skewed

End Four

2006-06-11T20:44:00.000-07:00

The experts disagree. And anyway I find reports of weird things like that repulsive. Repulsive.

End Three

2006-02-16T18:58:00.000-08:00

So I shall go back to my little plot, set up my cross that that madcap trampled down, and, when everything is in order, I shall lie on my back again, warm my self with the putrefaction, and smile...

End Two

2006-02-15T09:38:00.000-08:00

When she walks through your bedrooms carrying butcher knives you'll know the truth.

End one

2006-02-06T08:16:00.000-08:00

I now feel a little better, but I refuse even to walk down the street the library's on.

2006-01-23T19:30:00.000-08:00

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
ggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg
hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The Karlscotwhitaker Factor, epilogue

2006-01-09T21:49:00.000-08:00

Karlscotwhitaker was sitting happily in his house when suddenly the door was ripped off its hinges and there stood the President of the United States, dressed to kill and armed for the same purpose.

"Well hello there! Nice of you to drop by! I--..." Karl was forced to duck as one of the President's knives went hurtling through the air.

"I'm going to get you, Mr...Mr.... What is your last name anyway?" The President decided to break the social ice as well as Karl's head.

"For me to know and you to find out!" Karl laughed as he dodged a few bullets.

"Why you...! Won't be polite, eh?" More bullets whistled. Dixie, I think.

And so it went. It was, of course, a foregone conclusion. Karl was in no position to take in his surroundings and soon he was stuffed into a box and sent off to somewhere inconspicuous.

He arrived, looked around, saw the remaining 18.207% of the German Cuban MPs and spoke. "Ah. I must be somewhere inconspicuous."

Quickly Karl took in his surroundings. He was indeed somewhere inconspicuous. Of course at any moment he might come up with a plan that would save his own skin as well as punish the wicked, reward the good, establish world peace and global justice, feed the hungry, clothe the naked, house the homeless, help the poor to fleece the rich, right wrongs and restore left rights, heal the sick, sicken the overly healthy, fatten the skinny and skin the fatties, keep nasty people from being nasty, tie up all loose ends and provide satisfactory narrative closure with a good belly laugh, but maybe there isn't such a thing after all.

The Karlscotwhitaker Factor, part five

2006-01-09T21:02:00.000-08:00

Karlscotwhitaker wished that he was unconscious so that he could think. So much had gone on in the past few days.

"Aaaaaarrrrrrgggghhhh!" Karl groaned in protest. "Too much! Too much!"

Here Karl fainted, hitting his head on the coffee table and immediately falling into unconsciousness and thinking. This is what he thought:

"the cuban german and american mps are after me for some reason. they have tried to kill me several times. it must be for something i have. maybe..."

Unfortunately, patient reader, Karl could think no longer as he has a very hard head and regains consciousness easily.

"I do believe I'll pay a visit to the German Cuban MP headquarters, "he said as he sped through time and space to arrive at the Cuban German MP headquarters at a quarter to three.

Secretly, outside a window, Karl devised a plan. Then he gathered forty machine guns that were conveniently at hand and put them at various strategic intervals around the building. Using his superior intellect he devised a way to shoot them off all at once. Then he shot them off all at once.

Having destroyed a good 81.793% of the German Cuban MPs, Karl decided he'd seen enough carnage for one day so he ran to the rescue of a dying MP, saved his life, tied him up, and took him home for questioning in a bucket.

When Karl had the MP safely tied in a corner of his house with several boxes and wires nearby, he knew he was ready.

"I know I am ready," he said rather slowly but strictly. "I know the Cuban German and American MPs have been trying to kill me for many months, but I don't know why. Tell me why."

"Because." said the MP.

"Because why?" karl cunningly asked.

"Just because."

"Aha! I see you've been trained to resist questioning! Well you wimpish welt, I've got something for you!" Karl slid his hand into his jacket pocket. "The Great Gazinking Worm!"

The MP started. "You're bluffing!"

"No bluff." Karl showed him the Worm.

"Oh no! Not the Worm!"

"Yes. The Worm."

"No! Not the Worm!"

"Yes. The Worm."

"No!"

"Yes!"

"No!"

"The Worm."

"All right! All right! I'll talk! I'll...Oh, you people are horrible! I'll talk..." the MP whispered out of the corner of his eye. "But first let me borrow a gun."

"Well, I've only got this one here." Karl hesitated. "But as long as you give it back!" Karl cheerfuly handed the MP a loaded pistol.

Keeerrrrrrrrrrrpppppoooooooooowwwwwwwwwww!

The gun went off. The MP slumped.

"Well, now he's dead," Karl sort of implied. "Gosh," is what he said.

"How am I ever to find out what all those MPs want from me?" Karl moaned pathetically.

Suddenly he knew! He would have to wait until something exciting happened and he was about to die. Then, just before an MP shot him, the MP would tell Karl all he wanted to know and he would die with blissful knowledge.

Karl sprang slinkily from his position chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip and thinking. After hours of springing slinkily and chewing Karl had come up with a plan, and his knees and lower lip were quite the worse for it. He would go to the American MP headquarters and place himself in a drastic situation, causing the MPs to tell him all they knew.

Quickly Karlscotwhitaker took in his surroundings. He was planning. Of course at any moment he might find himself in the middle of the American MP headquarters, surrounded by American MPs, and in a very drastic situation indeed, but he was sure he could handle it.

Suddenly Karl found himself in the middle of the American MP headquarters, surrounded by American MPs, and in a very drastic situation indeed!

Karl thought he knew just what to do. He spoke. "All right you guys. I know you and the German Cuban MPs have been trying to get...you know what...from me and have tried to kill me several times. However, I've killed 81.793% of the Cuban German MPs and if you guys think you're going to get away with this, well, you've just got another thing coming."

"Think."

"Sorry, it's hard for me when I'm conscious. Sort of a mental disability thing..."

"No, you said 'another thing coming.' You mean 'another think coming.' That's the expression you're looking for."

"Hm. Really?"

"Yes. But look, tough guy. So you've killed 81.793% of the German Cuban MPs. So what? It doesn't matter. Cause everytime you kill one, there's another one that'll jump up and take his place. There's a million born every minute, and you can't kill that fast. Soon they'll be coming at you from all over. From backyards! From schools! Playgrounds! Governments! Wherever there's a cop beating up a guy! And buddy, they'll all be looking for you!"

A roar of general enthusiasm drowned out the speaker's final words. Karl stood aghast. He had been out-cooled by an American MP.

The crowd quieted.

The MP spoke again. "So okay. We know that you know that we know that you have the Secret Washington Battle Plan Papers that the President needs to take over the world. We understand the President's wants and needs for illicit and violent behavior. What's the point of all that power if you can't do whatever you want with it? And besides: Number One is the loneliest number. And we're all rather fond of the President and besides, we'd rather have him live with the blood on his hands than on ours. So if you would be so kind: the Papers, please."

Karl nearly blew up with ecstasy! His plan had worked. He knew everything now. Besides finding out why people were trying to kill him he had involved the international mafia and the President in a character-damaging intrigue. However, Karl kept his face calm.

"What a lovely place you have here. Who does your drapes?" Karl asked, stalling for time.

"Quit stalling for time." The MP casually chatted as he took out his submachine gun. Then he put his machine gun on top where it belonged. He was about to blow Karl to bits for a second time in two years when all of a sudden Karl uttered, cow-like.

"Look out! Oh gish-gosh! Someone is sneaking up behind you with a new Kazapow Laser and it looks so dangerous!"

The MPs laughed. "Ho ho! We've heard that one before, you--..." The MP who had spoken, along with all the rest of the MPs sank to the ground after this sound: Kaaaaaaazzzzzzzzzzzzaaaaaaaappooooooooowwww!

Karl looked up. He couldn't believe it. All of the MPs were dead and he knew enough to get shot for treason. There was, however, the matter of a group of awfully nasty-looking people with new Kazapow Lasers pointing his way. Karl recognized them. They were the remaining 18.207% of the Cuban German MPs.

Before he knew it, Karlscotwhitaker was tied in a chair with at least twenty ways to die looking eagerly in his direction. Quickly he took in his surroundings. He was in a bad bind. Of course at any moment he might hear a familiar voice in his ear, but he was sure he could handle it.

Suddenly he heard a familiar voice in his ear! "Don't worry. I've got this all under control." It was the Suspicious Looking Old Lady that he had mistaken for an MP in an earlier episode.

Just as many methods of killing were about to be unleashed, utilized or unfurled, the SLOL threw Karl out of the line of fire and stood bravely in the way. This petreified the 18.207% of the German Cuban MPs to such an extent that they dropped their implements of violence and stood amazed and aghast.

"I'm aghast!" cried out one near the front.

"Funny," said Karl, "You don't look like one." Taking advantage of the situation, he picked up a weapon and held the group at bay. The SLOL packaged all the remaining 18.207% of the Cuban German MPs in a rather large box and shipped it somewhere inconspicuous.

The two then left to look for some doughnuts to share as an after-conquest snack. Over their Bismarks they decided to go into business as Private Investigators, largely on the understandable misconception that this would allow them to investigate peoples' privates. Soon they were both happily continuing their oblivious but well-fed and happy lives in very happy places across the happy globe.

The Karlscotwhitaker Factor, part four

2006-01-08T18:14:00.000-08:00

Ten months later, after spending most of that time in a hospital, Karlscotwhitaker was walking down Main Street to the Galaxy Grocery and thinking. A little. What he was thinking was this: Why? After forumlating that question he went on. Why did the ship he was on (the H.M.S. Gonzah) sink? How did the German Cubans find him on the deserted island? Why did they want him? What was a Texas oil-driller doing off the coast of Florida? Drilling oil? In a yacht? Why did the pirates attack him? Why were the Cuban German Mafia Personnel (MPs) waiting for him in his own home? Why did they shoot him?

By the time he had finished asking himself these questions he had finished shopping and had reached the parking lot. As he approached the center of the lot he stopped suddenly and raised an index finger skyward.

"I shall," he shouted, "partake of a quest that I may fathom the solutions to these thorny enigmas!"

Days passed. Finally Karl was truly ready for his quest. With his many sandwiches and pocket Code-O-Rammer Super Spy Kit Ring he quickly took in his surroundings. He was truly ready for his quest. However he might come upon a Suspicious Looking Old Lady, but he was sure he could handle it.

Suddenly he came upon a Suspicious Looking Old Lady! He sidled up to her to get a closer look. She had slick black hair, a curled moustache, a six-foot masculine frame, a stein of beer, large cigar, and a vintage pin-striped suit. So Suspicious Looking was this Old Lady that Karl immediately suspected her of resembling something not enirely unlike a German Cuban MP!

Karl quickly sidled home to get his magnifying glass so he could get a closer look.

Back with magnifying glass in hand, Karl carefully examined the spot where he had last seen the Suspicious Looking Old Lady (SLOL).

"Aha!" he exclaimed. "She wears size 11 shoes, weighs 246 pounds, and smokes Cuban cigars!"

After explaining how he deduced that information to interested parties he followed the trail of cigar ashes to the airport.

The airport was extravagantly snazzy. All the neat little Lear jets zooming slowly into the sunset and all the helicopters and parachutists landing in neat little piles made a truly nifty scene. Karl wondered if soon there would be no more Lear jets and far too many helicopters and parachutists, but he didn't wonder long. He spotted the SLOL getting into one of the departing Lear jets.

Just as the plane was about to take off Karl lept onto the wing and held on tightly for many majestic interludes. The plane flew many miles over much water to what Karl thought was Cuba but was actually a cloud.

Upon exiting the cloud Karl came to grips with something he had never come to grips with before: a man with a Cuban cigar in his mouth and a knife in his hand. The man was also coming to grips with Karl. The man slashed out with the knife, barely missing Karl. Karl grabbed the man's hand and twisted until the man cried.

"Ha!" voiced Karl. "You dirt-licking, purple-chested, hairy-faced, slime-nosed, sticky toothed, scumbag of a dust bunny! Take you medicine like a horse! Take that!"

And with those words Karl began spoon-feeding the man castor oil he had earlier handily hidden in his pockets. The man gagged and fell many unchested miles to the ocean below.

"That that is is not that that is not, not that that is!" Karl screamed esoterically. After screaming Karl looked down.

"Land ho!" he whispered over his chin.

The plane landed.

Karlscotwhitaker slid down the side of the plane using suspiciously inconspicuous caution. Blanketedly, he followed the SLOL through the streets, past a sign that said WELCOME TO CUBA, and up to a fashionable Cuban House.

Quickly Karlscotwhitaker took in his surroundings. He was in front of a fashionable Cuban House. Of course at any moment an MP that wasn't an MP might grab him and knock him out, but he was sure he could handle it.

Suddenly an MP that wasn't an MP grabbed him and knocked him out!

At this point we shall take a break from the sweaty narrative to inform the reader that Karlscotwhitaker when unconscious had a remarkable talent for thinking, even if only in lower-case letters. Some believe that this skill was to somehow make up for his extraordinary lack of ability to think when perfectly conscious. Then again, others don't believe anything of the sort. In any event, this is what Karl thought while unconsicous:

"the mp...why wasn't the mp an mp? i know! it wasn't a cuban german mp, it was an american mp! so the german cubans mps and the american mps are in on this together! in on what together?"

Karlscotwhitaker had no more time to think for suddenly he regained consciousness. He was in a small cement cubicle. Probably a cell in the bottom of Cuban German MP headquarters. Probably in a cell that had an air vent.

"Aha! There it is!" Karl groaned mischievously. With a single chopping action Karl was in the air vent and crawling to safety. The safety looked a lot like the head German Cuban MPs office. Karl hopped in.

"I know what I'll do! I'll place a bug in this office so I can hear what is going on!" Karl said like a red rock doesn't. So saying he carefully placed a small bug on the desk and confidently walked away. So did the bug.

Karlscotwhitaker, feeling quite proud of himself, walked out of the room and into an American MP. He quickly took in his surroundings. He was facing an American MP. Of course at any moment he might find himself tied up in front of a firing squad smoking his last cigarette, but he was sure he could handle it.

Suddenly, he found himself in front of a firing squad smoking his last cigarette!

Well, Karl wasn't about to let himself die that easily. He gauged when the gunman was going to fire, the direction of fire, wind speed and resistance, and the speed and temperature of the bullet. Split seconds before the bullet would have hit him, he dodged.

Among astonished bursts of noise, Karl broke free of his bonds, climbed the wall behind him, and vowed to give up smoking.

Here a bunch of really weird coincidences took place:

1. The wall of the building that Karl clombed happened to be the wall of the building that contained the Cuban German MP headquarters.

2. Karl just happened to have with him a super sensitive microphone (that transmitted everything it picked up to Karl's house) with a guidance system.

3. The guidance system didn't work.

4. The air vent that Karl accidently dropped this microphone down led to the head MP's office anyway.

So in conclusion, Karl did finally get the office bugged effectively.

The whole magnificant scene being finished, Karl hopped on a helicopter and putta-putted home.

The first thing Karl did when he got home was to listen to his receiver that picked up everything that his supersensitive microphone heard. This is what he heard:

"You missed him with a firing squad?"

"He dodged."

"You missed him on the H.M.S. Gonzah!"

"Well, we sank the ship. How were we supposed to know he could swim? You're lucky Agent 13 found him with the helicopter on the island."

"Lucky? The helicopter was never found and he's still alive! And your stupid Texas oil-driller stooge died, too!"

"Yeah well, I thought he could hold him until the pirates got there."

"He wiped out the pirates with a flame thrower."

"I know. We even shot him to bits at his house. We thought he'd died, so we searched his house, but nothing was there. Number 1 is going to be really ticked if we don't find it all soon."

"Any other details we should discuss?"

"We could talk about why we are trying to kill him and what we are looking for..."

Quickly Karlscotwhitaker took in his surroundings. He was about to find out why the German Cuban and American MPs had been trying to kill him and what they were looking for. Of course at any moment, he might be interrupted by someone breaking down his door, but he was sure he could handle it.

Suddenly he was interrupted by someone breaking down his door! He went to see who it was.

One Cuban German MP was waiting with a rather small automatic submachine gun inside what was left of the doorway.

"Can I help you?" Karl asked politely.

The MP attacked.

Karl sighed and killed him.

The Karlscotwhitaker Factor, part three

2006-01-07T18:26:00.000-08:00

As Karlscotwhitaker stepped slowly, solemnly, and yet heroically through the massive carnage he thought to himself, slowly and quietly.

"Why? Why does there have to be all this death? Why all this violence? Why all the hurt? Why the pain?"

He reached the stern and looked out, forlornly and yet masculinely, onto the great blue unfeeling depths of the ocean or sea or whatever. A sad and yet manly sigh escaped his trembling yet handsome lips. He turned and walked, gently and yet bravely, towards the bow. He looked up, about to question life in his thoughtful and yet rugged way, but was stopped in mid-look by something more exciting.

"Land! Ho boy! Land! Extremely nearby!" he yelled in his usual manner to no one in particular.

SSSMMMAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSHHHHAAARRROOOOOOOOOONNNNIIIIIEEEEEEEEE!

The ship crashed deftly into the jaded and very nasty jagged rocks, throwing Karl, tumbling and yet unhurt, onto the sandy beach. Karl saw his chance and started in once again on his tender and yet tough soliloquy.

"Why was I saved and the boat totally totalled? Was this some quirk of fate? Why? What is the meaning of life? Why is the moon so--"

Quickly Karl took in his surroundings. He seemed to be on a deserted jungle island. Of course at any moment a fierce tiger or lion might attack, ready to kill, but he was sure he could handle it.

Suddenly a fierce tiger and lion attacked, ready to kill! Karl went into action. He waited until the tiger and lion were almost upon him then jumped out of the way onto a nearby rock to watch. It was a long and bloody battle. Karl had thought that the lion would win for sure, but both animals were quite dead in the end.

"Well," Karl uttered through his teeth, "here I am alone, unafraid, hungry, repugnant, and in search of resecue, and on an island...again. Super. I might just as well investigate this deep, dark, dim, deadly, dangerous, dank, and foreboding jungle here."

Karl ran slowly into the jungle. Large trees and long green vines attempted several times to stop him, but Karl continued undaunted. No sooner had he gotten lost when he quickly took in his surroundings. He was lost on a deserted jungle island. Of course at any moment he might be attacked by a fierce jungle man, but he was sure he could handle it.

Suddenly he was attacked by a fierce jungle man! The jungle man had an axe of massive proportions while all Karl had was a wimpy penknife.

At this point it shall be pointed out to the industrious reader that, indeed, Karlscotwhitaker has never been known for his awesome feats of the intellect, but neither is he so stunningly stupid as to get into direct combat with a fierce axe-wielding jungle man when all he has is a wimpy penknife. Conseqently, Karl ran as fast as he could away from the fierce axe-wielding jungle man.

Soon it dawned upon Karl that he was on an island. If he kept running he would not get away from the fierce axe-wielding jungle man but would eventually come upon the great blue unfeeling depths of the ocean or sea or whatever.

"Well, dang," said Karlscotwhitaker.

However, Karl never did get to the ocean or sea or whatever because the next thing he came to was a superhighway. And a sign.

The sign said that there were six miles to Miami. This confused Karl to such an extent that he was forced to contemplate violence.

After devising multiple horrible ways to destroy any hope of global peace and instead establish global pieces, Karlscotwhitaker began to cogitate upon the presently confusing circumstances.

"Hmmm," thought the Man of Our Time, "Miami. How did I ever achieve Miami?"

He paused slowly. "Maybe it would help if I recalled my past adventures pretending I came to Miami in the end."

Little did Karl know, but this was where his knowledge of a few basic elements of logic, so hardwon by dint of many years of thorough schooling, would have an opportunity to be put into bold and direct practice.

And so Karl thought. Then he thought some more. When he had finished thinking, he had come up with a three day growth of beard and a theory. It went something like this:

He had been sailing from France (where he had been vacationing) to Florida (his home) upon the H.M.S. Gonzah when, quite sadly, the ship sank. He had swum to a deserted island, been captured by what he thought were Germans but were really Cubans in disguise, and would have been taken to Cuba except the helicopter crashed. He had then climbed aboard the boat and *** activity deleted *** while all the while sailing towards Florida. After defeating the pirates and cleverly ditching the jungle man, he had found this sign.

"Well, that certainly clears up some of these loose ends," thought Karl. "And as long as I'm here, I might as well go home. And since my home is in Miami, all I have to do is walk the six miles. How convenient!"

The next thing he knew, he was in front of his house. Quickly he took in his surroundings. He was in front of his house. Of course at any moment he might be confronted by Mafia Personnel and held hostage, but he was sure he could handle it.

Suddenly he was confronted by Mafia Personnel (MPs) and held hostage!

"Aha!" said one Mafia Person.

("Hmmm," thought Karlscotwhitaker parenthetically. "These MPs look a lot like the Cubans disguised as Germans that were on that helicopter!")

"Aha!" repeated the MP somewhat ineffably. "We have you now, you know! There is no escape from the MPs!"

"Except for that one..." mentioned another MP timidly.

"Quiet, you fool!" screamed the first MP wildly.

"What? Oh. Yeah. No. Right. No escape."

Karlscotwhitaker daringly went into action. He overpowered one of the MPs, grabbed a gun and screamed. "All right! Stop right there! One move and I blow you all back to Germany or Cuba or wherever you come from!"

"Cleveland."

"Whatever! Just don't move! Don't pick up that gun! Don't point it at me! Don't aim! For gosh sakes, don't shoot me!"

"Give me one good or bad reason why I shouldn't!" drawled the MP from Cleveland effectively.

"Oh, I can do that. Okay okay. No wait. Let me think. Oh! I've got it -- !"

They shot him to bits.

Pause now, delicate reader, to recover from the full implications of the last sentence. Wow. Powerful writing.

As the last MP left the house, a very wide silence, broken only by the sound of a falling diesel engine, squeezed though the open doorway and into the room.

The engine had fallen because a certain person had tried to start his truck that was not working because the engine was about to fall out. That certain person wetly grabbed the two-way radio and croaked out a message.

"Mayday? Yes, hi there. This is Karlscotwhitaker. Help. I need a doctor."

The Karlscotwhitaker Factor, part two

2006-01-06T19:33:00.000-08:00

With one more semifluid motion, Karlscotwhitaker broke out of the sinking hulk of mushed wet helicopter and plunged desperately through the ocean. As he did, he quickly took in his surroundings. He was underwater swimming for his life. Of course at any moment he might meet with a fierce shark, but he was sure he could handle it.

Suddenly, a fierce shark charged at him! Again! Karl didn't feel like grating his powerful fist against the abrasive surface of the shark's skin, so he executed a marvelous flip-turn and swam, stroke after powerful stroke, back towards the floating wreckage of the sinking helicopter. Just as he reached it and climbed on top, the very nasty jaws of the shark-beast clipped on past him.

As the wreckage bobbed gently on its last bubble of air, Karlscotwhitaker scrunched his eyes hard and thought. And thought.

Within a matter of mere hours Karl's intellectual facilities had spurted out what seemed to resemble an idea.

"Aha!" he chortled. "I shall simply jump upon this sharky and have it pull me to land!"

Karl gauged his timing perfectly and peerlessly flopped across the back of the shark. Without hesitation, Karl proceeded to hesitate.

"Um.... Now what?"

The shark seemed to know, unlike Karl, and deftly dove down deep into the darkest depths of the dank watery stuff with Karl frantically holding his breath and the shark's tail.

Acting and reacting, Karl quickly grabbed a fish and a piece of conveniently nearby seaweed, tied the fish to the shark's tail to confuse it, and swam lazily to the surface.

When he broke the surface with a "Pppbbthaaaa! Whew! Air at last," he saw what he had wanted to see now for days. He saw life, meaning, reason. What he saw was a boat.

The boat wasn't so big, a thirty-two footer -- Karlscotwhitaker had bigger ones for his bathtub -- yet it was a boat. It had nice blue sides and four cute little enginey things.

Quietly, Karl became uncommonly sneaky. He swam perfunctorily up to the boat and successfully climbed aboard. Quickly he took in his surroundings. He was on a yacht. Of course at any moment he might meet up with a Texas old-driller who owned this yacht and didn't take kindly to strangers and who just might kill him at any moment, but he was sure he could handle it.

Suddenly he heard a voice.

"I'm a Texas oil-driller and this is my yacht! I don't take kindly to strangers and I just might kill y'all at any moment, so watch it, boy!"

"Listen, you utterly vile thing, you!" Karl protested wonderfully. "I'm a fun-loving, kind-hearted, human-being-type-of-thing, just like you!"

To make a long, gory, and nasty story rather brutishly short and sweet, they fought for several continuous moments with much bloodshed on both sides. Karl emerged the victor by a hair or so.

Karl then went quickly below decks to see if there were any other passengers on board. He found a female-type one in the first room he checked.

*** The next four paragraphs have been removed. -Ed. ***

The next morning Karlscotwhitaker looked over the bow. The sun was just popping its large brilliance over the world, when suddenly a dot appeared on the nearby horizon. It went away. It came back again and quickly grew larger.

"Oh look!" Karl blubbered blithefully, "A large dot! Oh. I guess it's a ship. Oh no! A pirate ship!"

Quickly Karl took in his surroundings. He was on a ship that was floating slowly toward land. Of course at any moment the pirate ship might attack, but he was sure he could handle it.

Suddenly the pirate ship attacked! A million jillion pirates swarmed the deck, hacking it to tiny slivers. Karl went into action. He quickly grabbed the flamethrower that was sitting handily nearby in case of pirate attack ("Pull pin, shake well, and remove cap before using.") He ripped out the pin and sent it flying so ferociously that it knocked one of the pirates off the ship. Next he shook the cannister so vigorously that he sent several pirates reeling into the briney deep. Finally he tore off the cap and threw it yonder with such force that it cut through a row of pirates and killed them dead. After that it didn't take long for Karl to wipe out the rest of the pirates with the flamethrower.

Karlscotwhitaker stood on the burning deck among the gajillion dead pirates -- heroicallly.

The Karlscotwhitaker Factor, part one

2006-01-05T15:27:00.000-08:00

Karl had been dancing alone on the forecastle of the H.M.S. Gonzah when suddenly the ship lurched and he was thrown against a wall. He reeled, stood, and ran toward the captain's quarters. People were screaming cries of anguish, death and departure all around him but Karlscotwhitaker kept his cool.

"Captain! Captain Brainsworth! Are you alive? Hmmm?" Karl yelled dramatically through the recently jammed portal.

His only answer was an agonized wail coming from within: "Aagghhnnnaaageehilathneenyeenariiyeeanaran!"

Karlscotwhitaker, through sheer brute mentality and strength, managed to force open the hatch and crawl heroically insude. He could feel the ship sinking terribly as he lifted the broken mass of the captain through the tilting door and into a life boat.

"God bless you, son!" the captain called out to him.

Quickly Karl took in his surroundings. At any moment, the boat might sink and he would have to run to the highest end of the dying vessel and do a graceful swan dive into the murky depths.

He was sure he could handle it.

Suddenly, the boat began to sink! Karl ran to the highest end of the dying vessel and did a graceful swan dive into the murky depths.

As he determinedly plunged through the water, Karl realized that it might indeed become necessary to quickly take in his surroundings again.

"To heck with it!" he said and swam on.

From out of the depths a fierce shark suddenly appeared and charged toward him! Bravely, Karl swung his powerful fist. As it contacted, he could feel his knuckles grate against the abrasive skin. The shark floated to the surface.

With long, powerful, confident strokes, Karl swam delicately to an island he could see. Shortly he felt warm sand between his toes and air under his arms.

Karl's first thoughts were of rescue. "I must get rescued!"

Then however, as he realized he had a gun in a water-proof package, he had an idea. "Since this weapon has three eternally deadly accurate bullets in it, I can shoot some wild ferocious beastie for food!"

The circular island was about twenty feet across with a single tree in the exact center.

"If there is such a wild ferocious thing on this here island, I aim to get it. I bet it's behind that there tree!"

Cautiously, Karlscotwhitaker approached. With deadly accuracy he fired around the tree. He heard a scream of a fatally wounded wild and feocious beastie. "Eerrahhhhaaagghnyeeeherlyneerarguyneeachnpp!"

"Ha!" chuckled Karl triumphantly, "Got'm."

He traversed around the rock. Alone, unafraid, and amazingly hungry he faced the dead cow.

"Wow! Gee! Neat!" thought Karl slowly, "Now all I need is a fire and a really big stick."

He thought some more.

"And some marshmallows."

Later that night as he was huddled around the dead cow for warmth, a few fleeting thoughts crammed into his brain.

"I need a knife to get the meat off the cow. I need wood and matches for a fire. And I need drinkable water."

Karl then fell rapidly to sleep.

The next morning Karl found a strange package some six inches from his left pinky finger. In it he found a Sears brand Bowie knife, a box of Radisson Hotel matches, six bottles of Chippewa Spring Water, and several logs of L.L. Bean custom-cut firewood.

"How odd," thought Karl devoutly. "Oh well."

Finishing that, Karl made a fire, made six hamburger patties, ate them, drank some water, and waited for someone to see his fire and resuce him.

"There is but one dead cow on this island. For many days I must fast to conserve that which is my life: food." Karl uttered blithely between his lips. As soon as he completed his utterances he fell asleep among possible misery, danger, death and excitement.

When Karl awoke the next morning he found himself flying in a helicopter with someone pointing a Kleptz automatic gun-type thing at his hair-covered head.

"You be under arrrrest!" whispered the heavily and somewhat Germanly accented gun-toter. "One move und I beelow your itty-bitty brrrain out de veeendow!"

Thought Karl, "If this guy kills me, I'll never get home! What to do? What to do?"

Unexpectedly Karlscotwhitaker had an idea: "I'll have to think fast!" Karl thought as fast as he could.

Within the hour an idea had suddenly sprung fully formed to his brain. He lashed out with his muscular legs and knocked the gunman to the floor of the helicopter and with one or two semi-fluid motions had taken control of the said helicopter.

Quickly Karl took in his surroundings. He was in a foreign helicopter. Of course at any moment the gas might run out.

He was sure he could handle it.

Suddenly, the gas ran out! The helicopter went into a screeching dive.
"Eeeeeeesputeeeeeeesputsputeeeeeeeeeeeeeesputeeeeeeeeeeooowwwwwwww!"

Karlscotwhitaker was going to bail out when suddenly he hit the water. Splat. Blub blub blub.

The Karlscotwhitaker Factor, prologue

2006-01-05T15:18:00.000-08:00

Karlscotwhitaker slid nimbly aboard the plane and waited calmly for take-off.

"Washington, D.C.! Ah! Oh! Gee! Our nation's capital! Wow! It makes my teeny heart rumble!"

Karl screamed gently to the befudddled ruffian sitting across the aisle.

"In a few hours," he continued abruptly, "Pow! There I'll be! Gosh! It makes me feel faint to think of it even!"

With that Karl's heart rumbled and he fainted deep into the beckoning grasp of his airline seat cushion.

Indeed, soon he was there. He was packaged into thin lines and came out a tourist.

The guides took him to see all the regular, everyday, touristy-type places. When his group reached the White House, Karl barged though several lines of Secret Service and up to the President's desk.

"Hi!" he moaned poetically. "I'm Karlscotwhitaker! I'm from Miami! Y'ever been there? Twice? Gosh! Hey! What are there? Secret papers? Wow! I've got some right here!"

Karl dug deeply into his suitcase and extracted several crumpled pieces of paper.

"Hee hee!" twittered Karl, "I bet I could really screw up your quote unquote 'master plans' if I switched these like this!" Now Karl went through an elaborate shuffling procedure.

"Well, I gotta go! Good thing I got my own papers, huh? Hee hee!" And he was carried off.

The President stood aghast. Slowly he looked down to the crumpled papers on his desk.

Free Freedom and Justice From Oppression

2005-12-15T18:32:00.000-08:00

How long has it been, you sly dog?

Don't tell me you've been here before, looking for tidbits? First time? Well, we all have those days when we can't hit for ess aitch eye tee, if you get my drift, to quote a fellow I've heard but never met.

Enough of my travels. Things are cooling down here now what with all the work that had to be done.

See what I have to do around here? Sure it looks easy...

You try it and tell me what you've done recently.

(And they call ME cranky...)

Wouldja Lookit This!

2005-10-22T11:46:00.000-07:00

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What Could I Do?

2005-10-06T20:49:00.000-07:00

Not much.

So I got in.

His car smelled -- if it was his car -- like puke. The wheels made a hideous sound as he pulled away from the curb. As if there were no tires.

("Tyres," they call them.)

So later that day, lying on my back in a ditch somewhere in the heather, I started to think about -- naturally enough -- my first experience with projectile vomiting. Lying there quietly, I was just watching the sky. The clouds, really, and I suddenly remembered seeing my brother.

Well, I hadn't seen him, really, just his effect.

You see, growing up, our dining room looked into the living room through an archway. And if you continued through the living room -- to the left of this archway -- you'd eventually reach the hall off of which the bathroom lived. The hall floor was bare wood, the living room was carpeted in a dark marigold.

I was sitting at the dining room table and my brother was returning from the bathroom, and he hadn't yet made it to the point at which he would be visible under the archway.

Hearing a rasping spurt, I turned around and saw a yawning arc of purple (mmm, what...paste?) stretch through the air from one side of the archway two-thirds of the distance across the space, drifting gently in slow motion, and land like a heavy ribbon of violet cream across the length of the orange carpet.

So, he says...

2005-09-28T21:50:00.000-07:00

So, he says, dye nae seet thair?

And I looked and there it was, parked across the street.

Saving your eyes and my hands, I'll skip the phonetic spelling and continue this way:

We walked over to it, looking. Walked around the little thing, peering in the windows. I kept my eye on him as he muttered and nattered on about something that was clearly bothering him.

What is it? I asked. What's wrong?

At this point I'm on the street side and he's on the curbside, and we're leaning over the roof of the wee vehicle.

It's mine, god damn it! he sputters, they stole it from me!

Well, I thought just what you're thinking. But he rips open the door and jumps in. I look around for help, thinking I'd found a good time to politley part company, but he leans across and pushes open the passenger door.

Get in, he growls then (or words to that effect -- cultural differences), or I'll rip your head off and spit down your neck.

What He Said Next...

2005-09-24T15:04:00.000-07:00

"Look at this, would you?"

That's what he said, shoving me down the street in front of him, and from his grubby clothing he pulled out and handed to me this pristine photo.

(I've got to talk to Ishamel about this.)

In A Foreign Land

2005-09-19T16:03:00.000-07:00

So there I was (look, there I am!) walking along a quiet path in a foreign city (should it remain nameless, gentle reader?), when all of a sudden this man came up to me. He was, I believe homeless. Either that, or a wizard. Because in this country there's something magical in the air. Either that, or just a lot of sea air. Comes up to me awfully quickly, seemingly out of nowhere.

So when he asks me if I can spare any change (or the local variant of that request) I dig in my pockets and strike up a conversation. (I have found that often people like to talk when they are lonely, and this guy looked like he could use a chat.) He tells me he's from G____, and although I had difficulty understanding his strong accent, I get that he's been estranged from his family for about 13 years. Either that, or there was something about farm life and corn in his past.

I ask him if I can by him a sandwich and some tea. And we go into this little cafe about a block from where this picture was taken. He's a little smelly, but I've been around worse. He is talking a mile a minute and I'm picking up maybe 2/3 of what he says (the accent you know) when all of a sudden he gets this look of great fear in his eyes, starts up like a startled rabbit, and zips out the door like he's just seen a, a what, a ghost?

No, it's like he's in some spy movie and he's suddenly seen James Bond on his tail and takes off.

Either that, or he's slightly paranoid.

Gentle reader, prepare yourself for what comes next...

The Window in the Wall

2005-09-18T11:54:00.000-07:00

So boy have I got some stories to tell. Talk about your narratives. Talk about your speaking subjects. And we all thought they were dead, along with Mr Author. Then there are those who say in complete and utter head-smashing unawareness, "It's obvious. Look, someone said something, didn't they."

No one wants an argument, they just want to change your mind.

How can you argue with such blind ignorance, in any case? Sort of makes you want to say, "I understand you are looking at a wall, but look a little closer: there's a window in it. Quit telling me that I don't understand. Quit describing the little you see as evidence of a universal truth."

I'll get some pictures up here and you can be let in on my adventures.

Until then, gentle reader.

Wait wait, I'm back.

2005-09-01T14:00:00.000-07:00

Like you care.
But I'll put up some posts anyway.
Maybe some pictures from my trip if I'm feeling generous.

Perhaps...

2005-07-28T09:48:00.000-07:00

What no pictures?

Did you know that when you sneeze it comes out of your nose at over 200 miles per hour?

What's in the Blue Bag?

2005-07-24T19:27:00.000-07:00

Well. It seems wonderful how time flies, does it not?

Especially when sometimes the days become indistinguishable from both the hours and the weeks. Travis Bickle had some nice things to say about that, but perhaps another time...

Here it is almost the end of July, another horrible month of wretched weather in the dustbin of history.

You know, history wouldn't be so horrible if it stayed that way: you know, history. But it keeps jumping up, oozing out of the cracks, sliding down the walls where you least expect it. Well maybe you should have expected it, because after all that's what history does...but still. That's what makes it distasteful. All those creeping moments.

Talk about your eternal return...

So here's a juicy example:

I was working all day today on both the slogging mindnumbing busywork for which I get paid, as well as the slogging mindnumbing work for which I will get paid a little at some point, and because of this unable to approach the slogging mindnumbing work for which I do not get paid, but enjoy doing, or at least usually enjoy doing, when I went downstairs for some food and found a plastic bag in the middle of the dining room floor. One of the blue ones that the New York Times comes in.

Now I was not ignorant of what was most likely contained therein. Neither was this an unusual location to find it. In my house, these bags get used to hold used diapers. When you're out of the house carting around a couple kids and one of them poops, you have to make the best of it and change him. And if you're committed to cloth diapers and use Toxic Waste Excrement Holders only on Improbable Vacations or Ignorant Excursions, well then, at times like this you've got to do something with the products of consumption.

If you know what I mean.

And those bags fit the bill. They keep things tidy and odor free until you can dispose of the crap.

Not to put too fine a point on it.

So when you get home sometimes you don't have time to sort things out according to Hoyle, so you toss the puppy somewhere and are glad you don't own literal puppies to put their noses -- and teeth -- where they don't belong.

So this afternoon I crept gingerly up to the blue bag and picked it up. Not gingerly enough, apparently. Out fell a load of history all over my spats. Well, no, not my spats. I don't actually wear those. Anymore. Well, not recently. This particular bit of history truthfully landed on the floor, but really at this point what difference is there? I've got to clean it up.

So I grab the remaining bag and diaper parts and particles and take them to the bathroom. I plop the diaper in the toilet and the bag in the garbagecan back in the kitchen (don't be grossed out -- it gets emptied the quickest -- anyway, it's not your house, so give me a break). Then I gather a handful or two of premium (not so ecofriendly -- at least that's what the label says) toilet paper and gather the history of my child tenderly (not out of love, frankly, but out of a somewhat irrational distaste) and carry that new handful to the toilet and plop it in. Oops, on top of the diaper. Oh well, carry on.

I wash my hands, get the sponge out from under the sink (Oh all right, yes, the kitchen sink. No, bug off. It's still not your house, and anyway I washed my hands.) get it wet and wipe up the remaining smears on the floor.

Now in the olden days, back when I had only one child along with the motivation, ability, and desire to keep the house clean, I would use soap -- or, if I was feeling particular cheerful, alcohol or alcohol-based cleanser.

Oh, before children? You could eat off the floor. And we did on those heady occasions when the circumstances called for it. These days the only thing that gets regularly cleaned are my hands. (My horizons have narrowed.)

So I wipe the spot and rinse the sponge (sanitary of me, no?).

About to wash my hands again, I remember the toilet situation: dirty diaper (we say "poopy" in my house) under a pile of "poopy" toilet paper.

Now perhaps you have some of these things called children (and/or are SUV-driving, plastic-loving, disposable-everything consumer-lunatics) and are not at all intrigued by the lengths to which some parents will go to keep their children's bottoms healthy, their floors and furniture poop free, and do as little damage to the ecosystem all at the same time. But if not, or in any case in my world, we go about it all a little like this:

Diapers with poop in them (chunks, turds, cream, or spray) need to be rinsed in the toilet first. This takes most of the crap out. If you toss it directly in the landfill it will grow to make such evil things that will turn your bones straight to mush, just like something out of science fiction (I was going to say "out of late night tv," but these days, that is just not as interesting as it used to be). Now if it's been awhile since the consumed healthy bits have exited the digestive tract as bio-processed unhealthy bits you may need to soak the offending puppy for some time to loosen the dried crud a bit.

Stick with me now...it can't get much worse. Can it? (Get it? "Stick with me?"')

Once you're sure things are nicely loosened (think of it as diaper constipation in diaper laxative) you reach in (to the toilet bowl, now slightly muddy-looking), grab the diaper by the smallest, cleanest bit you can manage, and swish it (gently! gently! No one wants to get splashed here!) in the bowl as you flush.

Now you take a deep breath, abandon all pretense at being a civilized human being who has learned not to touch their shit, and grab it with both hands and wring the sucker out. Into the toilet please.

Then exhaling at last, take the sodden diapery mass to the diaper pail. Wash your hands. Please.

When the pail is full, toss it in the washer at high heat, extra clean, using plenty of good clean soap. Dry them in the dryer at high heat as well. Heat is neat, effective stuff. Or thing. Or whatever.

They come out smelling just exactly like clean cotton, which is what they are (unless you use that smelly soap or dryer sheets which, frankly, make me sick). Amazing.

So for this afternoon's recent dining room excursion I pried the diaper out from under the clotted scum and shook most of the toilet paper off. Then I flushed the toilet, holding on to the diaper, swishing gently (as directed above). I wrung it out and took it to the diaper pail.

There were no further glitches from that point. Unless you call describing it all here for your enjoyment a glitch.

There: my juicy example of history coming back to bite you in the butt.

I've got others. Questions?

Remote Controlled Life

2005-07-19T02:36:00.000-07:00

O lord, I have been up late for so many nights. But late is all relative. I have many late relatives. More late relatives than living ones.

Naturally.

In fact, statistically you could say that all my relatives are late, since the ratio of late to living approaches zero.

I will have to remember to ask Ishmael about this.

So, I have decided to stop working on my show. And then I did a whole bunch of work on it. It doesn't make much difference what I decide. My life goes along without me as if I am a remotely controlled puppet of someone from somewhere else. My little brain tells me what to do, whether or not it accords with my deepest desires. Something, someone, somewhere has something in mind for me and they are not telling. It is enough to make me want to quit just to frustrate them.

Would that be possible?

Houses, Ownership, And Security

2005-07-12T11:20:00.000-07:00

My word.

I'm sitting here while one child sleeps and the other is at the park with some unrelated adults, ten other children, and some playground equipment. Sweating. I have a theory about this heat, but we won't go into that.

Naturally, Ishmael has been calling me up a lot. I say naturally because that seems to be what he does when he feels ill. He's had a headache, aches, and just feeling "generally unhelpful." (Perhaps he means "unhealthful" or "unhealthy;" I'm not sure.)

He went on for about half an hour on the topic of houses, and ufortunately I didn't get it on tape, but the gist of it was that in this country we feel like our houses are private spaces, and that "private" here involves exclusive possession and ownership.

I said, well, yes, many of us do own our houses. And he said, no not the houses, the space. It is related to the obsession for security (security defined as a exclusionary set of relationships), he says. An interesting aspect of this, he says, is how this is reflected to the world outside of the house.

He likes to take walks after the sun goes down ("so much more cooler") and he notices how 80% of the houses illuminate the sidewalks with just their television sets. They behave as if the outside world is just an extension of their living rooms. Their owned space extends outward, claiming the outside as privately owned -- rather than the public space of the street/sidewalk being allowed (or denied) access through the windows, doors, etc.

Then of course he went on to discuss how we Americans (or "United Statesians," as he prefers to refer to some of us here) watch television. And the television as a tool for claiming territory. But that's for another day.

Cell Phones And TV Sets

2005-07-06T10:44:00.000-07:00

Ishmael's back. He called me up this morning some eleven hours after he landed. He was complaining about cell phones on the plane. How people call and say, "Yeah, the plane's landed. I'm just waiting to get off. Where are you?"

Ishamel says, as well as I can remember, "Of course it is ridiculous to do this. It is an old joke. I am a little surprised people still do it. I would think they would be afraid of being laughed at. But you know what is interesting, this is what is interesting: what did we do before there were cell phones? What was happening in our minds, eh? Do you know? What did we do? This is the same question as about the television sets. There is history for you. There is the march of time, inexorable and fearsome, do you know? These some parts of our minds, our thoughts and feelings, that have been irradicated by technology. Or perhaps that is too dramatic, no? Have been replaced by technology. Because these things, these mental occupations, no longer happen. They are not buildings you can see crumble. It is not the decay of a some kind of material or the sense of a few words being dated, old-fashioned, you know? Not something you can witness, share with your friends, 'Look how things have changed.' No? It is invisible and also under the radio, the radar, no? We don't notice because something has taken its place. There is the cell phone and the television set -- we cannot imagine what has gone before these things, what occupied those parts of us that are now so busily occupied by these techologies. They have been erased. No more. Poof."

Good ol' Ishmael.

Visit With Ishmael

2005-07-02T11:48:00.000-07:00

I went to visit Ishmael yesterday. He is leaving town for the holiday weekend. He said he doesn't like the overwhelming displays of blind patriotism. I told him it was not necessarily all blind. He gave me a look and said, "Charles. Let us not pretend to be ignorant. All patriotism is blind. It is part of its definition. Blindness is a fundamental aspect of patriotism, in any country. Love of country? Don't give me this 'love of country' foo-foo." (Yes, gentle reader, "foo-foo." I was taken a bit aback myself.) "What is a country, anyway? It is a such a 19th-century notion. It serves only to consolidate the power of the few and subjugate the many." He went on. Here is an excerpt.

He continued, discussing this linguistic distinction, making his point that even the language used to describe this country on this holiday has been determined by the chauvinistic influence of the powerful. "On this 'holiday,' as you call it, you continually refer to this country as 'America,' not as a bunch of United States. I like that word 'bunch,' it sounds so fruit-like. Speaking of which, do you know what the Dole corporation did in South America? Is doing now in Ecuador? Of course not, you are an American. We need more people here from the United States."

And so forth.

tingles

2005-06-30T13:17:00.000-07:00

So this is one-handed typing because the child is asleep on my shoulder. I think I may be doing serious damage to my clavicle because when I bike I get tingles down my arm. And not tingles of excited happiness either, man. And don't think that's the end of it.

You haven't heard the last from me, dagnabit! I'm a cranky old man and there's more where that came from!

By jingo, don't be stupid!

Flicks To Sneeze At

2005-06-29T19:44:00.000-07:00

Last night I watched North by Northwest again. It's one of those movies -- maybe you've noticed -- late fifties kind of technicolor thing where everything looks a little fake. There's a sheen of fakery to the whole thing. Now of course Cary Grant never musses the part in his impeccable locks and when he kisses Eva Marie Saint he is careful not to muss her do in turn -- but you're never really sure what is real or fake, particularly the scenery outside the window, the cars, the trains, etc. I guess you could make an argument (And maybe Mr. Hitchcock did) that it fits thematically, but dude. Fake city means its all fake or maybe it's all just as real.

Which brings me to the movie I saw tonight, The Incredibles, and it's "if everyone is super then no one is" ideology. Okay, but you know Buddy/Incrediboy/Syndrome's initial comment early on about how you don't need super powers to be special turned out to be the root of his Bad Guy-ness. Hmmmmmm...

Which, if you'll allow the digression, brings me to a completely new topic.

Try this one one for size, something from many many years ago:

"I talked to F one afternoon while cleaning my place. F thought it was odd that my happiness was something I couldn’t defend. I had said that it comes up on you from behind and tells you it’s leaving.
F said, looking at my plants, But I know I’m happy.
Good, I said.
And I don’t expect it to last. Touching the soil.
Good, I said.
But I’m enjoying it anyway, while I can. Feeling the leaves.
Good, I said.
Nothing lasts forever, F says. And at the time I believed.

Now I’m wondering how long this is going to last. I am thinking about the thread that won’t break. I don’t want to be stuck with this tie for the rest of my life, but I will be. This will last forever. Or at least as close enough as to make no difference. It makes me wonder whether it makes any difference what happens. Of course it does, I know all that, but that’s not what I mean. I mean what happens when the lightning doesn’t strike anymore?"

Hello hello hello

2005-06-28T09:19:00.000-07:00

Imagine this:

You are somewhere you haven't been in a long time. And the weather is different. The last time you came here your hair was damp with sweat and the breeze was cool off the water. You had on a light shirt and ugly shorts and you were cranky. It must have been hot earlier in the day, all day, and made the whole week seem like the kind of torture middle-aged yuppies go through when they can't get their morning cappuccino. (Back when only yuppies drank cappuccino's, I guess.)

At any rate you're irritable, or you were that day, and there were some friends of yours you'd rather not ever see again and yet here they were with you chatting happily which of course is enough to make you want to stick your finger down your throat and puke all over their hip little outfits and sweaty faces. Make them feel the real world all over their stupid logos and damn labels. What made them come with you today anyway? You'd rather be alone. Or home. Or with someone else. Someone who wouldn't talk about their stupid vacation for another hour.

You can imagine the next three hours with these people and it is enough to make you stop where you stand, clench your teeth, and shudder. One of your friends bumps into your back, not noticing you've stopped, and you bite their head off (verbally, of course. This time, anyway.)

But then, that was last year. Or two years ago, it's hard to say. Now you're here again, and the place -- although no different on closer inspection -- seems to be radically changed. It's the season -- and you -- that have changed. All the events of the last year or two. How did you make it through alive? All that...what, life?

But now someone leads you ahead into the darkness. Not one of those friends, some of whom are still friends, some only acquaintences, and some are only, well...good riddance to bad rubbish I always say.

There's nothing easier than losing a friend.

Unless it's losing someone closer.

But now the world has changed around you and you are in the dark. And a little excited, no? Wondering what will happen, knowing that something will, something designed to engage you, entertain you, take you from here and put you there. For a moment, a few moments, a while, a time where you will not be you where you are now but you somewhere else then.

For a moment.

After all

2005-06-25T20:17:00.000-07:00

Well all righty then.

I found out a little bit more about this possible money-making -- er, teaching -- opportunity. And it can be more or less what I want as long as it is "writing intensive" and doesn't freak them out too much. Apparently. Or at least not all at once.

I got a previous syllabus for the thing. And man, I'd forgotten what school was like -- or rather what it was turning into when I left. Those people are smart now. The teachers, that is. At least the ones who did this syllabus. They know a lot of stuff -- I'm not talking about plays because it looks like it's not -- or at least recently hasn't been -- what I'd call a survey of dramatic literature. It's like making them read and think about what they've read and then write and talk about it. And theory crap and stuff, rigid brain activities.

Why would anyone go to school?

This is college, I'm talking about. It's not like they'll put you in jail if you don't go.

And the theater department.

Part of me (my mouth) says O crap what a bunch of academics. Another part of me (my head) says jeez I can't do that. And course they're both right. And O, if I open up and listen to my heart?

It says, baDump baDump baDump.

Or really more like: baThum, baThum, baThum, because I've got this little heart murmur. Heart murmur sounds so sweet, like whispered words of love from a Victorian Valentine. Or Hallmark. Not at all like something that, if it spoke much louder, could rare up and bite your head off (leaving you dead, that is -- in case there are any poetic metaphoricists left out there).

But I'm thinking, hey. C'mon. They asked Me, after all, they can't expect too much. I can give what I've got, right? It's just...

One of these days I gotta get myself Organizized...

Teaching for the Big Bucks

2005-06-24T16:21:00.000-07:00

Have you ever taught a class? Well, that's a hypothetical question, or rather a rhetorical one. Or both, I guess. Whatever. I have. Sort of. If you can call it that. I'm not really made out for teaching. I'm more like a good listener. And a ham. And you put those things together and you get something pretty weird, maybe entertaining in a sick sort of way, but not very educational. At least if you're talking about learning something about what the class is about. Or something. You know? Whatever.

See what I mean?

Well, I think I'm going to do it. Given the chance. And the money, of course. Let's not forget that it's all about the Big Bucks. That's why I like art so much, too. I call it art because, well, what else would you call it? It ain't theater. At least, not like what my cousin Boo calls theater, And she knows everything, so... (No, she's no relation to Cousin Bette. Cause then I'd be related to her, too.)

So this class? It's a survey. Which means, I think -- it's been so long for me, give me a break -- that it's a lot of reading and no in-depth examination (all right, don't jump down my throat: little time, little). And it's of dramatic literature -- which, unless you're talking about reading on rollercoasters, is a bit of an overstatement. Or an oxymoron. Or both, depending on how you look at it. I'd like to pick up some Charles Bukowski and have them read it to me while I nap, but I don't get to pick the syllabus, I'm thinking. Or it could be an odd bit of Newspeak. Sort of like double plus good. Something that has had the meat taken out of it. Except no, it's more like the reverse: Oldspeak: something from the, what, the 19th century (which is now a century older than it used to be).

And it's part one. Part one of how many? Two. Two parts to survey dramatic literature. It sounds so much like, well, school, you know? I'm not really into that, unless I'm the student. Cause then you can maybe hopefully find something to interest you for an hour while you don't have to pay off the student loans.

And the stuff going on these days seems so much more, well, academic then it was when I was a whippersnapper. Okay sorry, I graduated how long ago? Eight years. From grad school. So kill me, I'm an old fart at 37. Of course I have always been an old fart. Just not so cranky about it. okay okay, cranky too. Just not always as old.

More from Ishmael

2005-06-23T11:30:00.000-07:00

So in the middle of a very interesting conversation about television (or rather interesting monolog, because Ishmael is not one to engage in two-sided convesation...) a man walked by with his dogs. Ishmael suddenly forgot all about his deep intellectual point and went off on this detour. The amazing thing is that he snapped right back into the middle of the sentence he had left off with once he had finished this little digression.

Okay fine: it's amusing, but what does it have to do with trying to finish a show in a limited time? The space question, etc?

Interview With A Foreigner

2005-06-22T10:55:00.000-07:00

I met this one guy (call him Ishmael, even though it's not his name) a long time ago, back when I was making 18th Century English plays into contemporary social satires, and he was not from around here. I was. And am. I admire and respect him but sometimes he says things that strike me as odd. (Of course, sometimes I say things that strike me as odd, too.) Anyway, now we're friends and I was asking him some questions the other day about his views on things around here. Just because he's a clever guy and has a lot to say. I asked him what he thought about television, given its centrality to this life we lead here. This is what he said: Interview 1 (I thought I might be able to use this type of thing in a show somehow.)

AND and WITH

2005-06-21T18:42:00.000-07:00

So I was thinking, I've got about what, four weeks to finish up this show I'm working on. Fortunately I'm not doing it alone so the burden is shared, but I was thinking, okay I don't know where it is going to be. And this comes up every time. The space always comes at the last minute, and you come to it with a general idea of what you're going to do and how you think it will work, but you never really know and then you get in the space and it changes everything -- not like omigod the blocking has to change, or omigod that scene will have to take place backwards and split in two so we can get the audience in there in two shifts -- although that happens too. It's more like, okay, the show is going to be about THIS and not THAT, like I thought, well...Because it takes over and tells you what you're doing, it affects the work in its relation to the audience and the space not to mention the actors and all the whatever tech or visual/sonic elements you had in mind. Because no matter how you imagine a warehouse or a storefront window or a market tent to be, the reality is always more complicated, stronger, and harder to adjust to than you think. And if you don't want the space to be too busy, you might as well stay home and do it on a dum'ol' STAGE stage. But then you get in there and you go through hell -- just like "real" theater except it's not about getting the rewrites memorized or the lights right, or the set door to open, or the cues right or whatever, it's about will this rusty i-beam fall on my head and kill me will this old bannister really support my weight and will tonight be the night the cops come and shut us down. Big fines, no more work. It's all there man and I'm not going to end this with a bit about how it makes the work exciting and the experience invigorating. Although, I guess that's true in a way. My point is that there's supposed to be a show and sure there's always a chance it won't come off, but I don't even know what it is that won't come off - I mean, what the hell is this going to be? What is going to happen? Sure the script is not done, and the rehearsals haven't started, but dude! The space, man! Where is this thing taking place! On top of having nowhere to do it, if we do get somewhere to do it what's it going to be? It's like not knowing what you're doing ever. No, it's like not knowing what you're doing ever AND not having anything to do it WITH. Talk about your jumping off a cliff... Oh, and hey, guess what it's about. No, g'ahead, guess!

The City on the Sea

2005-06-20T20:50:00.000-07:00

So I was thinking: there's this room, see, and there are two people in it. It's just a regular room, nothing special about it. No it's not a bedroom or a boardroom, but it could be something like that maybe, it's not very specific, it's just sort of...blank. But big. Pretty large. And the two people are far away. From each other. And from you. They don't know you're there. And neither of them know that the other is there. It's like they're each in a separate room, but they're not. It's not like they're pretending, they just don't pay attention to each other.

Okay, so this room is in this building. A building you've come into, you've climbed the steps out in front or whatever and gone through the big front doors or whatever and down the hall, right, through some other doors and rooms and here you are. And this building is on the street. A street you remember because you saw it just now coming in.

And of course this street is in the city you know, you've been here, you found this place after all. This is nothing new. You know this, you remember all this from here in this room.

And you remember it because suddenly, even though you know where you are, and this room is nothing special, you sort of start feeling like maybe something is wrong with this place. Or with you. Because you think you can feel a little swaying. A little rocking beneath your feet. Like the whole room is shifting slightly, rocking but very slowly and gently, like an immense ship.

And there's the sound of a machine humming somewhere, and a musty smell...

No, that's like dead fish a little isn't it? But saltier, yes. And that machine is so rhythmical, so soothing. It's like waves...

From "The House"

2005-06-20T11:00:00.000-07:00

In every house, well, it could be that in every building, or even in every street on every corner, but let’s stick to the immediate, the familiar. Inside every house there lives a secret invisible house. Yes, lives, no…. A second house is housed, fitting inside it like words on a page. Like a line on a hand. Not always alive. An invisible house that is made up of the paths from the bed to the refrigerator or to the bathroom. Up and down the stairs. From the kitchen to the dining room table. From the kitchen to the front window. The pacing circles in the living room. Traces of moves, gestures, stillness, silences.

From "The Taxi" (inspired by M Proust)

2005-06-19T09:28:00.000-07:00

So I begin these suitcase farewells, under unfamiliar lights. Plotting distances across state lines or across a bed: crossing distances of my own making....

Sometimes I will turn, or blink, and for a second suddenly this city is empty. Zero. No cars. No lights. No people. Ash. Dust. Nothing.

Then it's over and I move on.

Back from away...

2005-06-18T15:39:00.000-07:00

"I know I mustn't listen to other voices, nor give credit to visions or nightmares. I go on digging my hole, in my mole's burrow." I. Calvino