New Recordings!

My new website design is pretty much completed. Thanks to Justin Small for all his work and effort.

I recorded a couple of new songs and posted them on the Music page. One is a White Stripes cover and the other is a Beatles cover, both done with acoustic guitar and vocals. I'm still focused on my original music, but I wanted to do these.

The Same Boy You've Always Known

Two of Us

The ol' what-for

Tell them I'll be along shortly and ask the back barman if he needs any stained wipecloths. I presume this is our problem. I knew if Smithson turned up after the divorce it would turn into this. It smells like a big garden in here. Oberon, fetch the herbal sandal sanitizer. The arch of my slipper looks like a grease monkey's laundry pile. We may require an industrial vacuum. Oh stop it. For all the good it will do you, you may as well waste a fortnight trying to brush the sand off someone's arm damp with seawater. I refuse to let this spoil the inaugural soiree of the season. If I'm not there to keep Kitty from mishandling Col. Lamply's oversexed son, this entire manor will empty quicker than a dog's stomach full of french fries.

Breakfast nookie

Hapsburg turned the pancake over and said, "It wasn't until I noticed how long my nails were getting that I understood just how disinterested in everything I've become. They've never been this long in my life. And the thing of it is, I don't care to cut them."

She scooped the pancake out of the skillet and onto the plate. She spread margarine on it and covered it in syrup, and she squeezed a ring of syrup around the outer edge of the plate. "Every user can modify the Arcade, but only up to a point. For instance, if you work hard, you can change the pinball from silver to mauve or cornflower or whatever you like. But you cannot replace the pinball. It will always be there."

Hapsburg ate. "It's rigged, the Arcade. At undetermined intervals it will defeat you as you play. These defeats are your preview for the end of the game. The game always ends."

That's nice. Now jump.

Revenge of Announcey Pete

Hey missionaries! Instead of another boring year of teaching natives in poverty it's a sin to use birth control, why not try one of our new delicious Apple Pie Smoothies from the North Sea Smoothie Co.? We take real canned fruit drink and vanilla yogurt and throw it in a blender with some ice and a peeled golden apple. Then we bubble wrap it in a box and ship it to you. We found your address on ebay's shitlist. By the time you receive it, after traveling the country in the heat and dark, the smoothie will have a grown a layer of infectious mold. For this reason we will not ship to schools, workplaces, or post office boxes. Get ready for respiratory therapy.

The new Pueblo Scrambler

Try your skillet hash arranged in the shape of your favorite clouds. We have bunny, dragon, castle, arrugula, and Russian barrister. Add spoiled goat milk, 50 cents. Subtract boneless skin spriglets, 75 cents. If you can pinpoint where our hefty counter waitress Doris is ticklish, without using a GPS tracker, she will cut your hash into bite-size bits and feed it to you with a ping pong mallet.

Cant yourself over the hedgerow

Bless me Birkens, I have been misused. In December your surface confidence and affability struck my fancy the Monday you first lit upon my doorstep, Kristan. In March the dozing Four Winds awoke and blew the snow away, and your charm was borne away with it. I never see the sun from tramping through the mucky sewers all day. My trousers reek. All the while I've been working second shift in the candy factory where they make me wear a bloody hairnet. No more. I'm putting the breaks on this chain gang of runaway packmules that's been my life. I'm shaving my head and calling myself Pupu Platter. Why not? I have nothing to live up to. O Loki, you trickster god, turn your mischevious gaze from my dimpled Irish ass, and leave me to my only bit of happiness, a pony keg of the thickest tar-like stout your bescarved mother ever poured down the church social drain. My dear, you may cant yourself over the hedgerow.

Hostile weakness at the Preakness

Waitress? Yes. No, everything was not to my satisfaction. We've been here an hour and have not received our entrees. Yes, I think you'd better clear these plates. Notice we've hardly touched them. Your Greek salad, frankly, was not unlike the fetishization of Nazi culture. There's nothing sexy about it. It was bland, rubbery, and left a putrid aftertaste of quicklime. And this. How can a smoothie taste scalded? I don't know, but you sir have done it. Might I suggest a cooking class? Or perhaps finding a donor from the Nobel Prize sperm bank, so your children stand a chance of inheriting talent?

The Federalists Papers

Leon frowned and took a few aimless steps around the office. Its large bay windows showed orange-tinted skyscrapers late in the afternoon. "I admit it, I have a few problems working for you," he said with frustration. "I don't understand why you have us do things in certain ways."

Maria swung her feet off her desk onto the floor. "Our approach to the workload is completely in keeping with the goals of this division," she said. "You need to get in line. I won't have your disdain in my conference room."

"I'll continue to do the same quality work I always have done. And I'll keep picking up other people's slack as well, on top of my own pile."

"Speaking of which, where's the Leftwich account? You were supposed to have it to me last week."

"You didn't get it?" Leon said loudly. "I emailed it Wednesday, in time."

"There's nothing in my email," Maria said. "It's late, and 17 had to have it for their report on Monday. They didn't."

Leon was trying to comprehend. The missing data would come down on him. Maria could shield him, call it a department error, but why would she after he'd let his contempt show? People were brutish. There were things he knew, things about missing invoices and software overdrafts. Lines could be drawn. Outside the tint on the buildings matched the growing twilight. The light in the office had taken on the bright blunt edge of pluorescence. Leon thought of a lot of things to say, but he stared at her instead and kept himself from exploding.

Skewered at the BBQ pit around back

JT, I-I've always liked Mena. When Nicole was sick you didn't say anything about all the time she spent over here tending to her, changing the IVs, changing her. All the stuff I couldn't bring myself to do. Mena is yours, but I can't help that I got used to having her around. My place has dried up around me since Nicole passed. I'll take care of Mena, I was going to anyhow. She's out in the truck. You could have given your blessing. I'll call someone in the morning and tell them where to pick you up, JT. Since I don't know your wishes I'll say cremation if they ask.

Les Confrères

Beth was met at the airport by her mom and her dog Barkolomew, so named for the Jesus-shaped spot on its back. Tiredly delirious from a 15 hour flight, Beth made it through to the airport exit in her New England hometown quickly as she'd brought only a single carry-on stuffed with a chaotic assortment of ambergris shower moisturizer and a low-fat energy bar. Barkie went from impatient anticipation on the outside curb to spastic delirium when Beth stepped through the exit doors. Her mom greeted her warmly with Barkie jumping between them. She didn't seem to notice that Beth was two sizes smaller and had lightened her hair. She seemed glad to see her.

The house was messy, making for more work and less relaxation than she thought. Duty and family accounted for it. Her mom made it known she'd been sick these past few weeks, but as she settled in Beth could tell her mom had made the attempt to straighten up a little. Today was the first day in four months that her mom had failed to call her, and that was because today she returned. A scent drifted through the porch screen door, the freshness of New England earth in the spring. Tomorrow there was a grieving family to support. She slept on the couch with Barkie beside her until two the next afternoon.

The trent affair.communist

I met this guy who said his name was Hartford. I was minding my business reading historian Howard Zinn when he took notice and struck up a monologue. He leaned over and told me the capitalists are only rice collectors, most people like to collect lotss of things like marble and gold and pine needles and clover and eggs. Capitalistss make plans to collect more rice than anyone else. Over the yearss they have developed thousands of intricate games to win in their rice collecting competition. This iss unique in the animal--

Hey, Hartford, I said, what's with all the S's?

Suddenly his eyes changed to the vertical pupils of a lizard. Instantly bog-green scales grew on his face, surrounding a mouth of razor sharp teeth. Screechingly I passed out from the pain of its attack. When I came to, I had missed my stop. I stayed on the bus until it reached the station. There I was made to get off and walk down the road to another stop to another mass of milling people waiting to go home.

Keep the Bill Collector from yr door

Apologies for the few days we were down here at le Trent Affair. It was colder than a fresh bowl of breakfast cereal in the purgatorial wastelands, but yesterday I carried a nine-foot surfboard for two miles along a polluted canal because it was too big to fit in the car, and the sun was out, and I was wearing a black t-shirt, and as dark colors absorb heat I was warm like a fresh bowl of hominy grits. A whole can of strawberry guava juice hit the spot after. It prepared me to crawl for an hour through airport traffic.

Woodring

A cat is enticed to gaze into the night-sky heavens. The things seen cause spontaneous, inadvertent drool. A goblin stands ready to collect the leavings. What strange properties has saliva tinged with telescopic awe? I imagine it set in little ice cube trays with toothpicks in the center, retrieved on humid days for a cool psychedelic treat.

Approaching 1000

I am a silly twit for skidding so long on the icy runway of bloggia without checking in on my talented friends. So what's up, Rob Kelly?

You can click the link above for a stroll through a delightful, streamlined, colorful website of his commercial and personal art. Rob's client list includes the National Basketball Association, Margaret Cho, Camel, Pitney Bowes, Salada Tea, HarperCollins, Popular Science, Time Out New York, American Prospect, The American and Latin Grammy Awards, Golf Digest, MBA Jungle, and more.



As the official artist of the NBA all-star game, Rob had banners of his art chillin all over Denver.



Bug-eyed monsters



Archivist of treasury comics

It takes an almost superhuman work ethic to make it as a freelancer, and anyone who knows Rob knows that's why he's been able to make a go of it for I think something like ten years, with the last three of that full time. His site has witty DVD style commentary for every piece. He's kept scrapbooks of every piece he's ever done, and I don't know the exact total but I know it's approaching 1000.

But here's his best work.

Prom Night

I never meant for the covering -- Eleven, home by eleven -- grilled tilapia and asparagus with sweat potato mash -- I didn't care you wore a tangerine tux I said it matched my firey ass -- I saw it coming cutting across the lanes -- I threw myself behind you -- can you hear me -- I never meant for the covering

Ahoy, the Skipper Steers the Ship

The major league manager stormed up to his star hitter. "What I keep tellin you? Don't dilly dally in the dugout dammit!"

The manager's name was Bob Grissoll. Once he'd been a player himself, but that was three knee operations and one heart attack ago. His popularity with the local fans was cemented by years of sponsoring car dealerships and charity auctions on the local charity telethons. The front office hired him to helm the team three years ago, and since then he posted a respectable .579 winning percentage, just missing the playoffs the season before. But Bob had a secret. He ate poo.

Announcey Pete

Announcey Pete here. The site is being redesigned using Flash into a sleek aerodynastic aunt flow. It shoots like a phallic arrow into the interweb womb. Need a laugh? Call the page Sally, he'll run sobbing to his room.

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