Peace, love, contentment, to all.
To that day. When we all go together.
Into the great wide open.
because the light is beautiful
Peace, love, contentment, to all.
To that day. When we all go together.
Into the great wide open.
F. Scott Fitzgerald saw it. To the bottom of every bottle. Which, early—44—killed him.
No matter. He got it right. Wrote the Great American Novel. The Great Gatsby. Which ends with this:
Most of the big shore places were closed now and there were hardly any lights except the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the Sound. And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away. Until gradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors’ eyes—a fresh, green breast of the new world. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby’s house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.
And as I sat there, brooding on the old unknown world, I thought of Gatsby’s wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.
Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther . . . . And one fine morning—
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
The green light, it will never be attained, as Fitzgerald knew, on this continent, by white people. Because they do not belong here. It was a mistake, for them to ever to have come. To this place. Because it is not their place.
The green light, they can bask in it—the white people—when, “boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past,” they return to from where they came. Where they should, forever, have remained.
the little bird; all that there is
From the beginning, as a Spanish colonial town, Los Angeles was a tough place, whose first building was the jail. After the Mexicans were dispossessed by the Yankees in the 1850s, with a chicanery that is typical of the place, it remained for the next twenty years the worst frontier outpost in the West, with whorehouses, weekend murders, and frequent lynchings of Chinese and Mexicans. The Protestant churches even closed down and abandoned the city to the devil—and the Roman Catholic Church.
—Frank MacShane, The Life of Raymond Chandler
Time for another episode of “Overheard in LA,” in which little conversational gems culled—okay, stolen—from the laist featurette are rendered here for red readers. I so enjoyed the last one I posted, back there in September, that I thought I’d put up another.
To refresh: these are Real words, uttered by Real lost angels, which touchingly reveal who they are, and what they are about.
—”Oh my god, I just realized they didn’t play ‘Gangam Style’ at our wedding!”
—”Oh my god, that dog is so cute. You should have it stuffed when it dies.”
—”Oh my god, I just got the best parking spot. I am going to change all my plans for the day.”
—”Why would anyone squeeze juice out of a giant mammal and drink it?”
—”If they can make watermelons seedless, I’m pretty sure they can make dogs that don’t shit.”
—”I don’t need to be drunk to be a stripper.”
—”After a wax, all my follicles are sore.”
—”It looks like the collagen is only in half of my lip!”
—”I spend a lot of time alone, so I change my look a lot so the people I talk to in the mirror always look different.”
—”People in L.A. are terrible drivers. Trust me, I almost hit a bicyclist, like, every day.”
—”Don’t you just hate it when your WiFi doesn’t reach your hot tub?”
—”Yeah, I guess I could just go home and write some songs.”
—”She never worked again after she got a nose job.”
—Young woman: “If I pay for coffee on a date, I devalue myself.”
—”You are the first guy I have dated in years that doesn’t have an iPhone. I still feel weird that your messages aren’t blue.”
—”I’m going to outsource my next breakup.”
—”He wasn’t a vegan. He was a Vulcan. It’s a different dietary situation.”
—”They’ve gotten more sexy now: Brussels sprouts.”
—”Spit that gum ball out. It’s not good for you. IT’S NOT SUGAR FREE.”
—”It’s a paleo, gluten-free, probiotic wrap. And it’s farm-to-table!”
—”Maybe I’m, like, just not meant to eat kale.”
—”I wouldn’t say I’m manorexic, but I’m giving up sugars and dinners.”
—”Whatever you do, Aaron, don’t get blackballed from Bay Cities the way our last intern did.”
—”My brother was re-birthed in a men’s group today. He literally simulated a vaginal water birth in a pool surrounded by men. He really had some breakthroughs. Apparently our mom was stressed during labor.”
—”I swear on my hamster’s life.”
—”I hate Waze. Buncha assholes telling me how to drive. I don’t need to crowd source my self-loathing.”
—”Halloween stresses me out. I can’t tell if people are celebrating early, or just back from their estheticians.”
—”I’m really shocked by the lack of Jesus in California.”
—”Will there be Xanax in heaven?”
Recently I excoriated the Lay’s people for having, in my opinion, gone stone-mad, in unleashing upon the land “Cheesy Garlic Bread” potato chips.
The horror. The horror.
I could come up with no reasonable explanation for this. Except perhaps that, in this merger-happy nation, Lay’s had merged with an insane asylum, and so certified lunatics were now churning out the chips.
But today I have to reassess this conclusion. Because evidence is emerging that Lay’s, with its various and sundry waffle and garlic-bread chips, may actually be paddling in what these days passes for the mainstream of American commerce. Now that I have learned of bacon-scented deodorant.
Now, I like bacon. But I like it in my mouth. I like what my taste buds have to say about it. I have never considered applying it to my body. Much less affixing a couple strips to my armpits.
But who am I to say? Matt Drudge, we know, when he engages in sexual congress, likes to get all drippy and gooey with raw eggs. Maybe he also likes his partners to grease up with fresh raw bacon. Bacon and eggs, as we know, go well together. Maybe this sort of thing brings new meaning to “squeal like a pig.”
Maybe for such people J&D’s Foods new $9.99 “Power Bacon deodorant” is just the ticket. A wonderment described by the company thusly:
For When You Sweat Like A Pig. POWER BACON is the Meaty Fresh evolution of J&D’s meat flavored and scented health and beauty products division. Designed specifically for people with active lifestyles, POWER BACON provides 24 hours of Bacon Scent. For all day meat scented protection apply liberally. Do not eat, leave exposed to sunlight or explore the wilderness without a firearm(s).
I think probably something is going on in the country that I don’t understand. I think maybe I need to fill the larder with Chicken & Waffle potato chips, lather my pits with Power Bacon deodorant, get me a coupla guns, and then call a radio talk-show, wherein I shall squeal like a pig that New World Order black helicopters are forcing me to enroll in Obamacare.
Then, perhaps, at last, I shall be an American.
Recently I have been encountering references to something called a “Miley Cyrus.”
Then, the Truth, it became clear to me. When I realized that we were not talking about “Miley Cyrus.” But, rather, mileycyrus. This being the scientific name for a sad and debilitating birth defect in which the sufferer is born with a tongue entirely too large to fit inside the mouth. And so it flops around outside all the time.
Now that Science Men have announced they have discovered a way to monkey with genes so that all Wrongness and Weirdness may be evicted from embryos, mileycyrus shall soon be a thing of the past.
And not a moment too soon.
. . . from Election Central . . . .
While elsewhere on the tubes tonight people are being snored into somnambulism by the anti-news that Captain LapBand, a.k.a. the Baron Harkonnen, a.k.a. Chris “Meaty, Beaty, Big, and Bouncy” Christie, has secured a sentence of a second term as governor of the incredibly foul and indescribably noxious uber-fart known as New Jersey, and that some ugly ooze-slug of a Democrat has slimed into the governorship of Virginia, because his dufe GOoPer opponent was so batshit insane he even called upon the febrile fuck-brained “chain-the-nig*ers” nimrod Pawn Rawl to wildly ejaculate the confederate flag at his final rallies, we, we here at red, are offering the Real News: that is, that AvoWoman has been elected mayor of the Minnesota metropolis known as Icepick.
People who Don’t Know think that Icepick is actually called Minneapolis. But that is because they Don’t Know. In truth, and in all realms of Reality, as soon as all the region’s native peoples were all buggered out, the place became known, to all its white inhabitants, as Icepick. Because it is so often so fucking cold there that an icepick is required to perform even the simplest tasks: opening the front door, gathering firewood, grooming the cat, cooking a meal, making the bed, engaging in sexual congress.
These, the Icepickians, have long been the hardiest of American souls. Though it’s not like they really knew any better. Because most of them sprang from some sort of Viking stock—Norwegians, Swedes, Finns, Normans, High Germans, etc.—and so they considered it perfectly normal that one had to wield an icepick to, say, carve one’s sexual partner out of an ice cave before beginning the breeding season.
Those who did not consider this normal; those who did not spring from any sort of Viking stock; those who, among these non-Vikings, settled in Icepick; they really quickly died. Like fucking fruit-flies.
But: lo. A new dawn. It is shining brightly. On Icepick.
For global warming, which in so many elsewheres, has so many people shrieking their undies into their ovaries—well, over there in Icepick, it has people sunnily rolling the dice on avocado futures.
Because the ice, in Icepick, it has gone astray.
The cold, more and more, it has forgotten to come.
And thus, Icepick, it is poised—yea, verily—to become the new premier avocado-growing region, of all the planet.
There were Some who saw this. But none of the Some saw it as did AvoWoman. Who saw not only that Icepick would be growing whole town-rows of avocados. But also saw that people would next be wearing avocados.
Avocados. The clothes of the future.
The photo. Over there to the left. Depicting the common everyday costume of the Icepickian. Before the illumination that was vouchsafed to AvoWoman. Which resulted in her AvoWear.
Clearly, there needed to be a Change.
A change now embraced by all Decent citizens of Icepick. Who have, this night, ecstatically elevated AvoWoman to the mayoralty.
. . . . we interrupt this program for a special news bulletin . . . .
This here site, red, is now in possession of the full text of the victory speech emitted by AvoWoman. She having this night overwhelmingly been elected mayor of Icepick. These, her Words of Wisdom, we reprint, exclusively, below:
Your full embrace of the platform of environmentally friendly high fashion meets prison abolition is a tribute to the long standing progressive legacy of Icepick.
I am honored to be your Mayor. I promise to Do Better than that Man from Toronto.
And now, let me go shovel some snow :/
Yeah, but what does AvoWoman really want? This, the two or three readers of red who are at any one time fitfully conscious: they might wanna, maybe, someday, know.
Well. Shit. Because I am an omniscient being, one aided greatly by my access to all and every NSA intercept, I suppose I could go ahead and here reveal previously private conversations that indicate that AvoWoman is, probably, an imp of Satan.
We begin with a September 13, 2013 missive from Satan himself. Who suggests, temptingly, to AvoWoman:
You can campaign in AvoWear, and announce that you will appoint a cat as chief of police. You can propose mining the bridge to St. Paul, to keep those people out, and suggest an electrified fence at the state border, to take out any blind Iowans who attempt to wander over with their six-guns. Your jobs program can consist of starting the Icepick cheese industry, since Wisconsans are simply too embarrassing to be allowed to make cheese. Any Icepickian caught with cheese on their head will be forced by city ordinance to clean the sidewalks with a toothbrush.
AvoWoman, already a shrewd political operative, replies thusly:
You know—that’s kinda an appealing thought. Not a bad platform—especially the part about Police Chief and the electrified border w/Iowa. Possible appeal to many constituencies.
The NSA intercepts next indicate that crazed penis-hacking lesbians will be running hog-wild throughout AvoWoman’s godless anti-man administration.
The evidence, as ever, begins with a tempting missive from Satan:
Am I remembering right that there were one or more lesbian students who really Wanted you? These could serve as your security/bodyguards, when you are AvoMayor.
To which AvoWoman replies:
And yes you do remember correctly. More—maybe many?? So i have wardrobe, an Icepick-centric platform, a press secretary, and security.
The evidence: it is irrefutable.
No penis, is hereafter safe, in Icepick. Now that there is AvoWoman, as AvoMayor.
Why has the News Media not picked up on this? Why is red the only Fount of True Knowledge? And why do we even care if a penis survives in AvoWoman’s city? Where previously a penis was serviceable only if it was pried outta the permafrost with one or more icepicks? Why don’t we just listen to Lou Reed?
Mort Sahl is an American satirist who for many years made a career of walking on stage with a newspaper; he then proceeded to consult the headlines, in order to effectively mock the day’s political news.
It is said that Sahl retired sometime during the Nixon administration, having glumly concluded that the news was now satirizing itself: there was no longer any place for him. The political world had become so absurd and unsane, the news itself had usurped Sahl’s former role. A great Tear had occurred in the fabric of Reality, so that it was no longer possible to discern the Real, from the Joke.
The Sahl-retirement story probably isn’t true, but it should be. Richard Nixon, for instance, couldn’t possibly have been Real. And Sahl no doubt sensed this. Nixon was instead a character from a Robert Coover novel. Nixon was followed into the presidency by a former football player who never wore a helmet and who fell down the ramp whenever Air Force One landed. Next came a born-again nuclear-powered peanut farmer. Anyone who previously had pitched a work of fiction featuring as president a born-again nuclear-powered peanut farmer would have been shown the door. On the grounds that such a thing strayed just too far from the Real. Then, Ronald Reagan, who was clearly impossible, an Alzheimers-afflicted animatronic-being escaped from a Disney lab.
With Reagan’s successor, that’s when they really started getting obvious about it. Whoever “they” might be. With George I, who, in his convention acceptance speech, said “read my lips: no new taxes.” Even though he had no lips. Once in office, this comedic character indulged in absurdities like hauling a big bag of crack cocaine into the Oval Office, there to display it to the American people. Not even all the many pounds of Peruvian Marching Powder in the offices of Saturday Night Live would have inspired that show’s writers to concoct a president who played with a bag of crack during a nationally televised presidential address. George I they followed into office with an insatiable six-foot-tall penis. And, in the course of things, we were expected to believe that, in the late 20th Century, the political class of an entire nation would devote 18 straight months to minutely tracing every peregrination of this penis. Just as we were next expected to believe George II was the son of George I, when it was clear the man was actually Andy Kaufman.
And the nonsense continues to this day. Where, during the arc of Kaufman’s presidency, the two men on all the planet identified as America’s premier boogeymen were Saddam Hussein and Osama bin Laden. So they next roll into the presidency some guy named Barack Hussein Obama. No one could make up such a thing. And no one has to. Because it is Reality.
Of course, it is not only in politics where the Joke is inseparable from the Real. Which brings us to the hideous photo from which you are averting your eyes, above. Here, we are expected to believe that humans shall soon stroll the streets wearing “food helmets,” a.k.a. the Algaculture Symbiosis Suit. Instead of whistling while they work, humans shall grow algae, with their breath, piped into a series of wormy tubes draped all over their heads. Then, at the end of the day, the algae, they shall eat it.
[The suit] grows food while wearers go about their daily business. A series of tubes, placed in front of the mouth, capture carbon dioxide and feed it to a constantly growing population of suit-embedded algae. But algae needs sunlight to grow, right? Easy, the wearer just needs to sit by a window or go outside.
You probably consume more algae than you think. That sushi you had last night and the ice cream you had for dessert, even the mayonnaise you spread on your lunchtime turkey sandwich—all have derivatives of algae.
“Algaculture designs a new symbiotic relationship between humans and algae. It proposes a future where humans will be enhanced with algae living inside new bodily organs, allowing us to be semi-photosynthetic[.]“
Yesterday came news that Science Men are now guesstimating that some 8.8 billion Earth-like planets exist in this galaxy. Out there in the dimmer precincts of the intertubes, humans immediately began wailing: “if there are so many Earth-like places out there, which must have lifes on them, how for come none of these lifes have contacted us Americans?”
The answer to this is both simple, and obvious. Intelligent life in this universe is deliberately eschewing direct contact with the human species. Until such time as said species get its Reality straight. And so no longer indulges in such weirdsmobiles as the Algaculture Symbiosis Suit. Or Richard Nixon.
There is much wisdom here. Such as “i don’t care,” “still rednecks?”, “roadkill wolf,” and “florida, aka penis gun freakyland.”
It would be an easy thing, to mock this down-under denizen’s efforts. But think on it: how good might ye be, in identifying the states of Australia? I used to know something or two about that nation, but these days I would be hardpressed to do better than scrawl identifiers like ”kangaroos,” “jungle part,” “chunder central,” and “endless endless desert with a big orange rock out there somewhere.”
Meanwhile, a busy-beaver team led by a shrink and an American expat has determined that the US may be successfully regionalized by personality and temperament. This is sort of the “mood ring” view of the nation. According to these people, there are apparently three Known regions of the US, in which citizens are, variously, Friendly and Conventional, Relaxed and Creative, and Temperamental and Uninhibited. If you go here, you can take a little test, which will determine in which state you should best reside.
I was informed that I belong in Massachusetts.
Though I don’t think I want to go there. Not to a place like this:
A Norton elementary school was locked down briefly today when a woman who was trying to use the bathroom tried to enter the building through multiple doors, police said.
School officials were suspicious when the woman, who had no ties to the Joseph C. Solmonese School, tried to gain entry multiple times. They called police at around 10:45 a.m. and put the school in lockdown mode, said Lieutenant Todd Jackson.
Investigators spoke with the woman, who just wanted to use the bathroom, Jackson said.
“It turned out to be nothing,” Jackson said. “The school did a great job doing what they were supposed to do.”
The school was only locked down for about 20 minutes. No charges are being filed against the woman, Jackson said.
Though, you know, I suppose such a thing could, and would, happen anywhere, there in the US of A, these days. Probably they should just change the name of the entire nation, to Fear.
Okay, this I think is pretty cool.
My new goal is to access and enter the universe where I can get lit up like that, and then move into and through the tubes, to appear—small, but noticeable—drifting across the monitor, dancing, distractedly, wherever anyone might be Worried and Concerned, about something on their screen that they see. Lighten up, some, things.
I have just been informed, by the Chief Panjandrum of the David Bowie Is The Greatest Of All Gods Marching And Chowder Society (Icepick Division), that Bowie has been proclaimed “the best-dressed person in British history.”
“Bowie had to overcome a king, two queens and a political heavyweight to triumph in our poll, and in doing so has struck a blow for 20th and 21st-century fashions,” editor Rob Attar said. “David Bowie has received many accolades in his glittering career, but surely none of them compare to [this].”
First, it is the work of but 4000 people who submitted online ballots in a poll conducted by the website arm of BBC History Magazine. This means either that Bowie people somehow got wind of this poll, and quickly flooded it with paeans to the Master, or that BBC History Magazine is congenitally the vortex of a dangerous Bowoid cult, one that should probably be Suppressed.
Second, Bowie is not a “person.” As revealed in the documentary film The Man Who Fell To Earth, he is an alien being who came to this planet in search of water. Instead, he encountered alcohol. In which he proceeded to become permanently immersed.
Third, his name is not “Bowie.” He is in truth David Robert Jones. And, as set forth in the documentary television series Fringe, he has been about, in several universes, trying to crash the whole place to a close. Fortunately, he is, in all and every universe, inevitably ultimately upended by universe-hopping people powered by hallucinogens.
Fourth, neither Jones/Bowie, nor any other male human and/or alien in the entire history of Britain, has ever, at any time, been better dressed, than is Kate Winslet, when she is naked.
Fifth, I recently purchased a small print of Jules Breton’s The Song Of The Lark. I submit that the woman pictured therein should have been awarded the BBC History Magazine appellation. Because she is Real. And so is what she is wearing. Which is probably all the clothes that she owns. She is down in the dirt of it, of human existence, as experienced by 99% of the people ever to populate this planet. And yet she is singing.
It could be objected that the Song Of The Lark woman should be disqualified, because Breton was a French painter. But so what. As is well-known, the French overran Britain in 1066. And therefore everybody there, since, has been, really, French. It’s just that, after near a millennium on that wintry windswept isle, all their teeth went bad, and they forgot how to have good sex.
People in the television burrow of ABC, beyond a shadow of a doubt giddy and giggly on fun drugs, decided, a couple days ago, that The Thing To Do was to outrageously ravage a promotional spot for some new Once Upon A Time network slop-show.
By inducing Alice in Wonderland‘s White Rabbit, to inscribe a circular hole over Snow White’s vagina, and then leap head-first into it.
Thereby, bringing new meaning, to the phrase “down the rabbit hole.”
No satisfactory explanation, has yet emerged, to explain this weirdness.
Clearly, these people, were just fucked up on drugs. And so, went with it.
And good for them.
Better this. Than what the sober TV people ceaselessly push forth.
Non-stop blood-pornography. Of humans dead and suffering. Accompanied by all the shiny happy pushers of video-games. Coldly, methodically, slaveringly, inducing, deliberately training, the young ones, to kill.
Pigs have feet for a reason. So they can stand, and walk, and run around on them.
So they do not need to be carried by humans.
This is Wrong.
Last night I was watching a film about Levon Helm, and in it he noted that the reason why people in his crew put rings in the noses of their pigs is because otherwise the pigs are apt to use their powerful snuffling abilities to dig massive sinkholes, upend tractors, relocate houses.
This brought to mind one early Sunday morning, some years ago, when I answered a knock at my door to encounter my sleep-tousled and irritated neighbor, who had arrived to inform me that my pig, Eleanor, had just knocked his house off its foundation.
No fence made by the hands of man, or even woman, could contain Eleanor. And apparently she had felt, this morn, the need to go root and rock the neighbor’s house. I think maybe the neighbor had earlier said something rude to her.
These things happen.
That pig in the picture, s/he don’t have no ring in the nose. So that police officer better watch out. His house, I reckon, is likely soon to move.
Sometimes, for reasons I don’t feel like disclosing here, at least right now, I read this intertubes thing called laist, self-described as a Los Angeles-centric web portal covering “local news, events, food and entertainment; targeted at young urbanites.”
For instance, they offer a recurring feature dubbed “Overheard In LA.” In which readers submit things they have heard fellow Lost Angels emitting, while out and about.
And this stuff: it’s pretty much jaw-dropping. What they reveal about themselves.
And a coupla hand-claps, for them, for that.
For we would never, for instance, get anything anywhere near like this, out of New York City. For those people are so arrogant, so supremely unaware, they could never permit, such naked self-reflection.
Anyway. Here’s a sampling. Culled from the past couple months or so, of “Overheard In LA.”
—”There’s nothing worse than bad lighting. Well, except, like, war and hunger.”
—”Country clubs are really hurting right now.”
—”Oh my god, the walk of shame is so much worse in LA, because no one walks here!”
—”The problem with Karl Rove is that his face looks like canned ham.”
—”We were having so much fun! But then that stupid girl died and ruined it for the rest of us.”
—”You know how a few weekends ago it was incredibly hot out? Well, I slept with an ex, because I wanted to use a pool. So LA of me, and totally worth it.”
—”I really want to lay down, but I just got Botox, so I have to be upright for a few hours. I’m so mad!”
—”I don’t want to act anymore. I just want to model.”
—”Do you need me to demonstrate that I’m willing to do nudity?”
—Small child: “These pockets aren’t big enough for my cellphone.”
—2-year-old: “Let’s go to brunch.”
—”No, Sarah. Pet the bunny gently. Like an iPad.”
—”What’s with all those cars with pink mustaches on the front bumper? Is that a Trayvon Martin thing?”
—”I want to do a photograph project down in skid row. At like, magic hour. When the bums come out.”
—”He just really likes the smell of cocaine.”
—”He’s a manager at Taco Bell, but he’s also a real artist.”
—”I really respect men more after the first time I wore a strapon. That’s a lot of work!”
—”It’s a vegetarian Dalmatian. Isn’t that amazing?”
—”There’s food over here. You eat, right?”
—”I need to go get my raw milk. I haven’t had it in three days and I’m, like, shaking.”
—”Are you gluten-free, or Jewish?”
—”I would love to experience an earthquake, but in a safe environment.”
—”Yeah, we gave the dog ecstasy, too.”
—”Can we sit with our backs to the sun? I just spent a shitload lasering my face.”
—”Larry bought her a BMW, so she loves him again.”
—”No you can’t buy a $40,000 horse. The budget is twenty-five.”
—”The first date was good because I didn’t know his income level yet.”
—“You’re dating an aspiring actor? You need to date an established actor.”
—”I wanna learn how to speak Braille.”
—Guy: “I don’t have issues, she only does lesbian porn, for the most part.”
—”I am so excited to be dumped! I haven’t been single since Grindr went online.”
—”I hope my therapist googled me so she knows who the fuck she’s talking to.”
—”I either do the right thing and call LAPD, or have his legs broken.”
—”Having an Egyptian father is so indie.”
—”I wasn’t sure if I should go have Italian food because I’m also starting a cleanse this week.”
—”I can’t believe that picture of my balls is still on the Internet!”
—”He left me for someone who sleeps in headgear.”
—”I’ll probably go out to dinner with him, but I Zillowed his address.”
—”I slept with my agent so he knows how much I’m really worth next time he negotiates my quote.”
—Black woman describing The Blair Witch Project: “Some foul-mouthed white children lost in the woods.”
—”Is that a smelly pen? Because if it is, it’s going to wreck my whole coffee experience.”
—”Thinking about dirty pink panties makes my carrot taste worse.”
—”My mouth tastes like I made a bad decision last night.”
—Someone on hold: “Fuck this Christmas music! I’m a Jew!”
—”I want to look a little gang-bangy.”
—”He would eat at the influenza truck if it had a good Yelp review.”
—”My husband doesn’t really like my boyfriend.”
—”Quinoa is kind of 2011.”
—”I feel like I wasn’t tweeting organically.”
—Woman to her screaming 5 1/2-month-old: “We’re not on set right now. Knock it off.”
—”I didn’t realize for over an hour that I was at a memorial service.”
—”I feel like seahorses are gonna be the next new thing.”
This: this is why Warren Zevon, in the last song on his first album, envisioned the apocalypse commencing in Los Angeles. As the air conditioner hummed . . . .
Sometimes, when one encounters a headline, it is best to just ruminate upon it, for a time, before clicking through.
Such was True, yesterday, when I came across the headline “New Freedom Woman Urinates On Neighbor’s Couch.”
This, to me—it was nothing but fascinating.
What, I wondered, is a “New Freedom Woman?”
Is she, perhaps, part of some new movement, in which urinating on the couches of neighbors is considered a “new freedom”?
Then, when I clicked on the thing, I in the first paragraphs discovered that “New Freedom” is the name of a town in Pennsylvania.
In re the power of naming, I nodded: yes, of course, one would have to expect, that a town named “New Freedom,” would feature such events as neighbors showing up to urinate on your couch.
But then I got deeper into the thing, and realized it was all just another Stupid Drink Trick.
An intoxicated woman urinated on a New Freedom man’s couch Saturday night as he was waiting for police to arrive and remove her from his home, charging documents state.
Kimberly Ann Crosier-Crowley, 55, of the first block of John Randolph Drive, New Freedom, faces charges of trespass, criminal mischief, disorderly conduct, public drunkenness and loitering and prowling at night, documents state.
Southern Regional Police said that at 11:25 p.m., Jon Pizzurro, who lives nearby Crosier-Crowley on John Randolph Drive, called them to say she was intoxicated and would not leave his home.
“While waiting for police to arrive, the woman [Crosier-Crowley] then urinated on his couch in his living room,” documents state.
When police arrived, Crosier-Crowley ran away. Police caught up to a stumbling, pants-less Crosier-Crowley and asked her how much she had had to drink, to which she answered, “nothing,” documents state.
As officers tried to handcuff her, she resisted, and said she wanted to go home. When they asked her name, she said, “I think my name is Kim Crowley,” documents state.
Officers said they could smell a strong odor of alcohol coming from Crosier-Crowley, documents state.
Police then talked with Crosier-Crowley’s husband, Jeff Crowley, who said his wife had been drinking alcohol inside their home and then walked outside.
Jeff Crowley let police inside their home, where they could see “many opened containers of beer throughout the kitchen,” documents state.
Police asked him if his wife had any medical conditions.
“He stated that she was just an alcoholic,” documents state.
Here in criminal-law world, about 85% of the cases that come our way are, in one form or another, some sort of Stupid Drunk Trick.
There exists also the legion of Stupid Drunk Tricks that I have engaged in, in my own life.
See? Sometimes it’s best, to just rest in the headline.
With the wanton, willing, fiery and fierce New Freedom Women. Spraying urine across the couches of the land. As some sort of Statement.
In the sewers of London, there are 15-ton “fatbergs.”
Massive congealed clots of rotting fat.
And consisting of “rotting food, faeces and sanitary wipes.”
Many, are the fatbergs.
To dissolve but one of them, requires “workmen us[ing] a high-pressure jet of water to blast away the massive blockage over ten nights.”
This says something, about the current state of anglo civilization.
Perhaps it is too soon, to know exactly what. Is said.
But, whatever, it is, that is said: I don’t think that it is Good.
Meanwhile, Science Men are having an organism, because they succeeded in rendering a Da Vinci Mona Lisa that is 30 microns in width.
Or, put more simply, so small that it is totally and extremely beyond the boundaries of sight, of the human eye.
So why? Why did they do this?
Who is going to look at it? This invisible Lisa?
But they don’t Care. The Science Men. About the Why.
For they are Science Men. They will do whatever it is they Can. Regardless of whether there is a Reason. Or a Why.
Like Enrico Fermi. Who, before the first atomic bomb went off, there in New Mexico, calculated there was a good chance said bomb would ignite the atmosphere.
Whether those who breathed would die “just” locally, or whether every breathing creature, planet-wide, would breathe their last, everywhere.
He took bets. Fermi. On the Question.
I believe that the fatbergs and the micron-Lisa can be combined in a way that will do humans Good.
For I propose that a 15-ton “fatberg” be extracted from the bowels of the London deep, then be imprinted with trillions of tiny Mona Lisa reproductions, then be shot out into space.
So that passing aliens, when they gaze upon the rotting microns, can get a sense, of what humans are all about.
So let it fester, blindly. So let it be done.
And so now the Science Men have determined that in the Milky Way galaxy alone there are some 60 billion worlds pregnant with water.
And since the Science Men have previously determined that, where there is water, there is life . . . that’s a big heap pile lot of life.
Out of all them 60 billion or so neighbors, who be roiling and boiling with life, wonder some, how come none have ever come on by, this here Terran place, to at least say “hi”?
This: easily answered.
First: why, hoot the testosterone-pumped Star Wars/Alien boogaloos, have none of these neighbors “invaded”?
Because you don’t get to go into space, if you think in terms of “invade.”
Space won’t let you.
That’s just the way it is.
Space, it’s firm, in that way.
“Invasion” an atavist thing, a relict of the cradle. No one who is serious, no one who actually ventures into space, is in any way concerned with such anathema. No more so than with “harvesting” or “exploiting” resources.
That stuff stops, in space. Or, space stops you.
This can be understood very simply. Check the trailer below, from the 1970 documentary film Beneath The Planet Of The Apes. Where, from 0:11 to 0:16, the gorilla commander of the local serial-killers chants: “Invade! Invade! Invade!”
This is what this planet looks like to the 60 billion. And so none of them are even going to even briefly entertain the idea, to visibly come here. As space will never allow, such a de-evolvo, unfortunately alpha and omega, of this present-time planet, to ever get much off the ground.
It’s so small, thinking in this “invade” way. Just because humans have, so often, so far, been about “invade,” why should humans then think that, in all of the vastness of space, it will always inevitably also be about that?
Eyes be closed.
Not a chance.
How come, question next, none among these 60 billion neighbors, have ”communicated”?
Well, no doubt they have.
But how would humans ever know?
Humans are considered vastly more intelligent than ants. But how the hey would a human “communicate” with an ant? Even if something was achieved that looked like “communication,” from the human end, it would, from the ant end, be so bizarrely out of the realm of Ant Normality, chances are it would not be perceived as “communication.”
So, the same, the neighbors, communicating, with the human inhabitants of this here orb.
Communicating, are they, maybe, with you, right now.
Maybe, just, listen.
And then, question last: how come, these 60 billion neighbors, they haven’t “visited”?
Because, if you do not—as the space-traveling 60 billion do not—think in terms of “invade,” you simply don’t make yourself known to those who do.
No good can come of it.
Like, say, a monolith.
But nothing traceable. No appearing, say, live, on TV.
I like how, in this Science Man piece, it says that if humans were somewhere else, looking at this here earth, they would probably conclude it was real cold and inhospitable, in places like Brazil and Indonesia. Because those places “read cold” in infrared, due to the cloud cover. But underneath, it’s all about sweltering.
“If you look at Brazil or Indonesia with an infrared telescope from space, it can look cold, and that’s because you’re seeing the cloud deck,” Cowan said. “The cloud deck is at high altitude, and it’s extremely cold up there.”
Proving, yet again, that you never really know. Because machines don’t know shit. You have to actually get there. In your body. Transcend the readings of machines. Touch, taste, smell, hear, see it, for yourself.
“Man,” said Mordel, “possessed a basically incomprehensible nature. I can illustrate it, though: he did not know measurement.”
“Of course he knew measurement,” said Frost, “or he could never have built machines.”
“I did not say that he could not measure,” said Mordel, “but that he did not know measurement, which is a different thing altogether.”
He retracted it, raised it, held up a piece of ice.
“Regard this piece of ice, mighty Frost. You can tell me its composition, dimensions, weight, temperature. A man could not look at it and do that. A man could make tools which would tell him these things, but he still would not know measurement as you know it. What he would know of it, though, is a thing that you cannot know.”
“What is that?”
“That it is cold,” said Mordel, and tossed it away.
It’s kind of funny that it took the Science Men this long to look for clouds. Which, once they looked for them, caused them to immediately double their estimate of our life-pregnant neighbors.
I mean, clouds are kind of important. Humans figure that out when they’re just kids.
But maybe that’s the problem. It’s one of those things that, when you “grow up,” you forget.
When those of us who are, now, creeping into age, were kids, everywhere, all and every over, all over the globe, both the Science and Religious, then-wisdom, taught, taught that humans, were all alone, in the universe of the world.
There were no other planets.
Anywhere in the universe.
Much less anything that was “life.”
It was just humans.
We are all going into space. Anywhere we want: we will be.
We are not going in anything even remotely resembling any machine.
Bodies, these, they will come, and they will go. As we please. And we will be very pleased indeed.
Some people persist in denying the Reality of alternative universes. This is silly. But then, there you go. Humans: silly.
Fact is, as Dr. Che Guevera of the Havana Institute for Theoretical and Applied Physics once observed, there are “one, two, many universes.” Some of these universes are very far from the one occupied in this moment by those here reading red. In such a faraway universe, one might encounter strange and startling phenomena like Dick Cheney moon-walking, or Michael Jackson, heartless, calling down bomb-rain. In such a place, a tank might ride around inside Michael Dukakis, rather than vice versa.
Other universes are much closer. There, most stuff may seem just like it is “here.” But there are subtle differences.
For instance, in a nearby universe, Ron “Rugs” Paul may possess three brain cells. Rather than two.
Occasionally, little windows wink in, through which one may briefly perceive an alternative universe. Actually, sometimes the windows aren’t all that little. Sometimes you can drive a freaking semi through the things. Like, when you eat a damn great dose of LSD.
But never mind that now.
It can sometimes be nonplussing, when an alternative universe winks in. One may, say, while driving, miss a turn. Because the turn is no longer there. Or take those teabaggers who wailed that when they attempted to vote for Captain Underpants, the machine recorded instead a vote for Barack Obama. All that happened there, was that they shifted a couple universes over, into one where they were Sane.
Recently photographic evidence emerged of the sudden wink-in of an alternative universe. It was even broadcast live, on the teevee. It involved a baseball pitcher for the team known as the Boston Red Sox.
For the uninitiated, rudimentaries of the game of baseball (as well as Proof that thought is alien to the male brain) may be found here.
Briefly, a baseball pitcher is expected to hurl a ball over the “plate.” Where a hitter then endeavors to hit it. The ball. Not the plate. Or the pitcher.
As seen in the gif below, Boston pitcher Felix Doubront threw a ball some distance from the plate. A fairly significant distance.
Sports people have been guffawing and heehawing about this for more than a week now. But that is because they are rude, and because they don’t Understand.
You see, Doubront did not suffer a little mini-stroke. And he was not under the influence of psychedelics, as was Dock Ellis, during his fabled no-hitter of 1970.
No, what happened is that, as Doubront prepared to deliver the pitch, a little window into an alternative universe winked in. Doubrant perceived the plate in that alternative universe, which was located some distance from the plate in this one. And thus he, correctly, heaved the ball towards that plate. Because that was the one he saw. In fact, in that alternative universe, the pitch was a strike.
We don’t see it, the alternative universe—complete with plate and batter and umpire and hot dogs and popcorn and everything—there in the gif, because it all winked in and out so quickly.
And because winking alternative universes are not always apparent to everybody. Some see ‘em; some don’t.
But they’re Real.
Here on wordpress, the platform upon which this here “red” blog dwells, we are encouraged to group our pieces into “categories.” Which on other blogs are known as “tags.”
But, you know, these days, I just don’t write much, any more, about stuff that so easily fits into them Deked categories. That I myself created.
So, I am dumping the things.
I am not, today, the person who created this blog. And so I will no longer try to fit myself to it.
Embarrassingly appendi categories like “Iran” and “Asia” and “Israel/Palestine”—these are being given the heave-ho.
Henceforth, I shall strive to wriggle myself into those categories that most often most aptly reflect what it is these days I most often write about: Animal Matters, Eros, La Musica (for when a piece is dependent on lifted music), Mammalian Politics, Oddbins (the catch-all), Science Men, There (into the great wide open), and Wyrds (for when I wantonly crib Too Many words from fellow travelers).
It will take a little time to effect the switchover.
And, of course, this latest resolution, is itself subject to revision.
For instance: I will know: that I am really where: I want to go: when each piece is tagged: solely: Into The Great Wide Open.
News and reviews of recent events in and around the Manor.
—When you are a squirrel, and you use a hind leg to scratch a flea or a mite or something, said leg moves faster than the speed of light.
—I have obtained Scientific Proof that dust bunnies are created by cats. Dust bunnies are (nearly) everywhere in this place. Every morning, I awake to a new and forbiddingly large crop. These must be soon Dealt With, lest I become trapped in here, unable to get out. There is so much material there, in the daily haul of dust bunnies, that I am thinking of discovering a means by which to spin it into clothing. I will then become a dust-bunny-sweater magnate. But there is one room in the Manor where the cats are not permitted to go. I go in there, but not them. In this room, there are no dust bunnies. Never have been. This means I do not make dust bunnies. And neither does anything else. Only cats make them.
—The deer known as Mom has shown up here pregnant again. Apparently this is an annual thing with her. Clearly, there needs to be a Study as to the availability of birth control among deer. She don’t look so good as she did last year. Guess this pregnancy is harder on her than the last. In this, she is like the woman at the lawyer’s office.
—Whenever I lie there wondering, “how come I haven’t seen any skunks lately?,” somewhere outside, usually directly next to the Manor, a skunk perceives a Menace, reacts accordingly, and then all the air belongs to stench, and I must reach for the gas mask. Therefore, I try not to have these thoughts.
—Also in the olfactory arena, whenever I am running short on sleep, really need to get some, and have to be up very early for some law project, just as I enter dreamland, some cat proceeds to the catbox, and there blats forth a load so poisonous and extreme it requires evacuation of the entire neighborhood, and the arrival of the HazMat team.
—There is a very nice washer and dryer combo in this place. However, I have come to Know that these units are from space, and from the future. They are studded with many mysterious controls. And although I have tried to master these, I have come to reluctantly learn that once I press “power” and “start,” my control over these machines ends. They then take over completely. For instance, the dryer will display a digital read of the time remaining to do its thing, but will then change its mind numerous times, shifting the digital display accordingly. It will tell me, say, that the clothes will be dry in 35 minutes; I will arrive back in 30 minutes, only to find the thing switching from 5 minutes, to 15 minutes. Right there in front of me. There is no digital time display on the washer, and no way of ascertaining just how long it thinks it needs to run to wash the clothes. I am helpless before it. Also, the washer flooded the Manor on Christmas, and on Easter. Only on those two days. What this means is obvious. Some people see Jesus in a tortilla. Some people see Jesus on their windshield (see photo above). I have Jesus in my washing machine.
—When you are in a city, the police station is a hulking, menacing, brooding, fortified compound. It is like you are in Iraq during Operation Iraqi Fiefdom. You can be arrested, or even shot, simply for looking at it Wrong. When you are here, there are daffodils around the police station. And sometimes you can see the police tending them.
—Serious eccentricity is permitted here. And only a block from the police station. For there is the lair of Rat-Dog Man. The ground level of a perfectly nice house is eschewed by Rat-Dog Man, who chooses instead to dwell in the basement. And down there in the dark, he cohabits with a coven of rat dogs. I discovered this upon one nerve-wracking afternoon, when I was wandering areas outlying the Manor, because the young-un cat had gone astray. I saw this open basement window, and, thinking maybe the young’un cat had jumped in there, I leaned down and called his name into the darkened basement. Only to be immediately assaulted by the hideous yaps of multiple rat dogs. This, I believe, was a good test of the valves to my waste-disposal system: as I did not void any substances, I think they remain in good shape. In any event, Rat-Dog Man regularly permits his herd out of the bowels of the basement and into the yard adjoining the unused house, so that they might offer up their wastes. Occasionally—usually in the rain—Rat-Dog Man will bark at them nastily to hurry up. The rat dogs have been known to object to this, generally by bolting out into the alley. We call this The Great Escape. Rat-Dog Man then climbs into his car and proceeds to slowly roll down the alley and neighboring streets, bellowing at top volume for them to return. It is for reasons like this that we do not need television here.
—The police also turn a blind eye to the wanton Crime Lords of the feed store across the street. Because the state legislature here is infested with howling imbeciles, there are many Laws forbidding—under penalty of fines and imprisonment—the feeding of various wild animals. The Crime Lords know that we free human beings alive on this earth don’t care about these Laws, and so they offer up innumerable vast bins clearly and contemptuously marked with such legends as “squirrel mix” and “deer treats.” This, legally speaking, is equivalent to a pharmacist setting up prescription-less shelves cheerily offering such goodies as “Friday night coke” and “mushrooms for the masses.”
—There is still the hideous belching from the lube shop. Not today, though. For today is Sunday. And the lube shop is closed. It is the day of rest.
—Hunter Thompson once said: “when a man gives up drugs, he wants big fires in his life.” I don’t know about that, and anyway it’s April, and so here the season for big fires has passed. However, I have discovered that, here in my dotage, I require decorative switchplates in my life. I did not know that such things even existed, until a few weeks ago. And maybe they didn’t. ; 0 Now, though, I need them everywhere. They have become a Requirement. When you go into the tubes, you will find that there are creative men and women, all over the land, bringing art to switchplates. And they will send this art to you, if only you give them just a little Money. So this I am doing. Pictured here is the dragonfly switchplate I obtained and affixed by the front door of the Manor. It is beyond godly.
—I have been here a year now, and still the ants continue their ceaseless march to and from the attic. There have been days when they’ve been sluggish, and days when they’ve moved but in ones and twos, but never has the march ceased entirely. They are like a perpetual motion machine. I still have no idea what they’re doing up there. But because there has never once been a single ant actually inside the Manor, I stick still to the agreement, set forth in the link above, that they be permitted to go their own way, without any snooping from mine.
The latest photographs from the Hubble Space Telescope are in, and it seems the device has at last succeeded in penetrating the veil of Heaven.
Among other images—which shall be offered here, from time to time, exclusively to red readers—the Hubble returned shots of the Big Guy himself, the fellow variously known as Yahweh, Jehovah, Allah, etc.
Many humans have long wondered just what the guy might look like.
Now they know. Feast, here, thine eyes.
I have to say that I myself am not much surprised.
It appears from this image that part of him might need to be Repaired. I am assuming this is a temporary Easter-season thing.