10/31/09 The adventure begins.
10.13.2009
A Found Journal
First off, no I didn't. Seriously. I may have been a little drunk, and you a little stoned, but I really didn't. You were on the phone with that, sorry, bitch of a boyfriend, and I needed to show you that new multitool I just bought, and you weren't having it. Had to "work things out" or some shit. Please. You're just friends who're fucking, right? That's what we all are. But somehow whenever I bring it up, you have this notion of the sanctity of what's going on, the love you feel (gag), and your hopes for the future. Tied to your damn cellphone. Smell a campfire, go out in the winter with too few clothes, rub your hands in the dirt! Live, mama, live!
You're Catholic, right? Unmarried Catholic, yes? By your view your sexual relationship with fuckstick is a serious sin anyway. Coulda told you that, and me not even being God. Does it stop you? Hell to the no. And the things I hear around the sewing circle. He puts it where? Seriously??? I never would have thought you'd go for that. I am, however, admittedly intrigued. I mean, if you want in your behavior to emulate the pracitices of diety-destroyed cities, that's your affair. I mean, when in Rome, or Sodom, right? We're a buttfucking kind of world. But you're disgusting. The worst kind of whore, that's what you are. Burn, burn, burn.
Since you'll never read this, I've been thinking about bludgeoning you to death with a Maglite, and burying you in the woods near my apartment. Not nice, no, not nice at all. But in the secret place of this bent notebook the words look bold and electric. Kill. Bury. Delicious.
But in the interim, I hope we can be friends. After you dump your whore of a boyfriend, bitch-ass trick that he is. Maybe something more, even though we're a god-cursed sodomite. I guess I'll have to let it go, you with your face bumping the damn wall with his throbbing member turning you inside out...
Anyway, I didn't do it. Call me. Not that you're gonna read this. I guess I can take you back, tainted and used. Seriously, I'm big enough. I forgive you.
You're Catholic, right? Unmarried Catholic, yes? By your view your sexual relationship with fuckstick is a serious sin anyway. Coulda told you that, and me not even being God. Does it stop you? Hell to the no. And the things I hear around the sewing circle. He puts it where? Seriously??? I never would have thought you'd go for that. I am, however, admittedly intrigued. I mean, if you want in your behavior to emulate the pracitices of diety-destroyed cities, that's your affair. I mean, when in Rome, or Sodom, right? We're a buttfucking kind of world. But you're disgusting. The worst kind of whore, that's what you are. Burn, burn, burn.
Since you'll never read this, I've been thinking about bludgeoning you to death with a Maglite, and burying you in the woods near my apartment. Not nice, no, not nice at all. But in the secret place of this bent notebook the words look bold and electric. Kill. Bury. Delicious.
But in the interim, I hope we can be friends. After you dump your whore of a boyfriend, bitch-ass trick that he is. Maybe something more, even though we're a god-cursed sodomite. I guess I'll have to let it go, you with your face bumping the damn wall with his throbbing member turning you inside out...
Anyway, I didn't do it. Call me. Not that you're gonna read this. I guess I can take you back, tainted and used. Seriously, I'm big enough. I forgive you.
Fridge Poetry, Lydia's House
Sex is crack.
We demand it.
The wild thing teaches
Us that pain
Best felt to the bone:
Burning tongues like
White cigarettes,
Painting black
The soft skin of our dead.
It is a gram of drugs.
Nothing more.
We demand it.
The wild thing teaches
Us that pain
Best felt to the bone:
Burning tongues like
White cigarettes,
Painting black
The soft skin of our dead.
It is a gram of drugs.
Nothing more.
Perfect Time
In the early nineties, I lived in Cleveland, Ohio for a few years. While there, I had a friend who had this thing she called Perfect Time. Moments ago I was sitting in front of this monitor, staring at the little black kitten asleep atop it, my mind blank of ideas to print, a veritable tabula rasa. Suddenly this topic leapt to mind.
Essentially, Perfect Time means making meaningful strings of numbers from the digits displayed on a digital clock. If a person calls out "Perfect Time!", any bystander in the know can look at the clock and try to discern how the number sequence is in some way significant. The cool thing is, if the initiator of a Perfect Time can explain the importance of the numbers, it IS Perfect Time. Period. There is no debate allowed, and any observers will do well to add the number to their own personal mental Perfect Time databases. Note that we were playing on 12-hour digital clocks. I have no idea how things play out on 24-hour time, and I imagine things are problematic at best using analog clocks. Here are some examples.
Sequential:
1:23
2:34
3:45
12:34 etc.
Obviously these happen all the time
Birthdays:
11:25 (mine)
12:25 (Christ's, aka Christmas Time), etc.
Holidays:
11:05 (New Year's Day, 2005), etc.
Mathmatical constructs:
12:35 (string of first four prime numbers)
12:36 (1+2+3=6 and 1*2*3=6)
11:23 (first numbers in the Fibonacci sequence, excepting 0)
3:14 (PI time), etc.
These are just the beginning.
Spread this entertaining game far and wide, telling it duly on the mountain. Be the first in your area to bark out, "Perfect Time!" in restaurants, churches, courts of law, funerals, and other crowded places! Be needlessly cryptic, confuse people, draw stares, find yourself in contempt of court, be generally weird! Go forth and prosper.
Essentially, Perfect Time means making meaningful strings of numbers from the digits displayed on a digital clock. If a person calls out "Perfect Time!", any bystander in the know can look at the clock and try to discern how the number sequence is in some way significant. The cool thing is, if the initiator of a Perfect Time can explain the importance of the numbers, it IS Perfect Time. Period. There is no debate allowed, and any observers will do well to add the number to their own personal mental Perfect Time databases. Note that we were playing on 12-hour digital clocks. I have no idea how things play out on 24-hour time, and I imagine things are problematic at best using analog clocks. Here are some examples.
Sequential:
1:23
2:34
3:45
12:34 etc.
Obviously these happen all the time
Birthdays:
11:25 (mine)
12:25 (Christ's, aka Christmas Time), etc.
Holidays:
11:05 (New Year's Day, 2005), etc.
Mathmatical constructs:
12:35 (string of first four prime numbers)
12:36 (1+2+3=6 and 1*2*3=6)
11:23 (first numbers in the Fibonacci sequence, excepting 0)
3:14 (PI time), etc.
These are just the beginning.
Spread this entertaining game far and wide, telling it duly on the mountain. Be the first in your area to bark out, "Perfect Time!" in restaurants, churches, courts of law, funerals, and other crowded places! Be needlessly cryptic, confuse people, draw stares, find yourself in contempt of court, be generally weird! Go forth and prosper.
Theft of a Puppet
I've been waiting.
Your strange hand admits
Sight into my case;
The lid slips, claps shut,
And lifts again.
Hush, He'll hear!
Hard enough to breathe
With no lungs, let alone
Shut up in black velvet,
Held against decay
Until a later date.
Each wheeze jerks the cords
Tight at the neck.
I am your puppet,
And not at all scary!
Now, look past
The shiny face
And molded plastic coif.
See my eyes freeze
When you'd swear
They were just in motion,
Tracking while
Your back was turned,
Busy with demonic things.
But you're not sure.
Regard these loose spider legs,
Bent back at the knee,
Sprawling on two rusty pins;
Awkward flimsy pendula
Are my witness.
I lay in sloth
Until Master speaks,
Incomprehensibly ordering
Though he knows
I have a wooden ear,
my rigid jaw jumping,
trying franticly to please.
This perpetual grin is an act,
as I suspect you know.
Unhand my string, you.
Your giant dampish palm
Slithers up my tiny back,
As familiar to me as
A hundred cocks to a porn-queen.
You prove the same;
I had a mind for freedom,
But you grind
The gem of deliverance
To dust with a leer.
My mouth makes sounds
Of your devising.
Innanities!
Always to suffer
The rape of my words!
Smiling,
You admire my vest,
Glance around as thieves do,
And I feel once again
My ebon plush prison
Fold me in fear.
Your strange hand admits
Sight into my case;
The lid slips, claps shut,
And lifts again.
Hush, He'll hear!
Hard enough to breathe
With no lungs, let alone
Shut up in black velvet,
Held against decay
Until a later date.
Each wheeze jerks the cords
Tight at the neck.
I am your puppet,
And not at all scary!
Now, look past
The shiny face
And molded plastic coif.
See my eyes freeze
When you'd swear
They were just in motion,
Tracking while
Your back was turned,
Busy with demonic things.
But you're not sure.
Regard these loose spider legs,
Bent back at the knee,
Sprawling on two rusty pins;
Awkward flimsy pendula
Are my witness.
I lay in sloth
Until Master speaks,
Incomprehensibly ordering
Though he knows
I have a wooden ear,
my rigid jaw jumping,
trying franticly to please.
This perpetual grin is an act,
as I suspect you know.
Unhand my string, you.
Your giant dampish palm
Slithers up my tiny back,
As familiar to me as
A hundred cocks to a porn-queen.
You prove the same;
I had a mind for freedom,
But you grind
The gem of deliverance
To dust with a leer.
My mouth makes sounds
Of your devising.
Innanities!
Always to suffer
The rape of my words!
Smiling,
You admire my vest,
Glance around as thieves do,
And I feel once again
My ebon plush prison
Fold me in fear.
Pistachios. You Heard Me. Pistachios.
Pistachio nuts are one of God's greatest gifts. I can eat a pound (preshelled) easily in one sitting, although I try to restrain myself. The flavor of a perfectly ripened pistachio is something that defies description, transcendental is some way, a bit of the Beyond vouchsafed to us. People I know when they eat them just rip the little guys apart, like tiny petrified clams, and chomp away. This is most incorrect.
Directions:
1. Check to see that the nut is split. Few things are as frustrating as a pistachio that won't open, that must be crushed between the teeth. The shell fragments are extremely hard, and their unyielding grit detroys the experience. Throw that one out, baby with bathwater.
2. Put the pistachio in your mouth, savoring fully the salt-mixed-with-pistachio vibe. Work it. When the last of the salt is gone, proceed to step 3.WARNING : this technique will eventually temporarily shrivel the inside of your lower lip, which gets irritated after a while. To me, it's worth it. YMMV.
3. Hook one end of the shell on your bottom incisors, holding the other side of the shell firmly between the fingers. Pull. The nut will drop right out of the shell into your mouth. Move the shell in your mouth to the front, and retrieve with fingers. Discard shell.
4. Usually there is an outer sheath around the fruit proper still present at this point. If not, proceed to step 5. If so, drag this off with your teeth and munch around on it for a while, while keeping the pistachio fruit hidden away between your cheek and gum, or wherever you think it should go.
5. Go for the pistachio itself. There are several ways to do this. Crunching it up and swallowing are fine, you've gone the distance. However, occasionally, such as when watching a movie, a wholly new experience can be had by holding the pistachio with your index finger and thumb. Scrape your bottom front teeth on the fruit back and forth, creating a fine powder that has a majestic flavor. Quite a pain in the neck to do normally; best saved for when lounging about indolently.
Note : every once in a while, you will encounter a bad pistachio. I don't know if they're rotten, or were never good to begin with, but when you get one, you'll know it, and be very sorry. The bad ones are truly horrific. It's just one of those things that you have to endure to get the joy. There's nothing to be done.
There you have it. Enjoy your nuts.
Directions:
1. Check to see that the nut is split. Few things are as frustrating as a pistachio that won't open, that must be crushed between the teeth. The shell fragments are extremely hard, and their unyielding grit detroys the experience. Throw that one out, baby with bathwater.
2. Put the pistachio in your mouth, savoring fully the salt-mixed-with-pistachio vibe. Work it. When the last of the salt is gone, proceed to step 3.
3. Hook one end of the shell on your bottom incisors, holding the other side of the shell firmly between the fingers. Pull. The nut will drop right out of the shell into your mouth. Move the shell in your mouth to the front, and retrieve with fingers. Discard shell.
4. Usually there is an outer sheath around the fruit proper still present at this point. If not, proceed to step 5. If so, drag this off with your teeth and munch around on it for a while, while keeping the pistachio fruit hidden away between your cheek and gum, or wherever you think it should go.
5. Go for the pistachio itself. There are several ways to do this. Crunching it up and swallowing are fine, you've gone the distance. However, occasionally, such as when watching a movie, a wholly new experience can be had by holding the pistachio with your index finger and thumb. Scrape your bottom front teeth on the fruit back and forth, creating a fine powder that has a majestic flavor. Quite a pain in the neck to do normally; best saved for when lounging about indolently.
There you have it. Enjoy your nuts.
Weapons-Grade Peppers
A while ago, I was at a friend's house, watching exquisitely bad zombie movies. Awesomely bad. But the films eventually ended, and there we were, bored, movie-less. What to do? What could three bored men think of to do at 11pm of an evening? Suddenly, much like Robert Plant claims to have received the lyrics to Stairway to Heaven, an idea sprang into my head unbidden, and lo: it was good!
"Who's got money?" I yelled into the kitchen.
"Why?"
"I have an idea. C'est une bonne idée."
"I dunno, five bucks or so. And knock off the frogtalk."
"Ok. I have, say, maybe twenty."
"Why?"
"Heh-heh. You'll see. Rich, clean the kitchen. Spencer, come with me."
So Spence and I got in my car and headed off to local 24-hour supermarket. Once there we raised a few eyebrows at the check-out by purchasing a pair of yellow rubber dishwashing gloves and forty fresh habañero peppers. If you have never been introduced to the volcanic might of a habañero pepper, you don't really know what hot is. My idea was to see how concentrated one could make the hot stuff at home without breaking laws. On second thought, screw the laws.
Off to the liquor store! There I purchased one pint of Everclear, an evil spirit on the order of 190 proof: for all intents and purposes, pure ethanol. Since ethanol dissolves oils, we needed this stuff to extract the oils out of the peppers and get the crucial ingredient into a liquid solution. A tincture, if you will. Well and good. Proceed.
Off to the drugstore! We needed to buy clear goggles against any unfortunate splashing. Anyone who has gotten a little hot pepper in the eyes can imagine just how many orders of magnitude worse it would be if the stuff were concentrated.
Back to headquarters, where Rich had done an admirable job of cleaning the counter surfaces of the kitchen. I took the peppers and tossed them into the electric blender, and let it rip. Ok, already my eyes were watering from the fumes of merely fresh habañeros. I let that run for a while, trying to chop up as many of the seeds as possible (where much of the oil resides), and then carefully poured in the Everclear. This we left to sit overnight to maximize the amount of oil extracted.
The active compound in hot peppers is called capsaicin. This is a fiendish irritant, normally dilute enough in peppers not to harm flesh. This is where we come in. The idea is that the capsaicin would be in suspension in the alcohol, and damn-near pure alcohol evaporates very readily at one atmosphere of pressure and slightly above room temperature. So next day, we carefully poured out all the pepper/booze mash, and used coffee filters to separate the pulp from the orange liquid. This liquid we put in a shallow bowl, put that in a saucepan with shallow water, and very gently heated the water. Within a half an hour, all the ethanol was gone.
Since capsaicin does not evaporate, we were left with a slightly viscous brick-red oil, sporting an indescribably vile odor. This we let sit at room temp again. As the oil completely cooled, a darker layer of oil formed over the top of the more orange oils underneath. Rich produced a medicine dropper, and we VERY CAREFULLY pipetted off the top layer and put it in a clean baby-food jar. We had isolated a puddle of oil from forty habañeros that measured only 1mm deep in a baby-food jar.
Since it was my idea, it was up to me to test it. So, I took a toothpick, touched the end to the hellish compound, and touched (as both of my friends leaned in eagerly) the tip to the inside of my forearm. Instantly, the flesh blistered with a faint short hiss. The area affected was so small there was no real pain, but I could see this was not something that I would enjoy having dumped on myself. It was apparent that we had created a bad thing. We diluted the stuff with a lot of water, and poured it down the drain. If we were to store it, we would have had to label the jar with poison and acid stickers, even though capsaicin is not an acid. It destroys living tissue only, by coming into contact with cells and binding to the lipid bilayer cell membrane, and then ripping it apart, which as you can imagine bodes ill for the cell. Also, what would be the point of storing it, since it has no food value at all; you'd wish you were dead if this got in your mouth.
Incidentally, habañero peppers typically score at about a 150,000 on the Scoville heat index for capsaicin. Spence has a degree in chemistry and somehow mathematically calculated that what we had made so easily was around 5-6 million on the same scale.
Yikes.
"Who's got money?" I yelled into the kitchen.
"Why?"
"I have an idea. C'est une bonne idée."
"I dunno, five bucks or so. And knock off the frogtalk."
"Ok. I have, say, maybe twenty."
"Why?"
"Heh-heh. You'll see. Rich, clean the kitchen. Spencer, come with me."
So Spence and I got in my car and headed off to local 24-hour supermarket. Once there we raised a few eyebrows at the check-out by purchasing a pair of yellow rubber dishwashing gloves and forty fresh habañero peppers. If you have never been introduced to the volcanic might of a habañero pepper, you don't really know what hot is. My idea was to see how concentrated one could make the hot stuff at home without breaking laws. On second thought, screw the laws.
Off to the liquor store! There I purchased one pint of Everclear, an evil spirit on the order of 190 proof: for all intents and purposes, pure ethanol. Since ethanol dissolves oils, we needed this stuff to extract the oils out of the peppers and get the crucial ingredient into a liquid solution. A tincture, if you will. Well and good. Proceed.
Off to the drugstore! We needed to buy clear goggles against any unfortunate splashing. Anyone who has gotten a little hot pepper in the eyes can imagine just how many orders of magnitude worse it would be if the stuff were concentrated.
Back to headquarters, where Rich had done an admirable job of cleaning the counter surfaces of the kitchen. I took the peppers and tossed them into the electric blender, and let it rip. Ok, already my eyes were watering from the fumes of merely fresh habañeros. I let that run for a while, trying to chop up as many of the seeds as possible (where much of the oil resides), and then carefully poured in the Everclear. This we left to sit overnight to maximize the amount of oil extracted.
The active compound in hot peppers is called capsaicin. This is a fiendish irritant, normally dilute enough in peppers not to harm flesh. This is where we come in. The idea is that the capsaicin would be in suspension in the alcohol, and damn-near pure alcohol evaporates very readily at one atmosphere of pressure and slightly above room temperature. So next day, we carefully poured out all the pepper/booze mash, and used coffee filters to separate the pulp from the orange liquid. This liquid we put in a shallow bowl, put that in a saucepan with shallow water, and very gently heated the water. Within a half an hour, all the ethanol was gone.
Since capsaicin does not evaporate, we were left with a slightly viscous brick-red oil, sporting an indescribably vile odor. This we let sit at room temp again. As the oil completely cooled, a darker layer of oil formed over the top of the more orange oils underneath. Rich produced a medicine dropper, and we VERY CAREFULLY pipetted off the top layer and put it in a clean baby-food jar. We had isolated a puddle of oil from forty habañeros that measured only 1mm deep in a baby-food jar.
Since it was my idea, it was up to me to test it. So, I took a toothpick, touched the end to the hellish compound, and touched (as both of my friends leaned in eagerly) the tip to the inside of my forearm. Instantly, the flesh blistered with a faint short hiss. The area affected was so small there was no real pain, but I could see this was not something that I would enjoy having dumped on myself. It was apparent that we had created a bad thing. We diluted the stuff with a lot of water, and poured it down the drain. If we were to store it, we would have had to label the jar with poison and acid stickers, even though capsaicin is not an acid. It destroys living tissue only, by coming into contact with cells and binding to the lipid bilayer cell membrane, and then ripping it apart, which as you can imagine bodes ill for the cell. Also, what would be the point of storing it, since it has no food value at all; you'd wish you were dead if this got in your mouth.
Incidentally, habañero peppers typically score at about a 150,000 on the Scoville heat index for capsaicin. Spence has a degree in chemistry and somehow mathematically calculated that what we had made so easily was around 5-6 million on the same scale.
Yikes.
Where Is Thy Sting?
I am going to die.
I've intellectually accepted this since I was a small child; I can even remember the first time I played with the idea. I had just stolen some candy from Mock's Variety Store in my home town, and as I ate it outside, sitting on a bike, the thought of my own death came uninvited upon me in a distant, vague way.
I am going to die and I hope it won't hurt.
One day, I'll be like the cat that Dad backed the car over, slowly, snapping its spine audibly. What violence! Thrashing in the gravel, the furry beast turned its head and looked its last on the boy who stood slack-jawed nearby, and as its pupils gaped wide and its fanged gums bleached white, as it stared at and then through me, drowning in an ocean of inarticulate fear, part of me slipped away down with it into the void. Gone, gone...gone. Then so still, a cooling thing. And after we had gathered around and showed the proper familial remorse, Dad asked me to throw deadkitty across the road. I put out my hand and clutched the tail. It was heavier far than it had ever been, heavier than I ever had dreamed a housecat could be. I could hear my blood. Dread coated my tongue. Horror giggled like an imbecile in my head as I walked the thousand miles to the old country road. When I clumsily threw it, an affront to its tiny dignity, it flipped end over end to stop with a thudding swish, out of sight in the tall grass.
One day, I'll be thrown in the grass. Time's a-wastin', boy. I hope it won't hurt.
Here is a dying thing.
I happened upon a man in a ditch once. He had upended his Jeep after hitting a culvert, the impact flinging him far from the wreckage. It was winter, the snow red around him. He was screaming through his beard into the slush, his body broken. I covered him with my coat, ran to the nearest house, called 911, and ran back. Then, because I-don't-know-why, I knelt and watched. And as I watched him loudly dying, wreathed in pain, all of the familiar horror-tang in me welled up and fell out onto the ground with his blood, and I was left emptied, a vessel, a dumb recorder, a slate whose chalk cuts clean through the black. His one good eye flickered and fluttered up (please, please don't look up!) and there was the hole in the sky. NO! There I stayed transfixed until hands pulled me back from the brink, strange mouths babbling questions, questions, the world pulsing with deathray lights. And so much more than the cat, he knew he was dying. Oh, we both knew. I never again wore that coat in quite the same way.
Now, I don't merely know I will die. I feel it. The Eternal Footman is holding my coat, snickering, and kindly stopping for me. I curse, bless you now, with my fierce tears! I hope it won't hurt. Oh my God, I hope it won't hurt.
I've intellectually accepted this since I was a small child; I can even remember the first time I played with the idea. I had just stolen some candy from Mock's Variety Store in my home town, and as I ate it outside, sitting on a bike, the thought of my own death came uninvited upon me in a distant, vague way.
I am going to die and I hope it won't hurt.
One day, I'll be like the cat that Dad backed the car over, slowly, snapping its spine audibly. What violence! Thrashing in the gravel, the furry beast turned its head and looked its last on the boy who stood slack-jawed nearby, and as its pupils gaped wide and its fanged gums bleached white, as it stared at and then through me, drowning in an ocean of inarticulate fear, part of me slipped away down with it into the void. Gone, gone...gone. Then so still, a cooling thing. And after we had gathered around and showed the proper familial remorse, Dad asked me to throw deadkitty across the road. I put out my hand and clutched the tail. It was heavier far than it had ever been, heavier than I ever had dreamed a housecat could be. I could hear my blood. Dread coated my tongue. Horror giggled like an imbecile in my head as I walked the thousand miles to the old country road. When I clumsily threw it, an affront to its tiny dignity, it flipped end over end to stop with a thudding swish, out of sight in the tall grass.
One day, I'll be thrown in the grass. Time's a-wastin', boy. I hope it won't hurt.
Here is a dying thing.
I happened upon a man in a ditch once. He had upended his Jeep after hitting a culvert, the impact flinging him far from the wreckage. It was winter, the snow red around him. He was screaming through his beard into the slush, his body broken. I covered him with my coat, ran to the nearest house, called 911, and ran back. Then, because I-don't-know-why, I knelt and watched. And as I watched him loudly dying, wreathed in pain, all of the familiar horror-tang in me welled up and fell out onto the ground with his blood, and I was left emptied, a vessel, a dumb recorder, a slate whose chalk cuts clean through the black. His one good eye flickered and fluttered up (please, please don't look up!) and there was the hole in the sky. NO! There I stayed transfixed until hands pulled me back from the brink, strange mouths babbling questions, questions, the world pulsing with deathray lights. And so much more than the cat, he knew he was dying. Oh, we both knew. I never again wore that coat in quite the same way.
Now, I don't merely know I will die. I feel it. The Eternal Footman is holding my coat, snickering, and kindly stopping for me. I curse, bless you now, with my fierce tears! I hope it won't hurt. Oh my God, I hope it won't hurt.
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