Sing with Dinner

Last night Andy took me to a Korean karaoke restaurant and bar where for an expensive drink a lady will join you in your booth. A friendly, grabby lady.

Go Gunny GO!

Gunny saw his guy where he said he'd be, waiting at the bus stop. Gunny was on an old red moped and he pulled up and turned it off. It was dark because there was a leafy tree between the two men and the streetlamp. Another man wearing glasses and dressed for home walked a small terrier in the grass. Gunny gave the money to his guy and got a sandwich bag that he quickly stuffed in his pocket. The man walking the dog saw them and took out his cellphone. Gunny cut the chat short and got on the moped. He couldn't get the key in the ignition. It just would not go in no matter how he turned and jiggled it. Gunny looked over his shoulder and the man with the cellphone duck behind a tree. Gunny knew he had to go, but the key still would not go in the lock. His guy came over and got the moped started for him. Gunny zig-zagged around the neighborhood streets just in case, in a hurry and beyond thought. When it seemed safe he got back on the main road and made it home.

The Secret of the Chamberpot

It was a courtyard on a bright spring day. Park benches stood watch over sweat bees flitting about in the clover. A man in a tracksuit sat down at the far end of a bench. At its other end sat a woman in gothic crushed velvet with a floppy-brim hat.
"Vera Huhn, do you know what you're doing?"
"Yes," she said with an air of boredom. "I allow myself to be captured. At midnight I escape by regurgitating the two lockpicks I'm uncomfortably holding down in the back of my throat. They're sharp enough to pierce a man's temple -- that's how I get past the guards. I shimmy up the medieval tapestry (La Huguen Buscallian, c. 1566) to the second balcony and vault into the duchy's chamber across the molten moat using whatever is handy, likely a lance from the unconscious Grande Palace Parade. I rig a device that will cause his dukeness's death upon the entry of his men-in-waiting into his chamber the following morning. Something ghastly, I know. Then I steal the forbidden jewels of Samaransk -- the chamberpot has a false bottom and they're tucked inside. I go out the window back into the castle and using my feminine wiles I lure the prefect to his doom, probably by tripping him off the precipice during the heat of passion. The stakes he used to display his rotting enemies will justly break his fall. At the top of the tower I steal the air force's only dogfighter, a hot air balloon, and sail the two days it will take to return here, where I hand over the jewels and collect the second half of my reward."
"Excuse me, what was that about the prefect? He's not part of the assignment."
Vera took the gun from her hip and cocked it. It glinted, reflecting the reliable bulb overhead. "I know. That part is personal. And free."
END

The Intro Is Two Bars

Camus came to campus astride a camel the hue if not the consistency of Camembert. Its smell attracted students native to that part of the world. Camus, without dismounting, introduced himself and passed out foreign editions of his work. He said a few things about France in the new millennium as the foot traffic flowed around him, and then, strangely, he extolled the virtue of reality show love. With people learning and mimicking that kind of behavior, he declared, most human problems would become moot within two generations. It fulfills our expectations, whether the best or the worst, he forgot to emphasize.

Across the campus was a flower shoppe. Its owner kept a parrot in a cage outside the doorway. The parrot sang out a series of punctuated beeps: it had learned to mimic the sound of a delivery truck backing up. The juxtaposition of progress and nature felled Camus. He had to be helped back onto his camel, which bucked impatiently as if it never had weight to bear. Slumped in its saddle, multi-hued desert scarves trailing behind him, he turned the corner and was gone, image and odor, vanished all at once. I passed by again and found some, but not all, of his books in a public rubbish bin.

The Morning Hooray Show

"Now that's a pumpkin milk shake," said Matt Lapper, wiping the cream from the corner of his mouth. "Next on Hooray is our guests. They're a young rock band with some surprisingly big news. Katie?"
"That's right, Matt. With us today is last night's winner for Best New Artist. Congratulations, Dis Dane and the members of Trial Worthwhile."
"Thank you," said the band. They were seated on a long forest green couch next to the anchor table. Dis Dane was playing with his shaggy black hair. He darted his stare around the studio.
"Was it a surprise to get the award?" asked Katie BoRics. "How do you feel?"
"A bit jumpy," Dis Dane said. "This guy at Christina Ricci's gave me some E about three hours ago. It was still dark."
"Some what?" she asked.
"Thank you for having us on the show!" he said enthusiastically. "I really am very pleased."
"Well thank you, it's our pleasure. Now if I could ask the young man with the drumsticks, what was it like, I mean, you guys just basically went from jamming in a basement, in Wyoming!, to winning a grammy in, what, nine months," said Katie BoRics.
"Yes, it was the gestation of the band," said Dis Dane, frontman of the aforesaid biznand, believe that. "It's a good thing we didn't have an abortion, cause if you kill a baby, you may be killing its future record deal. Don't every zygote got a chance to wear bling?"
"That's certainly one way of putting it," Katie said with a quick chuckle. "But the grammy award, I mean, it hardly gets bigger than that."
"No, it hardly gets bigger than that," Dis Dane said indicating a meter between his hands. "And I should know. But the award, it was like grabbing the music industry by the balls. It was like we squeezed it in our fist and bit it off. Like we ripped its balls off, Katie Couric." He made a growly face at camera two, the close-up. "Metaphorically."
Katie's face froze a moment, then the director cut to the jolly thin weatherman.
END

Hiro Explains

He said some people don't know how to deal with other people's happiness. They will invent excuses, or inflate specious ones, to justify their cutting dead the happy person.

We knew a girl, he and I, who left her man of seven years. When he took up with someone new, the girl became a bit crazed. Anything she could do to put herself back in his good graces, she would. She knew his dreams and she began saying they were hers too. There were meetings, needling, tears. And when it came to destroying a friend, for a crumb of one-upmanship, she tried to do so without a second thought.

In a few short sentences he boxed up and put away two big dramas of this life.

The Last I Remember of That Day

For all intents and purposes it shouldn't have come as a shock. When Cpl. Williamsburg gave the order, I was hugging the side of a shiny steel hull, trying to trade places with my reflection as it looked back at me with fearful eyes. Around me the tempestuous ocean was silent, my hearing narrowed and acute as I waited for the screaming whistle of the explosion that would take me away from this unmerciful place. For a moment I left myself, and the hysterical no's that burst from my cracked throat like a gatling gun were meant for those on the island unaware their death was imminent. That was the last I remember of that day.

Like the elusive ahi I was fished from the salty foam and sent to their military hospital, or rather the tent city of refugees surrounding it, where I lay on starched white sheets for a week recovering from hypothermia. The atmosphere was jubilant. The enemy had lost decisively, it was said they were reduced to haggard packs of women, children, and old men. For myself I held onto my feelings. I had lived among them, studied with their boys and been taught by their coaches and their professors.

Last week they were no more. I've learned who gave the order that ended their present, erased their future, and left only their past. His name is Cpl. Williamsburg. The men around me explained what, and where, and why. But they do not say how, for to know how is to know the foundation, what lies at the base of man, what he ignores. This I will not allow myself to understand.

The Bone-Buried Land

The vagabond stepped into the sea off the bone-buried land. The coastline was soil, not sand. And it was untillable, if anyone wanted to. Thousands died here years ago for reasons not known to books and thus not known to man. This was his first visit to Western Samoa. Arnold had been adopted and brought to the states as an infant. He grew up restless and by his teenage years he was amusing himself with the occasional misdemeanor, tagging the side of the dollar movie theater or sneaking into houses. He stopped when he was caught and did a weekend in a police station jail cell. On his eighteenth birthday he was told of his adoption and soon after he bought a plane ticket to the land of his people. Standing now on their coastline, he felt a great connection to be there with them, the ones who died here. It was sunny and humid and a great fever suddenly took hold of him. He slowly walked off the site, letting the waves peck at his ankles, full-face into the wind. For all the problems it would cause, it felt like a home.

Yuck, It's Gutt Reaction

Stumbling up the narrow black alley, sheets on clotheslines overhead, Derek was neither drunk nor beaten, dinner that night at the new bistro had disagreed with him. Also he was merely lame, had indeed been born that way, so he wasn't expecting Super Hans to come bounding off the penthouse fire escape, bouncing off an inflatable pool toy on someone's balcony, and landing in a dramatic crouch at his feet.
"Who did this to you?" hissed Super Hans.
"Chez Manger," said Derek.
"He just had his origin, that must be it," said Super Hans. "I have not yet fought this foe."
"It's a restaurant, it just opened on 42nd and 7th. But I don't recommend the clam sauce."
"Oh. I see. Ha ha. Aren't I the horse's ass now?"
"Don't feel bad," said Derek. "It could happen to anyone in canary tights with white wings on the wrists and ankles."
"That sounded suspiciously like an insult, citizen," said Super Hans.
"Not at all. We appreciate your watching the streets, cleaning the corridors, the hallways, the public toilets..."
Super Hans with a booming "Hah" suddenly sprung around 180 degrees behind him, instantly at the ready for beating an intruder to a pulp. Finding no one there, he cleared his throat, his white wings drooping. "The alley is secure," he said thoughtfully.
"Fine work," Derek said. "Now if you'll let me get around you, I have to throw up."
"Go right on, there's nothing to fear here."
"Seriously, I need to get by..."
"Walk unafraid, citizen, for evildoers are now trembling in their cowardly hideaways."
"Oh god, look out." Derek retched all over Super Hans's uniform.
"You have sullied my sacred robes of office," said Super Hans in disbelief.
"I told you to move, you silly bastard," said Derek, his chest heaving.
"Only one man would dare do such a thing. You're very clever. I nearly did not recognize you, Gutt Reaction. Have you escaped the German super prison where I left you all those months ago?"
"What are you talking about?"
"You have revealed yourself and now I must tie you up and return you to the proper authorities, Gutt Reaction."
"But I'm not-- Don't-- I just want to go home!"
END

Irene's Power

Frankly her friends made her laugh. Silly phone calls at all hours, jokes about the men twisted into finger-width bands, the documentation of power for that's all it could be called, all lapsed into Irene's mind, which this morning was tucked into a hidden pocket in the pleated velvet skirt of the French maid outfit on the floor. The ones who wanted her were the steel supports on the bridge of her ego, which spanned the chasm from emotion to thought. Charm or the wearing down, then Irene gave in. When she dressed she may as well tie a headband around her temples, lace up calf-length combat boots, throw the rounds in an X over her chest, lock, load. Vengeance was imperative, and it does not dissipate when its object goes unfound. But it had been a long time since she'd done it for herself. Now it was habit, now it was something to make her friends laugh in return. Irene bubbled the night into the phone, the laughs came, that was the reward. There was a stirring on the bed. She gathered the too small, thin clothes, her shoes, her bag. The do not disturb sign was on the door. Irene stood over the mirror. Sure, somewhere on that bridge was a marker, bronzed and dated, describing her wedding. Garlands, a harpist, a yacht. But she had years left for that.

The Taming

The forecast was rain. It spritzed from the sky like a heavenly matron with plants and a spray bottle. It must have rained all night because the parking lot was flooded. The tallest trees around the resort hotel were pines. They reached the twelfth story while the palms peaked just over the balcony on the eighth. Minus their fronds the palms were bare: someone was hired to shimmy up their skinny trunks and break off the coconuts before they could ripen. Otherwise they'd fall on their own, gravity, someone's head who'd act as the fireman rescue tarp. It had happened before: death by coconut. Falling fronds caused injury too. Fear of lawsuits made the resort palms safe for the kids. And for the public areas the county, each island a county and all of them together a state, there were warnings. Look up, said the signs in the parks, and beware. Nature ain't no theme park.

A great wall, lava rock born in November 1979, transported and stacked, kept the choppy ocean waves out of the resort's bay. It had kayaks, fishing trawlers, and a couple hated jet skis there. On the resort they didn't care for the pervasive gray of the rainy season, they saved their breath for the taming.

Bless My Brains

Go to the Eastern medieval cathedral door. Grasp the head of the third howling monk on the left and then turn. When the mirror glass shatters, step through the air shimmering like vapors off a hot street after a fresh spring rain. Enjoy the bursts of electric color announcing the arrival of mythic creatures from Earth's peopled past. Inhibition will vanish, and hesitance turns to marvel. Be diligent with what comes. The door can always be created, but it cannot be controled. One never knows how long it will remain ajar.

Remember Who You're Dealing With

Huge geo nuts.

The Huguenots were bloody strange. They crawled on their sheetmail knees alltheway to Porcelone, just to pet the bloody polefish.

Consider This

Consider this. A call to arms... in this publication. An advertisement. A disgrace. An unholy aberration. A concert of rock and roll... I can't bring myself to call it music. That's what it says. A group of pop singers. Do you know what it is called? Do you know the name of this concert? I will tell you, but it pains me to do so. I can barely bring myself to speak these words... but the Lord knows they are not my own. The title is Sade Crusade. The Marquis de Sade was a man of pure evil, a great vessel for the devil. His acts are unspeakable... they shall remain so. And the crusades! The crusades were holy wars sanctioned by God to defend the homeland of His people. They are sacred! How can they be used to advertise the devil's music? The devil is real. He is in our midst. He is also on Madison Avenue... spreading his influence. Leading people from God. And look at the image on this ad! A black woman with a shaven head! What a graven image. What idolatry. "Smooth Operator" it says. You know what that means... don't make the words cross my lips. It's lascivious. Beware, friends. Beware of letting the influence of the devil denigrate our church. Tell your children... tell your friends. None shall join this Sade Crusade!

Edgar Allan

In this chapter his young wife has unexpectedly died, another in a string of tragedies that made up the author's life. Poe keeps at the newspaper a while but he returns to drinking and gets fired.

1
He is sent to the hell of capcrice, the worst hell of all. Worse than the hell of flesh-melting flame, worse than the hell of dead senses, far worse than the hell where you must watch loved ones being hurt, which is worse than the hell where they hurt you.

2
In the hell of caprice all these can happen, and they do without pattern or reason. He doesn't know if it will stop in the next instant or in two thousand years. When it does stop its replacement may last only a few seconds, a few seconds of the foulest disease-ridden pain, only to give way to an opera of choreographed misery.

3
And the whole time, amid torture so complete it stifles his screams, he wonders why it's happening to him. Yet he knows the reason. The answer is there is no answer. The pain embalms his skin and bones, it erases his emotions and withers your heart. But it's the reason, the terrible knowledge of no cause, that rends his soul.

4
He escapes. All that is required, finally, is a change in his thinking. The world stays the same, with all its petty awfulness, as well as all its love. For him music is the answer. This time he finds it in a small curio that sells sheet music. The title calls to him: "Enthusiasm for Life Defeats Internal Existential Fear, Progressive."

5
Take note: do not raise this song above its station. For this means do not play it at every mass, or make it in any way a tradition.