It gnawed through the inner casing like strawberry flavored Twizzlers, exposing raw, hot wire.
Instinct said to let it go as nothing good ever comes from live electricity except an obvious painful jolt. So homilies aside, imagine the shock or lack thereof when the expected fireworks never materialized. Save for a last minute reminder as a courtesy out of curiosity or maybe in spite really to recoup a lost vestige of dignity did another chance resuscitate previously dashed hopes, a primaveral spud ready to spout.
Who could predict such a change of heart then to befall the sanctioned pomp and circumstance, to be cut off without reprieve, a persona non grata of your own free will.
"Silly rabbit, pink is for kids!
Or at least dumb chinchillas clueless about how to color me beautiful...," yelled the giant leprechaun into the realm of the senses before disrobing to eat his annual bowl of sugary cereal.
His warning went unheeded, though as a barely audible peep momentarily broke the imposed radio silence, forcing time to move on possibly. But fools do dive in headfirst.
And again, once... twice... three times the sucker, a hard-candied outer shell easily and irresistibly crunched to reach the fractured soft caramel core. Thus the mortar-boarded and bespectacled owl who actually gave a hoot said to no one in particular.
Why not just continue to let the saliva melt down the reactor, but shopping cures all.
Monday, March 25, 2013
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Notes from booze and bacon
A bad see-through pun loops while suspended in the corner on a black arm adjacent a few onlookers slowly peering at the commotion two so-called chefs pretend to stir up. No one can really hear what both are jabbering about since the porcine tributes hung in salon style on surrounding walls deflect and scatter their empty banter before it could gain any momentum.
Yesterday permitted to roam freely about, opens the front door to escape the hot air which ironically blasts in past the guarded porthole on a three-hour tour to rescue the seven passengers stranded on the kitchen isle. As usual, Elijah Craig is standing blindly by his former professor serving a homemade dandelion concoction the younger Gilligan winces at in distaste, proclaiming how "I hate huckleberries" though, four out of our beloved five millionaires believed contrary.
The only thing missing now, it seems, is pink sauce.
So to sweeten the boiling but not melting pot, our gracious host summons his ninja princess who descends commando, forsaking all modesty for a lighter airiness from the blueless clouds, an Amazonian decision apparently premeditated toward disenthrallment rather than fashion. The gauzy tunic she wears then billows like a seven year itch, an accidental parachute slowing her down enough to stick the three-point crash landing atop a broken concrete slab.
Those outside where cooler bodies prevail feel a glow beginning to glimmer from underneath her loosely fit robe, growing warmer then suddenly hot enough to spontaneously combust the thin fabric. She now stands nude but softly mouths a secret incantation that stirs an invisible fluttering enough to stiffen the crowd. Even so, it is hard for them not to stare lustfully.
Her tightly bound top knot becomes edited later, lost history scrubbed from public record.
Monday, March 04, 2013
Last Days of Pompeii
Another long day's journey into the night and the Northwest Dallas Forty Express, usually a long-winding, nonstop caravan, sat still, hemmed in by inchoate rush hour en route home from the cement pond while the traffic of her dizzying conversation sped along at one hundred twenty miles an hour, too fast for any highway patrol radar gun to clock, pull over and appropriately ticket.
Along the way, the weak chose seppuku rather than endure such protracted torture but not him, not our stone-faced Roman, for centurions never ever give in that easily.
Eyes forward behind mirrored sunglasses as his wont, Del Piombo's descendent seven times removed was trapped as well, himself engaged in a stereophonic debate with Ennio Morricone about which glittery fedora one ought to wear when in the company of cornhuskers as she rattled forth.
Kao Sifu should beat all of them there but not if he could help it, they knew, exhorting his lookalike below deck for full steam ahead.
Besides according to his brand new shiny watch, a bejeweled sundial of a family heirloom from his buddies Martini and Rossi, all signs pointed toward little Britain where grilled marsupial stuffed with roasted kangaroo testicles and crushed garlic awaited as apt reward for listening to her verbally demonstrate endless quick moves in combination to solve consecutive Rubrik's Cubes conjured in mid-air.
Later at the gossip bar, all found it hard to believe that just the week before, the three would-be amigos stood under a huge sign advertising a Gentlemen's Club with membership cards proudly displayed and actually passed the time discussing the finer points of toilet etiquette.
Along the way, the weak chose seppuku rather than endure such protracted torture but not him, not our stone-faced Roman, for centurions never ever give in that easily.
Eyes forward behind mirrored sunglasses as his wont, Del Piombo's descendent seven times removed was trapped as well, himself engaged in a stereophonic debate with Ennio Morricone about which glittery fedora one ought to wear when in the company of cornhuskers as she rattled forth.
Kao Sifu should beat all of them there but not if he could help it, they knew, exhorting his lookalike below deck for full steam ahead.
Besides according to his brand new shiny watch, a bejeweled sundial of a family heirloom from his buddies Martini and Rossi, all signs pointed toward little Britain where grilled marsupial stuffed with roasted kangaroo testicles and crushed garlic awaited as apt reward for listening to her verbally demonstrate endless quick moves in combination to solve consecutive Rubrik's Cubes conjured in mid-air.
Nothing save an eight year old Hapkido white belt breaking his toe or a fever of stingrays or getting thrown under the Greyhound could break his concentration. Then faster than a rerun of Cannonball Run II, our mecca the Anatole appeared on the golden horizon.
Later at the gossip bar, all found it hard to believe that just the week before, the three would-be amigos stood under a huge sign advertising a Gentlemen's Club with membership cards proudly displayed and actually passed the time discussing the finer points of toilet etiquette.
"Make sure to sit down when you take a piss..."
Such was inscribed, lest we forgot, in the lady's room above the urinal.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Notes because Shin Yu Pai said so
6) Mother recollecting how she and her friends interrupted their weekly mah jong game to investigate the ruckus stirred in the other room from their preschool to kindergarten children (about six of us) seriously whopping each other on the skull with old-fashioned glass Coke bottles but laughing hysterically enough for them to leave us alone...something to the effect of no harm, no foul.
47) Nothing but elbows and ass running away from Margate Park when a kid aptly nicknamed Beaver dove and slid across a huge pile of dogshit attempting a shoestring catch during a fast-pitch game.
62) Elevator races at the old Goldblatt's Department store on Broadway with Mo.
3) Twilight doubleheaders at old Comiskey Park in the upper deck with Dad watching the knuckleballer Wilbur Wood in red pinstripes before he tore up his knee.
17) Explaining to disbelieving Chicago Police officers summoned by neighbors at three in the morning that the so-called disturbing the peace out on the front porch was indeed a nuanced albeit loud vocal demonstration of the cacaphony of traditional Cantonese Opera for my drunken buddies in appreciative audience.
4) Crisp autumn evenings running fly pattern after stop and go under the streetlamps on the asphalt-covered playground of Pierce Elementary School as the Biggest Guy I Know heaved long bombs philosophizing, "Hell, if you run that far, you might as well catch the damn ball".
20) Replying "Yes" over and over again when the exasperated waitress at the greasy spoon Paul's Restaurant on Clark Street continually asked "Soup or Salad?" thinking she was saying "SUPER SALAD?" until corrected by my Steverino Friend shaking his head.
112) On garage rooftops laying low during all-block, whole neighborhood no-holds-barred free-for-all games of hide-and-seek in Andersonville.
23044) Waking up, boiling three to four Oscar Meyer all-beef weiners for breakfast and lodging two Andes Chocolate Mints between my cheek and gums to melt as I fell asleep...pure manna.
23044a) Mom worked for Andes Chocolate Mint Factory; Grandmother for a local fortune cookie plant; Dad was head barbeque chef (of the whole pig with an apple in its mouth) at Trader Vic's in the Palmer House Hilton; and Grandfather cooked for Ming Choy, a combination chop suey house/pizza parlor/hamburger joint.
98) GUARANTEED 120 bowling average (minimum three games).
120) Three Pariser Specials (open-face burger topped with a sunny-side up egg slathered in brown gravy and a mound of fried potato cubes), three guys, total bill: $8.31 plus tip...like Hawk Harrelson says, "Some just as good, none better."
3.14) Eating among other things cigarette ashes and mothballs when a preschooler which really explains quite a bit.
11) Being eleven years old and bragging about my first job bussing tables for my Third Uncle Chi at the Holiday Inn in Greektown for pocket change.
818) Nearly breaking my neck flying over the handlebars headfirst from suddenly slamming both handbrakes of my Gitano ten-speed bicycle while peddling on a slight downhill in the alley going about twenty-five miles per hour just out of scientific curiosity to see what would happen.
72) Smelt fishing with uncles at Montrose Harbor after dark in early April bundled up for the frigid night temperatures off Lake Michigan trying to keep warm by the fire lit in a city trash can.
1439) Getting sent home by the elementary school nurse for losing consciousness on three separate occasions:
a) banging my head into the unpadded tiled gym wall attempting a layup but slipping from lack of traction on the waxed linoleum floor instantaneously knocking myself out;
b) slipping on ice outside in the playground being chased in a game of tag and impaling my temple on a jagged point of an iron wrought fence causing much bloodspurting; and
c) total lights out from having the air squeezed out of me being on the bottom of a large pile of maybe ten other boys while playing Johnny Tackle.
55) Simply said, pork egg foo young on top of white rice smothered in brown gravy.
XIII) Swigging lukewarm Budweiser straight out of the can to wash down stir-fried snails in garlic and black bean sauce laboriously dug out of their shells with soggy toothpicks still up around two in the morning after Dad comes home from his late shift.
19) Hong Kong Restaurant, 1155 Edisto Drive, Highway 301 South, Orangeburg, South Carolina
874) Right ear fleshy protusion birth defect all but forgotten except maybe as fingerprint.
0) Being accused of shoplifting when hands full of assorted candies at the local drugstore, I suffered a brain cramp and actually placed an oversized Sweet Tart in my coat pocket so as to reach for money in my pants pocket.
47) Nothing but elbows and ass running away from Margate Park when a kid aptly nicknamed Beaver dove and slid across a huge pile of dogshit attempting a shoestring catch during a fast-pitch game.
62) Elevator races at the old Goldblatt's Department store on Broadway with Mo.
3) Twilight doubleheaders at old Comiskey Park in the upper deck with Dad watching the knuckleballer Wilbur Wood in red pinstripes before he tore up his knee.
17) Explaining to disbelieving Chicago Police officers summoned by neighbors at three in the morning that the so-called disturbing the peace out on the front porch was indeed a nuanced albeit loud vocal demonstration of the cacaphony of traditional Cantonese Opera for my drunken buddies in appreciative audience.
4) Crisp autumn evenings running fly pattern after stop and go under the streetlamps on the asphalt-covered playground of Pierce Elementary School as the Biggest Guy I Know heaved long bombs philosophizing, "Hell, if you run that far, you might as well catch the damn ball".
20) Replying "Yes" over and over again when the exasperated waitress at the greasy spoon Paul's Restaurant on Clark Street continually asked "Soup or Salad?" thinking she was saying "SUPER SALAD?" until corrected by my Steverino Friend shaking his head.
112) On garage rooftops laying low during all-block, whole neighborhood no-holds-barred free-for-all games of hide-and-seek in Andersonville.
23044) Waking up, boiling three to four Oscar Meyer all-beef weiners for breakfast and lodging two Andes Chocolate Mints between my cheek and gums to melt as I fell asleep...pure manna.
23044a) Mom worked for Andes Chocolate Mint Factory; Grandmother for a local fortune cookie plant; Dad was head barbeque chef (of the whole pig with an apple in its mouth) at Trader Vic's in the Palmer House Hilton; and Grandfather cooked for Ming Choy, a combination chop suey house/pizza parlor/hamburger joint.
98) GUARANTEED 120 bowling average (minimum three games).
120) Three Pariser Specials (open-face burger topped with a sunny-side up egg slathered in brown gravy and a mound of fried potato cubes), three guys, total bill: $8.31 plus tip...like Hawk Harrelson says, "Some just as good, none better."
3.14) Eating among other things cigarette ashes and mothballs when a preschooler which really explains quite a bit.
11) Being eleven years old and bragging about my first job bussing tables for my Third Uncle Chi at the Holiday Inn in Greektown for pocket change.
818) Nearly breaking my neck flying over the handlebars headfirst from suddenly slamming both handbrakes of my Gitano ten-speed bicycle while peddling on a slight downhill in the alley going about twenty-five miles per hour just out of scientific curiosity to see what would happen.
72) Smelt fishing with uncles at Montrose Harbor after dark in early April bundled up for the frigid night temperatures off Lake Michigan trying to keep warm by the fire lit in a city trash can.
1439) Getting sent home by the elementary school nurse for losing consciousness on three separate occasions:
a) banging my head into the unpadded tiled gym wall attempting a layup but slipping from lack of traction on the waxed linoleum floor instantaneously knocking myself out;
b) slipping on ice outside in the playground being chased in a game of tag and impaling my temple on a jagged point of an iron wrought fence causing much bloodspurting; and
c) total lights out from having the air squeezed out of me being on the bottom of a large pile of maybe ten other boys while playing Johnny Tackle.
55) Simply said, pork egg foo young on top of white rice smothered in brown gravy.
XIII) Swigging lukewarm Budweiser straight out of the can to wash down stir-fried snails in garlic and black bean sauce laboriously dug out of their shells with soggy toothpicks still up around two in the morning after Dad comes home from his late shift.
19) Hong Kong Restaurant, 1155 Edisto Drive, Highway 301 South, Orangeburg, South Carolina
874) Right ear fleshy protusion birth defect all but forgotten except maybe as fingerprint.
0) Being accused of shoplifting when hands full of assorted candies at the local drugstore, I suffered a brain cramp and actually placed an oversized Sweet Tart in my coat pocket so as to reach for money in my pants pocket.
Tuesday, January 01, 2013
Waiting for pictures
Two in toto required pulling teeth, a concession rather than a present but eleven months and counting in between is nevertheless root canal surgery on public aid in comparison. For it intimates a laissez faire attitude that eschews any formal gratitude. The proverbial dangling of a carrot just to string along the mule. And to further mangle the saying, while looking at the gift horse in the mouth.
Which begs the question of why so recalcitrant to a straightforward enough request, though the moral dilemma it entails does seem to demoralize, awaiting for something ephemeral albeit amative to happen.
And that probably explains her hesitation, if not outright balking simply to comply. Sure, the pat excuse about aesthetics, of not measuring up to prevailing standards or cultural ideals of marketed beauty she cites avails. Enough then to fit a narcissistic micromanagement of self-image though what does absolutely titillate is her charming modesty masked as insecurity. Control how one is perceived by limiting supply over demand.
Because such a refusal really bespeaks to succumbing to earlier urges, of then unaffiliated moments except that opportunity since knocked much too late and those coquettish exchanges before have become a guilty pleasure to be cleansed and wiped away.
But what about the cliche of having my cake and eating it, too as is the case for sugar daddies go. Even if the terms of the nonnegotiable contract are non-binding, a price must be selfishly exacted since the privilege is paid for. So money for nothing is just dire straits for how innocuous formal experiments are meant to objectively tease.
Besides, the real crime of passion would be to withhold her true allure from being frozen in time.
Which begs the question of why so recalcitrant to a straightforward enough request, though the moral dilemma it entails does seem to demoralize, awaiting for something ephemeral albeit amative to happen.
And that probably explains her hesitation, if not outright balking simply to comply. Sure, the pat excuse about aesthetics, of not measuring up to prevailing standards or cultural ideals of marketed beauty she cites avails. Enough then to fit a narcissistic micromanagement of self-image though what does absolutely titillate is her charming modesty masked as insecurity. Control how one is perceived by limiting supply over demand.
Because such a refusal really bespeaks to succumbing to earlier urges, of then unaffiliated moments except that opportunity since knocked much too late and those coquettish exchanges before have become a guilty pleasure to be cleansed and wiped away.
But what about the cliche of having my cake and eating it, too as is the case for sugar daddies go. Even if the terms of the nonnegotiable contract are non-binding, a price must be selfishly exacted since the privilege is paid for. So money for nothing is just dire straits for how innocuous formal experiments are meant to objectively tease.
Besides, the real crime of passion would be to withhold her true allure from being frozen in time.
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Notes on the precipice
Five times around the block except at right angles going counterclockwise certainly defies a certain gravity even of a certain age.
Especially since what should have been smooth sailing is now only imaginary, interrupted by ill-placed ottomans rising above the mowed lawns many a fledging Dick Van Dyck trips over. No dexterous glissade so effortless and graceful as seen on television. But a manly pas de deux involving old-fashioned jiujitsu, a self-inflicted hip toss or open field tackle pancaking egos, suit of armor disheveled, knees grass-stained.
Only it happened before when the flowers arrived too soon or how maybe a king and queen faraway consented instead to their double or where an arm braced itself in comfort unaware of context or why
all the preceding became a punch in the gut that felt like another slap in the face because it is apparently a sign of weakness to play the hand dealt.
How many times, though, seem endlessly comical. And after the brief courtship of their favorite Martian, Lolita always gets what Lola wanted.
But dancing on the ceiling is still illegal in most states of disrepair and no matter where you are, better to hold off and stay back.
The game remains afoot.
Especially since what should have been smooth sailing is now only imaginary, interrupted by ill-placed ottomans rising above the mowed lawns many a fledging Dick Van Dyck trips over. No dexterous glissade so effortless and graceful as seen on television. But a manly pas de deux involving old-fashioned jiujitsu, a self-inflicted hip toss or open field tackle pancaking egos, suit of armor disheveled, knees grass-stained.
Only it happened before when the flowers arrived too soon or how maybe a king and queen faraway consented instead to their double or where an arm braced itself in comfort unaware of context or why
all the preceding became a punch in the gut that felt like another slap in the face because it is apparently a sign of weakness to play the hand dealt.
How many times, though, seem endlessly comical. And after the brief courtship of their favorite Martian, Lolita always gets what Lola wanted.
But dancing on the ceiling is still illegal in most states of disrepair and no matter where you are, better to hold off and stay back.
The game remains afoot.
Monday, December 24, 2012
Notes loud and clear from another island
On front of a penny, the reluctant picture bride protests, her usually complaisant voice high-pitched to offset the sailor moon being clouded by so many knockoff Akari lampshades cheaply made in distant Occidental sweatshops.
The rage beneath her schoolgirl uniform, though, swells her bosoms into two engorged cannonballs, fuses lit as enemy sheep wearing men's clothing begin to bleat, ready to pounce.
A mild-mannered manga balloon lady transformed into orange high top Pumas now ascend above the giant robot standing at her ready. And the forty nine tars who gather delirious from yellow fever are driven back by three old and wise ronin wielding long-needled syringes containing the proper dosage of cloroquine and doxyocycline.
Relieved, she, too, bahs like a lost lamb before calmly stripping off every stitch of clothing to draw numerous lines in ink, acrylic, oil on primed canvas in the arid quicksand. Now spinning her metaphorical wheels or an actual industrial lathe, beautifully striped spoons appear along with simultaneously contrasted polka dots which inflate and fill the time-based space, castrating all phallic shapes with double vision.
Yet swarms upon swarms of mosquito nanoids still penetrate the easily torn rice paper screens meant to shield the rows upon rows, floors atop floors of hentai from prying alien tentacles. Her mentor from beyond the valley of the dolls reaches out to grab her hand but it slips by. One hundred thousand miracles cannot repair the damage, though.
Thankfully Kusama finally awakens in time and shoves the old pervert Araki off her tatami mat for getting too frisky.
Looking into the three-sided full-length mirror, she concludes she enjoys being a girl.
The rage beneath her schoolgirl uniform, though, swells her bosoms into two engorged cannonballs, fuses lit as enemy sheep wearing men's clothing begin to bleat, ready to pounce.
A mild-mannered manga balloon lady transformed into orange high top Pumas now ascend above the giant robot standing at her ready. And the forty nine tars who gather delirious from yellow fever are driven back by three old and wise ronin wielding long-needled syringes containing the proper dosage of cloroquine and doxyocycline.
Relieved, she, too, bahs like a lost lamb before calmly stripping off every stitch of clothing to draw numerous lines in ink, acrylic, oil on primed canvas in the arid quicksand. Now spinning her metaphorical wheels or an actual industrial lathe, beautifully striped spoons appear along with simultaneously contrasted polka dots which inflate and fill the time-based space, castrating all phallic shapes with double vision.
Yet swarms upon swarms of mosquito nanoids still penetrate the easily torn rice paper screens meant to shield the rows upon rows, floors atop floors of hentai from prying alien tentacles. Her mentor from beyond the valley of the dolls reaches out to grab her hand but it slips by. One hundred thousand miracles cannot repair the damage, though.
Thankfully Kusama finally awakens in time and shoves the old pervert Araki off her tatami mat for getting too frisky.
Looking into the three-sided full-length mirror, she concludes she enjoys being a girl.
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