These are the best and the worst, the moments, the sights, the sounds and the frolicking of note for the past seven days.
Clothing:
Blazer and replacement button - $11.00
Brown leather saddle shoes - $6.00
Blue jeans - $4.50
Finding more excuses to hit up thrift stores and look great doing it- priceless
Movie of the Week:
Wordplay (documentary)- Actually it was the only movie I watched all week so winner by default. The most notable moment was watching a former crossword champion struggle with social angst and yet brim with self confidence as it pertained to her wording accomplishments all while honing her baton twirling skills. I feel if I watched this movie simultaneously with either of the Trekkie documentaries I would come to a moment were the same person appears on both screens at the same time. If I was high and played The Wall at the beginning of this experiment my eyeballs might suck back into my skull and vacate my head through my ears.
Most Confounding Moment
I was on break from my Genealogy class (yes, genealogy) and had made my way to the cafeteria to get some coffee. Classes are being held at night in a local technical high school that oddly enough sits on the same property as a shooting range and one of the world's largest composting facilities (another story on to itself). I enter the cafeteria to find a dog obedience class being held. I counted fourteen dogs, the same number of hapless handlers and three piles of poo. Fleas and dog smells filled the very room that food and beverage were not only being provided but also prepared. I wanted desperately to jot this moment down but I didn't have any paper or writing utensils as they were back in the classroom that was now locked for the duration of the allotted break time because we are apparently all seven years old inside and cannot be trusted.
Best TV:
Toss up. Top Chef on Bravo aired the first part of the two part season finale. My wife and I are big fans of the show because even though it is Reality TV they don't spend too much time on the drama and leave 90% of the air time to the food. This first part of the finale lived up to all expectations so it's gets a nod. The other nod goes to Robot Chicken. Voltron gets served and Mongoose: Nature's Assassin is all I need say.
The Week In Music:
Coley's Pick - Rocco Delucca and The Burden: I Trust You To Kill Me
I also found out this week that anyone who performs or wants to perform and claims over and over again to be "unique" generally either sound bad or are about as original as Cheerios.
Best Food:
Whoopie Pies. Mom makes'm you love'm. They have nothing to do with washed up comics dropping a deuce.
Worst Food:
Fontina cheese on a bagel chip while driving. My wife and I are lucky to be alive.
Most Surreal Moment:
Passing by an open fire hydrant filled with garbage that easily could have been set ablaze. Then imagining the confusion of firefighters having to find another fire hydrant to put out the flames in a fire hydrant.
Fat Coley Weight Watch:
This Week - Charmingly Chunky
Last Week - Slightly Sloppy
Down ten pounds and in a whole new category!
McGod Passage of the Week:
It's not that the grass is always greener on the other side, it's probably just browner on yours.
1.23.2007
Pig Egg
The British, in a rare moment of culinary brilliance, have corrected one of God's biggest blunders, one of evolution's largest mistakes. They have replaced the inedible, frustrating and useless eggshell that the creative forces of the universe saw fit to inflict upon us with a far more practical and delicious substance . . . sausage. Then, in a fit of gastrogenius, they had the admirable audacity to bread and deep fry this new and improved chicken egg. The ingenuity! The creativity! The sheer cheekiness of the idea! Rule Britannia, and rule proudly over the tiny corner of the cooking world in which you shine so bright.Without diminishing the accomplishments of our deposed forbearers, I would like to say that I feel capable of improving on this idea. In the near future you will find, on this very site, a recipe that takes this scotch egg to new caloric heights and further undermines the questionable line between unfertilized chicken ovum and swine.
1.22.2007
Angeline - Part 3
The rain was moving dark across the flatland. A great shadow seemed to proceed it, broken only by the jagged, tortured hands of the lightning that snatched occasionally at the brown earth. The old cat, who lived off field mice and crickets in the surrounding fields, had long since scrambled beneath the dilapidated porch. Above were the bones of a dog, nearly cleaned of flesh.
It would still be some time before the rain came. The land granted foresight for weather defeated only by darkness. Storms that rose in the night were the most dangerous. They came like bad dreams howling out of the deep forgotten mind and set horrible twisting winds down in backyards with only a low rumble for a warning. Day storms were not as bad. They announced themselves. They knocked before entering.
She was in her chair, rocking in the backyard dust, watching the great cloud bank roll in. She sneered at it and spit a great brown gob onto a nearby anthill. She smiled like a broken fence at the apparent success of her expectoration, watching the panic of the ants with shining eyes. She looked up again at the foreboding sky. Bet that siren’s goin’ off in town, she thought and took a long pull on her whiskey. Bet all dem folks is goin’ to ground. She smiled again.
In the front of the house a crow fluttered down like the last black leaf of fall and landed heavily on the bones of the dog. The sharp beak grabbed a tiny bit of flesh that hung from the empty ribs and tore it away. One last meal before the weather takes it all. One last bite before the ragged bird finds shelter wherever crows go to weather the storm.
The storm began to make itself known in a throaty, complaining, old man sort of way. As it drew closer that almost comforting facade would drop away to reveal the snarling beast inside, but for now she could still sit, drink and spit. S’gonna be a bad one, she thought and knew from long years. And, even as she thought it a long dark finger of cloud dropped to the ground and scrapped up a swirling trail of dust and distant debris.
She groaned as she stood and turned away from the storm with a sort of disdain unusual in the face of such weather. The wind was already singing low tones through the old barn and she could taste dust in the air waiting for the rain to beat it down into a short lived mud. In one hand she held her jug, in the other she dragged the chair. These were her prized possessions, the only things that would cramp the musty space of her cellar as she sat and waited out the scouring wind.
She smiled a dark, jagged smile and thought about the storm stripping everything. This wind’ll be the last a that old bitch on the porch an then I kin have it back. Deep down she hoped the bones would still be there. She hoped the storm would take the stink and the flesh and the dark birds feeding and leave her the bones. In another place, at another time she might have fashioned a crown or armor from those bones, but here, now, she would be content just to have them curled there like a statue of a dogs death in the corner of her porch.
Out front, beneath the porch, the old cat had found a corner in which to hide beneath itself. It would survive the storm there beneath the rattling boards and shivering bones. That porch had had enough of death in its time. It had had enough of giving things over to the other side. Now was its chance to protect, but the old cat didn’t know this. It shook and squirmed with scarcely understood terror in the dusty dark.
The woman grunted in the language of long years as she dragged the old chair down the rickety wooden stair and into the small basement. Her late, late husband had dug the thing many years ago, meaning for it to be a shelter and a root cellar and a place to store all that needed dark cool storage in the long days of heat and light. But, the soil was rocky and uncooperative, and he was short of temper, energy and sober moments. So, the great project ended as a small room with space for nothing more than a chair, an old woman and a jug of whiskey. Even the stair which came down into it rode a slope to the bottom and had no space behind for storage of supplies.
The storm cellar had a door, stolen long ago before another apocalyptic cloud bank, from the face of the old barn. They had slaughtered the last of the horses and could find no more use for a door on the dying structure. This door ended up being her husbands penance for the sad state of his cellar. That first storm it was simply a heavy piece of wood to lay across a small hole, but as time passed and the unfinished cellar gnawed at him, the sophistication and finish of that great door grew. In its final state, reached only days before a fevered death dragged the wasted man down, it lay across the opening of the cellar, fresh stained and riding on two smooth metal tracks. These tracks were fitted with bearings which allowed the door to open and close so smoothly that a child, were one foolish enough to wander into that place, could easily operate it alone. This is the only reason the old woman was able to pull it closed now and pitch her into the darkness of a single fluttering candle and a long wait.
She hooked the two great hooks of the door into their respective eyes and climbed back down, wheezing and muttering. Sitting in the chair again, with candle light playing cruelly in the dark shadowed creases of her face she drew long and hard on the jug, letting fire precede rain, letting the long slow burn come before the quick twist and tear of wind.
Sleep beat the storm and she sank down into it. It was a deep terrible thing fueled by age and whiskey, and each time she succumbed to it she wandered deaths long shore with one foot in the cool water. There she tasted the sour past on the ethereal breeze and spat into the wind of her own undoing. While outside the storm tore the world asunder.
She woke to silence and eerie dark. The candle had eaten itself to the floor and the storm had passed. She stood and made her way stumbling up the short stairs, undid the door and slid it smoothly open. There were vast and shining stars above her as she climbed out into the shadowy wreckage of her house. No wall stood and the roof of long days past was nowhere to be seen. Her meager possessions were strewn about or gone and the moon picked out bits of cloth, tins of food and the shining pieces of glass that once were windows. Turning around she saw the one thing still standing, completely intact. The porch, attached to nothing appeared untouched. Even its shallow pitched roof still hung improbably over it.
She grunted and went back down the stairs for the jug and the chair. She dragged them onto the porch and sat down for a drink. The old cat, rejoicing in the sparing of one of its few remaining lives sprang out from below and into the mouse filled fields with an almost youthful vigor. The woman drank, drank and passed out again.
When the sun rose it caught in its fiery eye the impossible porch, the sleeping old woman and the gleaming, clean skeleton of a forgotten dog.
It would still be some time before the rain came. The land granted foresight for weather defeated only by darkness. Storms that rose in the night were the most dangerous. They came like bad dreams howling out of the deep forgotten mind and set horrible twisting winds down in backyards with only a low rumble for a warning. Day storms were not as bad. They announced themselves. They knocked before entering.
She was in her chair, rocking in the backyard dust, watching the great cloud bank roll in. She sneered at it and spit a great brown gob onto a nearby anthill. She smiled like a broken fence at the apparent success of her expectoration, watching the panic of the ants with shining eyes. She looked up again at the foreboding sky. Bet that siren’s goin’ off in town, she thought and took a long pull on her whiskey. Bet all dem folks is goin’ to ground. She smiled again.
In the front of the house a crow fluttered down like the last black leaf of fall and landed heavily on the bones of the dog. The sharp beak grabbed a tiny bit of flesh that hung from the empty ribs and tore it away. One last meal before the weather takes it all. One last bite before the ragged bird finds shelter wherever crows go to weather the storm.
The storm began to make itself known in a throaty, complaining, old man sort of way. As it drew closer that almost comforting facade would drop away to reveal the snarling beast inside, but for now she could still sit, drink and spit. S’gonna be a bad one, she thought and knew from long years. And, even as she thought it a long dark finger of cloud dropped to the ground and scrapped up a swirling trail of dust and distant debris.
She groaned as she stood and turned away from the storm with a sort of disdain unusual in the face of such weather. The wind was already singing low tones through the old barn and she could taste dust in the air waiting for the rain to beat it down into a short lived mud. In one hand she held her jug, in the other she dragged the chair. These were her prized possessions, the only things that would cramp the musty space of her cellar as she sat and waited out the scouring wind.
She smiled a dark, jagged smile and thought about the storm stripping everything. This wind’ll be the last a that old bitch on the porch an then I kin have it back. Deep down she hoped the bones would still be there. She hoped the storm would take the stink and the flesh and the dark birds feeding and leave her the bones. In another place, at another time she might have fashioned a crown or armor from those bones, but here, now, she would be content just to have them curled there like a statue of a dogs death in the corner of her porch.
Out front, beneath the porch, the old cat had found a corner in which to hide beneath itself. It would survive the storm there beneath the rattling boards and shivering bones. That porch had had enough of death in its time. It had had enough of giving things over to the other side. Now was its chance to protect, but the old cat didn’t know this. It shook and squirmed with scarcely understood terror in the dusty dark.
The woman grunted in the language of long years as she dragged the old chair down the rickety wooden stair and into the small basement. Her late, late husband had dug the thing many years ago, meaning for it to be a shelter and a root cellar and a place to store all that needed dark cool storage in the long days of heat and light. But, the soil was rocky and uncooperative, and he was short of temper, energy and sober moments. So, the great project ended as a small room with space for nothing more than a chair, an old woman and a jug of whiskey. Even the stair which came down into it rode a slope to the bottom and had no space behind for storage of supplies.
The storm cellar had a door, stolen long ago before another apocalyptic cloud bank, from the face of the old barn. They had slaughtered the last of the horses and could find no more use for a door on the dying structure. This door ended up being her husbands penance for the sad state of his cellar. That first storm it was simply a heavy piece of wood to lay across a small hole, but as time passed and the unfinished cellar gnawed at him, the sophistication and finish of that great door grew. In its final state, reached only days before a fevered death dragged the wasted man down, it lay across the opening of the cellar, fresh stained and riding on two smooth metal tracks. These tracks were fitted with bearings which allowed the door to open and close so smoothly that a child, were one foolish enough to wander into that place, could easily operate it alone. This is the only reason the old woman was able to pull it closed now and pitch her into the darkness of a single fluttering candle and a long wait.
She hooked the two great hooks of the door into their respective eyes and climbed back down, wheezing and muttering. Sitting in the chair again, with candle light playing cruelly in the dark shadowed creases of her face she drew long and hard on the jug, letting fire precede rain, letting the long slow burn come before the quick twist and tear of wind.
Sleep beat the storm and she sank down into it. It was a deep terrible thing fueled by age and whiskey, and each time she succumbed to it she wandered deaths long shore with one foot in the cool water. There she tasted the sour past on the ethereal breeze and spat into the wind of her own undoing. While outside the storm tore the world asunder.
She woke to silence and eerie dark. The candle had eaten itself to the floor and the storm had passed. She stood and made her way stumbling up the short stairs, undid the door and slid it smoothly open. There were vast and shining stars above her as she climbed out into the shadowy wreckage of her house. No wall stood and the roof of long days past was nowhere to be seen. Her meager possessions were strewn about or gone and the moon picked out bits of cloth, tins of food and the shining pieces of glass that once were windows. Turning around she saw the one thing still standing, completely intact. The porch, attached to nothing appeared untouched. Even its shallow pitched roof still hung improbably over it.
She grunted and went back down the stairs for the jug and the chair. She dragged them onto the porch and sat down for a drink. The old cat, rejoicing in the sparing of one of its few remaining lives sprang out from below and into the mouse filled fields with an almost youthful vigor. The woman drank, drank and passed out again.
When the sun rose it caught in its fiery eye the impossible porch, the sleeping old woman and the gleaming, clean skeleton of a forgotten dog.
1.15.2007
Angeline - Episode 2
The old truck rattled like a skeleton dance down the dusty strip of broken road. There was only one house on this dirt and gravel excuse for potholes, and he could see it through the windshield, sitting like a vulture on the corpse of desiccated farm land. The radio was saying something high pitched and tinny about love over the metal shake of old bones and the low down diesel growl. He didn’t hum along. He never did.
He stopped in front of the withering structure and a cloud of dust washed over the truck like a dry wave in a parched sea. He turned off the engine and sat for a moment. He was in no hurry. The house sat too, the color of unkept teeth, singing softly in the hot breeze. A tumbleweed like a gamboling puppy bounded across the yard. He shut his eyes and breathed for a moment, alone in that warm darkness.
It came first through the cracks and holes in his rusted out chariot like a swarm of smaller, insect-like reeks, and he opened his eyes in disgust when the first buzzed deadly into his open nostril. The stench was terrible. It was a physical, tangible thing. It was the kind of smell you could take a swing at. He waved his hand violently in front of his face and coughed. His eyes filled with tears and the coughs joined forces to form a small but convincing fit.
Recovering but still sickened, he reached into the back of the truck and pulled a single envelope out of a bag. It was white, crisp and official, stamped with a red “urgent”. He kept one hand over his nose and mouth and, with the letter in the other, went out into the dust and stench.
Outside the sickly sweet smell of rot was dense and almost wet in the dry air. The light breeze fluttered the white envelope in his hand like the lost wing of a dove, blood stained, broken. He was crying openly now as the death smell stink came in hot waves from the very porch he was walking toward. He hurried in the shuffling limp of the long wounded, determined to see an end to this ordeal, to do his job, turn away and leave the horror of this air.
A crow fluttered up stark black and startling from the porch as he approached. It flew like the letter’s opposite, though both spelled doom in different tongues. He could hear the heavy buzz of fat satiated flies. Bile made exploratory forays into his throat as he began to fear the source of this odor more than the odor itself.
The piece of newspaper nailed to the beam of the porch shifted in the corner of his eye. It caught his gaze and drew it. Written in a heavy hand in some greasy substance across the fine lines of the newsprint were a small collection of words. “Dead dog stink holds the front porch. Go round back.” Relieved, he turned and nearly ran around the corner of the house. Up wind now and winded, he breathed deep, and the dusty hot air tasted like cool mountain spring blooming in his lungs. Dead dog stink was definitely in control of the front.
Around the back corner of the house the old woman waited for him. She sat rocking in the cracked earth dust of her back yard with a jug hanging from one gnarled finger. As he approached she spat a swollen, black, tobacco gob onto the parched ground, and he couldn’t help but stare at it quivering there. But even that thirsty earth wouldn’t swallow it. The expectoration sat solid at the gates of the firmament and waited for the sun to do its work.
At first he thought she was asleep. Her eyes were closed, and her rocking was subtle enough to be somnolent. She wore drab ill fitting clothes, jeans and an old pearl-snap shirt decorated with stalks of wheat. He almost thought she and the rocking chair might have just grown up out of the earth, another browned and sad plant in this brown sad land. But then one of her milky eyes snapped open, followed in a more stately manner by the other. She stared at him with a hard scowl.
“The hell you starin at ya no good trespassin son bitch? Best git on outta here for I have to fetch my gun.”
Her voice was full of the hard dust and rocks he was standing on. It might as well have been the old terrible house, or the brittle field talking.
“No. I mean, I’m not trespassing. S’just a letter here for ya. Looks kinda important.”
“Looks kinda important. Looks, huh? You sposed to be lookin at my mail you spyin little shit? Hand that there over and git your sorry ass off my land.”
“Yes ma’am. I mean, I didn’t mean no harm by it ma’am. Here’s your letter now.”
He stepped toward her quickly and held out the shaking envelope. It hung for a moment on the end of his arm like the last leaf of fall until, as winter does, she snatched it away. She tore it open with one long withered finger and exhaled loudly through her nose as she saw what it held.
“Um, well gooday to you ma’am”
“No, no, you wait there one minute boy. I got a letter that needs sendin’. ‘Sinside. Wait here. I’ll git it.”
She took a match out of her front pocket, struck it on her jeans and unceremoniously lit the envelope and letter he had brought on fire. It gave off thick oily smoke and she held it until the flames licked at the dry paper of her wrinkled hands. Then she tossed it into the air and turned away before it had broken apart and rained its white ash to the hard ground.
He thought about leaving while she was gone. He could have just turned and run back around the sad house, through the dog corpse mist and into his truck. He could have proceeded a great cloud of dust away from here and back onto the black smooth road of the real world, but he did not go. Instead he waited and casually scattered the ashes of his reason for coming out here with the toe of his boot. He gathered a little saliva in his dry mouth and tried to hit the last glowing piece of discarded paper, but he missed and had no spit to try again.
He didn’t see or hear her come back out and she was nearly on top of him when he looked up. He started and she gave a disdainful snort which somehow made him feel smaller, twisted and weak.
“Here”
She handed him a letter.
“Now git.”
She went back to her chair and picked up the sloshing jug. She gave the mouth of it a quick meaningless wipe with her sleeve and poured a long draught into her nearly toothless maw. He swore he could see the rotgut fumes distort her face as she drank. Shuddering he hurried around the side of the house, through the terrifying gauntlet of rot and into his truck.
He looked at the letter in his hand. It was addressed to Dirty Son of a Bitch, 1500 JFK Boulevard, Philadelphia, PA 19102. There was no postage stamp but he had expected that. For a moment he considered not sending it, maybe even opening it, but the same feeling that held him when she went inside for the letter held him again. He would send it. He would pay the postage himself. He would not dare to cross this woman, even if she would never know.
He stopped in front of the withering structure and a cloud of dust washed over the truck like a dry wave in a parched sea. He turned off the engine and sat for a moment. He was in no hurry. The house sat too, the color of unkept teeth, singing softly in the hot breeze. A tumbleweed like a gamboling puppy bounded across the yard. He shut his eyes and breathed for a moment, alone in that warm darkness.
It came first through the cracks and holes in his rusted out chariot like a swarm of smaller, insect-like reeks, and he opened his eyes in disgust when the first buzzed deadly into his open nostril. The stench was terrible. It was a physical, tangible thing. It was the kind of smell you could take a swing at. He waved his hand violently in front of his face and coughed. His eyes filled with tears and the coughs joined forces to form a small but convincing fit.
Recovering but still sickened, he reached into the back of the truck and pulled a single envelope out of a bag. It was white, crisp and official, stamped with a red “urgent”. He kept one hand over his nose and mouth and, with the letter in the other, went out into the dust and stench.
Outside the sickly sweet smell of rot was dense and almost wet in the dry air. The light breeze fluttered the white envelope in his hand like the lost wing of a dove, blood stained, broken. He was crying openly now as the death smell stink came in hot waves from the very porch he was walking toward. He hurried in the shuffling limp of the long wounded, determined to see an end to this ordeal, to do his job, turn away and leave the horror of this air.
A crow fluttered up stark black and startling from the porch as he approached. It flew like the letter’s opposite, though both spelled doom in different tongues. He could hear the heavy buzz of fat satiated flies. Bile made exploratory forays into his throat as he began to fear the source of this odor more than the odor itself.
The piece of newspaper nailed to the beam of the porch shifted in the corner of his eye. It caught his gaze and drew it. Written in a heavy hand in some greasy substance across the fine lines of the newsprint were a small collection of words. “Dead dog stink holds the front porch. Go round back.” Relieved, he turned and nearly ran around the corner of the house. Up wind now and winded, he breathed deep, and the dusty hot air tasted like cool mountain spring blooming in his lungs. Dead dog stink was definitely in control of the front.
Around the back corner of the house the old woman waited for him. She sat rocking in the cracked earth dust of her back yard with a jug hanging from one gnarled finger. As he approached she spat a swollen, black, tobacco gob onto the parched ground, and he couldn’t help but stare at it quivering there. But even that thirsty earth wouldn’t swallow it. The expectoration sat solid at the gates of the firmament and waited for the sun to do its work.
At first he thought she was asleep. Her eyes were closed, and her rocking was subtle enough to be somnolent. She wore drab ill fitting clothes, jeans and an old pearl-snap shirt decorated with stalks of wheat. He almost thought she and the rocking chair might have just grown up out of the earth, another browned and sad plant in this brown sad land. But then one of her milky eyes snapped open, followed in a more stately manner by the other. She stared at him with a hard scowl.
“The hell you starin at ya no good trespassin son bitch? Best git on outta here for I have to fetch my gun.”
Her voice was full of the hard dust and rocks he was standing on. It might as well have been the old terrible house, or the brittle field talking.
“No. I mean, I’m not trespassing. S’just a letter here for ya. Looks kinda important.”
“Looks kinda important. Looks, huh? You sposed to be lookin at my mail you spyin little shit? Hand that there over and git your sorry ass off my land.”
“Yes ma’am. I mean, I didn’t mean no harm by it ma’am. Here’s your letter now.”
He stepped toward her quickly and held out the shaking envelope. It hung for a moment on the end of his arm like the last leaf of fall until, as winter does, she snatched it away. She tore it open with one long withered finger and exhaled loudly through her nose as she saw what it held.
“Um, well gooday to you ma’am”
“No, no, you wait there one minute boy. I got a letter that needs sendin’. ‘Sinside. Wait here. I’ll git it.”
She took a match out of her front pocket, struck it on her jeans and unceremoniously lit the envelope and letter he had brought on fire. It gave off thick oily smoke and she held it until the flames licked at the dry paper of her wrinkled hands. Then she tossed it into the air and turned away before it had broken apart and rained its white ash to the hard ground.
He thought about leaving while she was gone. He could have just turned and run back around the sad house, through the dog corpse mist and into his truck. He could have proceeded a great cloud of dust away from here and back onto the black smooth road of the real world, but he did not go. Instead he waited and casually scattered the ashes of his reason for coming out here with the toe of his boot. He gathered a little saliva in his dry mouth and tried to hit the last glowing piece of discarded paper, but he missed and had no spit to try again.
He didn’t see or hear her come back out and she was nearly on top of him when he looked up. He started and she gave a disdainful snort which somehow made him feel smaller, twisted and weak.
“Here”
She handed him a letter.
“Now git.”
She went back to her chair and picked up the sloshing jug. She gave the mouth of it a quick meaningless wipe with her sleeve and poured a long draught into her nearly toothless maw. He swore he could see the rotgut fumes distort her face as she drank. Shuddering he hurried around the side of the house, through the terrifying gauntlet of rot and into his truck.
He looked at the letter in his hand. It was addressed to Dirty Son of a Bitch, 1500 JFK Boulevard, Philadelphia, PA 19102. There was no postage stamp but he had expected that. For a moment he considered not sending it, maybe even opening it, but the same feeling that held him when she went inside for the letter held him again. He would send it. He would pay the postage himself. He would not dare to cross this woman, even if she would never know.
1.14.2007
still no computer but damn if that'll stop me
splish, splash
my two cents drop into this blog fountain
gathering those who conjured magic on mounts
and spread joy in Doomed houses
dwelling in ramshackle hovels
built on bacon and Guinness stains
prepaying for knowledge (text not included)
unclogging drains only to find hairless freaks
dancing like ninnies on dimly lit cement splendor
as pep rallies rolled their eyes at my pajama brilliance
framing quads with fronts and backs
waiting for the witching hour for the fun to begin
i never asked the Y tree why
and the people
ah the people, what's up
i sat (splendidly mind you) in wonder and awe
trying to earn some stripes
from crazed crowing idols
brazen geniuses waiving bongs like tambourines
freedom reigns in those with odd labels
hitting low points in all of their greatness with a Scrappy
a Flash leading the way to shrines of beat and gender confusion
sharing more than a vowel with the one O'Shea
catching a glimpse of a Mantrain
splitting black and tan with the Deisterbunny
humbly accepting the invite to something bigger than myself
from the Theo-logist and a Nic with no k
unfinished but complete as necessary
where oranges are supposed to grow without sun
knowing now for sure
that time spent wasted is not wasted time
*Note - In light of Nic's request that we not harp on matters of Syracuse I promise that this will be the only entry of this nature from fat coley. Please forgive my need to ignore new ideas and latch on to what I know. May McGod bless this electronic temple and all those submitting to it.
my two cents drop into this blog fountain
gathering those who conjured magic on mounts
and spread joy in Doomed houses
dwelling in ramshackle hovels
built on bacon and Guinness stains
prepaying for knowledge (text not included)
unclogging drains only to find hairless freaks
dancing like ninnies on dimly lit cement splendor
as pep rallies rolled their eyes at my pajama brilliance
framing quads with fronts and backs
waiting for the witching hour for the fun to begin
i never asked the Y tree why
and the people
ah the people, what's up
i sat (splendidly mind you) in wonder and awe
trying to earn some stripes
from crazed crowing idols
brazen geniuses waiving bongs like tambourines
freedom reigns in those with odd labels
hitting low points in all of their greatness with a Scrappy
a Flash leading the way to shrines of beat and gender confusion
sharing more than a vowel with the one O'Shea
catching a glimpse of a Mantrain
splitting black and tan with the Deisterbunny
humbly accepting the invite to something bigger than myself
from the Theo-logist and a Nic with no k
unfinished but complete as necessary
where oranges are supposed to grow without sun
knowing now for sure
that time spent wasted is not wasted time
*Note - In light of Nic's request that we not harp on matters of Syracuse I promise that this will be the only entry of this nature from fat coley. Please forgive my need to ignore new ideas and latch on to what I know. May McGod bless this electronic temple and all those submitting to it.
1.09.2007
Angeline - Episode 1
The old dog, mange ridden and nearly creaking with long years, rubbed his back against the edge of the rocking chair. The itch was a deep one though, maybe too deep, maybe the very itch of his death swollen and reddened beneath patchy fur and drying skin. He rubbed like he might quench that thirsty specter if only the scratching were hard enough. He rubbed like a search for immortality or, at least, for the easy oblivion of forgotten ends. Harder he rubbed and the chair began to rock. The wood of it protested the disturbance loudly with cracking, scraping syllables, but the old dog did not relent.
A hand hung over the arm of the chair and from the thumb of that hand hung a jug, uncorked and sloshing at the very edge of empty. The arm was, at its furthest point from the jug, attached to what appeared to be a terribly ancient woman. Though, in truth, she looked to be built entirely of old leather, dust and moth leftovers. One could hardly imagine her, at that moment, moving on her own, much less containing the soul supposedly gifted to all living things. Gray hair wandered sparse and limp around her mottled scalp as it was stirred by the tepid breeze. A single fly investigated the corner of one closed eye and the thin sheen of drool shown on her slumped chin. As the chair rocked with the dog’s self-ministrations she stirred in that sleep which so recently had impersonated its darker, more permanent cousin. The fly, disturbed by her movements began long, lazy, circular patrols of the area, adding its buzz to the sandpaper dog skin, the creak of porch boards and the suddenly noticeable, labored breathing of the chairs occupant.
The dog was panting his exertions. This was more exercise than he was likely to get in a typical week, but now that he had started in on the turgid spot, he found himself unable to stop. The sun had moved down low enough that the long shadows of the trees across the field were touching the porch with ominous fingers. On some level the dog wanted to end this inane rubbing, which wasn’t helping anyway, and go lay down, cradled in the cool palms of those growing shades. He could not though. He was driven by some greater force, maybe, or chance itch and senility had coordinated their arrival.
The jug began to crawl toward the end of the thumb as the rocking of the chair continued. It climbed the arthritic, wrinkled knuckle. It slide smoothly over the cracked gloss of the fingernail, and it fell with a thunk and a short but unfortunate glug onto the planked floor. The dog, shocked from the mechanical rubbing that had opened up a raw, bleeding wound on his back, cowered instinctively against the porch rail. Red blood stained the faded whitewash where his back touched it, and he whined quietly to himself.
The old woman sat up wide eyed at the sound, and a slow rage began to take her. One could almost watch it climb her decrepit body as she turned and saw the jug leaking the little precious fluid it held into the porch boards and the dirt beneath. Her feet tensed as that twisting fury left the tortured earth and climbed into this new, more dangerous vessel. Her hands gripped the arm rests of the rocking chair with such intensity that her entire body began to shake. The deadly wrath filled her aged head with a cold shining draught that poured clear from her cataract fogged eyes as she turned her gaze on the quaking beast. She stood then, on legs firmed by the brief youth of hell’s gift and, taking two confident steps, swung the devil’s own kick at the bleeding, itchy pile of tormented mange that had dared disturb her sleep and spill her precious drink.
Something in the old dog snapped, and the itch gave way to an intense burning fire that quickly faded into a kind of quiet warmth. He whimpered one more time as he fell at the woman’s feet, but it was not a whimper of pain really. It was more a sob of relief, the last tear at the end of a long despair. He laid his old head on the cool porch and fell into a softer light. He found he was standing refreshed and younger in one of the great flowered fields of his youth. Around him bees sung their monotonous song and the rustling grasses spoke the language of long simple pleasure. A house stood in the distance painting the blue sky with a thin line of smoke. He almost barked with joy, but there was something in his mouth. Slowly, he looked down and saw, to his infinite delight, that he was biting his own, furry, tail.
The old woman grunted and kicked the dog’s corpse again lightly. The anger had left her, and now she felt unsteady. She looked at the dead thing at her feet and out at the field where she knew she should bury it. Then she looked down at her shaking legs and emaciated arms. No use, she thought, doesn’t matter none anyhow. She bent slowly and picked up the jug. Sitting back in the rocking chair she tipped the mouth of it to her cracked and broken lips. A tiny drop spilled forth to wet her desert tongue. She grunted again and tossed the empty jug to the ground where it rolled to rest against the cooling corpse of the old dog. Doesn’t matter none anyhow.
A hand hung over the arm of the chair and from the thumb of that hand hung a jug, uncorked and sloshing at the very edge of empty. The arm was, at its furthest point from the jug, attached to what appeared to be a terribly ancient woman. Though, in truth, she looked to be built entirely of old leather, dust and moth leftovers. One could hardly imagine her, at that moment, moving on her own, much less containing the soul supposedly gifted to all living things. Gray hair wandered sparse and limp around her mottled scalp as it was stirred by the tepid breeze. A single fly investigated the corner of one closed eye and the thin sheen of drool shown on her slumped chin. As the chair rocked with the dog’s self-ministrations she stirred in that sleep which so recently had impersonated its darker, more permanent cousin. The fly, disturbed by her movements began long, lazy, circular patrols of the area, adding its buzz to the sandpaper dog skin, the creak of porch boards and the suddenly noticeable, labored breathing of the chairs occupant.
The dog was panting his exertions. This was more exercise than he was likely to get in a typical week, but now that he had started in on the turgid spot, he found himself unable to stop. The sun had moved down low enough that the long shadows of the trees across the field were touching the porch with ominous fingers. On some level the dog wanted to end this inane rubbing, which wasn’t helping anyway, and go lay down, cradled in the cool palms of those growing shades. He could not though. He was driven by some greater force, maybe, or chance itch and senility had coordinated their arrival.
The jug began to crawl toward the end of the thumb as the rocking of the chair continued. It climbed the arthritic, wrinkled knuckle. It slide smoothly over the cracked gloss of the fingernail, and it fell with a thunk and a short but unfortunate glug onto the planked floor. The dog, shocked from the mechanical rubbing that had opened up a raw, bleeding wound on his back, cowered instinctively against the porch rail. Red blood stained the faded whitewash where his back touched it, and he whined quietly to himself.
The old woman sat up wide eyed at the sound, and a slow rage began to take her. One could almost watch it climb her decrepit body as she turned and saw the jug leaking the little precious fluid it held into the porch boards and the dirt beneath. Her feet tensed as that twisting fury left the tortured earth and climbed into this new, more dangerous vessel. Her hands gripped the arm rests of the rocking chair with such intensity that her entire body began to shake. The deadly wrath filled her aged head with a cold shining draught that poured clear from her cataract fogged eyes as she turned her gaze on the quaking beast. She stood then, on legs firmed by the brief youth of hell’s gift and, taking two confident steps, swung the devil’s own kick at the bleeding, itchy pile of tormented mange that had dared disturb her sleep and spill her precious drink.
Something in the old dog snapped, and the itch gave way to an intense burning fire that quickly faded into a kind of quiet warmth. He whimpered one more time as he fell at the woman’s feet, but it was not a whimper of pain really. It was more a sob of relief, the last tear at the end of a long despair. He laid his old head on the cool porch and fell into a softer light. He found he was standing refreshed and younger in one of the great flowered fields of his youth. Around him bees sung their monotonous song and the rustling grasses spoke the language of long simple pleasure. A house stood in the distance painting the blue sky with a thin line of smoke. He almost barked with joy, but there was something in his mouth. Slowly, he looked down and saw, to his infinite delight, that he was biting his own, furry, tail.
The old woman grunted and kicked the dog’s corpse again lightly. The anger had left her, and now she felt unsteady. She looked at the dead thing at her feet and out at the field where she knew she should bury it. Then she looked down at her shaking legs and emaciated arms. No use, she thought, doesn’t matter none anyhow. She bent slowly and picked up the jug. Sitting back in the rocking chair she tipped the mouth of it to her cracked and broken lips. A tiny drop spilled forth to wet her desert tongue. She grunted again and tossed the empty jug to the ground where it rolled to rest against the cooling corpse of the old dog. Doesn’t matter none anyhow.
1.02.2007
Thurday Ether - Part 3
urban humor envokes the spirit of this blog in his first two lines. The ignoring of the day's work continues.
urban humor
grey sky and think tank thought
the syracusian delusions of granduer,
the big hill and water tower
the same view deluded of granduer
slide bourbon down the frame sepiacloudmovefaster
remove the extra track around my mind
and chant the scriptures backwards
the flickerin florescence,
my metal braille menu equal bread sentence
you mean hungry illegible dead sentence
i move though the soft machinery sweetly
fingers through the hair delete deleted scenery
unspeak
grey day ends in darkness that'll
perpetuate the mad mind strata data streams
endless in grey matter
endless in grey dreams
drop a wrinkle in times trousers
simplify the way the seam seems
paddle in dark streams addled the bad'll
end up better better bet on it
that curious cat'll
cut your eyes out for looking
that'll teach you not to try to take who took it
battle on before i book it
urban humor
fingers on the keys, brain in the ether
the manic monkey dead in the street misdeamor
i drag the cartoon X's over the eyes
so curious are we all we are is fried matter
and greasy cardboard boxes boxed up
the coney island shoot em up, shoot the freak
watch him reach for Canopus buck buck
metal shells and soft centers fall hard on the boardwalk
another day in dementia....
speakin russian underwater submerge bubble rust disorder
watch the barnacles bloom, Gustav speakin to the fishes
so fluent are we all we are is fluent.
unspeak
the inner voice rattles skull bars and brain manacles
eye twitch readout switches sweat greased mechanicals
i can't test the silent sound of the button depressed down
compressed now i'm increasingly impressed how
the mind locks
the key swallowed
followed by every level of animal feces and hallowed gibberish
i keep drawing cards but the answers always GO FISH
but the hook i bait is fates next line cut
and its too late a date for the holy text mind rut
the single cart wheel shut from turn or short cut but
also blind to the inclined fingers tut . . tut . . tut
tutelage rebuke unedited
think twice before the next tripstumblefall gets credited
urban humor
grey sky and think tank thought
the syracusian delusions of granduer,
the big hill and water tower
the same view deluded of granduer
slide bourbon down the frame sepiacloudmovefaster
remove the extra track around my mind
and chant the scriptures backwards
the flickerin florescence,
my metal braille menu equal bread sentence
you mean hungry illegible dead sentence
i move though the soft machinery sweetly
fingers through the hair delete deleted scenery
unspeak
grey day ends in darkness that'll
perpetuate the mad mind strata data streams
endless in grey matter
endless in grey dreams
drop a wrinkle in times trousers
simplify the way the seam seems
paddle in dark streams addled the bad'll
end up better better bet on it
that curious cat'll
cut your eyes out for looking
that'll teach you not to try to take who took it
battle on before i book it
urban humor
fingers on the keys, brain in the ether
the manic monkey dead in the street misdeamor
i drag the cartoon X's over the eyes
so curious are we all we are is fried matter
and greasy cardboard boxes boxed up
the coney island shoot em up, shoot the freak
watch him reach for Canopus buck buck
metal shells and soft centers fall hard on the boardwalk
another day in dementia....
speakin russian underwater submerge bubble rust disorder
watch the barnacles bloom, Gustav speakin to the fishes
so fluent are we all we are is fluent.
unspeak
the inner voice rattles skull bars and brain manacles
eye twitch readout switches sweat greased mechanicals
i can't test the silent sound of the button depressed down
compressed now i'm increasingly impressed how
the mind locks
the key swallowed
followed by every level of animal feces and hallowed gibberish
i keep drawing cards but the answers always GO FISH
but the hook i bait is fates next line cut
and its too late a date for the holy text mind rut
the single cart wheel shut from turn or short cut but
also blind to the inclined fingers tut . . tut . . tut
tutelage rebuke unedited
think twice before the next tripstumblefall gets credited
Thursday Ether - Part 2
An email from urban humor, reading as follows, initiates day two:
this day at work is special.
job# 42
i get to animate ad for genital herpes.
no lie.
hit me wit a verse unspeak.
unspeak
animate disease at 24 four frames per
please say cheese in full viral ad blur
for an instant fame working reverse order sexual attention
and follow with treatment prescribed in place of prevention
30 second flash visual (insert credit)
edited commercial for the script (ya i read it)
outbreak number six (sure i bled it)
slick dicks keep on getting sick (you bet it)
urban humor double click the mouse
and twist this thing absurd
job 42 can't move in and out unheard
in all its absurdity word spoken
remember if it hasn't been fixed then its broken
so unhinge that jaw
and drop the right token into the arcade machine
that keeps other mcs mope-in
leave the absence to me meaning nothing unspoken
animate this email and fill all the folk in
urban humor
march to the clang of the dirty coin bucket
the dark soldiers, multiply out the wind fortress
this is the vulcan mind meld molten
nothing inside except long division oil and cauldrons
for my simian this is the promised land of peace signs
and property, money and economic sodomy,
dirtchildprogeny
lie in the land of big worms and corded earth, the
nimble Nile hungrymouth apologizin to the seats of
seated idols.
unspeak
devil stomp foot drop on the fourth beat of infinity
whiskey swill gut burn testing my divinity
god in the machine
and i clickwhirbeep
sleep cozy in the lean-to of processed meat
adjust viscosity for heat
snake worshippers dance legless
whispering bellies and sweet melodies mess
past tense (say was)
rickety teeth in my picket fence because
the grass is greener chemically enhanced
and the first chance for chant chosen
is when the i incants speaker fuzz
this day at work is special.
job# 42
i get to animate ad for genital herpes.
no lie.
hit me wit a verse unspeak.
unspeak
animate disease at 24 four frames per
please say cheese in full viral ad blur
for an instant fame working reverse order sexual attention
and follow with treatment prescribed in place of prevention
30 second flash visual (insert credit)
edited commercial for the script (ya i read it)
outbreak number six (sure i bled it)
slick dicks keep on getting sick (you bet it)
urban humor double click the mouse
and twist this thing absurd
job 42 can't move in and out unheard
in all its absurdity word spoken
remember if it hasn't been fixed then its broken
so unhinge that jaw
and drop the right token into the arcade machine
that keeps other mcs mope-in
leave the absence to me meaning nothing unspoken
animate this email and fill all the folk in
urban humor
march to the clang of the dirty coin bucket
the dark soldiers, multiply out the wind fortress
this is the vulcan mind meld molten
nothing inside except long division oil and cauldrons
for my simian this is the promised land of peace signs
and property, money and economic sodomy,
dirtchildprogeny
lie in the land of big worms and corded earth, the
nimble Nile hungrymouth apologizin to the seats of
seated idols.
unspeak
devil stomp foot drop on the fourth beat of infinity
whiskey swill gut burn testing my divinity
god in the machine
and i clickwhirbeep
sleep cozy in the lean-to of processed meat
adjust viscosity for heat
snake worshippers dance legless
whispering bellies and sweet melodies mess
past tense (say was)
rickety teeth in my picket fence because
the grass is greener chemically enhanced
and the first chance for chant chosen
is when the i incants speaker fuzz
Thursday Ether - Part 1
Email freestyle initiated by bored a urban humor to unspeak (Nic Darling). In three parts to match the three days that work hours were consumed in such a manner. One of those days was in fact a Thursday. The reader can guess which one.
urban humor
i spit the barbed letters that tear zeppelins apart
study the art, combustion, boom,
body part mechanics,
the metal mandibles mandate
mush the Drakes soft porn cupcake
slippers and steak, adamant visions.... (and they're
off!)
lose the derby, lose yourself in the thickets
spread the ground thicken the tickets
all that mud mumblin, pixelated visions of Dublin
double them whiskey to paint the picture double then.
unspeak
vocal flak jacket and double reenforced steel
plates rippin frames from first reel out takes
whistlin shells and the eternal ricochet makes
time lapse sound gaps between the hollerin
of the fates real shapes
purposeful paranoia (the best kind)
can sneak up behind myself
I'm so in my own mind
escape the urban on the bourbon anger ride
down the turbulent spiral to the poor ones moonshine slide
across the river one time giver of two pennies
for the other side
my liver hardens live or pardon me
as i slip a shiv through the shivering hide
urban humor
ah....ma-ma-ma brain jacks demon carpet ride
the dumb backbend catch foot in ya mouth
prosthetic jaws couldn't stop this ya from wilin out
been swinging since 10 years old
me and you, trademarks around the socket
uppercuts thrown way out the ropes and the bell aint
even rung yet
hungry since drowntime superrocks in the pockets
dumbdeaddizzy lightning bolt revivin
keep the stitch tight round my forehead to keep the
menace from flyin out, double bout smash the window
double out
cause mary shelley couldn't handle the nightmares im
talkin bout.
urban humor
i spit the barbed letters that tear zeppelins apart
study the art, combustion, boom,
body part mechanics,
the metal mandibles mandate
mush the Drakes soft porn cupcake
slippers and steak, adamant visions.... (and they're
off!)
lose the derby, lose yourself in the thickets
spread the ground thicken the tickets
all that mud mumblin, pixelated visions of Dublin
double them whiskey to paint the picture double then.
unspeak
vocal flak jacket and double reenforced steel
plates rippin frames from first reel out takes
whistlin shells and the eternal ricochet makes
time lapse sound gaps between the hollerin
of the fates real shapes
purposeful paranoia (the best kind)
can sneak up behind myself
I'm so in my own mind
escape the urban on the bourbon anger ride
down the turbulent spiral to the poor ones moonshine slide
across the river one time giver of two pennies
for the other side
my liver hardens live or pardon me
as i slip a shiv through the shivering hide
urban humor
ah....ma-ma-ma brain jacks demon carpet ride
the dumb backbend catch foot in ya mouth
prosthetic jaws couldn't stop this ya from wilin out
been swinging since 10 years old
me and you, trademarks around the socket
uppercuts thrown way out the ropes and the bell aint
even rung yet
hungry since drowntime superrocks in the pockets
dumbdeaddizzy lightning bolt revivin
keep the stitch tight round my forehead to keep the
menace from flyin out, double bout smash the window
double out
cause mary shelley couldn't handle the nightmares im
talkin bout.
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