
Other Reviews:
Pitchfork
100%
Amy Winehouse legitimately and physically scares me. But this song has been in my head since the woman died in the Phoenix airport on her way to rehab. The story really isn’t that funny but… well yeah…
Rehab
I dragged my Ma to Lars and the Real Girl over the weekend and while that movie was enjoyable this movie also looks excellent. The final line with shenanigans slays me.
Juno
Sonic Youth – Dirty
It is interesting how much darker it is here than Chicago. It is eerie how the blackness blankets you; not in an uncomfortable way but in a way that things jump out at in unexpected shadows. These are welcome fiends when the coldness is setting in and the only light comes from the fire station kitty corner the park.
This is not unlike Verizon Wireless. Recently I switched over to a new plan and was screwed over by them accusing me of not paying my bill. Not being one that enjoys talking on the phone I opted to pay everything all at once via my credit card.
Thus, dear reader, you must imagine my shock when I went online to pay this month and showed another negative balance in excess of one hundred dollars. Ergo, cursing myself, Verizon and any other name that immediately sprung into my mind I re-allocate the necessary funds only to watch the negative balance move in excess of $250. My concern level is raised to orange and a well placed call is made to Verizon where I’m informed that I’m over by $250. This is better than owing but… fuck’s sake! Who puts a fucking minus in front of balance!!??!!?
Speaking of anxiety, I had a pretty bad attack last Sunday night while trying to go to bed. Sleep deprived, the brain fills with images of everything that you’re not going to do with your life; your eyes close and a feeling that if you do go to sleep you’re not going to wake up. I tried walking around, tried stretching, relaxing, tried to feel my pulse. After two hours I put my headphones on and accepted it; if this was the end then I might as well go out to good music (current album of choice to die to: In Rainbows by Radiohead). Eventually, as was the case of Wilbur, sleep and I finally found each other.
After fa
lling in love with Regina Spektor over Begin to Hope I had great expectations for her first album Soviet Kitsch. And, in a way, I feel bad for reviewing it as Begin to Hope had already hit me on both the sonic and personal level. Meaning that there was no way that Soviet Kitsch would ever be able to measure up.This is not a bad album. It captures her left hand piano, right hand playing a drum and body screaming into the mic. Track 8, Your Honor, might be one of her better songs of all time and her voice is there throughout the album capturing melodies and then releasing them in unforced gestures leaving the listener giddy with excitement and rewarded for their anticipation. This album is nowhere near as good as Begin to Hope however it still is a fine album.
Other Reviews:
Pitchfork, Metacritic
Markin
g their ten year anniversary as a band Sonic Youth released the album Dirty. An album that has it all: epic overtures in Sugar Kane, the 1992 ready made single of 100% and JC a song dedicated to their murdered friend and roadie Joe Cole.Listening to this album again it is interesting just how much Sonic Youth influenced what came out of and into the 90’s. I now prefer Thurston to Kim although that might be an anachronistic punch in the balls at suffering Courtney Cox for too long. A good album and an important album for anybody locked into a serious music collection.
Other Reviews:
Pitchfork
100%
Amy Winehouse legitimately and physically scares me. But this song has been in my head since the woman died in the Phoenix airport on her way to rehab. The story really isn’t that funny but… well yeah…
Rehab
I dragged my Ma to Lars and the Real Girl over the weekend and while that movie was enjoyable this movie also looks excellent. The final line with shenanigans slays me.
Juno
Thursday, November 15, 2007
chapter eleven
Inside of Remo’s office the corpse of the former occupant felt itself reanimate. There was a strange sensation that it couldn’t move certain parts of its’ body and there was the intense need for human flesh.
Dead Remo opened its’ eyes and saw Chuck Funk, beginning to sit up, somebody it thought was Johnny Bookreport was there too though he had a giant hole where a face used to be, also there was another individual who no longer had a head but still made random gesticulations of profanity.
Dead Remo looked down at its’ waist and noticed that its’ legs were missing. “This is going to be a bit of an issue.” It announced to the group, surprised by how low and masculine its’ voice had shrank.
“What do we do now?” Dead Chuck Funk asked, speaking for the rest due to the fact it was the only other one capable of parable.
“We need a plan.” Dead Remo said, noticing that the detached legs were starting to move as well. To motivate the troops it asked them, “I ask you, is this a job for intelligent men?”
Dead Chuck Funk, also aware of movie quotes, spoke next, “Well show me one and I’ll ask him.”
Dead Remo pulled itself up onto the desk, thankful again for the amount of attention it had paid, during the living life, to Arnold Schwarzenegger’s work out books. It picked up a dry erase marker from underneath the white board and started to jot down a ‘To Do’ list which included but was not limited to:
“They don’t have eyes.” Dead Chuck quipped, ever helpful.
“Right. Well, can they hear anything?”
“How the fuck should I know?”
“Okay, fuck it, we’ll have to go to Plan B. We’ll just go out and kill everything, then take over the entire world, after a quick stop at the local just down the street for nourishment.”
Their plan fell on problems though as both of them lacked real hands to open the door with and so elaborate communications with the other two corpses’s began. After much work, the door was opened and the pile of cubes that had been in front of them was knocked down.
And then there in front of them was a virtual smorgasbord of human flesh.
Dead Remo opened its’ eyes and saw Chuck Funk, beginning to sit up, somebody it thought was Johnny Bookreport was there too though he had a giant hole where a face used to be, also there was another individual who no longer had a head but still made random gesticulations of profanity.
Dead Remo looked down at its’ waist and noticed that its’ legs were missing. “This is going to be a bit of an issue.” It announced to the group, surprised by how low and masculine its’ voice had shrank.
“What do we do now?” Dead Chuck Funk asked, speaking for the rest due to the fact it was the only other one capable of parable.
“We need a plan.” Dead Remo said, noticing that the detached legs were starting to move as well. To motivate the troops it asked them, “I ask you, is this a job for intelligent men?”
Dead Chuck Funk, also aware of movie quotes, spoke next, “Well show me one and I’ll ask him.”
Dead Remo pulled itself up onto the desk, thankful again for the amount of attention it had paid, during the living life, to Arnold Schwarzenegger’s work out books. It picked up a dry erase marker from underneath the white board and started to jot down a ‘To Do’ list which included but was not limited to:
- Turn remaining part of the office into Living Corpse
- Go to Costellos for a/several drink(s)
- Turn the entire bar of Costellos so they're dead like me
- Take over St. Paul
- Take over the world as evil dictator and rule with iron fist
- Repent
- Turn legit
“Now can everybody see the rough schematic that I’ve drawn? I apologize for the crudeness of it, I wasn’t able to draw it to scale.”
“They don’t have eyes.” Dead Chuck quipped, ever helpful.
“Right. Well, can they hear anything?”
“How the fuck should I know?”
“Okay, fuck it, we’ll have to go to Plan B. We’ll just go out and kill everything, then take over the entire world, after a quick stop at the local just down the street for nourishment.”
Their plan fell on problems though as both of them lacked real hands to open the door with and so elaborate communications with the other two corpses’s began. After much work, the door was opened and the pile of cubes that had been in front of them was knocked down.
And then there in front of them was a virtual smorgasbord of human flesh.
Monday, November 12, 2007
chapter ten
“What the shit did you do?” Satchel or Bel asked.
A smoking revolver was held at point blank range above the slumped body of Marlon Maxey. Marjorie looked up and fired a wild shot into the group.
Hit, Balddee slumped down to the ground, a trail of blood following him down the pierced drywall.
Mule picked up a stapler and threw it at Marjorie’s head. She ducked, squeezing two more rounds off that went wide of the group; an emergency light popped sending sparks flying onto the floor.
Harmon rushed Marjorie with the Kent Hrbek special causing her to fire a round into the floor and move from behind the desk. She rushed the group, a dagger flashing out of her waistband.
“Stop her!” Dirty Orpheus shouted.
Mule threw a chair in the way of Marjorie, clipping her legs and causing her to trip. The gun flopped down first discharging a round that shot up and threw her skull, sending brain to the ceiling. Bel or Satchel screamed.
Marjorie lay prone, skull and brain matter raining down from the ceiling as it lost its’ stickum and followed the course of gravity.
“You okay, Balddee?” Satchel or Bel asked him.
“She just grazed me.”
Harmon sighed, “We need to trust one another. This is a shitty experience for everybody but we need to know we’re not trying to kill each other.”
Harmon bent and picked up the magnum. Dirty Orpheus, who had been staring at the hole in the back of Marjorie’s skull changed his view to the gun in Harmon’s hand. “Why do you get to carry the gun? You’ve already got a bat. Are you trying to take all of the weapons?”
The rest of the group looked over at Harmon. Balddee spoke next, “Maybe it would be best if nobody had the gun.”
“But we need the gun.” Harmon said. “We could use this to stop them.”
“We don’t even know if there are anymore of them. I know it is best to assume that there will be but,” Mule paused and looked over at the slumped body of Bad Mother Coitus’ attorney at law, Marlon Maxey. “But I think for now it would be best if you… you know.”
“This is a mistake.” Spoke Harmon, then looked closer at the gun. “It’s empty anyway.”
A rustling sound came from somewhere out by Remo’s office and the group raced back to their barricade.
A smoking revolver was held at point blank range above the slumped body of Marlon Maxey. Marjorie looked up and fired a wild shot into the group.
Hit, Balddee slumped down to the ground, a trail of blood following him down the pierced drywall.
Mule picked up a stapler and threw it at Marjorie’s head. She ducked, squeezing two more rounds off that went wide of the group; an emergency light popped sending sparks flying onto the floor.
Harmon rushed Marjorie with the Kent Hrbek special causing her to fire a round into the floor and move from behind the desk. She rushed the group, a dagger flashing out of her waistband.
“Stop her!” Dirty Orpheus shouted.
Mule threw a chair in the way of Marjorie, clipping her legs and causing her to trip. The gun flopped down first discharging a round that shot up and threw her skull, sending brain to the ceiling. Bel or Satchel screamed.
Marjorie lay prone, skull and brain matter raining down from the ceiling as it lost its’ stickum and followed the course of gravity.
“You okay, Balddee?” Satchel or Bel asked him.
“She just grazed me.”
Harmon sighed, “We need to trust one another. This is a shitty experience for everybody but we need to know we’re not trying to kill each other.”
Harmon bent and picked up the magnum. Dirty Orpheus, who had been staring at the hole in the back of Marjorie’s skull changed his view to the gun in Harmon’s hand. “Why do you get to carry the gun? You’ve already got a bat. Are you trying to take all of the weapons?”
The rest of the group looked over at Harmon. Balddee spoke next, “Maybe it would be best if nobody had the gun.”
“But we need the gun.” Harmon said. “We could use this to stop them.”
“We don’t even know if there are anymore of them. I know it is best to assume that there will be but,” Mule paused and looked over at the slumped body of Bad Mother Coitus’ attorney at law, Marlon Maxey. “But I think for now it would be best if you… you know.”
“This is a mistake.” Spoke Harmon, then looked closer at the gun. “It’s empty anyway.”
A rustling sound came from somewhere out by Remo’s office and the group raced back to their barricade.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
The Ike Reilly Assissnation, The White Stripes, The New Pornographers
The Ike Reilly Assassination – We Belong to the Staggering Evening
(reviewed)
White Stripes – Icky Thump
(reviewed)
New Pornographers – Challengers
(reviewed)
Our 300th post and also our third year of existence, it’s been a long hard battle full of… well full of almost nothing whatsoever. Many failed ideas, many failed spin-offs, many weeks and months with no posts whatsoever but, well, we’re still sorta here I guess.
Jr. had a lady over on Saturday thus Burton and I stabbed out into the ether to cause the mayhem that two bulls with no social agenda could cause. The natural cause and effect of this lead us first to Best Buy then to Sears to buy a replacement belt for his vacuum.
We tried t
o recall what it was that we did in the old days, which naturally lead us to the bar. Majors on a Saturday is not the sort of place that would immediately lead one to think of the Ike Reilly Assassination, but Burt and I did our best to reincarnate it.
We had no intention of going for the drinking cycle (having at least one drink with whiskey, scotch, rum, vodka and gin) but some paths are best stumbled upon. For our part we did our best: rum and Coke into Grey Goose martini’s, Burt flirted with the waitress enough to stuff our olives with blue cheese, (her idea, Burton is allergic to blue cheese and broke into hives- the waitress just thought he was drunk) then off canon for a brandy Manhattan. The night was a wash so we finished it off with rum and Cokes before coming home to wine, scotch and a shitty movie.
It was a similar to the new Ike album. Ike has been one of my favorite artists for the past ten years, reminding me of the second coming of the Clash at points. We Belong to the Staggering Evening does not disappoint but it doesn’t do enough to move him along as an artist; he created Salesmen and Racists and then has let the rest of the albums piggyback off it. This is a good album to have on a random mix but not one to immediately grab for.
It’s be
en a week where I’ve felt like a social vampire feeding off whatever emotions are the most immediate. Always needing that thing that just isn’t quite there; that social interaction that fills my hunger for somewhere that stories come from. Through all of this the work of Graham Greene’s The End of the Affair has helped but left me starving.
The ‘Stripes album resonates off these feelings. The Bob Dylan-esque titled track 300 M.P.H Torrential Outpour Blues and Rag & Bone bring the album to life while Conquest seems to bury it. They will never be a band to sit down with and listen to their entire catalog in one sitting, but it is good music. I'm all but certain I will like this album more as it gets more spins.
To batt
le the week back I went to Barnes and Nobles to return a book, work on a screenplay and the next serial story that you will have to sit through in the next couple of months. Neither of them are coming easy, the screenplay because it’s just starting and is about a demon, an angel and a depressed man and the new serial story cos it requires me to work eyeball to eyeball with my computer. But it was liberating to work surrounded by people with my headphones on and to finally figure out where all the high school girls hang out at.
That said, there are few finer ways to break out of a funk then The New Pornographers Challengers. Typically New Porno albums hide poppy beats to betray depth in lyrics, a spirit that they don’t completely abandon with song like Myriad Harbour. However with this album they bring in some of the pathos from their solo careers with songs such as Failsafe and Adventures in Solitude. This is their best album since Mass Romantic.
Long effing article…
Finish it off with one of my favorite songs of all time: Broken Social Scene’s Anthems for a Seventeen-Year Old Girl.
(reviewed)
White Stripes – Icky Thump
(reviewed)
New Pornographers – Challengers
(reviewed)
Our 300th post and also our third year of existence, it’s been a long hard battle full of… well full of almost nothing whatsoever. Many failed ideas, many failed spin-offs, many weeks and months with no posts whatsoever but, well, we’re still sorta here I guess.
Jr. had a lady over on Saturday thus Burton and I stabbed out into the ether to cause the mayhem that two bulls with no social agenda could cause. The natural cause and effect of this lead us first to Best Buy then to Sears to buy a replacement belt for his vacuum.
We tried t
o recall what it was that we did in the old days, which naturally lead us to the bar. Majors on a Saturday is not the sort of place that would immediately lead one to think of the Ike Reilly Assassination, but Burt and I did our best to reincarnate it.We had no intention of going for the drinking cycle (having at least one drink with whiskey, scotch, rum, vodka and gin) but some paths are best stumbled upon. For our part we did our best: rum and Coke into Grey Goose martini’s, Burt flirted with the waitress enough to stuff our olives with blue cheese, (her idea, Burton is allergic to blue cheese and broke into hives- the waitress just thought he was drunk) then off canon for a brandy Manhattan. The night was a wash so we finished it off with rum and Cokes before coming home to wine, scotch and a shitty movie.
It was a similar to the new Ike album. Ike has been one of my favorite artists for the past ten years, reminding me of the second coming of the Clash at points. We Belong to the Staggering Evening does not disappoint but it doesn’t do enough to move him along as an artist; he created Salesmen and Racists and then has let the rest of the albums piggyback off it. This is a good album to have on a random mix but not one to immediately grab for.
It’s be
en a week where I’ve felt like a social vampire feeding off whatever emotions are the most immediate. Always needing that thing that just isn’t quite there; that social interaction that fills my hunger for somewhere that stories come from. Through all of this the work of Graham Greene’s The End of the Affair has helped but left me starving.The ‘Stripes album resonates off these feelings. The Bob Dylan-esque titled track 300 M.P.H Torrential Outpour Blues and Rag & Bone bring the album to life while Conquest seems to bury it. They will never be a band to sit down with and listen to their entire catalog in one sitting, but it is good music. I'm all but certain I will like this album more as it gets more spins.
To batt
le the week back I went to Barnes and Nobles to return a book, work on a screenplay and the next serial story that you will have to sit through in the next couple of months. Neither of them are coming easy, the screenplay because it’s just starting and is about a demon, an angel and a depressed man and the new serial story cos it requires me to work eyeball to eyeball with my computer. But it was liberating to work surrounded by people with my headphones on and to finally figure out where all the high school girls hang out at.That said, there are few finer ways to break out of a funk then The New Pornographers Challengers. Typically New Porno albums hide poppy beats to betray depth in lyrics, a spirit that they don’t completely abandon with song like Myriad Harbour. However with this album they bring in some of the pathos from their solo careers with songs such as Failsafe and Adventures in Solitude. This is their best album since Mass Romantic.
Long effing article…
Finish it off with one of my favorite songs of all time: Broken Social Scene’s Anthems for a Seventeen-Year Old Girl.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
chapter nine
Ellen woke to the familiar feeling of having all of her appendages wrapped in tight leather straps and immobile. There was an unfamiliar throbbing in her groin area, but it was quickly dismissed by her shock to see the entire office darkened with only dim red lights running around the ceiling.
“How long did I black out for?” She asked herself, at once scared and thrilled that she had knocked herself out long enough that the rest of the office had left for the evening.
Outside her office muffled voices congratulated themselves on a well built barricade. It must still be Barricade Monday, she thought before filling her lungs and yelling, “Would someone kindly come and get me out of this. I know I put myself in this but apparently I need help getting out.”
The voices ceased to speak and there was shuffling from the hall then her door creaked open. Satchel or Bel looked into her office and ducked back out, re-closing the door.
This time the voices consulted each other in whispers which she couldn’t make out but could still hear. Ellen felt the need to justify herself, “Look it’s no big deal. It’s just a little bondage. It’s better than yoga. In the future this is what everybody is going to be doing. But, I can’t seem to cut myself free would somebody help me?”
The door to her office opened again. Balddee, Mule and Harmon walked through while the interested eyes of Pedro the Cat, Dirty Orpheus, Satchel and Bel looked on.
“Ellen?” Mule asked, eyeing her with a more intense interest than he had given her in the past.
Ellen rolled her eyes, “I know, I’m naked. They haven’t made clothing flexible enough for me to wear in this contraption yet. When they do, believe you me I will wear clothes when doing this.” Nobody moved to help her so she continued, “There isn’t a computer in this office which has not been tainted by something far worse than this. Now if somebody would cut me down I would actually like to do some work.”
Balddee never took his eyes off of Ellen but Mule and Harmon exchanged a glance. “Do you think it's her? I don’t think the real Ellen would want to do work”
“There really is no way we could know?” Harmon answered back, turning his eyes to look at Ellen again.
“What do you think that we should do with her? We don’t know if she’s turned.”
Ellen bit her lip to stop herself from yelling then said in a crisp voice, “Look, all of you. I have told you I don’t give it up to people at work. It is something that must be earned.”
A noise recoiled from across the office and all the heads turned in response. Those that had been standing in the hallway scrambled into the office, then shoved their way against the wall opposite the apparatus that Ellen had put herself in. “What the shit was that?” Ellen asked.
“Gunshot.” Balddee said, “Better go check it out. She’ll have to wait.”
“How long did I black out for?” She asked herself, at once scared and thrilled that she had knocked herself out long enough that the rest of the office had left for the evening.
Outside her office muffled voices congratulated themselves on a well built barricade. It must still be Barricade Monday, she thought before filling her lungs and yelling, “Would someone kindly come and get me out of this. I know I put myself in this but apparently I need help getting out.”
The voices ceased to speak and there was shuffling from the hall then her door creaked open. Satchel or Bel looked into her office and ducked back out, re-closing the door.
This time the voices consulted each other in whispers which she couldn’t make out but could still hear. Ellen felt the need to justify herself, “Look it’s no big deal. It’s just a little bondage. It’s better than yoga. In the future this is what everybody is going to be doing. But, I can’t seem to cut myself free would somebody help me?”
The door to her office opened again. Balddee, Mule and Harmon walked through while the interested eyes of Pedro the Cat, Dirty Orpheus, Satchel and Bel looked on.
“Ellen?” Mule asked, eyeing her with a more intense interest than he had given her in the past.
Ellen rolled her eyes, “I know, I’m naked. They haven’t made clothing flexible enough for me to wear in this contraption yet. When they do, believe you me I will wear clothes when doing this.” Nobody moved to help her so she continued, “There isn’t a computer in this office which has not been tainted by something far worse than this. Now if somebody would cut me down I would actually like to do some work.”
Balddee never took his eyes off of Ellen but Mule and Harmon exchanged a glance. “Do you think it's her? I don’t think the real Ellen would want to do work”
“There really is no way we could know?” Harmon answered back, turning his eyes to look at Ellen again.
“What do you think that we should do with her? We don’t know if she’s turned.”
Ellen bit her lip to stop herself from yelling then said in a crisp voice, “Look, all of you. I have told you I don’t give it up to people at work. It is something that must be earned.”
A noise recoiled from across the office and all the heads turned in response. Those that had been standing in the hallway scrambled into the office, then shoved their way against the wall opposite the apparatus that Ellen had put herself in. “What the shit was that?” Ellen asked.
“Gunshot.” Balddee said, “Better go check it out. She’ll have to wait.”
chapter eight
Dr. Gonzo had never killed anybody before, at least not in a physical sense. Her hands shook as she tried to light the propane gas to bring the hotplate to life.
“Tea” She breathed, cursing Mule, again, and his stupid method of squirreling away liquor in places that nobody, including himself, would ever be able to find it.
She sang “la, la, las” to herself in lieu of having somebody else to talk to. “Alone”, she sighed at the end, to no one.
She bent over the hot plate to light the cigarette Balddee had given her. She thought about the sick sound of the blade slicing into the body of Dead Simon #2. She reminded herself how much rage she had swung the blade down with, the ease with which it had rendered the skull.
She tilted her head back gazing at the red emergency light, blowing smoke towards it. The thickness of the cloud ballooned then disappeared into the environment. She caught the faintest whisp of a delicious memory sharding its’ way across the dreamscape of her mind, but calmed herself as the tea kettle began to wheeze.
She lifted the heavy pot off the hotplate pouring warm water over the tea bag. She had always considered this to be bruising the tea but, at that moment, she was too tired not to multi-task.
Visceral feelings returned to her senses from far away, welcome memories. She was at the Innjoy surrounded by her closest friends. In her mind it is summer in the city with a pink sun setting behind Café Gelato across the street; a warm breeze slipped through the door of the bar leading out to Division Street.
Everybody was around her and listening to her stories. An incredible person stood next to her feeding her one liners, cigarettes and tequila. Music played in the background and she felt as though she was going to go dance.
The cup, filled with her still steeping, bruised tea fell from her hands and crashed onto the floor. She glanced down at it, surprised by the tinkling, inappropriate noise before letting the memory warm over her body again.
There was a coolness on her clavicle and, with almost a gentle nature, her face was pushed down onto the hotplate. The smell of burning skin and hair filled the room followed by a snapping as her neck broke and her body dripped to the floor.
Her lips curled into one final, beautiful, living smile as her clothes absorbed the spilled tea.
“Tea” She breathed, cursing Mule, again, and his stupid method of squirreling away liquor in places that nobody, including himself, would ever be able to find it.
She sang “la, la, las” to herself in lieu of having somebody else to talk to. “Alone”, she sighed at the end, to no one.
She bent over the hot plate to light the cigarette Balddee had given her. She thought about the sick sound of the blade slicing into the body of Dead Simon #2. She reminded herself how much rage she had swung the blade down with, the ease with which it had rendered the skull.
She tilted her head back gazing at the red emergency light, blowing smoke towards it. The thickness of the cloud ballooned then disappeared into the environment. She caught the faintest whisp of a delicious memory sharding its’ way across the dreamscape of her mind, but calmed herself as the tea kettle began to wheeze.
She lifted the heavy pot off the hotplate pouring warm water over the tea bag. She had always considered this to be bruising the tea but, at that moment, she was too tired not to multi-task.
Visceral feelings returned to her senses from far away, welcome memories. She was at the Innjoy surrounded by her closest friends. In her mind it is summer in the city with a pink sun setting behind Café Gelato across the street; a warm breeze slipped through the door of the bar leading out to Division Street.
Everybody was around her and listening to her stories. An incredible person stood next to her feeding her one liners, cigarettes and tequila. Music played in the background and she felt as though she was going to go dance.
The cup, filled with her still steeping, bruised tea fell from her hands and crashed onto the floor. She glanced down at it, surprised by the tinkling, inappropriate noise before letting the memory warm over her body again.
There was a coolness on her clavicle and, with almost a gentle nature, her face was pushed down onto the hotplate. The smell of burning skin and hair filled the room followed by a snapping as her neck broke and her body dripped to the floor.
Her lips curled into one final, beautiful, living smile as her clothes absorbed the spilled tea.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Stars, The Orange Peels, Radiohead
Albums Purchased
Stars – In Our Bedroom After the War
The Orange Peels – Square
Emily Haines and the Soft Skeleton
– Knives Don’t Have Your Back
(purchased for my sister)
Radiohead - In Rainbows
(reviewed)
A big week of Evites, DJ’ing for a party of one and hospitals. Friday was a good chance to visit with old friends that I have not seen or, in truth, talked with in quite some time. They are, for the most part, well and in fine health and spirits. I attempted to do some class of dance, dance revolution-esque thingy on the Wii which lead to large gesticulations, low scores and further disgraces to my family.
Saturd
ay night was my sister’s birthday, something she's been celebrating for the past several years. The party was highlighted for me on two points: The first was me rolling my ankle on seasonal décor (a pumpkin) but still playing through the pain to compete in an admirable fashion in the high skill game of bean bags and the second was my Thoreau like determination to turn myself into a recluse.
To the latter point I excused myself from the bonfire in the backyard and, despite my sister’s previous warning against the action, removed the spaghetti of cords from the back of her stereo to play my music. The Stars, In Our Bedroom After the War, provided an excellent drunken party for one. Top to bottom it is nowhere near as satisfying as the bands main group Broken Social Scene, but tracks like The Night Starts Here and Bitches In Tokyo keep the album going and a night of sipping keg beer on a broken wheel moving ever forward.
I justifi
ed picking up the Orange Peels album Squares by putting myself in the mind of a teenage boy. Boys will buy the odd newsworthy magazine along with, in accordance with their hormonic make-up, magazines of more inferior repute. For instance they might buy something like Barely Legal and Super Suckers of the 70s and supplement the purchase with a magazine the likes of Time or Guns and Ammo. Such was my purchase of the Orange Peels; the music snob in me was embarrassed in myself for having the last several new albums I've picked up being Canadian in origin.
At their best, the Orange Peels have an almost My Morning Jacket feel: clean sounding, plucked electric guitars in major keys overlay bland, early sixty lyrics. At their worst… it’s a tough album.
I did go to the hospital, something I do not enjoy or do often, where a barrage of x-rays informed me my foot was not broken. I celebrated by sitting on the back porch with the lights off, an accoutrement and the knowledge that there are few finer conversations to be had then with the album In Rainbows. This is an album too personal to play in front of others; it is an intimacy that only translates to your self.
Radiohead’
s In Rainbows is a difficult album to just jump to a track on. It has standout tracks that I find myself looking forward to but not skipping through the aesthetic to reach. There is not a real “radio” single off this album and my hope is that with their shunning of a record company they’ll extend that to radio stations as well.
The only reason this album was not worth the wait is that I wish I would’ve had it in my life earlier. For some reason it has felt like a bad luck week where nothing has went right. But this album has been a shiny spot and, after all, isn’t that what music is here for?
Two tracks off of the album...
Jigsaw Falling Into Place
Videotape
this is one for the good days…
…no matter what happens now
I won’t be afraid
Because today has been
The most perfect day I’ve ever seen
Stars – In Our Bedroom After the War
The Orange Peels – Square
Emily Haines and the Soft Skeleton
– Knives Don’t Have Your Back
(purchased for my sister)
Radiohead - In Rainbows
(reviewed)
A big week of Evites, DJ’ing for a party of one and hospitals. Friday was a good chance to visit with old friends that I have not seen or, in truth, talked with in quite some time. They are, for the most part, well and in fine health and spirits. I attempted to do some class of dance, dance revolution-esque thingy on the Wii which lead to large gesticulations, low scores and further disgraces to my family.
Saturd
ay night was my sister’s birthday, something she's been celebrating for the past several years. The party was highlighted for me on two points: The first was me rolling my ankle on seasonal décor (a pumpkin) but still playing through the pain to compete in an admirable fashion in the high skill game of bean bags and the second was my Thoreau like determination to turn myself into a recluse.To the latter point I excused myself from the bonfire in the backyard and, despite my sister’s previous warning against the action, removed the spaghetti of cords from the back of her stereo to play my music. The Stars, In Our Bedroom After the War, provided an excellent drunken party for one. Top to bottom it is nowhere near as satisfying as the bands main group Broken Social Scene, but tracks like The Night Starts Here and Bitches In Tokyo keep the album going and a night of sipping keg beer on a broken wheel moving ever forward.
I justifi
ed picking up the Orange Peels album Squares by putting myself in the mind of a teenage boy. Boys will buy the odd newsworthy magazine along with, in accordance with their hormonic make-up, magazines of more inferior repute. For instance they might buy something like Barely Legal and Super Suckers of the 70s and supplement the purchase with a magazine the likes of Time or Guns and Ammo. Such was my purchase of the Orange Peels; the music snob in me was embarrassed in myself for having the last several new albums I've picked up being Canadian in origin.At their best, the Orange Peels have an almost My Morning Jacket feel: clean sounding, plucked electric guitars in major keys overlay bland, early sixty lyrics. At their worst… it’s a tough album.
I did go to the hospital, something I do not enjoy or do often, where a barrage of x-rays informed me my foot was not broken. I celebrated by sitting on the back porch with the lights off, an accoutrement and the knowledge that there are few finer conversations to be had then with the album In Rainbows. This is an album too personal to play in front of others; it is an intimacy that only translates to your self.
Radiohead’
s In Rainbows is a difficult album to just jump to a track on. It has standout tracks that I find myself looking forward to but not skipping through the aesthetic to reach. There is not a real “radio” single off this album and my hope is that with their shunning of a record company they’ll extend that to radio stations as well.The only reason this album was not worth the wait is that I wish I would’ve had it in my life earlier. For some reason it has felt like a bad luck week where nothing has went right. But this album has been a shiny spot and, after all, isn’t that what music is here for?
Two tracks off of the album...
Jigsaw Falling Into Place
Videotape
this is one for the good days…
…no matter what happens now
I won’t be afraid
Because today has been
The most perfect day I’ve ever seen
chapter seven
Marjorie looked over at Dr. Gonzo with a new found respect; the blade from the paper cutter still quivered from the deathblow Dr. Gonzo had driven through Dead Simon #2.
“We need to get them all into Remo’s office.” Mule said, looking down at all the dead bodies and carnage that littered the main hallway in the office. “If they came back to life Todd and Remo could too.”
“I need to get something from my desk.” Marjorie said, her stare having moved away from Dr. Gonzo towards the mess of blood that now Rorschached the floor.
“Everybody leaves in pairs now, but we should only leave if we have to.” Commanded Harmon, “We know where everybody is now and we don’t need anybody turning into one of these.” He paused and gripping the Kent Hrbek special tighter poking the body of the corpse next to him. “We don’t need anybody turning into one of these things.”
Dr. Gonzo, coming to grips with everything said, “I’ll go with you. I need something, anything. I can’t be here anymore. I don’t want to stare at these bodies.”
“I’m going to go to my office.” Marlon Maxey said. “I think that the previous owner of the building left information in the transfer of sale on a second emergency exit. I’ll just be across the hall, you’ll hear me if something comes after me.”
The majority of the group fretted in front of Remo’s office deciding how to erect a barricade; the entire group figuring that Remo would’ve had the best idea. Dr. Gonzo and Marjorie walked down the hall until they hit the intersection one path leading into the break room, the other towards Marjorie’s desk.
“Go grab whatever it is that you need from your desk.” Dr. Gonzo told Marjorie, “We’ll be able to see each other if something happens and besides, this way we’ll be able to get back to everybody faster.”
Marjorie nodded her consent and found her way in the emergency lighting to her desk. She removed a sheet of paper from the top right drawer, a seven inch blade from a file cabinet and a magnum from the planter in the corner. In the dull light she wrote:
She folded the note and left it underneath the phone on her desk; a sound, like a dish breaking came from the break room. She gathered herself up and let out the briefest of sighs then walked down the back hallway, tracking her first kill.
“We need to get them all into Remo’s office.” Mule said, looking down at all the dead bodies and carnage that littered the main hallway in the office. “If they came back to life Todd and Remo could too.”
“I need to get something from my desk.” Marjorie said, her stare having moved away from Dr. Gonzo towards the mess of blood that now Rorschached the floor.
“Everybody leaves in pairs now, but we should only leave if we have to.” Commanded Harmon, “We know where everybody is now and we don’t need anybody turning into one of these.” He paused and gripping the Kent Hrbek special tighter poking the body of the corpse next to him. “We don’t need anybody turning into one of these things.”
Dr. Gonzo, coming to grips with everything said, “I’ll go with you. I need something, anything. I can’t be here anymore. I don’t want to stare at these bodies.”
“I’m going to go to my office.” Marlon Maxey said. “I think that the previous owner of the building left information in the transfer of sale on a second emergency exit. I’ll just be across the hall, you’ll hear me if something comes after me.”
The majority of the group fretted in front of Remo’s office deciding how to erect a barricade; the entire group figuring that Remo would’ve had the best idea. Dr. Gonzo and Marjorie walked down the hall until they hit the intersection one path leading into the break room, the other towards Marjorie’s desk.
“Go grab whatever it is that you need from your desk.” Dr. Gonzo told Marjorie, “We’ll be able to see each other if something happens and besides, this way we’ll be able to get back to everybody faster.”
Marjorie nodded her consent and found her way in the emergency lighting to her desk. She removed a sheet of paper from the top right drawer, a seven inch blade from a file cabinet and a magnum from the planter in the corner. In the dull light she wrote:
Stacy.
Things have turned bad here fast and I don’t know if I’m going to make it out. I don’t know who is behind all of this but I don’t plan on finding out. There must be somebody here doing this and… if this is the only way that I’ll ever be able to see you again then I’ll have to do this. There has been so much blood already. I don’t want to be the next one.
If I don’t make it out of here… Well, you know I love you. I really was looking forward to our date tonight. It would be easy for me to give up now… I love you, and either here or somewhere down the road I’ll be waiting for you.
Love,
M.
She folded the note and left it underneath the phone on her desk; a sound, like a dish breaking came from the break room. She gathered herself up and let out the briefest of sighs then walked down the back hallway, tracking her first kill.
Monday, October 29, 2007
chapter six
“They’re alive!?!” Satchel or Bel shrieked as the living corpses of Dead Simon #1 and Dead Simon #2 advanced on the group.
Harmon tried to quell the situation, “Simon? Hey what’s up? You okay? We thought you were dead.”
Dead Simon #1 grabbed Chuck Funk and sank its’ teeth into Chuck’s shoulder, ripping out a chunk of flesh. Blood sprayed onto Marjorie forcing her backwards as Chuck howled in pain.
Balddee shoved the advancing Simon #2 away from Harmon. There was a banshee's scream as Dead Simon #2 was impaled on a phallic symbol that Ellen had left on a cub reporter’s desk.
Satchel and Bel wailed as Johnny Bookreport leapt into the fray, trying to separate Chuck from Dead Simon #1. Harmon grabbed the autographed Kent Hrbek baseball bat that hung above the revolving door to the office hitting any piece of Dead Simon #1 that was available. Mule took up the hat rack, forcing it between Chuck and the living corpse and tried to pries them apart.
Dead Simon #1 relinquished its’ grip as Harmon made contact; its’ face smashing and splattering onto the floor. Chuck rolled over, sat up, spit up blood then collapsed to the ground. Harmon’s Hrbek special landed a rib crushing blow to the chest of Dead Simon #1.
And then all was quiet.
“What the shit just happened?” Satchel or Bel freaked out.
“I don’t know.” Johnny Bookreport said, blood covering his face from where he had run his hand. “Is Chuck dead?”
Balddee looked down at him. “He ain’t alive.”
“I can’t fucking take this anymore.” Marjorie freaked out wringing the blood from her hair. “I didn’t even want this job. I should be working at Wal-Mart. No matter how retarded their benefits are at least this sort of shit never happens there.”
Mule threw up and Marlon Maxey offered him a tissue to wipe his mouth.
Balddee lit another cigarette, “What do we do now?”
There was a sickening thud as a fist came through the face of Johnny Bookreport. Dead Simon #2 tried to extract its' hand out of the back of Johnny’s skull as his body slumped forward in dead weight.
Then a new sound was heard as the paper cutter's blade sliced through the skull of Dead Simon #2. The man that had been Simon #2 stood, then fell forward, leaving a shaking Dr. Gonzo standing behind it.
Harmon tried to quell the situation, “Simon? Hey what’s up? You okay? We thought you were dead.”
Dead Simon #1 grabbed Chuck Funk and sank its’ teeth into Chuck’s shoulder, ripping out a chunk of flesh. Blood sprayed onto Marjorie forcing her backwards as Chuck howled in pain.
Balddee shoved the advancing Simon #2 away from Harmon. There was a banshee's scream as Dead Simon #2 was impaled on a phallic symbol that Ellen had left on a cub reporter’s desk.
Satchel and Bel wailed as Johnny Bookreport leapt into the fray, trying to separate Chuck from Dead Simon #1. Harmon grabbed the autographed Kent Hrbek baseball bat that hung above the revolving door to the office hitting any piece of Dead Simon #1 that was available. Mule took up the hat rack, forcing it between Chuck and the living corpse and tried to pries them apart.
Dead Simon #1 relinquished its’ grip as Harmon made contact; its’ face smashing and splattering onto the floor. Chuck rolled over, sat up, spit up blood then collapsed to the ground. Harmon’s Hrbek special landed a rib crushing blow to the chest of Dead Simon #1.
And then all was quiet.
“What the shit just happened?” Satchel or Bel freaked out.
“I don’t know.” Johnny Bookreport said, blood covering his face from where he had run his hand. “Is Chuck dead?”
Balddee looked down at him. “He ain’t alive.”
“I can’t fucking take this anymore.” Marjorie freaked out wringing the blood from her hair. “I didn’t even want this job. I should be working at Wal-Mart. No matter how retarded their benefits are at least this sort of shit never happens there.”
Mule threw up and Marlon Maxey offered him a tissue to wipe his mouth.
Balddee lit another cigarette, “What do we do now?”
There was a sickening thud as a fist came through the face of Johnny Bookreport. Dead Simon #2 tried to extract its' hand out of the back of Johnny’s skull as his body slumped forward in dead weight.
Then a new sound was heard as the paper cutter's blade sliced through the skull of Dead Simon #2. The man that had been Simon #2 stood, then fell forward, leaving a shaking Dr. Gonzo standing behind it.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
The Rentals, Califone and the Hold Steady
Albums Purchased
The Rentals – Return of the Rentals
Califone – Quicksand/Cradlesnakes
The Hold Steady – The Hold Steady Live at Fingerprints
To the casual observer this will looks like a direct rip off of Nick Hornby's lovely rendition that he runs on books for the Believer. And, in many ways, casual observer, you are spot on. However, as far as exorcizing and exercising demons goes there is a little if no finer means of conveying a point. Or, from a simpler perspective, it is a means of me justifying my Saturday ritual of a cup of coffee and going to the record store to listen to albums.
Saturd
ay was a productive day in which the ageless battle of Self v. the Kipple in My Bedroom continued. The good news is that hats from all thirty teams in baseball (even the Bitch Sux) hang in my room, co-habitating the walls with the excellent worded phrase my sister had framed for me “Fuck off you Fucking Fucker”.
Matt Sharp’s classic The Return of the Rentals was of no little help during this process. This album was picked up as Friends of P. has been dinging around in my noggin the past several weeks and needed to be taken out for a walk. A good album that seems dated now but in that enjoyable sense of dating where it feels like the album is easy. The nostalgia helped even when I pounded my thumb in lieu of hitting the head of the nail.
I found
Califone’s Quicksand/Cradlesnakes in Cheapo’s gently used section and feeling the impulse so I scooped it up. Experimental music has never been a genre that I have glommed onto however the folksy guitar that lead singer Tim Rutili brings with him from Red Red Meat and Ugly Casanova proves a worthy addition to my Sunday morning, impromptu leaf raking session. As art so often mimics life: when I was done raking, more leaves had fallen and I found a lot of work had presented itself and that the album would take a few more spins before I loved it.
At times I feel vindicated in my purchase when Rutili mimics Ryan Adams, like with Vampiring Again. Then, just as quick, I feel like a rube that bought the album for a quick music fix with Cat Eats Coyote.
Curling also ki
cked off this weekend. These events always lead to great fear and loathing as inevitable failure is recognized from the get go. Keeping with my strict regimen of maintaining peak physical condition and athletic grace, I consumed a good amount of aiming fluid prior to hitting the ice and a doctor recommended allotment of The Hold Steady Live at Fingerprints.
There are few finer things in the world than walking down Selby with your ears on; when you feel that sort of homecoming in beauty and melodies and absolute perfection. You may never be able to go home again but you will never rub the scar off. Listen to Craig Finn play storyteller as he spins songs out of headphones. You walk past old haunts like Costello’s, the Blair Arcade and the Hanging Gnome and feel like your with an old friend.
Last, here are the two songs that twisted my week.
Our Hell, by Emily Haines and the Soft Skeleton, is a beautiful song to begin with but also a slick video. Stripped bare from most of her band Metric, Haines uses her stream of conscious lyrics in a stark, laconic melody. This is not to be confused with her fellow Canadian Feist but more with the adventurousness of a Jenny Lewis without the pop sensibilities of Rilo Kiley.
Staying in Ontario but moving North and East are the Junior Boys. 80’s synthesizers should be avoided, however the Junior Boys make it work. This is helped by the video, of Under the Sun, making me wax nostalgic for those perfect Chicago afternoons but also by the absolute chill of it. Simplistic and, yes, remeniscint of when Zuul succeeded and Gozer showed up but… shit, now I’m telling you about the twinkie.
The Rentals – Return of the Rentals
Califone – Quicksand/Cradlesnakes
The Hold Steady – The Hold Steady Live at Fingerprints
To the casual observer this will looks like a direct rip off of Nick Hornby's lovely rendition that he runs on books for the Believer. And, in many ways, casual observer, you are spot on. However, as far as exorcizing and exercising demons goes there is a little if no finer means of conveying a point. Or, from a simpler perspective, it is a means of me justifying my Saturday ritual of a cup of coffee and going to the record store to listen to albums.
Saturd
ay was a productive day in which the ageless battle of Self v. the Kipple in My Bedroom continued. The good news is that hats from all thirty teams in baseball (even the Bitch Sux) hang in my room, co-habitating the walls with the excellent worded phrase my sister had framed for me “Fuck off you Fucking Fucker”.Matt Sharp’s classic The Return of the Rentals was of no little help during this process. This album was picked up as Friends of P. has been dinging around in my noggin the past several weeks and needed to be taken out for a walk. A good album that seems dated now but in that enjoyable sense of dating where it feels like the album is easy. The nostalgia helped even when I pounded my thumb in lieu of hitting the head of the nail.
I found
Califone’s Quicksand/Cradlesnakes in Cheapo’s gently used section and feeling the impulse so I scooped it up. Experimental music has never been a genre that I have glommed onto however the folksy guitar that lead singer Tim Rutili brings with him from Red Red Meat and Ugly Casanova proves a worthy addition to my Sunday morning, impromptu leaf raking session. As art so often mimics life: when I was done raking, more leaves had fallen and I found a lot of work had presented itself and that the album would take a few more spins before I loved it.At times I feel vindicated in my purchase when Rutili mimics Ryan Adams, like with Vampiring Again. Then, just as quick, I feel like a rube that bought the album for a quick music fix with Cat Eats Coyote.
Curling also ki
cked off this weekend. These events always lead to great fear and loathing as inevitable failure is recognized from the get go. Keeping with my strict regimen of maintaining peak physical condition and athletic grace, I consumed a good amount of aiming fluid prior to hitting the ice and a doctor recommended allotment of The Hold Steady Live at Fingerprints.There are few finer things in the world than walking down Selby with your ears on; when you feel that sort of homecoming in beauty and melodies and absolute perfection. You may never be able to go home again but you will never rub the scar off. Listen to Craig Finn play storyteller as he spins songs out of headphones. You walk past old haunts like Costello’s, the Blair Arcade and the Hanging Gnome and feel like your with an old friend.
Last, here are the two songs that twisted my week.
Our Hell, by Emily Haines and the Soft Skeleton, is a beautiful song to begin with but also a slick video. Stripped bare from most of her band Metric, Haines uses her stream of conscious lyrics in a stark, laconic melody. This is not to be confused with her fellow Canadian Feist but more with the adventurousness of a Jenny Lewis without the pop sensibilities of Rilo Kiley.
Staying in Ontario but moving North and East are the Junior Boys. 80’s synthesizers should be avoided, however the Junior Boys make it work. This is helped by the video, of Under the Sun, making me wax nostalgic for those perfect Chicago afternoons but also by the absolute chill of it. Simplistic and, yes, remeniscint of when Zuul succeeded and Gozer showed up but… shit, now I’m telling you about the twinkie.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
chapter five
“There isn’t much to say I guess. We’re locked in here. Our friends and co-workers are dead and we can’t get a hold of the police.” Harmon folded his arms and turned his back on Remo’s office where they had placed Remo and Todd’s dead bodies. “The only thing we can do now is say a few good words about those that have left us.”
The group stood in tight quarters, muddled together with a feeling of safety in numbers. Dr. Gonzo went first, “My favorite story of Remo was a night we all came back here after Costello’s. Everybody had been drinking and he had gone into the girl’s bathroom by accident. I don’t know what he was doing in there but he locked himself in. I was banging on the door yelling at him: let me in, let me in, and he was shouting at me I: can’t, I can’t. So I threw up and all the vomit went underneath the door in this thin, digested beer river. That, of course, made him throw up too. He was a real sweetheart when it came to both of us cleaning it up though.”
Mule spoke next, “I remember when Harmon and I convinced him that there was a six foot seven transvestite trying to get a hold of him. We kept pretending to be her, calling his phone all day and telling him we were waiting outside the building. What was the name of the tranny again?”
“Claudette, I think.” A smile wrinkling up the corners of Harmon’s mouth as he continued to stare down at his feet.
“Yeah, Claudette or something like that. We even had a friend of ours at Sex World fax him over pictures of dildos that Claudette was going to use on him that night. The poor bastard didn’t want to leave the office.” Mule paused from looked up, “Funny, I don’t think we ever told him we made that up.”
The group shuffled their feet nobody knowing who should speak next. Johnny Bookreport spoke up, “Shouldn’t somebody say something about Todd?”
Another moment of silence fell on the group. Chuck Funk, who stood closest to Harmon elbowed Harmon in the ribs. “Todd was,” Harmon started then cleared his throat. “Todd was always here. Even though we usually did not want him to be here. Todd was always here.”
Balddee shut the door to Remo’s office. The group looked around the office trying not to establish eye contact.
“What do we do now?” Dirty Orpheus asked.
Mule looked up from the floor. “The only thing we can: we wait.”
Satchel or Bel shrieked and everybody turned around to see the corpses of Dead Simon #1 and Dead Simon #2 moving down the hallway, their bloody jaws open, dripping saliva; unblinking, dead eyes staring, their hands extended to grab the nearest living person.
The group stood in tight quarters, muddled together with a feeling of safety in numbers. Dr. Gonzo went first, “My favorite story of Remo was a night we all came back here after Costello’s. Everybody had been drinking and he had gone into the girl’s bathroom by accident. I don’t know what he was doing in there but he locked himself in. I was banging on the door yelling at him: let me in, let me in, and he was shouting at me I: can’t, I can’t. So I threw up and all the vomit went underneath the door in this thin, digested beer river. That, of course, made him throw up too. He was a real sweetheart when it came to both of us cleaning it up though.”
Mule spoke next, “I remember when Harmon and I convinced him that there was a six foot seven transvestite trying to get a hold of him. We kept pretending to be her, calling his phone all day and telling him we were waiting outside the building. What was the name of the tranny again?”
“Claudette, I think.” A smile wrinkling up the corners of Harmon’s mouth as he continued to stare down at his feet.
“Yeah, Claudette or something like that. We even had a friend of ours at Sex World fax him over pictures of dildos that Claudette was going to use on him that night. The poor bastard didn’t want to leave the office.” Mule paused from looked up, “Funny, I don’t think we ever told him we made that up.”
The group shuffled their feet nobody knowing who should speak next. Johnny Bookreport spoke up, “Shouldn’t somebody say something about Todd?”
Another moment of silence fell on the group. Chuck Funk, who stood closest to Harmon elbowed Harmon in the ribs. “Todd was,” Harmon started then cleared his throat. “Todd was always here. Even though we usually did not want him to be here. Todd was always here.”
Balddee shut the door to Remo’s office. The group looked around the office trying not to establish eye contact.
“What do we do now?” Dirty Orpheus asked.
Mule looked up from the floor. “The only thing we can: we wait.”
Satchel or Bel shrieked and everybody turned around to see the corpses of Dead Simon #1 and Dead Simon #2 moving down the hallway, their bloody jaws open, dripping saliva; unblinking, dead eyes staring, their hands extended to grab the nearest living person.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
chapter four
“Someone screamed.”, remarked Balddee while lighting a cigarette.
“Do you have to smoke in here?” Dirty Orpheus questioned, waving his hand in front of his face. “I don’t think Harmon would like it if you were. Did anybody let Todd in?”
“Let him smoke.” Harmon cut in, looking in the direction the scream had come from. “Balddee go check it out. Remo must’ve slipped or something.
Baldee drew another drag from his cigarette exhaling a jet stream dyed red in the emergency lights. “Sure.”
Balddee walked. The corridor was black except for a faint glow coming from the direction of the utility room. He dropped the cigarette down to the floor, crushing it with the sole of his boot then followed the light. He pulled out his lighter so he could see.
On the floor of the utility room laid Remo, electrical cords mixing with charred intestines spilling out of his stomach; a flattened wrist reached out for the cell phone. Balddee lit another cigarette and looked at the cell phone, which did not have service, before flipping it shut. “I guess we all have to pay our dues somehow.”
Balddee picked Remo up and brought him back towards the others. The body felt light until Balddee realized Remo’s legs were no longer attached. He went back into the utility room to collect them and then dragged them out by a loop in the jeans.
Screams came from the front of the office.
“What the fuck? Seriously, what the fuck?” Dr. Gonzo screeched, clawing at her face. “Balddee, Todd’s dead. His head was chopped off by the revolving door. He’s-” She screamed again, “What the fuck are you carrying?”
Mule and Harmon came toward Balddee carrying the body of Todd Dancer. “Is that Remo?” Mule asked.
Balddee looked down again at what he was carrying. “Yeah. Found him in the utility room.”
Mule dropped his half of Todd causing Harmon to fall into the bloody stump where Todd’s head had been.
“Put both of them in Remo’s office.” Balddee instructed after a silence.
“Balddee's right.” Harmon whispered, “The police will be here any moment now and,” he paused, looking around at the rest of the people in the office. “We’ll leave them in there and let them sort everything out. Come on Mule. I can’t do this on my own.”
Satchel or Bel screamed, then informed the group. “We can’t get out. The revolving doors aren’t moving. Some sort of emergency system must’ve kicked on and the door is sealed shut.”
Balddee lit another cigarette. “That’s just perfect.”
“Do you have to smoke in here?” Dirty Orpheus questioned, waving his hand in front of his face. “I don’t think Harmon would like it if you were. Did anybody let Todd in?”
“Let him smoke.” Harmon cut in, looking in the direction the scream had come from. “Balddee go check it out. Remo must’ve slipped or something.
Baldee drew another drag from his cigarette exhaling a jet stream dyed red in the emergency lights. “Sure.”
Balddee walked. The corridor was black except for a faint glow coming from the direction of the utility room. He dropped the cigarette down to the floor, crushing it with the sole of his boot then followed the light. He pulled out his lighter so he could see.
On the floor of the utility room laid Remo, electrical cords mixing with charred intestines spilling out of his stomach; a flattened wrist reached out for the cell phone. Balddee lit another cigarette and looked at the cell phone, which did not have service, before flipping it shut. “I guess we all have to pay our dues somehow.”
Balddee picked Remo up and brought him back towards the others. The body felt light until Balddee realized Remo’s legs were no longer attached. He went back into the utility room to collect them and then dragged them out by a loop in the jeans.
Screams came from the front of the office.
“What the fuck? Seriously, what the fuck?” Dr. Gonzo screeched, clawing at her face. “Balddee, Todd’s dead. His head was chopped off by the revolving door. He’s-” She screamed again, “What the fuck are you carrying?”
Mule and Harmon came toward Balddee carrying the body of Todd Dancer. “Is that Remo?” Mule asked.
Balddee looked down again at what he was carrying. “Yeah. Found him in the utility room.”
Mule dropped his half of Todd causing Harmon to fall into the bloody stump where Todd’s head had been.
“Put both of them in Remo’s office.” Balddee instructed after a silence.
“Balddee's right.” Harmon whispered, “The police will be here any moment now and,” he paused, looking around at the rest of the people in the office. “We’ll leave them in there and let them sort everything out. Come on Mule. I can’t do this on my own.”
Satchel or Bel screamed, then informed the group. “We can’t get out. The revolving doors aren’t moving. Some sort of emergency system must’ve kicked on and the door is sealed shut.”
Balddee lit another cigarette. “That’s just perfect.”
Thursday, October 18, 2007
chapter three
“So can I go then?”, asked Marjorie, again. “All of this has upset me and I do have a date later on tonight.”
When it came to leaving work due to romantic engagements, Marjorie had spoken to the most unsympathetic ear in the office. Remo, who had been charged with the removal of the bodies, looked over at her, “Well, we talked with the police and we need to stay here until they show up and do their questioning stuff. I’m sure it’ll only take a couple of minutes and then. I don’t know, yeah, I guess we’ll all be going home.”
There was a sudden shudder from the building as thunder crashed. The lights flickered, dimmed then snuffed out. In an uncontrollable action Remo wrapped his arm around Marjorie letting out a soft “welp”; the fart also was his.
“Get the fuck away from me sicko.” Said Marjorie, pushing Remo to the ground. “You’re smooth moves may work on the rest of the office but they sure as shit aren’t going to work on me. I’m going to go talk with Harmon. I shouldn’t be forced to stay in this shit. I’m a fucking unpaid intern.”
“Remo!” Mule yelled from the other end of the office, “Figure out the power situation. Maybe it was a surge or something. Maybe one of those thingys just needs to be flipped. Or just do something.”
Bel or Satchel screeched, “There are fucking dead bodies here and we’re in the dark.”
Satchel or Bel replied, “Here, I have some Jeff Buckley, just cool your shit out.”
The emergency lights kicked on shooting an eerie red glow into Harmon’s office illuminating the facial features of the corpses. With a sigh, Remo closed the door and took the corner that lead towards the utility room. The hysterics from the rest of the office ebbed away and a certain peace came to him.
Remo picked a phone up off the wall but there was no dial tone. He flipped open his cell phone but it showed no service. He used the light from the cell and walked into the utility room and fumbled towards the circuit breaker.
Having never invested the money to bring the building up to code the circuit breaker had slipped into disrepair and proved difficult to open. He struggled with it for a second before dislodging the door and toppling onto his back.
While lying on the floor, a satisfied feeling came over him: his truck was running, his house had been completely finished, all of his friends were coming over and, best of all, he was going to get laid.
He struggled to stand not wanting to lose the sweetness of the dream but aware that the rest of the office was depending on him to fix the power. He blinked once and then drifted back down, down onto his back.
A cracking sound informed Remo his wrist had snapped. He saw a major power cord rip out of the wall and thrust into his stomach with a blinding spark of life. His last breath was expunged in a short, stifled scream. And then, there was nothing.
When it came to leaving work due to romantic engagements, Marjorie had spoken to the most unsympathetic ear in the office. Remo, who had been charged with the removal of the bodies, looked over at her, “Well, we talked with the police and we need to stay here until they show up and do their questioning stuff. I’m sure it’ll only take a couple of minutes and then. I don’t know, yeah, I guess we’ll all be going home.”
There was a sudden shudder from the building as thunder crashed. The lights flickered, dimmed then snuffed out. In an uncontrollable action Remo wrapped his arm around Marjorie letting out a soft “welp”; the fart also was his.
“Get the fuck away from me sicko.” Said Marjorie, pushing Remo to the ground. “You’re smooth moves may work on the rest of the office but they sure as shit aren’t going to work on me. I’m going to go talk with Harmon. I shouldn’t be forced to stay in this shit. I’m a fucking unpaid intern.”
“Remo!” Mule yelled from the other end of the office, “Figure out the power situation. Maybe it was a surge or something. Maybe one of those thingys just needs to be flipped. Or just do something.”
Bel or Satchel screeched, “There are fucking dead bodies here and we’re in the dark.”
Satchel or Bel replied, “Here, I have some Jeff Buckley, just cool your shit out.”
The emergency lights kicked on shooting an eerie red glow into Harmon’s office illuminating the facial features of the corpses. With a sigh, Remo closed the door and took the corner that lead towards the utility room. The hysterics from the rest of the office ebbed away and a certain peace came to him.
Remo picked a phone up off the wall but there was no dial tone. He flipped open his cell phone but it showed no service. He used the light from the cell and walked into the utility room and fumbled towards the circuit breaker.
Having never invested the money to bring the building up to code the circuit breaker had slipped into disrepair and proved difficult to open. He struggled with it for a second before dislodging the door and toppling onto his back.
While lying on the floor, a satisfied feeling came over him: his truck was running, his house had been completely finished, all of his friends were coming over and, best of all, he was going to get laid.
He struggled to stand not wanting to lose the sweetness of the dream but aware that the rest of the office was depending on him to fix the power. He blinked once and then drifted back down, down onto his back.
A cracking sound informed Remo his wrist had snapped. He saw a major power cord rip out of the wall and thrust into his stomach with a blinding spark of life. His last breath was expunged in a short, stifled scream. And then, there was nothing.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
chapter two
Monday came to the offices of Bad Mother Coitus with a sky like a hangover. Weather reports dominated the news with floods and storms covering the entire state. Harmon, who worked the farthest away, was hampered the most and last to arrive. So as not to improve Harmon’s Monday experience, Todd Dancer regaled the office with lyrics and pronouncements about his bitches.
Behind the office’s revolving door chaos reigned supreme. Harmon’s office was last one on the left down the long isle, a section of the office Balddee already prowled with a cane and promises of domination. Dr. Gonzo chatted on her computer to somebody on one of the coasts while in the next office over Pedro, the cat, rubbed himself on any available object knowing full well it would cause most of the allergic population to grow sick.
Potential new interns huddled behind the closed door of the conference room filling out forms. Harmon considered yelling at Mule, who was supposed to be interviewing them but who instead was staring at the coffee pot, willing it to make coffee, before giving up.
“Have you heard this yet?” Satchel or Bel asked Harmon as he tried to make his way past. He could never remember which was which. “It’s an early scratch recording of Ambulance LTD’s s/a album. It’s really fucking good. I could make you a copy of it if you’d like.” Not in the mood for conversation, Harmon waved a non-committal hand in their face and continued forward, ever forward.
Ellen was putting herself into a bondage harness when Marjorie cornered him. “Harm, due to the bad weather do you think that we could all go home early? I don’t want to get stuck out in this and my girlfriend and I are going on this big date tonight and I really don’t want to miss it.”
Harmon mumbled something non-descript while Marlon Maxey, the office attorney, phone tucked against shoulder beckoned him so they could talk about the latest lawsuit. Ignoring this, Harmon found similar un-enjoyment with the loud interview Dirty Orpheus was having with people in Crapcago.
At his office, at last he turned the knob. He opened the door where he found the dead bodies of Simon and Simon, the former Team Building leaders, hanging on the wall.
“That’s a shame.”
Behind the office’s revolving door chaos reigned supreme. Harmon’s office was last one on the left down the long isle, a section of the office Balddee already prowled with a cane and promises of domination. Dr. Gonzo chatted on her computer to somebody on one of the coasts while in the next office over Pedro, the cat, rubbed himself on any available object knowing full well it would cause most of the allergic population to grow sick.
Potential new interns huddled behind the closed door of the conference room filling out forms. Harmon considered yelling at Mule, who was supposed to be interviewing them but who instead was staring at the coffee pot, willing it to make coffee, before giving up.
“Have you heard this yet?” Satchel or Bel asked Harmon as he tried to make his way past. He could never remember which was which. “It’s an early scratch recording of Ambulance LTD’s s/a album. It’s really fucking good. I could make you a copy of it if you’d like.” Not in the mood for conversation, Harmon waved a non-committal hand in their face and continued forward, ever forward.
Ellen was putting herself into a bondage harness when Marjorie cornered him. “Harm, due to the bad weather do you think that we could all go home early? I don’t want to get stuck out in this and my girlfriend and I are going on this big date tonight and I really don’t want to miss it.”
Harmon mumbled something non-descript while Marlon Maxey, the office attorney, phone tucked against shoulder beckoned him so they could talk about the latest lawsuit. Ignoring this, Harmon found similar un-enjoyment with the loud interview Dirty Orpheus was having with people in Crapcago.
At his office, at last he turned the knob. He opened the door where he found the dead bodies of Simon and Simon, the former Team Building leaders, hanging on the wall.
“That’s a shame.”
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
chapter one
The easiest way to explain what has happened to the Bad Mother Coitus zine is to look at the unmarked letter that came from Bob in Pequot Lakes, MN. Ellen discovered the letter while trying to organize the Monday Mailbag segment then passed it along to Mule.
In typical BMC fashion, Mule let the letter gather dust for several months until an idle Friday where no worthy challengers showed to play Harmon and him for the office Volleybag title and he found himself bored enough to buckle down on actual work.
Mule looked the letter through several times before making Harmon read it.
“I didn’t even know we had a cleaning room.”
Harmon, in his usual disappointed air remarked, “It’s next to the break room.” When Harmon noticed that this failed to register recognition with his writing partner, “Where you keep your coffee.”
They walked down the hall to the door marked ‘Cl aning oom’, inside of which were cleaning supplies purchased twenty years ago most leaking and, no doubt, seeping chemicals into the surrounding office. But masked by the shelves and with no real light to show laid a small door. Written across the door in large font type was a warning: “Do not open this door… Ever!”
“Think we should open it?” asked Mule, looking at Harmon in the dim light.
“Well, the warning label advises us not to and there is that letter from Bob which indicates it would be a poor idea.”
“Well, there is that.” Neither of them moved. In the background Balddee shouted at the telephone even though his phone line had been disconnected some weeks ago. Mule spoke again, “It’s not like it would hurt anything if we just opened it a crack. I mean seriously what could possibly be in there that could be so bad?”
“I guess it couldn’t really hurt.”
“Remo has a crowbar in his office.”
“And why wouldn’t he have a crowbar in his office?”
After much heaving and cursing Harmon opened the door and huffed “Well, that was anticlimactic.” A remark aimed at Mule who had not helped in opening the door whatsoever. Both looked into the small, empty, blasted hole that had been uncovered.
“Fuck it, let’s go to Happy Hour, today’s shot anyway.” Mule commented as a means of empathy.
Harmon shut the door with a large clang, the reverb shaking the entire office. Harmon and Mule stared at each other, alarmed for the briefest of seconds as the office shook to a stand still.
But it was quitting time and, in the offices of Bad Mother Coitus there is no holier of a time. All the occupants skipped across Selby towards Costello’s for a much deserved dose of Friday reality.
In typical BMC fashion, Mule let the letter gather dust for several months until an idle Friday where no worthy challengers showed to play Harmon and him for the office Volleybag title and he found himself bored enough to buckle down on actual work.
Mule looked the letter through several times before making Harmon read it.
“I didn’t even know we had a cleaning room.”
Harmon, in his usual disappointed air remarked, “It’s next to the break room.” When Harmon noticed that this failed to register recognition with his writing partner, “Where you keep your coffee.”
They walked down the hall to the door marked ‘Cl aning oom’, inside of which were cleaning supplies purchased twenty years ago most leaking and, no doubt, seeping chemicals into the surrounding office. But masked by the shelves and with no real light to show laid a small door. Written across the door in large font type was a warning: “Do not open this door… Ever!”
“Think we should open it?” asked Mule, looking at Harmon in the dim light.
“Well, the warning label advises us not to and there is that letter from Bob which indicates it would be a poor idea.”
“Well, there is that.” Neither of them moved. In the background Balddee shouted at the telephone even though his phone line had been disconnected some weeks ago. Mule spoke again, “It’s not like it would hurt anything if we just opened it a crack. I mean seriously what could possibly be in there that could be so bad?”
“I guess it couldn’t really hurt.”
“Remo has a crowbar in his office.”
“And why wouldn’t he have a crowbar in his office?”
After much heaving and cursing Harmon opened the door and huffed “Well, that was anticlimactic.” A remark aimed at Mule who had not helped in opening the door whatsoever. Both looked into the small, empty, blasted hole that had been uncovered.
“Fuck it, let’s go to Happy Hour, today’s shot anyway.” Mule commented as a means of empathy.
Harmon shut the door with a large clang, the reverb shaking the entire office. Harmon and Mule stared at each other, alarmed for the briefest of seconds as the office shook to a stand still.
But it was quitting time and, in the offices of Bad Mother Coitus there is no holier of a time. All the occupants skipped across Selby towards Costello’s for a much deserved dose of Friday reality.
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