Wednesday, December 21, 2005

A conclusion

Up the middle lies the remains of two horned and bloated goats. Visitors march by in disbelief, asking to themselves, "How did this happen? And who is to blame?"

On the far wall, dimly lit by flickering candles is the gospel, finally.

Led the league in least runs scored upon assisted in small part due to his ability to induce batters to "hit his pitch" but mainly to his All-Star middle infield and outfield. Usually stoic, if not downright blase, the robotic "Lar" underhanded a variety of lollipops, slow and high trajectory pitches with heavy backspin that curved back into the strike zone from either side or arced straight down "into the well" consistently for called strikes. Despite, or rather in spite, of his control, his inability, when the game was on the line, to "throw a 'can of corn'" when the umpire squeezed the plate in the championship game led to Simon's Tavern's big inning and eventual (and improbable) comeback in their last raps to win their fifth consecutive title as Lar simply unravelled, giving free passes and frozen ropes to a succession of opposing batters, loading the bases. Alas, the nervous fat pitch he lobbed "right down Broadway" to their weakest hitter whom he previously stuck out twice, nearly snapped his neck off, rocketing over his outstretched (more in self-defense than athleticism) hands headed toward short centerfield and forever in infamy. To compound his lack of intestinal fortitude was his inexplicable brain cramp by not sufficiently covering home plate to field a quick relay throw from his shortstop Matt that would have gunned down the winning run and thus coaxing extra innings. It was not to be as the hit so demoralized him that he simply forgot how many outs remained, rooted on the mound, flabbergasted.

Versatile to a fault. Utility fielder "Yettaanotherstar" possessed a strong throwing arm that presented a dilemma in where to play her regularly. Whether at first or third base as well as behind the plate as catcher and in short centerfield, she centerfield throughout the season. In fact, yetta played short centerfield for the first time in the championship game. Fate dealt her and the team a cruel blow. With two outs in the final inning and runners in scoring position to win the game outright, Yetta, out of position directly behind second base, moved instinctly to her left, reached up, stabbed at and deflected the infamous liner from centerfielder swooping in for what would have been the third and final out to win their first title. Instead bedlam ensued as the winning run crossed an unguarded home plate.

And a slick neon sign advertises a free prize for any returned patron interested in reliving a tragic moment anew.

Monday, December 05, 2005

The saddest of possible words...

"Tinker to Evers to Chance."

Or just as worthy, Earney to Miller to Bauling to May,
Our quadruple-powered vacuum, sucking in all debris,
Cleaning dusty pathways, forever linked,
who upon summons take a bow,

Defensive mainstay at third base, Alyson guarded the line and prevented grounders from becoming extra-base hits. She formed part of an "Iron Curtain" on the left side of the diamond as anything hit in that direction "got eaten up" for outs. Her quick reflexes and accurate arm in the "hot corner" forced many a hitter to pull the pitch foul, hard to muscle the ball by. Alyson upended by the runner representing the tying run sliding hard into third base in the final inning of the championship game. The runner was ruled safe on a controversial call as league rules dictated a runner is automatically out for not avoiding collision on a slide.

Named team MVP. "The General" showed amazing defensiverange at shortstop. Matt could "go into the hole and come up firing" or glide behind second to trigger the forceout at second base preventing baserunners from being in scoring position. His soft hands and cannon for an arm easily scooped up and threw out all batters on any type grounder. Other teammates could cheat "down the lines or into the gaps" because of Matt's ability to cover so much ground. In the final game, Matt made a crucial error in judgement as he broke the cardinal rule with two outs (when any baserunner ran with the pitch) to always make a play on the batter on a grounded ball. Instead of throwing to first base for what would have been the higher percentage third and final out to seal victory, Matt flipped the ball too late to force the runner at second.

Part of the All-Star double play tandem, second baseman Trina often covered the bag with runners bearing down on her hard, intent to break up the force out or double play. Cool under pressure, she tied for the league lead in combined putouts and assists as opposing team continued to test her defense on the right side of the infield, possessing a knack for making the crucial defensive play to "put out the fire". Trina tried in vain to reposition the out-of-position short centerfielder just before the pitch that resulted in the deflected liner that lost the championship game.

The heart and soul of R & M Trucking. Sure-handed team captain Cathy threw out a slew of baserunners "going first to third" on slow rolling ground balls and ranked highest among league leaders in fielding her position at first base. Opposing baserunners respected in fear her strong and accurate arm. The team name reflected her competitive fire and blue-collar work ethic to outplay opponents. Cathy dropped a low thrown ball for what would have been an out at first base in the bottom final inning of the championship game. This error allowed Simon's Tavern to prolong their at-bat to eventually win the title.

And with heros are their counterparts, the goats.

Thursday, December 01, 2005

Notes on a hall of fame

A partition blocks the entrance into the sacred place, a memory palace long forgotten. On the opposite side is a vitrine housing a dusty satin athletic jacket whose reflective gleam shines off the bronzed bas-reliefs and glossy text covering all the walls within. Frozen in time, such a personal moment transcends historicism beyond legend yet fights together to immortalize loss and commemorate something quite mundane as a specific time gone awry. Remember that defense, not offense supposedly wins championships.

The story unfolds from left to right first, position by position as the throngs sardined around the opening passage, read to themselves the words printed below:

Literally, death to all flying things reincarnated. The best "pure" athlete on the team, leftfielder "Doctor" routinely demoralized opposing teams by casually robbing batters of seemingly easy extra-base hits on montrously-hit balls way over his head. His ability to come in or go back on a ball plus his deceptive giddyup speed enabled him to quickly make up ground to track down any batted ball for an automatic out. Opposing teams frustrated themselves trying to blast the ball past him on the fly and eventually gave up hitting anything in his direction. In the championship game, Randy raced in and watched in disbelief as the deflected liner hit ground and bounced away from him and the prone centerfielder allowing the winning run to score.

Arguably, pound for pound, the strongest man on the team. "Mo" patrolled centerfield with veteran craftiness. What he lacked in size, he more than compensated with desire and intensity. His encyclopedic knowledge of opponent batting tendencies permitted "our Itsilbitsilar friend" as he is often called, to position himeself accordingly to maximize any angle to :get on his horse" chasing down a ball hit in the gap. Ironically, it was "Mo" who dove helplessly at the deflected liner off the mispositioned short centerfielder for what should have been the final out for a championship victory.

Never say die. Stentorian six foot eight inch high rightfielder Will intimidated the opposing teams with his size and voice. An incessant chatterbox, he dared hitters to "feed me leather". Slow of foot, Will played any hitter unusally deep. His defensive strategy was to use his height and very long stride to ramble in, building enough momentum to engulf any flyball with his massive iron-grip hands. Playing the first five innings of the championship game, Will rotated out of the lineup for another teammate to play. He coached from the sidelines, screaming encouragement even when the team lost its composure in the final inning.

Visitors now stop to genuflect.

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

The Year That Almost Was

R&M Trucking, leading by three runs with two outs and the bases empty in the bottom of the seventh and final inning of the title game for the 1995 Chicago Park District Margate Park Co-Rec Monday Night Softball Championship; lose by the score of 7 to 6 to the reigning champions and perennial powerhouse Simon’s Tavern formerly K-Dugouts when a hard liner is deflected into short leftfield allowing the winning run to cross homeplate.

Further color analysis after the postgame.

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

Notes within my seldomly used living room

Cloisonned gold interlaced, wraps around his neck just below the larynx, a dangerous knotted scarf that Von Ryan twists violently as steady, even pressure strangles each Nazi guard, all seated abreast like ducks on the pond. It is red dawn and his successors, streamlined mainstream knockoffs effusing angst, are boys lost. Frankenstein whose bellowing voice disrupts the radar screen full of commercial jet liners in holding patterns, frightens away the captive audience, reciting dense Brechtian monologues. Eyebrows raised and jaws dropped because the pitch is out of the strike zone again.

In the flowered bowl sitting atop the black-stained circular endtable, three satin mushrooms-one deep pink, one cerulean blue, one flaming orange, wrestle for the rite of passage of a nuclear family formally looking on, posing relaxed. Heads do roll after a tumble and tuck. But the young boy appears to be crippled, his red cane an optical illusion fading away in purple. Again two right hands offset biometric logic but how fragile is a frayed nerve? An acoustic guitar sits in the nooked corner, a lonely wallflower dwarfed by the imitation rehabbed curio cabinet. Hidden inside are a band of artists content to wait out the Trojan war, making innocuous trinkets to pad the coiffers at the expense of silkened pillows, barefoot and pregnant.

The Art God is well represented in the yellowed space.

Monday, November 14, 2005

A fantastic voyage sedated

Endless miles of plastic highways swerve underground deeply into encrusted tunnels, an arterial labyrinth to be navigated by a microscopic submarine armed with laser beams. The theater of operations is antiseptically sterile as white jumpsuited technicians wearing safety yellow hardhats sidestep one another checking the numerous lighted gadgetry beeping irregularly. Uniformed men peer from behind open Venetian blinds covering thick glass window, ready at the last moment to abort. And an automated voice can be heard throughout the complex mechanically counting down the remaining seconds until ignition.

The tough, old coot lies jaundiced, awaiting Armageddon. Every so often, furled brows reluctantly Morse code short dots and long dashes of convulsions, spasms that belie an intestinal fortitude. Memories like his cherished boat float adrift morphined dreams chasing both King and Queen squarely ahead and well within sight. Soon he will digest a liquid concoction dyed for easier visibility.

Twice removed, the point of this exercise then is to build double indemnity before the shrunken crew leaves the triple airlock to release a huge weather ballon as all converge upon the alien intruder. Around his spleen, glowing radioactive pus choke off his own climate control usually synchronized to an atomic clock. The battle itself remembers the Alamo because the handful of Davids stave off wave after wave of Goliaths disguised as renegade antibiotics in attack formation. It is the art of war, constantly struggling to attain medicated bliss.

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

A domestic exercise of the democratic process as curatorial practice

Blinds drawn, a silver puff of opium smoke obscures intermittent white noise from broken static emitted by a massive equipment shutdown. The minions so scrubbed-faced do scramble, an ad hoc exodus that violates celestial hierarchy. Ghosts of disarmed MIGs do fly by as a matter of encounter versus displacement.

Unbeknownst to him, though, Tony Randall materializes speaking in tongues, his long wizened whiskers trailing behind entangled tumbleweed. A pair of slanted eyes, prosthetically applied, smiles an effeminate yellow face at Sybil whose seven faces alternate between Pan, half-man, half-goat and the Abominable Snowman. Meanwhile, Medusa awaits for Apollonius to arrive but his flight is delayed by great flying serpents in the sky. Where is the egress?

But the air suddenly clears and history repeats itself, fondly recalling kinships lost, ideas milked and theories impossibly collided. The lack of preparation fuels a stream-of-consciousness, wildly extrapolating anecdote as legitimate artform. Hench, a day in the life of over three thousand miles of undetected crime compressed as Powerpoint wears many hats in a parallel universe.

The performance per se is quite performative though snickers can be heard above bored snores. Truer words may never be spoken.

Thursday, October 27, 2005

Once upon a twilight doubleheader...

circa 1969

In a sea of red and white dotted along the periphery, vertigo loses surrealism. The resultant encompassing fisheye view, panoramic in Cinemascope, of the diamonded greenery below, though joyous, distorts all contiguous space/time continuum, elongating heretofore husky torsos. Beauty fully realized as cognitive concept beyond normal parameters, inexorably slides head first, a conscienceless Charlie Hustle.

FADE out.

To the north on the lost horizon bounded by geopolitical fissures encasing a gold mountain stands a faded nondescript three-storey building, heads and shoulders above its siblings, the perfect height from where Alfred Hitchcock looms, arms outstretched holding cotton candy peering in awe of the spectacle of battles won.

Boom goes the successive bangs, a manmade flurry of thunder and lightning framed and contextualized by three thousand years and a great wall.


Hands holding two hot dogs semaphore a nautical message from one corner back to home as a thumb lost in the jungle rematerializes before a stunned knuckleballer, his fractured knee cap aquiver.

The ghost of the Polish cowboy is finally dead and can be put to rest in peace.

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

" the willow in the wind"

The dynamics of geographical orientation often form uneasy allegiances between natural enemies because which way the wind blows determines obtuse tracjectories launched from solid sphere impacting against oblong cylinder. This process reflects the superficiality that is the madding crowd at the proverbial fork-in-the-road, the penultimate flip-of-the-coin. Go deep or run shallow; stay true or fly the coop.

Yet stereotypes persist as to how meteorology affects individual behavior transformed into a collective consciousness. North means industry while South represents agriculture. Fast versus slow; cold against hot.

And in the city that Carl Sandberg associates with big shoulders, the equation so historical flip-flops. Blue collar work ethic then borne of the union stockyards immortalized by Upton Sinclair gravitates southerly suffering from an inferiority complex explainable only in terms of perceived classism.

Inevitably the Brahmin caste is left holding the door as the untouchables hurry through. So join the meek (or downtrodden) to inherit the earth.

Monday, October 24, 2005

Notes on an entirely different solar system

Oversized shurikens, each a lovely shade of baby pastel twinkle, embedded as if thrown along the perimeter of where ceiling meets wall. Around their orbit hang miniature Alexander Calderish mobiles in itself another self-contained universe ad infinitum.

The constellations then form haphazard patterns all over Jackson Pollock armwrestling Elsworth Kelly that appear quite dangerously razor sharp. Yet the weight of these Oldenburgian worlds feel heavyhanded to the degree that nothing light exists about how these pentagrammic forms behave in the modest company of chevrons, poured drips or target circles.

Following the trajectory of an open face club, a sand wedge, though, so intently often strains the neck muscle beyond the normal stratospheric airspace violation. Neil Armstrong does take aim and drive the capsule several light years away.

The heavens full of pent-up fury descend.

Friday, October 14, 2005

Notes on nawa shibari

Streamlined tubular chair in black leather handsomely upholstered over hidden birchwood ergonomically hogtied in suspension adjacent an upturned vintage vinyl barstool frozen by not-so-hidden puppet strings. Each knot the perfect bowtie, looped so its tapered legs thrust awkwardly in pain, lower back twisted, upper torso bent over. Hemp cords bruise the matte finish as bound limbs in limbo risk major injury to fragile anterior cruciate ligaments. Imagine Cornelia Parker meets Araki where submerged libidos reach a strange climax and sleek vogue design bends over to grab its ankles.

Tuesday, June 21, 2005


As simple as disposing trash, an automatic act, almost like riding an upside-down bicycle attached to an upright stool repeated regularly recompenses a good salary. One day of waiting albeit sated from junk food equals two weeks of pay. That was the happy meal offered by Ray Kroc and an inebriated Ronald McDonald. Under the golden arches a food stylist dawdles away the afternoon light tweezering immaculate fries. You do deserve a break today, actually three or four.

Each hour worth every Big Mac consumed gratis is cooperative business management training, a vigorous set of calisthetics in preparation for all Japanese salarymen on company expense accounts.

A classically tailored black suit absorbs about ninety per cent of harmful ultraviolet rays as do horned-rimmed glasses or wire spectacles worn dangerously low.

Fame impends.

Thursday, June 16, 2005

Notes off the Lao Sze Chuan menu

Crenellated bittermelon hardened to a straightedged rectangle, each furrow a striated plane from a bird's eye view lands ever so softly on the abstracted tarmac. Architecturally related, intersticed strip malls of triple-hued firm tofu stand at ease, lounging around a five-city-block radius, arousing the ire of female passersby indignant of the nonstop catcalls in salute. At the end of the street sits a multidecked eggplant, gracefully violent as it backs against the wall.

An imaginary peppery smell wafts sideways through the oyster sauce drizzled atop gai lan stalks. Two hours before rush hour, Chef Tony is overcome, overpowered by licoriced peppers that numbs tongues and reddens faces.

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

Notes on video orientalia

Disassembled Ming replica footstool in seven pieces form a Chinese puzzle of three faux cloisonne vases huddled inside the decorative fireplace hearth of ecru brick.

A cluster of bright satin embroidered pin cushions connect its mushroom tops like famous Siamese twins Chang and Eng plus one pair of baby China doll slippers atop Remembrance of Things Past.

Greasy porcelain Kung Fu master in White Crane pose basks Kikkoman aglow as the afternoon sun sets.

Thursday, June 02, 2005

On the finality of trifocals

Top for long distance, the center for intermediate looking, and the bottom for reading equals no peripheral vision because of how the sides blur. Now to adjust, the whole head moves. Vision unlike its counterpart and namesake Simon Williams, he who is a red-faced, yellow-caped, green-skinned android capable of passing through solid form, deteriorates like a scarlet witch as parts continue to break. In the meantime, Richard Petty shows up on time as expected driving his stock car, screeching rubber and carrying a scythe.

Nearly twenty eight years ago the nonchalance of a basket catch suddenly grew out of focus as the customary reactive nod that confirms destination arrival produced a faded muscle memory. Racing in, ready to swoop were the vultures of time, intent on every bit of continuously rotting flesh. Every Tibetan shuddered, avoiding the Grecian whose formulaic approach promises only empty calories.

Tuesday, May 31, 2005

Notes on "And Master Po asks.."

Galvanized pipes threaded by teflon elbows or steel tee joints and rubberized, so as to better resist inclement weather transform into the perfect storm that drowns Dirk Diggler. Embedded, the concrete anchor of arachnid legs balances a fragile fulcrum precariously haunched upwards. Little school children who fall from lack of coordination or upper body strength during their recess scuff up their delicate knees but nonetheless curse Buckminster Fuller.

His geodesic self, though, recalculates the angle of repose at a maximum of forty seven degrees latitude and dares the urchins to swarm the goal post, guaranteeing that its tensile resiliency ought to withstand the combined weight of swinging primates imitating Tarzan (as played by the redoubtable Miles O'Keefe) willy nilly.

Jane simply gasps at the spectacle of ascension.

Wednesday, May 25, 2005

Ode to Meat Bun

Simple egg glaze,
shiny on top,
like a fat turtle
without its shell

concealing swine innards
sometimes sausage, sometimes ham
always pig

cha sui baos
what makes the world go round
barbequed and pulled gently
sweet manna of pork

Grab one piping hot
near its center
and like Moses
lovingly part its Red Sea
to the Promised Land

which entreats glands
and salivates drool

steam rising
mouth watering

a compact meal
not complicated
of vegetable

and such trivialities

bread as it should be
surrounding meat

If the Earl of Sandwich
were Chinese
civilization would ask for it
by this name

Saturday, May 21, 2005

The Burden of the Summer of Sam

Last night Henry Giroux pronounced his disgust during break for Eyes Wide Shut, Stanley Kubrick’s last film. He thought the movie to be about the privileged “white” male and misogynistic among other criticisms that failed to address anything of interest for him. He also felt betrayed by the Jonathan Rosenbaum review of the film that affirmed his curiosity to see the movie.

These ideas of his assessment in of itself prompted me to reevaluate another controversial movie Summer of Sam in terms of the reading, an interview from Cultural Composition: Stuart Hall on Ethnicity and the Discursive Turn with Julie Drew. Hall states that, “I’m expected to speak for the entire black race on all questions theoretical, critical, etc., and sometimes for British politics, as well as cultural studies.” This is said in relation to address his burdens of representation, which pertains to questions of the privileges and obligations of being a black public intellectual. For Hall, his reluctance to assume a position of leadership, to attempt to represent the life experiences of others was something he felt called upon to do. His experience of going to Oxford and his middle class education is not representative of those refused housing and decent public services. But this is not to say that Hall shirked any responsibility to identify himself with this class.

I think of this example being somewhat similar to the doubled edged sword that director Spike Lee faces by his critics. Previous to his new film Summer of Sam Spike dealt with accusations that his films often portrayed the black perspective of the black experience exclusively. Lee often defended his position and vision as his cultural imperative to give voice to the oppressed and the conditions of such oppression. Often he hit upon sensitive white nerves in his criticism of the white dominant power structure because he accepted the expectation of his role as an artist to advance a political and moral position in his films. Through his specific cinematic scope, Lee is part of this pedagogy to question the conditions that come to bear on issues of race and its politics, thus effecting the voice of the other that gives “body” to these issues.

So when movie critics dismiss Summer of Sam, is it because as an African American Spike Lee is unqualified to make a film that shows the Italian American living in the Bronx in the disco era reacting to the crisis of a serial killer on the loose?

I recall a noticeable number of African and Latino Americans who got up and left in the middle of this movie. Were their preconceptions or expectations of the film skewed into a specific category of what a Spike Lee movie should be i.e., a film about Black culture? The question then becomes ironically, is it only viable for Spike Lee to only make movies about African Americans and their concerns? Is he damned for “selling out” by these people who walked out? What about other directors of color who choose to cross race lines?

Thursday, May 19, 2005

More notes on a heavenly mandate

A Mies Van Der Rohe block, tall as any unadorned skyscraper but obviously painted yellow stands connected to its little brother, the low-to-ground squat horizontal rectilinear cube. Like Big Bird on Sesame Street chirps, "one of these things don't belong; one of these things is not like the others..." So who decides which one is the natural question. Maybe Linda Montano tied up to the great Sam Hsieh for a whole year can help.

Or the unnatural byproduct of an incestuous marriage between Charles Ray's Family of Man and the starkly colored tilted pillars of Judy Chicago to cobble a new Bride of Frankenstein more grotesque than a freaked-out Elsa Lancaster. Somehow visions of many little Sons of Godzilla following in a straight row behind the Monster of all Cookie Monsters seem appropros. Minimalism through puppetry then falls prey to a Pinnochioed appendage in rainbow colors that gooses its bitch from behind. And then how to dispel accusations of sadomasochism especially to explain the handcuffs.

We cross that bridge, cutting a wide swath around Sean Connery, when we get there.

Tuesday, May 17, 2005

The Lie of the Land (unedited version)

As published in the recent issue of ArtAsiaPacific...

It is no coincidence that Indian artist Jitish Kallat chose religious fanaticism as the subject of his latest work aptly, playfully and collectively entitled “The Lie of the Land” at Walsh Gallery in Chicago. Given these uncertain times, this ambitious installation featuring seven paintings, six works on paper and a fifteen-foot long text-based work on acrylic mirror deftly mixes art, religion and politics. But what Kallat creates is not trite agitprop. In fact, the artist employs the dispassionate vocabulary of Pop Art and Minimalism to comment on the state of current global affairs, in particular, “a new era of religiously motivated violence” in his own cool ironic tone.

What is coincidence though centers on the strange fact of Swami Vivekananda giving a speech in Chicago on September 11, 1893 about the dangers of religious fundamentalism. Kallat incorporates this twist of fate, which alludes to our present political climate and questions the happenstance and irony of these connections by using it as the basis for “Detergent”. The centerpiece of this exhibit, this shadowboxed triptych contains the entire text from the actual speech, literally burnt onto three larger-than-life mirrors, distorting its surface much like its funhouse relative. Each mirror encased in cold steel and propped against the wall generates a wavy and reflective sheen through the glass that echoes and superimposes the melted letterforms onto the viewer. The effect as such resembles the topography of a flag unfurling and disintegrates the original message advocating the universal truths of harmony and tolerance.

The paintings and works on paper, on the other hand, rely on a more formal approach to illustrate his social commentary. Kallat’s series of paintings entitled “Covering Letter” depict familiar images of global unrest culled directly from the headlines as propaganda poster art albeit painted in the style of Sigmar Polke. These canvasses resemble high-end magazine ads with its vibrant palette electrifying the graphic design of manipulated images from the media, Internet and popular culture such that it becomes whimsical as with the painting, “Cover Letter No. 2” showing prisoners tortured at Abu Ghraib whereas the works on paper continue Kallat’s love of the pun. In this series also entitled “Lie of the Land” Kallat disguises the red text, that vaguely recalls Russian script to spell out its title against a backdrop utilizing images from the media which he keeps intact to trace scenes of rioters, protesters and other so-called Third World types into recognizable blotches and smears employing a stark black linear style.

Overall the terse power of “Detergent” carries resonance as text objectified and the paintings and works on paper tread tough ground to balance art and politics without falling prey to the usual tropes of proselytizing.

Monday, March 14, 2005

"The apple never falls far from the tree."

So without further adieu and in its glorious unedited entirety, a very proud uncle proudly presents:

The Love That Seeks Revenge

When a family member dies, relatives of he or she mourn the loss of them. Some families bury them in a cemetery. Some families have the body cremated. Even some families write their name in an obituary. But, the Sarayashis differ from each aspect of mourning of a family member’s death. They seek bitter revenge.

“Excuse Father,” said, a nineteen year-old girl with long, brown hair named Jade. Jade Sarayashi was a nineteen year-old girl who had a talent for cooking up delectable evening meals. “ Father, the gas can for the hot pot tonight has gone out. I am going to go to the store for some extra gas cans and raw beef for Vincent. I’ll hurry.”
“Take your time, Jade. It’s only eight o’clock and Vincent and Azoru won’t be home till nine o’clock. Plus, I have to do something around the house. Take your time,” replied, Father Sarayashi.
“Okay. See you soon.” And the door opened and closed.
“I’m sorry my children” said, Father Sarayashi and he went up to his master bedroom.
On the way back from the supermarket, Jade noticed a blue light strike and break one of the windows of her home. As fast as her athletic legs could carry her, she rushed to her home praying that her father was not injured. When she got to her home she saw to twin brothers.
“Who are you two?” yelled, Jade with tears in her eyes. “Why did you slaughter my father as if he was a nuisance!?”
“My name is Annak.”, said, a twenty-six year old boy with short black hair and a blood-dripping sword in his hand. “And this is my twin brother Calex.”
Calex had black hair with streaks of brown towards the top. Calex wore a long, black cloak with a red streak up to his shoulder on both sides.
“We killed your father because he didn’t keep his end of the deal.” sneered, Calex.
“What was the deal?” Jade asked.
“ He was to give us your sister, Satori.”, remarked Annak.
“I have no sister named Satori. You were mistaken.” And Jade punched Annak in the face.
“Why I haven’t felt pain in years.”, said Annak. “We must go, Calex, but don’t think that I won’t kill you like father.” Then Annak threw a smoke bomb directly at Jade. After the smoke cleared, there was no sign of the twins.
“Father, speak to me. Who is Sa…”
“Never mind that. Go in to the top drawer of my dresser and take out the black key before it’s to late. Once you have taken out the key, open the silver chest next to my lamp-stand. Inside the chest…”
It was to late. Father Sarayashi body went cold. Then, his body just disappeared into thin air.
“FATHER!!! Mark my words Annak and Calex, you will pay your lives for this miserable deed.”

Just then, two boys came in the house. Their names were Vincent and Azoru Sarayashi. Vincent was a twenty-one year old boy with dark brown hair. Azoru was a fifth-teen year old boy with dark brown hair who always wore a dark blue shirt with jeans.
“Hi Jade.”, said Azoru, “Why the long look on your face?”
“Father was just killed.”, replied Jade.
“What!”, said Vincent.
“Father was killed by some evil twins.”, said Jade.
“By some chance, were their names, Calex and Annak?”, questioned Vincent.
“This is a serious problem.”, said Vincent. “Was there any thing else Father said?”
“Yeah, he said there was some key that would open up some chest in his room.”, said Jade.
“Okay let’s go open that chest”, said Azoru excitedly. “ But, where is the key?”
“In the top drawer of his dresser”
“Okay. Let’s go!”
When the Sarayashis got to their father’s room, it was locked shut.
“Let me break it down.”, said Azoru.
“Be careful.”, said Jade.
With all the strength Azoru had, Azoru knocked the door down.
“Hurry. Get in.”, said Vincent.
The Sarayashis quickly ran in the room. When the Sarayashis where in the room, Jade opened the top drawer of the dresser and seized the key. Inside the drawer was a medium-sized mirror. With curiosity, Jade tapped on the mirror three times. To everyone’s surprise, a girl’s face appeared.
“Thank you for awakening me.”, said the unknown girl. “My name is Satori. I know that we haven’t met before, but I am your sister.
“You are not our sister. I bet you don’t know even know our names and ages.”, testified Azoru.
“Azoru-15, Jade-19, and Vincent-21.”, proclaimed Satori.
“Okay. She is our sister.”
“Hi nice to meet you. I don’t mean to be impolite, but why are you in a mirror?”, asked Jade.
“ It was before all of you were born. Our father vowed to keep it a secret from all of you. It was a sunny day. I was out in the meadow playing with this mirror that enables me not to be in life form with you. Without my knowing, it was the day of a solar eclipse. But, this was not any regular eclipse. This eclipse was the eclipse of a new century. Little did I know, this mirror has a strong demonic aura and didn’t do well with eclipses, so it sucked me right into it. That is why I am the way I am.”, said Satori
“Is there any way of saving you from this everlasting fate?”, asked Jade.
“You could have an exorcism on the mirror.” , said Azoru.
“Good idea. Get the strongest monk you can find Azoru.”, said Jade.
“Wait, get the ashen salt, (A salt used to ward off demons) we can use the mirror again.”, implied Vincent.
“What are you going to use it for?”, asked Satori
“You’ll see.”, said Vincent, “Now hurry and get the salt and once you get it throw it on the mirror.
“ Yes brother.”, said Azoru
When Azoru came back with the ashen salt, he threw in right in top of the mirror. When the ashen salt hit the mirror, vivid colors of came out and so did Satori.
“Thank you. Now I heard you were going to open that silver chest over there.”, said Satori.
“I almost forgot.”, said Jade.
When Jade opened the chest, she saw a golden horn with a note attached to it.
The note said:
If you are reading this note, I am probably dead. This golden horn enclosed is the horn the belonging to my murderers, Calex and Annak.
If you seek revenge, just blow this horn and the twins will come to the harmonic sound. If you intend to do this, just use extreme caution.
Sincerely, Father Sarayashi

“That’s it”, said Azoru expectantly.
“Yep. That’s all.”, replied Jade.
“Okay, if we are to seek revenge, we must be prepared.”, said Satori.
“You’re right. If we expect to blow the horn, we have to have a great defense or the same fate will occur like father’s fate.”, remarked Vincent. “Okay. Here’s the plan. We all go in to the woods. Jade, you will be pretending that you are helpless and lost. Azure and I will be up a tree or hiding in the bushes and I will blow the horn. Then Calex and Annak will appear and recognize you. Then you, Satori, will walk out and aid you, Jade. When they almost kill you I will unleash the secret.”
When the Sarayashis entered the forest, every thing went according to plan.
“Which one do you think we shall shred into pieces first, Calex?”, asked Annak.
“Keep your filthy hands of my sister you fiend!”, shouted Vincent.
“What are you going to do about you brat”, said Anna.
“This”, answered Vincent.
Then Vincent held up the mirror and shined it directly at the evil twins. Suddenly, the mirror devoured both of the twins into it. After sucking the menacing twins into it, Vincent shattered the glass so that Calex and Annak wouldn’t cause any more problems.
“Why, Vincent, I never knew you were that heroic. Now I know that family comes first and nothing will get in the way of that special bond.”, said Satori.
“That’s right.”, replied Vincent.
“ Can we go home? I’m starving!”, whined Azoru.
“Is that all you can think of.”, teased Jade.
“You’re right let’s go home.”, said Vincent.

God bless J.K. Rowling, J.R.R. Tolkien, C. S. Lewis and the host of British-born authors with letters of the alphabet for first names like G. K. Chesterton, A. A. Milne, D. H. Lawrence and ilk.

Each and every one of them.

Tuesday, March 01, 2005

An ESPN classic, already

"Rupture" sight unseen:

Bladder-related, water-laden and exceedingly colonic, this film
positively urinates a stream-of-broken-consciousness heretofore
unmatched except for expansive Flubber as our protagonist suddenly
discovers the true meaning of…

Now that is the type of movie worth its weight in gold.

Monday, February 21, 2005

A disappearing act

To be so scarce for so long usually indicates foul play.

Kind of like walking innocuously along the pier, minding your own business when suddenly swoosh! A big white canvas bag is thrown over your head, engulfing your body as a rope wraps tightly around your arms and waist, squeezing out the very air you breathe as everything fades to black. And when the cobwebs finally clear, you awake later aboard a rusted freight steamer chugging across the China Sea amidst disheveled and disorderly crew sleepwalking about attending to the operation of the boat, who also find themselves shanghaied.

That might explain the circumstances of being away. Out-of-control as the body is invaded, a blitzkreig that renders your defenses harmless. Yet despite those loyal soldiers who stay behind, the effort at resistance is sporadic at best and quite guerilla in its lack of coordination. Small blows that represent moral victories but inflict little else in terms of measurable retaliation.

Sometimes these small skirmishes tend to implode, lasting well beyond the projected figures.