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PEACE,
THE LABRATS
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
WAITING WILL GET YOU NOWHERE
He sat on stacked cinder blocks and waited. This concrete kept shopping carts safe inside the Thrifty Bin parking lot but had a higher purpose, to border the sidewalk that cradled her perfect feet. She glided this path daily from school to her front door. Oh that front door! He had spent countless afternoons hiding in the bushes trying to sniff her hairspray through the wood. Now he sat on this wall waiting and although she had never glanced his way before he knew she was coming.
Her, with bubble gum breath and sunny skirts. Him, with pass-me-down corduroy shorts. Her with buoyant breasts in bright tube tops. He with sweaty, grey gym socks. She with seductive shampoo scent. He with belly button lint. She with locker full of pop stars. He with rusty matchbox cars.
What our hero lacked in style he made up for in sky high hopes. He had such grand love to give if only she could scale his shyness. He sat whispering sweet nothings to her passing ghost. The shopping carts and cicadas swooned. Time ticked by and as afternoon shadows grew long so did the beard on his thirteen year old face. It was the longest beard in the universe and although invisible to others he felt the bristles itch his knees.
He waited and waited and waited knowing any minute his Mom would call her herd in for casseroles, kool-aid and simmering teen angst. On a family trip to Texas she had acquired the ultimately embarrassing alarm, a large brass cowbell. At that moment of intense anxiety SHE, HER, THE VERY DREAM OF DIVINE BEAUTY appeared as if from the folds of heaven. Her hair flowed. Smooth intentions bounced around his mouth like silent marbles. Her tight corduroys swished. His heart beat an awkward rhythm. Then she looked his way with a slight smile and his being soared but * CLANG * CLANG * CLANG * the cowbell came and her face twisted to a smirk as if to say, "I know you are the cowardly calf being called." A tear rolled from his eye, down a chubby cheek, off the curled tip of his lonely beard and down the rough cinder block wall.
- frosty
........................we invite you to come Give Up again on March 25th. turn your teary eyes to dublab.com for the full sad scoop.....................................................................
supremely sad image by Kime Buzzelli
Her, with bubble gum breath and sunny skirts. Him, with pass-me-down corduroy shorts. Her with buoyant breasts in bright tube tops. He with sweaty, grey gym socks. She with seductive shampoo scent. He with belly button lint. She with locker full of pop stars. He with rusty matchbox cars.
What our hero lacked in style he made up for in sky high hopes. He had such grand love to give if only she could scale his shyness. He sat whispering sweet nothings to her passing ghost. The shopping carts and cicadas swooned. Time ticked by and as afternoon shadows grew long so did the beard on his thirteen year old face. It was the longest beard in the universe and although invisible to others he felt the bristles itch his knees.
He waited and waited and waited knowing any minute his Mom would call her herd in for casseroles, kool-aid and simmering teen angst. On a family trip to Texas she had acquired the ultimately embarrassing alarm, a large brass cowbell. At that moment of intense anxiety SHE, HER, THE VERY DREAM OF DIVINE BEAUTY appeared as if from the folds of heaven. Her hair flowed. Smooth intentions bounced around his mouth like silent marbles. Her tight corduroys swished. His heart beat an awkward rhythm. Then she looked his way with a slight smile and his being soared but * CLANG * CLANG * CLANG * the cowbell came and her face twisted to a smirk as if to say, "I know you are the cowardly calf being called." A tear rolled from his eye, down a chubby cheek, off the curled tip of his lonely beard and down the rough cinder block wall.
- frosty
........................we invite you to come Give Up again on March 25th. turn your teary eyes to dublab.com for the full sad scoop.....................................................................
supremely sad image by Kime Buzzelli
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
frosty's guide to procrastination...
As I pondered what words to write for this installment of the glorious and riveting RE:UP Magazine my mind exploded with possibilities. Hmmmmm what ambitious, journalistic undertaking shall I tackle this time around? I could dive deep into my local library’s microfiche collection and spend days tracing the arc of illuminated thought in dark rooms. Unfortunately, my copy of Doorknobs for Dummies was desperately overdue so I knew library action was a bust. I could go undercover as a trance dj in Ibiza and unlock the awesome aphrodisiacal secrets of hair gel, mesh shirts, and laser lights. Alas Spain was too far. I could transcribe barnacle love songs, translate them into pigeon coos, and write a whimsical account of romance between boy and bird. Yuck.
Ideas were everywhere but so was television, bustling bars, walks in the park, myspace.com, record shopping, girls, skinny dipping, eating cereal, petting puppies, et cetera. They all reached out to me like lonely widows to a necromancer. Who was I to deny them? The minutes turned into hours, days, weeks, and yes, months. Now as I sit here long after the final deadline my mind hums with anxiety and indecision. What shall I jot down? The here and now is all consuming. My psyche shudders yet nary a word does my pen utter. Wait a minute…EUREKA! I’ve had a revelation that’s mise en scène to the max! I will write about this moment, the act of procrastination coming alive. That’s not all. I shall bestow upon future generations the priceless knowledge that is so ingrained in my veins. (note to RE:UP publisher. Please etch this article onto stone tablets.) Like the Anarchist’s Cookbook before it let this be a guiding light for those disenchanted with the heave and ho of society. Dear reader, put that oar down and pick up a potato chip because your life is about to get a whole lot better.
a reading list for lazy lumps:
THE INTERNET
This is the ..1 distraction on the planet. In our age of hi-speed, "always on" Internet it's a wonder we get anything done at all. "Hey," you murmur in the midst of your already overdue doctoral dissertation, "I wonder if I have new e-mail messages awaiting. Oh boy! Here's one brimming with secrets. What's that? I can have the world's longest thickest, oh wait there goes my AIM chime. ding ding ding. I better see who's a ringing. Oh it's my cousin Lamela who just messaged me moments ago with a recipe for paperclip pie. I better see what urgent matter she’s addressing now. What's that Lamela? You just farted? Boy oh boy isn't technology great! It's like we're in the same room but you're actually in the next one over. Ooooooohhh now I smell the dookie diatribe you’re dealin’"
TOOTHPASTE TUBES
Everyone knows when you're procrastinating you don't read long Russian novels or even short Spanish ones. You read useless words with all with the vigor of a virgin on wedding night. So why not stroll into the bathroom and peruse the enthralling ingredients in toothpaste? Wow, fluoride and Xylitol! Who would ‘a thunk? This one’s even ADA approved. Can you top that?!
your guide to celluloid slumber:
ROCKERS
This is the king of all reggae films. It’s fictional but so damn realistic it plays like a dubwise documentary. Burning Spear drummer Leroy “Horsemouth” Wallace stars alongside a cast of musicians who formed the heart and soul of Jamaican roots music. There are some heavy Rastas representing and you know what those rascally Rastafarians love, the ganja! After watching these cats smoke spliffs the size of yule logs you might be tempted to puff one yourself. Hey kids, watch the ambition meter spiral downward. (Note: a Greek dude made Rockers. Greece with its warm breezes, white sand beaches, and aqua waves must have been too frazzling so he skipped over to Jamaica to unwind.)
DREAMS
Director Akira Kurosawa gets the gold ribbon from the Procrastination Filmmaking Foundation. He waited until he was blind to make this masterpiece. Talk about lazy! Still, Dreams is as vibrant as film gets. It’s all surreal landscapes and deep dynamics drifting with a Butoh like pace. Beeyootifull.
BACK TO SCHOOL
Damn Rodney Dangerfield. Isn’t school for teachers and 12 year olds?
music for procrastinating purists
JOHN CAGE – AS SLOW AS POSSIBLE
This is the dearly departed Mr. Cage’s loooooooooooooooooong piece. In fact by the time it’s done being played not only you, but your children, their children, and their children13 will be long gone. The composition is meant to be played, as the title states, slowly. Some kooks in Germany decided to stretch the piece over the lifespan of a church organ. They began playing it four years ago but don’t fret, they have 635 more to go. Each note extends for six months so you have plenty of time to grab a snack, sit back, and enjoy the sluggish decay.
CAETANO VELOSO – JOIA
If you’ve ever been to Brazil you know how relaxed folks are. If you rush into a police station with a knife in your ribs and the assailant still holding tight you’re lucky to get a slight shrug from the sergeant on duty between bites of feijoada. The esteemed Caetano Veloso is a resident of Bahia. This sun-soaked climate comes through clearly in his music. Joia is all shimmering tremolos, soft croons, and sandy shakers. Put this on if you forgot to fuel up your bumpin’ jeep.
BELLE & SEBASTIAN – THE BOY WITH THE ARAB STRAP
On this one album the Scottish sweethearts have songs entitled: “A Space Boy Dream,” “A Summer Wasting,” “Dirty Dream Number Two,” “Ease Your Feet in the Sea,” “Is it Wicked Not to Care,” “It Could have been a Brilliant Career,” and “Sleep the Clock Around.” These are your theme songs Dr. Lazybones.
COLLEEN – THE GOLDEN MORNING BREAKS
She comes in second only to B&S in the slow and low name game with song titles like “Floating in the Clearest Night,” Sweet Rolling,” Bubbles Which on the Water Swim,” and “Everything Lay Still.” She did one-up the Scots on the sloth-o-meter, no lyrics here! Her instrumental gems work magic. This is music to get in the mood for motionless moments. Colleen’s creations are perfectly crafted for purely delightful naptime bliss.
raiding the recycling bin:
Take notes nerds. In a dazzling display of dallying I have recycled some previously penned words for these pages. The following account of my European snoozing previously appeared on dublab.com. I even swiped the title from Jonathan Safran Foer’s novel Everything is Illuminated. I highly suggest reading the Cliff Notes.
FROSTY'S EURO ADVENTURES : manufacturing Z’s
The person who coined the phrase, “You’ll have plenty of time to sleep when you’re dead,” is probably already in the grave.
If you’re a 9-5 worker bee you may want to look away. All others, let’s study some scientific data. Over the past week the earliest I have woken up is 1:30pm. The latest is today at the sparkling hour of 3pm. Some would call this lazy behavior. I call it deep sleep research. Falling asleep (which has been occurring no earlier than 5:30am) with the knowledge that I’ll wake up when I’m ready and no earlier is a fantastic feeling. I personally drift much deeper without the ticking hands of time hovering over my horizontal head. When I do enter the world of the living I’m much more prepared to slay dragons and chop e-mail blocks.
There have been other times in my life when I’ve enjoyed a relaxed schedule. As lads my brother Derelict and I would visit our Dad on summer vacation. Our days were filled with low-pressure living. We would crack our sleep encrusted eyes open to the late afternoon and roll slowly to the living room where our still sideways bodies absorbed hours of Yo! MTV Raps and kung fu flicks. Nothing got in the way of our loose lifestyle except the occasional visit to an amusement park. On those special days we zombie strolled to the car and crashed out until arriving in Goofy Lot Q or Yosemite Sam Orange. College was another period of suspended animation, which you would fully understand if you saw how tightly I hugged my bong.
These days I am comfortable in my subconscious skin. Upon arising I fill my hours with excitement. I stretch, do some sit ups (to counter my heroic beer intake), sip mint tea, watch the Tour de France, take a shower, and stroll to the store only to catch a parade of haggard souls making their way home after a dreary day behind desks. I spend my evenings staying busy and slip under the sheets with the bright morning light. At home I’m more of an early bird but in this foreign setting I’ve decided to loosen the strings. Maybe I’m just staying close to LA time so when I return I’ll be up with the milking of the cows and in bed right at twilight. Or…maybe I’m the laziest son of a gun you’ve ever seen. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
history’s greatest procrastinators:
GOD
Sure it took this big wig six days to make the heavens, Earth, plants, animals, people (mind you only two), minerals, vegetables, etc. but how long was he/she building up the steam to make it happen and why with all his/her power did he/she need to chill out on day seven? Oh yeah, what’s the deal with the robes? Throw some slacks on once you hop out of the bath bum butt.
FROSTY
I don’t want to toot my own horn but hey I’m the one with the pencil. Plus who else would be so lazy as to wait until the very last minute to write an article and then write about being lazy? Whoah dude pop some mini-thins and get busy.
ANDY CAPP
This wily little Brit needs a real kick in the ass. He never pays his taxes, he’s always running off to the pub, and his little cabbie cap is pulled so low he’s probably asleep half the day. He was nearly disqualified from the Procrastination Hall of Fame in 1986 due to controversy over the Andy Capp Hot Fries line of snack chips. Naysayers believed he was harboring hidden motivation. After intense investigation it was discovered that Andy merely sold his likeness to a multinational potato chip conglomerate in exchange for a pint. That’s integrity.
frosty’s no dough recipe corner:
If you wait until your pockets run dry to eat don't distress. There are always resources out there for dimeless diners. Here's my famous (in Union Pacific boxcars) recipe for HOBO STEW!
Ketchup
(use fancy catsup for romantic occasions)
Salt
Pepper
Any other ingredients to be found for free in fast food joints, truck stops, or hospital cafeterias are a bonus: hot sauce, relish, mustard, Horsey sauce, mayo, honey mustard dressing, etc.
Place an empty tin can (beer cans work too) above fire. Add ketchup. Stir gently for five minutes. Ketchup (now technically stew) will become silky smooth. Add anything else you were able to dig up. Season to taste. Enjoy with a glass of liquid. yum (that's right, a lowercase yum. You’ll understand why when you taste it). Psyching yourself out does help. Try gazing at a grocery store circular or a menu from a classy restaurant while eating and you’ll never know the difference.
=============================================================
Message to the youth : professional procrastination isn't worth a hoot without eventual action so don't just sit there forever. Let that energy build up in you until it bursts, then make something happen.
bye bye,
frosty
(these words previously appeared in the royally radical pages of RE:UP Magazine)
Ideas were everywhere but so was television, bustling bars, walks in the park, myspace.com, record shopping, girls, skinny dipping, eating cereal, petting puppies, et cetera. They all reached out to me like lonely widows to a necromancer. Who was I to deny them? The minutes turned into hours, days, weeks, and yes, months. Now as I sit here long after the final deadline my mind hums with anxiety and indecision. What shall I jot down? The here and now is all consuming. My psyche shudders yet nary a word does my pen utter. Wait a minute…EUREKA! I’ve had a revelation that’s mise en scène to the max! I will write about this moment, the act of procrastination coming alive. That’s not all. I shall bestow upon future generations the priceless knowledge that is so ingrained in my veins. (note to RE:UP publisher. Please etch this article onto stone tablets.) Like the Anarchist’s Cookbook before it let this be a guiding light for those disenchanted with the heave and ho of society. Dear reader, put that oar down and pick up a potato chip because your life is about to get a whole lot better.
a reading list for lazy lumps:
THE INTERNET
This is the ..1 distraction on the planet. In our age of hi-speed, "always on" Internet it's a wonder we get anything done at all. "Hey," you murmur in the midst of your already overdue doctoral dissertation, "I wonder if I have new e-mail messages awaiting. Oh boy! Here's one brimming with secrets. What's that? I can have the world's longest thickest, oh wait there goes my AIM chime. ding ding ding. I better see who's a ringing. Oh it's my cousin Lamela who just messaged me moments ago with a recipe for paperclip pie. I better see what urgent matter she’s addressing now. What's that Lamela? You just farted? Boy oh boy isn't technology great! It's like we're in the same room but you're actually in the next one over. Ooooooohhh now I smell the dookie diatribe you’re dealin’"
TOOTHPASTE TUBES
Everyone knows when you're procrastinating you don't read long Russian novels or even short Spanish ones. You read useless words with all with the vigor of a virgin on wedding night. So why not stroll into the bathroom and peruse the enthralling ingredients in toothpaste? Wow, fluoride and Xylitol! Who would ‘a thunk? This one’s even ADA approved. Can you top that?!
your guide to celluloid slumber:
ROCKERS
This is the king of all reggae films. It’s fictional but so damn realistic it plays like a dubwise documentary. Burning Spear drummer Leroy “Horsemouth” Wallace stars alongside a cast of musicians who formed the heart and soul of Jamaican roots music. There are some heavy Rastas representing and you know what those rascally Rastafarians love, the ganja! After watching these cats smoke spliffs the size of yule logs you might be tempted to puff one yourself. Hey kids, watch the ambition meter spiral downward. (Note: a Greek dude made Rockers. Greece with its warm breezes, white sand beaches, and aqua waves must have been too frazzling so he skipped over to Jamaica to unwind.)
DREAMS
Director Akira Kurosawa gets the gold ribbon from the Procrastination Filmmaking Foundation. He waited until he was blind to make this masterpiece. Talk about lazy! Still, Dreams is as vibrant as film gets. It’s all surreal landscapes and deep dynamics drifting with a Butoh like pace. Beeyootifull.
BACK TO SCHOOL
Damn Rodney Dangerfield. Isn’t school for teachers and 12 year olds?
music for procrastinating purists
JOHN CAGE – AS SLOW AS POSSIBLE
This is the dearly departed Mr. Cage’s loooooooooooooooooong piece. In fact by the time it’s done being played not only you, but your children, their children, and their children13 will be long gone. The composition is meant to be played, as the title states, slowly. Some kooks in Germany decided to stretch the piece over the lifespan of a church organ. They began playing it four years ago but don’t fret, they have 635 more to go. Each note extends for six months so you have plenty of time to grab a snack, sit back, and enjoy the sluggish decay.
CAETANO VELOSO – JOIA
If you’ve ever been to Brazil you know how relaxed folks are. If you rush into a police station with a knife in your ribs and the assailant still holding tight you’re lucky to get a slight shrug from the sergeant on duty between bites of feijoada. The esteemed Caetano Veloso is a resident of Bahia. This sun-soaked climate comes through clearly in his music. Joia is all shimmering tremolos, soft croons, and sandy shakers. Put this on if you forgot to fuel up your bumpin’ jeep.
BELLE & SEBASTIAN – THE BOY WITH THE ARAB STRAP
On this one album the Scottish sweethearts have songs entitled: “A Space Boy Dream,” “A Summer Wasting,” “Dirty Dream Number Two,” “Ease Your Feet in the Sea,” “Is it Wicked Not to Care,” “It Could have been a Brilliant Career,” and “Sleep the Clock Around.” These are your theme songs Dr. Lazybones.
COLLEEN – THE GOLDEN MORNING BREAKS
She comes in second only to B&S in the slow and low name game with song titles like “Floating in the Clearest Night,” Sweet Rolling,” Bubbles Which on the Water Swim,” and “Everything Lay Still.” She did one-up the Scots on the sloth-o-meter, no lyrics here! Her instrumental gems work magic. This is music to get in the mood for motionless moments. Colleen’s creations are perfectly crafted for purely delightful naptime bliss.
raiding the recycling bin:
Take notes nerds. In a dazzling display of dallying I have recycled some previously penned words for these pages. The following account of my European snoozing previously appeared on dublab.com. I even swiped the title from Jonathan Safran Foer’s novel Everything is Illuminated. I highly suggest reading the Cliff Notes.
FROSTY'S EURO ADVENTURES : manufacturing Z’s
The person who coined the phrase, “You’ll have plenty of time to sleep when you’re dead,” is probably already in the grave.
If you’re a 9-5 worker bee you may want to look away. All others, let’s study some scientific data. Over the past week the earliest I have woken up is 1:30pm. The latest is today at the sparkling hour of 3pm. Some would call this lazy behavior. I call it deep sleep research. Falling asleep (which has been occurring no earlier than 5:30am) with the knowledge that I’ll wake up when I’m ready and no earlier is a fantastic feeling. I personally drift much deeper without the ticking hands of time hovering over my horizontal head. When I do enter the world of the living I’m much more prepared to slay dragons and chop e-mail blocks.
There have been other times in my life when I’ve enjoyed a relaxed schedule. As lads my brother Derelict and I would visit our Dad on summer vacation. Our days were filled with low-pressure living. We would crack our sleep encrusted eyes open to the late afternoon and roll slowly to the living room where our still sideways bodies absorbed hours of Yo! MTV Raps and kung fu flicks. Nothing got in the way of our loose lifestyle except the occasional visit to an amusement park. On those special days we zombie strolled to the car and crashed out until arriving in Goofy Lot Q or Yosemite Sam Orange. College was another period of suspended animation, which you would fully understand if you saw how tightly I hugged my bong.
These days I am comfortable in my subconscious skin. Upon arising I fill my hours with excitement. I stretch, do some sit ups (to counter my heroic beer intake), sip mint tea, watch the Tour de France, take a shower, and stroll to the store only to catch a parade of haggard souls making their way home after a dreary day behind desks. I spend my evenings staying busy and slip under the sheets with the bright morning light. At home I’m more of an early bird but in this foreign setting I’ve decided to loosen the strings. Maybe I’m just staying close to LA time so when I return I’ll be up with the milking of the cows and in bed right at twilight. Or…maybe I’m the laziest son of a gun you’ve ever seen. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
history’s greatest procrastinators:
GOD
Sure it took this big wig six days to make the heavens, Earth, plants, animals, people (mind you only two), minerals, vegetables, etc. but how long was he/she building up the steam to make it happen and why with all his/her power did he/she need to chill out on day seven? Oh yeah, what’s the deal with the robes? Throw some slacks on once you hop out of the bath bum butt.
FROSTY
I don’t want to toot my own horn but hey I’m the one with the pencil. Plus who else would be so lazy as to wait until the very last minute to write an article and then write about being lazy? Whoah dude pop some mini-thins and get busy.
ANDY CAPP
This wily little Brit needs a real kick in the ass. He never pays his taxes, he’s always running off to the pub, and his little cabbie cap is pulled so low he’s probably asleep half the day. He was nearly disqualified from the Procrastination Hall of Fame in 1986 due to controversy over the Andy Capp Hot Fries line of snack chips. Naysayers believed he was harboring hidden motivation. After intense investigation it was discovered that Andy merely sold his likeness to a multinational potato chip conglomerate in exchange for a pint. That’s integrity.
frosty’s no dough recipe corner:
If you wait until your pockets run dry to eat don't distress. There are always resources out there for dimeless diners. Here's my famous (in Union Pacific boxcars) recipe for HOBO STEW!
Ketchup
(use fancy catsup for romantic occasions)
Salt
Pepper
Any other ingredients to be found for free in fast food joints, truck stops, or hospital cafeterias are a bonus: hot sauce, relish, mustard, Horsey sauce, mayo, honey mustard dressing, etc.
Place an empty tin can (beer cans work too) above fire. Add ketchup. Stir gently for five minutes. Ketchup (now technically stew) will become silky smooth. Add anything else you were able to dig up. Season to taste. Enjoy with a glass of liquid. yum (that's right, a lowercase yum. You’ll understand why when you taste it). Psyching yourself out does help. Try gazing at a grocery store circular or a menu from a classy restaurant while eating and you’ll never know the difference.
=============================================================
Message to the youth : professional procrastination isn't worth a hoot without eventual action so don't just sit there forever. Let that energy build up in you until it bursts, then make something happen.
bye bye,
frosty
(these words previously appeared in the royally radical pages of RE:UP Magazine)
FROSTY'S EURO ADVENTURES - baby's on fire!
Tommy D and I rode into Paris with heat beating through the car's windshield. On sweat we streamed to our destination. The catalyst for the jaunt was a rendezvous with the LA crew. Carlos Niño, Dwight Trible, Lil Sci, Gaby, and Andres were in town to perform at le Triptyque. With a few hours to pass before the show we stashed our bags at the hotel and hit the town. No agenda pressed us in a set path so we wound through the summer streets taking in whatever lay in our path. Cafe, cafe, shop, streetlight, candy wrapper, pigeons, cafe, cafe, cafe, and people. People of every shape, size, smell, color, personality and gender hustled and bustled about. With flowing robes, turbans, silk shoes, rapid-fire speech, hearty laughs, smiles, and shouts Parisians shined. They are a swirling blend of diversity buzzing through the most beautiful city.
With the sun on our path Tommy and I cruised about, taking in glances of beautiful women and wafts of freshly baked baguettes. We cafe hopped catching flashes of the Tour de France between beverages. In the evening Carlos and crew blew up the dancefloor with explosive sneak peeks of the future roots revolution resonating from Los Angeles. It was wonderful to see such excited reactions to music that’s so close to the heart of the dublab collective. After the show we wandered around town and eventually landed back at the hotel for a twinkle or two of sleep.
We arose late our second day in Paris. Upon flinging open the impenetrable hotel curtains we discovered a brilliant landscape. With haste we hopped on the metro and zipped to Montmartre in search of sustenance. This came in the form of pastis partnered with icy water. Sip sip sip, skip to the next spot, sip sip sip and on again. The weekend had become a marathon of mellow sidewalk sitting. It was at our third stop when in the midst of a sentence slightly slurred by a fifth anis based aperitif that !!! CRACK !!! All exploded. Bombs had just gone off across London but these atrocities had eased to the back of our optimistic minds as we strolled this metropolis with ease. Egads! We were now amongst the same sinister mayhem. My god how many casualties could there be? As the smoke cleared I touched my torso to make sure it was still intact. The sulfur stung my nostrils and I glanced up to discover a bearded face just inches from my own. "Bonjour beastie!" came a call through the haze, and then it began.
The smoke dissipated and we now saw before our eyes the full figure of the formerly floating bearded face. He looked like a cross between Jimi Hendrix, a salty sea captain, and an owl. Striped pants nearly reached his nipples (thankfully these were covered by a ruffled tuxedo shirt) above which were pinned various medals commemorating vague valor. Had he really rescued a family of geese from enemy submarines? Was he the most accurate meteorologist in Mali? Could he pull a train with his teeth? My puzzled, wandering wonderings were snapped short by another explosive blast. Fear ripped through my world and again this STRANGEr chirped, "Bonjour beastly beasties!" He then grabbed our arms and tugged us into his far out orbit. With another flash of fire and smoke Tommy D and I were no longer lounging on a Paris sidewalk. We had somehow been teleported. Teleported? Telepor-huh? Was it the heat? The pastis? A bump on the head? Nope, reality all too obviously vibrated through the unbelievable moment.
We were suddenly back in the car heading to Paris. Everything was just as it had been a day earlier with one exception. As we zoomed along the roadway of the past in present tense our quizzical minds spied a note taped to the windshield. Tommy hesitantly grabbed the paper and peeled it open. Written on the back of a pack of firecrackers we read, "Enjoy! It's only a bit of smoke." As we went through the hours we had already traversed everything occurred exactly as it had before with one exception, we kept the prophetic glimmer in our minds, "Enjoy! It's only a bit of smoke." We approached the explosive future with calm. Then again, !!! CRACK !!! but this time we leaped into the air with jubilant shouts. Once the smoke cleared we didn’t see Weirdo Beardo but instead a cheering populace. Everyone clapped and cried, "Viva la France!" We soon discovered it was French Independence Day and our earlier fears of exploding terror were now non-existent. The celebration commenced with flowing champagne and kept going. Our night of action packed partying was right on thanks to the strange encounter with a time traveling man. Now I understand the point of the episode. We must take life in brave stride without a sense of worry. When life explodes explode with it. Jump full force into the fire. If it's truly a bitter bang you’ll find out soon enough but if it's a benign blast your fun will start on the mark, so stay open and go for it!
- frosty
(from summer 2005)
With the sun on our path Tommy and I cruised about, taking in glances of beautiful women and wafts of freshly baked baguettes. We cafe hopped catching flashes of the Tour de France between beverages. In the evening Carlos and crew blew up the dancefloor with explosive sneak peeks of the future roots revolution resonating from Los Angeles. It was wonderful to see such excited reactions to music that’s so close to the heart of the dublab collective. After the show we wandered around town and eventually landed back at the hotel for a twinkle or two of sleep.
We arose late our second day in Paris. Upon flinging open the impenetrable hotel curtains we discovered a brilliant landscape. With haste we hopped on the metro and zipped to Montmartre in search of sustenance. This came in the form of pastis partnered with icy water. Sip sip sip, skip to the next spot, sip sip sip and on again. The weekend had become a marathon of mellow sidewalk sitting. It was at our third stop when in the midst of a sentence slightly slurred by a fifth anis based aperitif that !!! CRACK !!! All exploded. Bombs had just gone off across London but these atrocities had eased to the back of our optimistic minds as we strolled this metropolis with ease. Egads! We were now amongst the same sinister mayhem. My god how many casualties could there be? As the smoke cleared I touched my torso to make sure it was still intact. The sulfur stung my nostrils and I glanced up to discover a bearded face just inches from my own. "Bonjour beastie!" came a call through the haze, and then it began.
The smoke dissipated and we now saw before our eyes the full figure of the formerly floating bearded face. He looked like a cross between Jimi Hendrix, a salty sea captain, and an owl. Striped pants nearly reached his nipples (thankfully these were covered by a ruffled tuxedo shirt) above which were pinned various medals commemorating vague valor. Had he really rescued a family of geese from enemy submarines? Was he the most accurate meteorologist in Mali? Could he pull a train with his teeth? My puzzled, wandering wonderings were snapped short by another explosive blast. Fear ripped through my world and again this STRANGEr chirped, "Bonjour beastly beasties!" He then grabbed our arms and tugged us into his far out orbit. With another flash of fire and smoke Tommy D and I were no longer lounging on a Paris sidewalk. We had somehow been teleported. Teleported? Telepor-huh? Was it the heat? The pastis? A bump on the head? Nope, reality all too obviously vibrated through the unbelievable moment.
We were suddenly back in the car heading to Paris. Everything was just as it had been a day earlier with one exception. As we zoomed along the roadway of the past in present tense our quizzical minds spied a note taped to the windshield. Tommy hesitantly grabbed the paper and peeled it open. Written on the back of a pack of firecrackers we read, "Enjoy! It's only a bit of smoke." As we went through the hours we had already traversed everything occurred exactly as it had before with one exception, we kept the prophetic glimmer in our minds, "Enjoy! It's only a bit of smoke." We approached the explosive future with calm. Then again, !!! CRACK !!! but this time we leaped into the air with jubilant shouts. Once the smoke cleared we didn’t see Weirdo Beardo but instead a cheering populace. Everyone clapped and cried, "Viva la France!" We soon discovered it was French Independence Day and our earlier fears of exploding terror were now non-existent. The celebration commenced with flowing champagne and kept going. Our night of action packed partying was right on thanks to the strange encounter with a time traveling man. Now I understand the point of the episode. We must take life in brave stride without a sense of worry. When life explodes explode with it. Jump full force into the fire. If it's truly a bitter bang you’ll find out soon enough but if it's a benign blast your fun will start on the mark, so stay open and go for it!
- frosty
(from summer 2005)
FROSTY'S EURO ADVENTURES - manufacturing Z’s
The chump who coined the phrase, “You’ll have plenty of time to sleep when you’re dead,” is probably already in the grave.
If you’re a 9-5 worker bee you might want to look away. All others, let’s study some scientific data. Over the past week the earliest I have woken up is 1:30pm. The latest is today at the sparkling hour of 3pm. Some would call this lazy behavior. I call it deep sleep research. I’m not just talking about the time spent sleeping but how that ample rest effects wide-awake moments. Falling asleep (which has been occurring no earlier than 5:30am) with the knowledge that you’ll wake up when you’re ready and no earlier is a fantastic feeling. I personally drift much deeper without the ticking hands of time hovering over my horizontal head. When I do enter the world of the living I’m much more prepared to slay dragons and chop e-mail blocks.
There have been other times in my life when I’ve enjoyed a relaxed schedule. As lads my brother Derelict and I would visit our Dad on summer vacation. Our days were filled with low-pressure living. We would crack our sleep encrusted eyes open to the late afternoon and roll slowly to the living room where our still sideways bodies absorbed hours of Yo! MTV Raps and kung fu flicks. Nothing got in the way of our loose lifestyle except the occasional visit to an amusement park. On those special days we zombie strolled to the car and crashed out until arriving in Goofy Lot Q or Yosemite Sam Orange. College was another period of suspended animation, which you would fully understand if you saw how tightly I hugged my bong.
These days I am comfortable in my subconscious skin. Upon arising I fill my hours with excitement. I stretch, do some sit ups (to counter my heroic beer intake), sip mint tea, watch the Tour de France, take a shower, and stroll to the store only to catch a parade of haggard souls making their way home after a dreary day behind desks. I spend my evenings staying busy and slip under the sheets with the bright morning light. At home I’m more of an early bird but in this foreign setting I’ve decided to loosen the strings. Maybe I’m just staying close to LA time so when I return I’ll be up with the milking of the cows and in bed right at twilight. Or…maybe I’m the laziest son of a gun you’ve ever seen. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
- frosty
(from summer 2005)
If you’re a 9-5 worker bee you might want to look away. All others, let’s study some scientific data. Over the past week the earliest I have woken up is 1:30pm. The latest is today at the sparkling hour of 3pm. Some would call this lazy behavior. I call it deep sleep research. I’m not just talking about the time spent sleeping but how that ample rest effects wide-awake moments. Falling asleep (which has been occurring no earlier than 5:30am) with the knowledge that you’ll wake up when you’re ready and no earlier is a fantastic feeling. I personally drift much deeper without the ticking hands of time hovering over my horizontal head. When I do enter the world of the living I’m much more prepared to slay dragons and chop e-mail blocks.
There have been other times in my life when I’ve enjoyed a relaxed schedule. As lads my brother Derelict and I would visit our Dad on summer vacation. Our days were filled with low-pressure living. We would crack our sleep encrusted eyes open to the late afternoon and roll slowly to the living room where our still sideways bodies absorbed hours of Yo! MTV Raps and kung fu flicks. Nothing got in the way of our loose lifestyle except the occasional visit to an amusement park. On those special days we zombie strolled to the car and crashed out until arriving in Goofy Lot Q or Yosemite Sam Orange. College was another period of suspended animation, which you would fully understand if you saw how tightly I hugged my bong.
These days I am comfortable in my subconscious skin. Upon arising I fill my hours with excitement. I stretch, do some sit ups (to counter my heroic beer intake), sip mint tea, watch the Tour de France, take a shower, and stroll to the store only to catch a parade of haggard souls making their way home after a dreary day behind desks. I spend my evenings staying busy and slip under the sheets with the bright morning light. At home I’m more of an early bird but in this foreign setting I’ve decided to loosen the strings. Maybe I’m just staying close to LA time so when I return I’ll be up with the milking of the cows and in bed right at twilight. Or…maybe I’m the laziest son of a gun you’ve ever seen. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
- frosty
(from summer 2005)
FROSTY'S EURO ADVENTURES - Kraftwerk
The European festival circuit is an entity unto itself. Any given weekend the green, continental countryside is dotted with massive gatherings of freaks. Enormous stages surrounded by booming sound, luminous lights, and thousands of flailing folks become flashpoints for now music. Last weekend I stopped into the Rock Werchter Festival in Belgium. Held in a remote, open field it fit the typical bill to the tee. Throngs of electric teens and wasted boozers filled the grounds for the momentous miracles of muddy musical overload.
Unlike the many thousands camping for the entire four days of the festival we swooped in and out like moths to momentarily bright lights. Luckily my pal Saul Williams was playing and scored us handy artist passes which allowed all access. While heavy rain turned the already gooey fields to a complete mess we lounged luxuriously backstage in a private dressing room sipping wine and nibbling snacks. When it came time for a performance we simply strolled along the raised wooden walkways to view the shows up close and personal. The cold ache of guilt did flow into my body as I gazed warm and dry into the pupils of performers whom the general public obviously adored. They had shelled out a small fortune and braved intense elements to hear their heroes while I simply knew a few folks. What right had I to be so spoiled?
All of these faulty feelings flashed out of mind the moment Kraftwerk reached my pupils and ears. I stood not fifteen feet from the musical robots as they whirled through their catalog of electronic pop blueprints. It was a moment of pure nostalgia and perfect present tense. Memories of my breakdancing youth flooded back as I pop-locked to the syncopated circuitry of “Numbers” and chugging funk of “Trans Europe Express. I heard the essence of every electronic dance song resonate within the tones of “Radioactivity” and swayed to the sexy swing of the “Model.” Watching the man machines on stage was an absolutely surreal experience: Ralf Hütter pressing his wireless mic close while half singing every seminal vocoded word, Henning Schmitz ever so slightly pumping his rigid pelvis to the beat, Fritz Hilpert faintly grinning as he checked out the girls, and Florian Schneider looking as always like an intense, futuristic Frankenstein. They played all the hits, turned into robots, and donned glowing body suits. While their middle-aged bellies threatened to burst the seams I was awash with how ultimately funky these German cats still are.
- frosty
(from summer 2005)
Unlike the many thousands camping for the entire four days of the festival we swooped in and out like moths to momentarily bright lights. Luckily my pal Saul Williams was playing and scored us handy artist passes which allowed all access. While heavy rain turned the already gooey fields to a complete mess we lounged luxuriously backstage in a private dressing room sipping wine and nibbling snacks. When it came time for a performance we simply strolled along the raised wooden walkways to view the shows up close and personal. The cold ache of guilt did flow into my body as I gazed warm and dry into the pupils of performers whom the general public obviously adored. They had shelled out a small fortune and braved intense elements to hear their heroes while I simply knew a few folks. What right had I to be so spoiled?
All of these faulty feelings flashed out of mind the moment Kraftwerk reached my pupils and ears. I stood not fifteen feet from the musical robots as they whirled through their catalog of electronic pop blueprints. It was a moment of pure nostalgia and perfect present tense. Memories of my breakdancing youth flooded back as I pop-locked to the syncopated circuitry of “Numbers” and chugging funk of “Trans Europe Express. I heard the essence of every electronic dance song resonate within the tones of “Radioactivity” and swayed to the sexy swing of the “Model.” Watching the man machines on stage was an absolutely surreal experience: Ralf Hütter pressing his wireless mic close while half singing every seminal vocoded word, Henning Schmitz ever so slightly pumping his rigid pelvis to the beat, Fritz Hilpert faintly grinning as he checked out the girls, and Florian Schneider looking as always like an intense, futuristic Frankenstein. They played all the hits, turned into robots, and donned glowing body suits. While their middle-aged bellies threatened to burst the seams I was awash with how ultimately funky these German cats still are.
- frosty
(from summer 2005)
FROSTY'S EURO ADVENTURES - squats
European cities are tightly packed brick to brick with buildings. Some ancient blocks lean sideways as if centuries of wind have tried to blow them down. Amongst these countless shelters stand some that have been forgotten. Buildings made empty by better digs across town, economic collapse, civic redevelopment, nasty smells, boredom of that same old view, gone fishin', etc. often lay empty for years, but have no fear, the squatters are here! Squatting communities are thrifty nomads who make the most out of discarded real estate. Their buildings are as diverse as the occupants: chapels, ornate fire stations, factories, schools, and office buildings. All are emblazoned with the squatter’s symbol, a circle with a lightning like arrow climbing diagonally up and bursting towards the sky. Often cities will allow squatters to stay for years if the structure is up to code and drugs aren't flying out of the chimney. With room to breathe squats stretch into vibrant social havens hosting art happenings, freak out music shows, and co-op style "people's kitchens."
Last weekend some pals and I hopped in the car and zipped to Antwerp for the Scheld'apen Festival. This two-day celebration of celebrating was held at a squat that's been jumping roadblocks to successfully survive for nearly a decade. The old, utilitarian building has become a fully operational music venue. All weekend it bumped with sweaty bands and experimental films. Outside, the gorgeous tree sheltered yard glimmered with smiling creative souls enjoying some fringe fun. A bbq blazed with satay while plates sagged under the weight of fresh salads. The hands down highlight of the festival was the Singing Tulip (http://www.tulip-die-singende-tulpe.de). A mushroom stood on the outdoor stage playing a lovely keyboard. The audience smiled. From the distance came the melancholy strains of a deep voice. The Singing Tulip strode slowly from behind the crowd and weaved his way to the microphone. Dressed in a blue, one-piece jumpsuit and crowned with a golden tulip he sang strange and captivating songs teetering on the cliff of romance and tumbling into the cavern of despair. ‘Twas a fine show for any flower.
These flickers are all mind you a hazy blur in my mind but I assure you it all happened. Someday I will sketch illustrations of this party from my tiny chamber atop the distant mountain. If you would like mimeograph copies of these drawings please send a self addressed stamped envelope to the future. So yup, squats rock steady. Next time you're cruising down a European block and see a beautiful building spiced up with graffiti look for the squatter's symbol and you might discover something far out.
- frosty
(from summer 2005)
Last weekend some pals and I hopped in the car and zipped to Antwerp for the Scheld'apen Festival. This two-day celebration of celebrating was held at a squat that's been jumping roadblocks to successfully survive for nearly a decade. The old, utilitarian building has become a fully operational music venue. All weekend it bumped with sweaty bands and experimental films. Outside, the gorgeous tree sheltered yard glimmered with smiling creative souls enjoying some fringe fun. A bbq blazed with satay while plates sagged under the weight of fresh salads. The hands down highlight of the festival was the Singing Tulip (http://www.tulip-die-singende-tulpe.de). A mushroom stood on the outdoor stage playing a lovely keyboard. The audience smiled. From the distance came the melancholy strains of a deep voice. The Singing Tulip strode slowly from behind the crowd and weaved his way to the microphone. Dressed in a blue, one-piece jumpsuit and crowned with a golden tulip he sang strange and captivating songs teetering on the cliff of romance and tumbling into the cavern of despair. ‘Twas a fine show for any flower.
These flickers are all mind you a hazy blur in my mind but I assure you it all happened. Someday I will sketch illustrations of this party from my tiny chamber atop the distant mountain. If you would like mimeograph copies of these drawings please send a self addressed stamped envelope to the future. So yup, squats rock steady. Next time you're cruising down a European block and see a beautiful building spiced up with graffiti look for the squatter's symbol and you might discover something far out.
- frosty
(from summer 2005)
FROSTY'S EURO ADVENTURES - beer bash
Belgium is known for a handful of lovely things: its delicious chocolate, waffles, and of course beer! The latter of these culinary trademarks is the one I've been most intensely exploring. Call it an adventurous passion for unearthing the subtle nuances of Flemish cultural fabric or call it pure debauchery. Whatever you decide to dub it I'll be here gulping down the good stuff. Belgian ale brewing is an ancient biz. Peek at a bottle of rich, sweet Tongerlo dubbel and you'll discover that some chubby monks started this brewski in 1133. Others like the bubbly, golden Tripel Karmeliet are wee babies in comparison. With a launch date of 1679 these newcomers must have strutted their ruffled shirts down cobblestone streets the way a proud chicken shows off its new Reebok Pumps the day after Santa Claus comes. With all these years of experience behind them the Belgians sure know how to whip up a batch of lovely booze. Some of my recent favorites have been Hommel, Duvel, Westmalle, Grimbergen, Leffe, Hoegaarden, Delerium, Rochefort, and Kwak. There are surely others I have intimately loved but with a typical alcohol content of 9% once I get past glass ..3 everything blurs but the essence of delight and the faint beating of my heart as I drift into blissful stupor.
- frosty
(from summer 2005)
- frosty
(from summer 2005)
a hairy peace be with you...
Once upon a time long long long ago there lived a happy hippy with a braided beard and two sandals carved out of willow bark. This hairy human had no home and he dug it that way. He would wander around the forest for days on end staring thoughtfully at the moss and leaves that lined the thick floor. When the sun sank low he gazed deep into an amber medallion and pondered the meaning of in between. In between day and night, in between love and longing, in between peace and war. That last one was his favorite because he so often pined for the day of world peace. That momentous occasion is marked on no calendar but he knew it was coming. He glowed in the mental projection of soldiers throwing down their spears and grasping guitars. Our fair friend patiently waited out the days of world chaos trying to keep himself calm with chamomile thoughts and sweet smoke. He waited and waited waited waited and waited more and some more, calmly waiting.
Finally he knew he couldn't wait any longer. What if HE was the key to world peace?! Maybe it was time for action. He tossed off his robe, cut his ancient locks, and laid aside his elixirs and pendants. Clean shaven he rubbed silver paint over his entire body and slipped on a mirrored, cyclopian visor. Swiftly Mr. ex-Hippy made his way to a square bustling with tourists. He climbed atop a milk crate and stood rock solid day after day until chubby out-of-towners dropped dimes. Instead of busting out in a display of shiny poplocking as the tourists expected he would simply cup their ears and yell full blast "STOP THE WARS!" They would leap back nearly exploding with pain and revealation. Some would huff and puff, others would slink away, and still others would cry. All would return home to their scattered lands and tell neighbors about the silver peace shouter. Someday after enough splendid shouts all the world's soldiers will have heard word from second cousins who in between vacationing corndog bites experienced something strange. On that day the war cries will be dry.
- frosty
Finally he knew he couldn't wait any longer. What if HE was the key to world peace?! Maybe it was time for action. He tossed off his robe, cut his ancient locks, and laid aside his elixirs and pendants. Clean shaven he rubbed silver paint over his entire body and slipped on a mirrored, cyclopian visor. Swiftly Mr. ex-Hippy made his way to a square bustling with tourists. He climbed atop a milk crate and stood rock solid day after day until chubby out-of-towners dropped dimes. Instead of busting out in a display of shiny poplocking as the tourists expected he would simply cup their ears and yell full blast "STOP THE WARS!" They would leap back nearly exploding with pain and revealation. Some would huff and puff, others would slink away, and still others would cry. All would return home to their scattered lands and tell neighbors about the silver peace shouter. Someday after enough splendid shouts all the world's soldiers will have heard word from second cousins who in between vacationing corndog bites experienced something strange. On that day the war cries will be dry.
- frosty
paws and claws...
Animal Collective are a rare unit. Avey Tare, Deaken, Geologist, and Panda Bear summon surreal spirits from wood and metal instruments. Together they craft unpredictable, mysterious gems. It’s best to rush into their world and enjoy each explosive sound and soft whisper. So here we go. Let’s throw open the gate and dive into Animal Collective’s hallucinatory world.
Campfire Songs
It’s dark and the air is heavy. Each breath draws the fragrant night into your body. Tree limbs drip leaves on the forest floor and creak with each breeze. A carpet of dry pine needles and popping twigs celebrate every step. We wind our way past willows whispering and crickets chirping time. Walking, hopping, and shuffling through darkness broken only by lucky moonbeams. We cross a creek rock by rock and on the next wind catch the aroma of burning alder wood accompanied by faint guitar. We follow these midnight stimulants to the edge of a clearing where a cabin is nestled in tall grass. Shadowy shapes surround it. As we drift closer the figures become clear. Woodland creatures circle a sparkling campfire. A grizzly sits on the wooden porch rocking gently, raccoons line the rooftop, a badger is clapping its tail on the front steps, a deer stokes the fire with its antlers, and three rabbits are curled near the glowing embers. They all hypnotically vibrate to the soft music which appears to be rising from the fire. As flames lick higher the music swells. Cinder crescendos disappear into stars. Smoke carries ghostly guitar chords that tickle skin as they swirl away. The sparks are singing red, orange, and blue. Soon we are singing too and this is a dream is a dream is a dream.
Spirit They’re Gone, Spirit They’ve Vanished & Danse Manatee
Seagulls swoop down to grab the remains of your lunch as you inhale, exhale ahhhhhhhhhhh. These last breaths of salty air are deep. You smell the sea and soon you will be in it. You nervously check your watch and wipe beaded sweat from your forehead. This hundredth submersion makes you anxious as the first. You love to go below but can’t wait to get back up. These thoughts disappear as you tie your boot and climb down the ladder. Once you’re snug they seal you in. As the hatch closes buoys stop ringing and the air smells recycled. With a click, pssssssst, and a whir your submarine glides off and down. You flip on the radio as light rays ripple and disappear. Soon it’s night in the daytime and all the fish must be owls because they’re out on the town. Your good ship lollipop is equipped with a highly sensitive aquatic microphone and surround sound speakers start speaking sea talk to you. A glowing cloud appears on the starboard side. It’s a fluorescent school of singing seahorses whinnying warbled melodies. Their song meshes with the ever-present squeal of your rotor and electronic cockpit blips. You smile and pass above crabs tapping out patterns on sunken shells. Their drum solos send bubbles blib blib blib blob pop pop pop past your cockpit. An electric eel slithers through corral with a shocking buzz. You continue diving deeper slipping past a pirate ship’s mast when you hear something strange. It sounds like an underwater waltz. On any other day you wouldn’t wave an eyelash. Manta Birostris aka Mr. or Mrs. Manta Ray often creates such mesmerizing music, but this is different. You hear crackling grooves and the steady whir of a motor. You nudge the volume up, turn off the high beams, and float yonder. All is aglow and the music is bright. You spot an ancient Victrola perched on a giant clam. It chugs out the sounds of an ethereal orchestra as two chubby phantoms cut a rug. You wipe the window and then your eyes. It’s still for real. Two manatee ghosts are locked in romantic embrace, spinning peacefully on the seafloor. Though flounder, plankton, and pike float all around, the manatees feel only one another. Their fragile ballad is adrift in a cacophony of rushing currents. Your head sways with the grandeur of it all. You check the air pressure gauge. It’s empty, you die, and go to heaven.
Here Comes the Indian
The Indian is proud of his shoes. He wears them everyday. He’s a tough dude. His pants are lined with magic rattlesnake skin and he eats nothing but raw meat and fire. You could say he cooks his food internally. The Indian never had a mother of father he just kind of showed up one day. He doesn’t talk much and you shouldn’t stare at him, especially his shoes. They’re said to be magic. Evidence of this can be witnessed in his confident saunter. He’ll walk over any surface: bones, hot coals, banana peels. Nothing slips up his stroll. Sometimes at night he floats upside down over cities suspended by his shoes. This is how he met the Evil Eagle. Now, the Indian is a no nonsense character but Evil Eagle aka Double E is absolutely intense. His talons are sharpened to a deadly point and he shoots razor edged feathers from his plumage. Plus he’s a down and dirty cussy mouth. One day the Indian was floating above Detroit minding his own biz when all of a sudden some freak tried to grab his sneaks. Nobody but nobody touches the Indian’s shoes. He peered into the sky above his inverted body and saw that rascal EE. Well bam bam! He flipped around and scissor kicked the bald head bugger in the beak. Shazam! There was a mighty flash of light and *bang* Evil Eagle was flipped into another dimension. All around his birdie body sinister lightning flashed crack * crack * crack. Shrieks and moans filled the air and Evil felt his brain bursting. The intensity of it all settled and rose like a tidal wave of crashing piano chords. His talons shattered as each feather started to sizzle and burn. Mr. Eagle sensed the end was near but no dice. He was eternally trapped in an agonizing limbo. Back on Earth everything was cool with the Indian. He had set that chump straight and went about his day. So remember, if you ever run across our main man the Indian, don’t screw with his shoes.
Sung Tongs
When I was a wee lad I went to a barbecue smack dab in the middle of summer. I wore mismatched tube socks, one striped red, the other purple and yellow. I didn’t give a hoot because these were the carefree days of my youth. I had energy and the imagination to match. The bbq was at my cousin Peter’s. As soon as our station wagon pulled up to the peeling, white and green house my brothers and I jumped out of the car like it was on fire. We hopped the fence and zipped straight to the backyard. We were in search of adventure under a blazing Sun. We found it in tree branches, sprinklers, matches, and dirt clods. Cousin Pete was a pretty boss dude. He was fifteen with a BMX and faint moustache. As the day faded Pete and three buds gathered in the garage with acoustic guitars, walkie talkies, and a dented amplifier. They strummed and strummed and strummed and strummed. It sounded chaotic but soon the curious chords circled together to make sense. The teenagers sang like pirates on a rampage. Perfectly confident with puffed chests and cracking voices. They whispered into squawking walkie talkies then yelped while jumping on one foot. A blue, electric bug zapper crackled along. Their energetic improvisations washed over our ears like the Pied Piper’s song, drawing more and more youngsters to the open garage. We all clapped and shouted in anarchic unison. If we had kept it up I’m sure we could have launched a revolution. Under a banner of grass stained knees and scabby elbows the world would have been ours.
Wow that was quite an adventure! What does it all mean? Take a listen to these Animal Collective albums and dream up your own scene.
Campfire Songs
catsupplate.com
Here Comes the Indian
paw-tracks.com
Sung Tongs
Spirit They’re Gone, Spirit They’ve Vanished/Danse Manatee
fat-cat.co.uk
- frosty
Campfire Songs
It’s dark and the air is heavy. Each breath draws the fragrant night into your body. Tree limbs drip leaves on the forest floor and creak with each breeze. A carpet of dry pine needles and popping twigs celebrate every step. We wind our way past willows whispering and crickets chirping time. Walking, hopping, and shuffling through darkness broken only by lucky moonbeams. We cross a creek rock by rock and on the next wind catch the aroma of burning alder wood accompanied by faint guitar. We follow these midnight stimulants to the edge of a clearing where a cabin is nestled in tall grass. Shadowy shapes surround it. As we drift closer the figures become clear. Woodland creatures circle a sparkling campfire. A grizzly sits on the wooden porch rocking gently, raccoons line the rooftop, a badger is clapping its tail on the front steps, a deer stokes the fire with its antlers, and three rabbits are curled near the glowing embers. They all hypnotically vibrate to the soft music which appears to be rising from the fire. As flames lick higher the music swells. Cinder crescendos disappear into stars. Smoke carries ghostly guitar chords that tickle skin as they swirl away. The sparks are singing red, orange, and blue. Soon we are singing too and this is a dream is a dream is a dream.
Spirit They’re Gone, Spirit They’ve Vanished & Danse Manatee
Seagulls swoop down to grab the remains of your lunch as you inhale, exhale ahhhhhhhhhhh. These last breaths of salty air are deep. You smell the sea and soon you will be in it. You nervously check your watch and wipe beaded sweat from your forehead. This hundredth submersion makes you anxious as the first. You love to go below but can’t wait to get back up. These thoughts disappear as you tie your boot and climb down the ladder. Once you’re snug they seal you in. As the hatch closes buoys stop ringing and the air smells recycled. With a click, pssssssst, and a whir your submarine glides off and down. You flip on the radio as light rays ripple and disappear. Soon it’s night in the daytime and all the fish must be owls because they’re out on the town. Your good ship lollipop is equipped with a highly sensitive aquatic microphone and surround sound speakers start speaking sea talk to you. A glowing cloud appears on the starboard side. It’s a fluorescent school of singing seahorses whinnying warbled melodies. Their song meshes with the ever-present squeal of your rotor and electronic cockpit blips. You smile and pass above crabs tapping out patterns on sunken shells. Their drum solos send bubbles blib blib blib blob pop pop pop past your cockpit. An electric eel slithers through corral with a shocking buzz. You continue diving deeper slipping past a pirate ship’s mast when you hear something strange. It sounds like an underwater waltz. On any other day you wouldn’t wave an eyelash. Manta Birostris aka Mr. or Mrs. Manta Ray often creates such mesmerizing music, but this is different. You hear crackling grooves and the steady whir of a motor. You nudge the volume up, turn off the high beams, and float yonder. All is aglow and the music is bright. You spot an ancient Victrola perched on a giant clam. It chugs out the sounds of an ethereal orchestra as two chubby phantoms cut a rug. You wipe the window and then your eyes. It’s still for real. Two manatee ghosts are locked in romantic embrace, spinning peacefully on the seafloor. Though flounder, plankton, and pike float all around, the manatees feel only one another. Their fragile ballad is adrift in a cacophony of rushing currents. Your head sways with the grandeur of it all. You check the air pressure gauge. It’s empty, you die, and go to heaven.
Here Comes the Indian
The Indian is proud of his shoes. He wears them everyday. He’s a tough dude. His pants are lined with magic rattlesnake skin and he eats nothing but raw meat and fire. You could say he cooks his food internally. The Indian never had a mother of father he just kind of showed up one day. He doesn’t talk much and you shouldn’t stare at him, especially his shoes. They’re said to be magic. Evidence of this can be witnessed in his confident saunter. He’ll walk over any surface: bones, hot coals, banana peels. Nothing slips up his stroll. Sometimes at night he floats upside down over cities suspended by his shoes. This is how he met the Evil Eagle. Now, the Indian is a no nonsense character but Evil Eagle aka Double E is absolutely intense. His talons are sharpened to a deadly point and he shoots razor edged feathers from his plumage. Plus he’s a down and dirty cussy mouth. One day the Indian was floating above Detroit minding his own biz when all of a sudden some freak tried to grab his sneaks. Nobody but nobody touches the Indian’s shoes. He peered into the sky above his inverted body and saw that rascal EE. Well bam bam! He flipped around and scissor kicked the bald head bugger in the beak. Shazam! There was a mighty flash of light and *bang* Evil Eagle was flipped into another dimension. All around his birdie body sinister lightning flashed crack * crack * crack. Shrieks and moans filled the air and Evil felt his brain bursting. The intensity of it all settled and rose like a tidal wave of crashing piano chords. His talons shattered as each feather started to sizzle and burn. Mr. Eagle sensed the end was near but no dice. He was eternally trapped in an agonizing limbo. Back on Earth everything was cool with the Indian. He had set that chump straight and went about his day. So remember, if you ever run across our main man the Indian, don’t screw with his shoes.
Sung Tongs
When I was a wee lad I went to a barbecue smack dab in the middle of summer. I wore mismatched tube socks, one striped red, the other purple and yellow. I didn’t give a hoot because these were the carefree days of my youth. I had energy and the imagination to match. The bbq was at my cousin Peter’s. As soon as our station wagon pulled up to the peeling, white and green house my brothers and I jumped out of the car like it was on fire. We hopped the fence and zipped straight to the backyard. We were in search of adventure under a blazing Sun. We found it in tree branches, sprinklers, matches, and dirt clods. Cousin Pete was a pretty boss dude. He was fifteen with a BMX and faint moustache. As the day faded Pete and three buds gathered in the garage with acoustic guitars, walkie talkies, and a dented amplifier. They strummed and strummed and strummed and strummed. It sounded chaotic but soon the curious chords circled together to make sense. The teenagers sang like pirates on a rampage. Perfectly confident with puffed chests and cracking voices. They whispered into squawking walkie talkies then yelped while jumping on one foot. A blue, electric bug zapper crackled along. Their energetic improvisations washed over our ears like the Pied Piper’s song, drawing more and more youngsters to the open garage. We all clapped and shouted in anarchic unison. If we had kept it up I’m sure we could have launched a revolution. Under a banner of grass stained knees and scabby elbows the world would have been ours.
Wow that was quite an adventure! What does it all mean? Take a listen to these Animal Collective albums and dream up your own scene.
Campfire Songs
catsupplate.com
Here Comes the Indian
paw-tracks.com
Sung Tongs
Spirit They’re Gone, Spirit They’ve Vanished/Danse Manatee
fat-cat.co.uk
- frosty
Brazil…a blur
I awoke in a pool of sweat, a woozy whirlpool lying crumpled on threadbare sheets. Waves of heat piled atop the clay roof as drums pounded in the cobblestone streets below. My mind hummed mystery as I turned my aching torso on its side. How did I get here? I had been living in Buenos Aires for two years moonlighting as a professional dropout. My life was a comfortable cycle of hangovers and loneliness. Now I found myself deep in humid chaos. Here in Salvador, Bahia, BRAZIL without a penny to my name and creaks in my frame. Outside was all energy. My stranger neighbors were 36 hours deep into Carnaval. The slope was rising. The beasts were just getting warmed up, snarling their teeth at the sun and raging through the night. I was soon to be thrown into the pit and down down I went.
I slammed the butt end of my empty glass on the splintered, wooden table. Drops of fiery cachaca clung to my lips afraid to join their kin in the depths of my cavernous pit. Earlier I had hit up two innocent Aussie tourists for some paper money. My disjointed sob story about a car wreck, stolen suitcase, and bum knee was upstaged by spittle shouts and a throbbing neck vein threatening to explode crimson across their pasty faces. The chumps floated me 13 Brazilian Reals more out of fear than sympathy. The money never had a chance to burn a hole in my pocket. It magically transformed into local moonshine that seared its way into my stomach and soul. Now I was starting to see the world the way I liked it. A blurry mess of colors and shadows infused with the numb optimism that rides on the first wave of a drunken binge. I was no longer a lackluster scumbag shining for all to see. I was a jet setting superhero ready to turn young girls out and bang their mothers in. I was in Brazil and all hell was breaking loose on every level of heaven. Salvador was one ball of a town, the down home heart of African Brazil. The Portuguese had fled long ago leaving their broken pets to peel gold flakes off cathedrals and calculate the distance between their shithole shacks and Africa. Somehow the impoverished population transcended. They were the most beautiful, shining faces on Earth, bursting every moment with magic breaths of energy. Nourished by the Sun, sea, sexiness, and sound of music they pounced eager upon life. I was clenched tight to their coattails.
My role was obvious outsider, a knob on the door of opportunity ready to be twisted. A resource to remedy lack of loot. Hell, if I were Brazilian I would have strung my bow steady and shot bullseyes through my pale human heart. They didn't however realize what a bum I was and so this way waltzed another chap about to be heartbroken over his failed attempt at panhandling. He walked fast with dirty fingers waving at the end of an arm that curved in too many ninety-degree angles. His mutated limb twisted a square S as he offered me a handshake. I declined, grabbed my burned out cigarette and sucked in a lung full of filter. "My friend. I have problem," he declared. Don't we all. He again showed off his insane arm. I wrestled my wretch ready stomach under control while wondering how this man had come to be cursed with three rotten elbows. He then laid his screwy appendage on my table knocking swampy sludge out of an empty espresso cup. "Help my problem. Help my problem arm. My friend, money for me my friend." All I could do to keep from puking up my guilty conscience was bolt immediately into the street.
I swayed down colorful corridors amongst an ever-growing throng of dancing, cheering, hooting and hollering folks. In bright silver and clover costumes a band marched my way. Their thunderous calamity rode on a wave of pounding skins. Banged up brass horns tooted melodies whose cousins were ragtime rebels. They shuffled along trailing a mass of feet dancing on beat. Dynamite women held children’s' hands while rotating their hips in such slinky circles that I almost burst a spout of cum across the commotion. I ran wild inside, electric with lusty dreams. My wet seed conjured by fleshy curves showered the samba. Rusty brass bleats bloomed forth new births. A parade of orgasms marched to the driving beat. Lecherously I stared at each passing ass and burped up bubbles of booze. Damn you Lord for making such soft creatures! My frenzy is the fruit of your labor. I moved in the opposite direction and followed my nose into the mouth of madness.
Down ragged blocks I entered the eye against the tide. I shoved my way through a crowd enrapt with gyrations. The masses trailed giant buses atop which bands played bass heavy celebrations. The mighty throng exploded with each syncopated crest. Young men held each other in conga lines swaying left and right while marching forward. Their closeness, which would be considered fey or outright gay in some circles, was a bloodthirsty battle line. On beat they rushed forward launching punches at passing groups of sweaty thugs. Occasionally, patrolling columns of military police would snag some hoodlums and parade them through the crowd en route to the paddy wagon. While in captivity the bummed out boys with their arms twisted high were pummeled by those fellas still running wild and free. This was a volatile scene calling for heavy measures. I whistled to the nearest vendor and was promptly overcharged for an ice cold one. The pilsner tasted like frozen piss. As I stumbled on, occasionally pausing to ponder the anti-gravity power of perfect bikini-clad butts, a menacing cloud grew on the horizon.
Another thundering bus came closer. This one was emblazoned with the banner "Gueg Ghetto" and crackled with sinister energy. Those who followed were an army of the disenchanted. Bursting with angst straight from the Favela they marched my way. I, a swaying white speck on the horizon. As the crowd constricted I gulped sticky air. Sweaty bodies tangled together and we became slick with each other’s oils. The rhythm riled everyone to a point of psychosis. Consuming bass surrounded us. All mobility was sacrificed to the monster we collectively had become. Prayers were pointless. This was the end. Suddenly, a more menacing circle enveloped me. Five muscular dudes grabbed at my pockets clasping my arms while simultaneously punching my body and face. I felt my skin throb as knuckles mashed into me. I twisted to and fro, wildly shaking off my assailants like a stubborn running back. They miraculously scattered and retreated. My vision gushed red. I was still being swept along with the crowd as I tried to regain control. Suddenly a hand slithered under my arm and I sensed trouble round two. Just before earning some well deserved double-fisted revenge I followed the arm to its owner, a sweet Bahiana. She held tight and whispered in urgent, broken English, "They come with knives. Go go!" I started to run through the thick human forest all the while dragging her with me.
Much too sober for the moment I grabbed a straight shot of rum and caught my breath. She stood before me half smiling, half smirking. "Why you come here? Too dangerous for gringo." I didn't respond. I took her in from every angle. Short, with a push up bra, and tight white jeans. She had been through the ringer a few times but wasn't dry yet. We walked down a less crowded side street in silence. I gulped my last Brazilian buck in booze. I would have offered her some but a sweet thing like that needs to stay in shape. Nonetheless, she bought a beer for half the price and started sipping. "United States?" she pointed at me. "Yes, no maybe so," I muttered back. She nodded a confused acceptance while gyrating to Gueg's fading boom. Her compact body moved with inborn Brazilian reflex while mouthing words to the faint music. I was regaining a magic, boozy balance and focused blurry eyes on my lady's gifts. Sweat beaded up on the border of her bra and ebony cleavage. She grinned at me again and I hid no secrets with my stare. My mind flashed through the playbook on heavy groping and she knew it.
We found an empty table in the central square, surrounded by ancient elegance crumbling under the guilt of abusive oppression. Above the once ornate buildings glowed a crescent moon swathed in shadowy clouds. The scent of sticky, caramel popcorn mingled with the giggles of ecstatic children awash in kaleidoscopic fantasy. I noticed none of this. My hand tipped up discarded glasses. I swallowed backwash beer and chased its flatness with a caipirinha bobbing with brown limes. My senses swirled with night-crawling madness. The fine features of my femme's face blurred. Her hair blew tendrils into the darkness and the touch of her knee under the table sent me spinning into deep space. My forehead crashed atop a pile of soggy napkins and peanut shells. In this disconnected stupor I heard my lady being swept away by a sweet talking empanada vendor. All was lost.
I awoke with the first sparkle of sunshine. My lids cracked open, their lashes breaking bonds of dried blood. Distant voices trailed home through familiar alleys while chirping birds feasted upon flaky crumbs. My bone-dry mouth blew a kiss to the devil and I was at peace. I laid my head back down and the sad notes of an accordion sent me sweetly to sleep once again.
- frosty
I slammed the butt end of my empty glass on the splintered, wooden table. Drops of fiery cachaca clung to my lips afraid to join their kin in the depths of my cavernous pit. Earlier I had hit up two innocent Aussie tourists for some paper money. My disjointed sob story about a car wreck, stolen suitcase, and bum knee was upstaged by spittle shouts and a throbbing neck vein threatening to explode crimson across their pasty faces. The chumps floated me 13 Brazilian Reals more out of fear than sympathy. The money never had a chance to burn a hole in my pocket. It magically transformed into local moonshine that seared its way into my stomach and soul. Now I was starting to see the world the way I liked it. A blurry mess of colors and shadows infused with the numb optimism that rides on the first wave of a drunken binge. I was no longer a lackluster scumbag shining for all to see. I was a jet setting superhero ready to turn young girls out and bang their mothers in. I was in Brazil and all hell was breaking loose on every level of heaven. Salvador was one ball of a town, the down home heart of African Brazil. The Portuguese had fled long ago leaving their broken pets to peel gold flakes off cathedrals and calculate the distance between their shithole shacks and Africa. Somehow the impoverished population transcended. They were the most beautiful, shining faces on Earth, bursting every moment with magic breaths of energy. Nourished by the Sun, sea, sexiness, and sound of music they pounced eager upon life. I was clenched tight to their coattails.
My role was obvious outsider, a knob on the door of opportunity ready to be twisted. A resource to remedy lack of loot. Hell, if I were Brazilian I would have strung my bow steady and shot bullseyes through my pale human heart. They didn't however realize what a bum I was and so this way waltzed another chap about to be heartbroken over his failed attempt at panhandling. He walked fast with dirty fingers waving at the end of an arm that curved in too many ninety-degree angles. His mutated limb twisted a square S as he offered me a handshake. I declined, grabbed my burned out cigarette and sucked in a lung full of filter. "My friend. I have problem," he declared. Don't we all. He again showed off his insane arm. I wrestled my wretch ready stomach under control while wondering how this man had come to be cursed with three rotten elbows. He then laid his screwy appendage on my table knocking swampy sludge out of an empty espresso cup. "Help my problem. Help my problem arm. My friend, money for me my friend." All I could do to keep from puking up my guilty conscience was bolt immediately into the street.
I swayed down colorful corridors amongst an ever-growing throng of dancing, cheering, hooting and hollering folks. In bright silver and clover costumes a band marched my way. Their thunderous calamity rode on a wave of pounding skins. Banged up brass horns tooted melodies whose cousins were ragtime rebels. They shuffled along trailing a mass of feet dancing on beat. Dynamite women held children’s' hands while rotating their hips in such slinky circles that I almost burst a spout of cum across the commotion. I ran wild inside, electric with lusty dreams. My wet seed conjured by fleshy curves showered the samba. Rusty brass bleats bloomed forth new births. A parade of orgasms marched to the driving beat. Lecherously I stared at each passing ass and burped up bubbles of booze. Damn you Lord for making such soft creatures! My frenzy is the fruit of your labor. I moved in the opposite direction and followed my nose into the mouth of madness.
Down ragged blocks I entered the eye against the tide. I shoved my way through a crowd enrapt with gyrations. The masses trailed giant buses atop which bands played bass heavy celebrations. The mighty throng exploded with each syncopated crest. Young men held each other in conga lines swaying left and right while marching forward. Their closeness, which would be considered fey or outright gay in some circles, was a bloodthirsty battle line. On beat they rushed forward launching punches at passing groups of sweaty thugs. Occasionally, patrolling columns of military police would snag some hoodlums and parade them through the crowd en route to the paddy wagon. While in captivity the bummed out boys with their arms twisted high were pummeled by those fellas still running wild and free. This was a volatile scene calling for heavy measures. I whistled to the nearest vendor and was promptly overcharged for an ice cold one. The pilsner tasted like frozen piss. As I stumbled on, occasionally pausing to ponder the anti-gravity power of perfect bikini-clad butts, a menacing cloud grew on the horizon.
Another thundering bus came closer. This one was emblazoned with the banner "Gueg Ghetto" and crackled with sinister energy. Those who followed were an army of the disenchanted. Bursting with angst straight from the Favela they marched my way. I, a swaying white speck on the horizon. As the crowd constricted I gulped sticky air. Sweaty bodies tangled together and we became slick with each other’s oils. The rhythm riled everyone to a point of psychosis. Consuming bass surrounded us. All mobility was sacrificed to the monster we collectively had become. Prayers were pointless. This was the end. Suddenly, a more menacing circle enveloped me. Five muscular dudes grabbed at my pockets clasping my arms while simultaneously punching my body and face. I felt my skin throb as knuckles mashed into me. I twisted to and fro, wildly shaking off my assailants like a stubborn running back. They miraculously scattered and retreated. My vision gushed red. I was still being swept along with the crowd as I tried to regain control. Suddenly a hand slithered under my arm and I sensed trouble round two. Just before earning some well deserved double-fisted revenge I followed the arm to its owner, a sweet Bahiana. She held tight and whispered in urgent, broken English, "They come with knives. Go go!" I started to run through the thick human forest all the while dragging her with me.
Much too sober for the moment I grabbed a straight shot of rum and caught my breath. She stood before me half smiling, half smirking. "Why you come here? Too dangerous for gringo." I didn't respond. I took her in from every angle. Short, with a push up bra, and tight white jeans. She had been through the ringer a few times but wasn't dry yet. We walked down a less crowded side street in silence. I gulped my last Brazilian buck in booze. I would have offered her some but a sweet thing like that needs to stay in shape. Nonetheless, she bought a beer for half the price and started sipping. "United States?" she pointed at me. "Yes, no maybe so," I muttered back. She nodded a confused acceptance while gyrating to Gueg's fading boom. Her compact body moved with inborn Brazilian reflex while mouthing words to the faint music. I was regaining a magic, boozy balance and focused blurry eyes on my lady's gifts. Sweat beaded up on the border of her bra and ebony cleavage. She grinned at me again and I hid no secrets with my stare. My mind flashed through the playbook on heavy groping and she knew it.
We found an empty table in the central square, surrounded by ancient elegance crumbling under the guilt of abusive oppression. Above the once ornate buildings glowed a crescent moon swathed in shadowy clouds. The scent of sticky, caramel popcorn mingled with the giggles of ecstatic children awash in kaleidoscopic fantasy. I noticed none of this. My hand tipped up discarded glasses. I swallowed backwash beer and chased its flatness with a caipirinha bobbing with brown limes. My senses swirled with night-crawling madness. The fine features of my femme's face blurred. Her hair blew tendrils into the darkness and the touch of her knee under the table sent me spinning into deep space. My forehead crashed atop a pile of soggy napkins and peanut shells. In this disconnected stupor I heard my lady being swept away by a sweet talking empanada vendor. All was lost.
I awoke with the first sparkle of sunshine. My lids cracked open, their lashes breaking bonds of dried blood. Distant voices trailed home through familiar alleys while chirping birds feasted upon flaky crumbs. My bone-dry mouth blew a kiss to the devil and I was at peace. I laid my head back down and the sad notes of an accordion sent me sweetly to sleep once again.
- frosty
give - take + give = sharing
As a wee lad I cruised grocery store aisles like a slack shark, bored and hopeful that my Mom would allow me a sugar-packed lip smacking cereal. Moping through the bright lanes I gazed at glazed apples, boxed beans, and jumbo dog treats. It was during one such journey that I came upon my favorite sanctuary, the magazine aisle. Here I could jump through paper portals and reach the worlds of Mad, Cracked, and other fine, illustrated fantasies. Once locked into hypnotic pages time stopped. I flipped through inky sheets chuckling deep. Meanwhile, Mom was TCB (ask Elvis) while I sat wondering if I could sneakily crease Mad's back page to see what graphic riddle Alfred E. Newman had up his sleeve. In the midst of all this fun I happened to glance at the stationary section beside me. An array of pens filled the racks but one called out with magnetic wonder. It was light blue and white number topped with a multi-coloured crown. Oh the splendor of such a spectrum! No longer would one need to carry around a pocket full of pens. This unit had it all. With dreams of lime colored lines and blood red scribbles filling my mind I reached a point of criminal frenzy. How might I possess this treasure? I had no dough and surely Mom wouldn't recognize the value of such a developed device. Something needed to be done. The end justifies the means. I quickly grabbed the package and freed the genius plume from its bonds. It shall belong to me and no other. I slipped the pen into my front pocket and tensely made my way to the checkout line where Mom was filling the moving conveyor with bland delicacies. As muesli and apple sauce scooted by I suddenly became frozen in the intense grip of fear. Oh shit! I was a criminal. The florescent grocery lamps suddenly became searchlights scanning prison walls for ME the escapee. I was buzzing and blinded with nervous fear. I wouldn't last a day in prison. Gangster gorillas would use my thin bones as toothpicks as they recounted my pummeling in the exercise yard. I was a goner and all for a stupid pen. "Let's go," barked Mom into my dazed existence. "Huh uh ah what? Time now? Go car leave store out how whayawha? Ok." ZIP>> In a flash I was standing next to our car heart pounding, mind racing. The next moment I was home free cruising down familiar streets with nary a police light in sight. I had pulled off the crime of the century. I was invincible just like those leotard clad champs in the comics. A giant amongst sand crabs.
Over the following days at school I showed off my prize to collected oohs and aahs. I was Mr. Amazing to all the measly munchkins. "Wanna see me create a world in blue? click. A river in red? click. An army of green? click." I was a legend in my own time but it wouldn't last long. My Catholic soul was trained to scour sin. No number of Hail Mary's would help me. I was an evil thief. God looked down and wept a flood of tears on his sorry creation. The pressure was much too much too much. I needed to be rid of my foul prize. I could have easily returned it to the store on bended knee but i wasn't feeling quite that guilty. I could have thrown it in the trash but that seemed awful wasteful. What I did was turn my hot object into a sign of affection. Wendy Kramer sat ahead and to the right of me in homeroom. I spent many a day staring at her flowing midnight hair and milky, freckled cheek. Wow what a dream. It was glorious to watch her work. I had always been in awe of Wendy's perfect pencil box filled with a cornucopia of the finest writing utensils daddy could buy. She had a strawberry shaped eraser that exuded a sweet aroma with every corrected answer and a glitter splashed pencil adorned with a head of glimmering streamers. But what she didn't have and probably never dreamed of was a hi-tech multihued pen. A rainbow captured by science. Just before a poopy pop quiz I leaned forward and placed the pen gently on the edge of her desk. She glanced around with question marks popping into her pretty mind. "For me???" she seemed to ask. I nodded a confident yes and rode a white steed back to my desk. I had succeeded in a grand romantic gesture. My heart burst with gladness and a sliver of guilt, and it was this guilt that grew through the years. I always worried that I had transferred some element of evil to poor, gentle Wendy. Had I damned her to a hellish existence fueled by hand me down karma? Who knows, but it sure paved the way for many a romantic misstep to come. I guess it's all part of this lovely foible we call life. Huzzah!
- frosty
Over the following days at school I showed off my prize to collected oohs and aahs. I was Mr. Amazing to all the measly munchkins. "Wanna see me create a world in blue? click. A river in red? click. An army of green? click." I was a legend in my own time but it wouldn't last long. My Catholic soul was trained to scour sin. No number of Hail Mary's would help me. I was an evil thief. God looked down and wept a flood of tears on his sorry creation. The pressure was much too much too much. I needed to be rid of my foul prize. I could have easily returned it to the store on bended knee but i wasn't feeling quite that guilty. I could have thrown it in the trash but that seemed awful wasteful. What I did was turn my hot object into a sign of affection. Wendy Kramer sat ahead and to the right of me in homeroom. I spent many a day staring at her flowing midnight hair and milky, freckled cheek. Wow what a dream. It was glorious to watch her work. I had always been in awe of Wendy's perfect pencil box filled with a cornucopia of the finest writing utensils daddy could buy. She had a strawberry shaped eraser that exuded a sweet aroma with every corrected answer and a glitter splashed pencil adorned with a head of glimmering streamers. But what she didn't have and probably never dreamed of was a hi-tech multihued pen. A rainbow captured by science. Just before a poopy pop quiz I leaned forward and placed the pen gently on the edge of her desk. She glanced around with question marks popping into her pretty mind. "For me???" she seemed to ask. I nodded a confident yes and rode a white steed back to my desk. I had succeeded in a grand romantic gesture. My heart burst with gladness and a sliver of guilt, and it was this guilt that grew through the years. I always worried that I had transferred some element of evil to poor, gentle Wendy. Had I damned her to a hellish existence fueled by hand me down karma? Who knows, but it sure paved the way for many a romantic misstep to come. I guess it's all part of this lovely foible we call life. Huzzah!
- frosty
a hazy hook, line, and stinker...
Once, I was reminded of a story by another story. This isn't either of those stories but you know how chain reactions go so here we go. When I was a wee lad living in North Carolina I ventured on a class outing to the beach. We had a fine day at the coast. Sun rays blazed and the buddy system was in full effect (shout to my buddy! I know you're out there somewhere. I could pretend I didn't forget you but I did long ago. I'll never however let the memory of your stalwart support fade though. Throughout that balmy, seaside day I knew you were by my side for better or worse. Respect.)
We spent priceless hours strolling to and fro amongst the sudsy ocean edge, waving at gulls and staring at tide pool tidbits. Somewhere paced a man with a metal detector but I never saw him. What I did see was my classmate being snagged in the forehead by a fish hook. He wasn't my assigned buddy thank gOd. I would have taken a bullet for my bro, so you better believe I would have jumped in the path of a paltry pokey. The entire bunch of us munchkins gathered around our distressed peer as a salty fisherman and our quite incapable teacher plotted the painless removal of the nasty hook. Many a chin scratching ensued as little, unfortunate Bobby Timmy Jonny Jimmy Boy whimpered as his miniscule life flashed across his bitty brain's boob tube. What intrigued me was how blood free the scene was, the hook protruded from a snow-white patch of stretched skin, until old fishy man took his pliers in one hand and little Skippy's head in the other and *YANK* the hook burst forth in a spout of crimson. Blood sprayed across the sand and clumped in dark splotches near old Hermit Crab Alley. Ouch.
Once safely back on the bus the day had already bloated into myth. "Hey remember when little ol' Rusty Pants was decapitated by the anchor of a pirate ship? That was far out man!" We settled back into our vinyl seats and day dreamed of how we'd dazzle 'em back home with sea faring tales. Little did we know the sea was still with us. After half an hour on the road an acrid smell solidified in the air. It had started to grow feet and sketched out a name tag when the bus driver could take no more. He stopped his long, yellow chariot and slowly strode down the aisle with nose perked at attention. He stopped in his tracks at the source of the insulting odor. Huddling under him was a particularly odd kid grasping a brown paper bag. This fella wasn't geeky in the conventional manner he was just ultra creepy at first, second, and third glance (my heart goes out to his unfortunate buddy). He clutched his precious package tighter as Mr. Bus insisted on inspection, "What's in the bag?" "Nothing," he squeaked in reply. "Nothing smells pretty putrid. Give it up kid" "It's a present for my mom," Junior moaned in revolt. Suddenly the driver grabbed his parcel and opened it for all to see. Inside was the severely decomposed frame of a hefty fish. Its few remaining scales had blackened and flaked off the clinging, rotten flesh as small bugs scrambled up the skeleton like pebbles over a broken xylophone. Out the door it immediately went, and we rode on with the smell of mama's discarded gift hanging in our nostrils.
A glimmer of magic did return to this strange day. As we chugged down the highway a car pulled abreast our big ol' bus and inside the occupants held two baby tigers. We pressed our noses against the windows as they waved striped paws at our smiles. You may be thinking, sure that happened looney tune. Well, it may very well have been the hallucinogenic after effects of ocean air, bloody sand, and fishy gifts but those little cubs have sure stayed cute in my memory and that's what matters most. I wonder if they ever ate their owners. Adios!
- frosty
We spent priceless hours strolling to and fro amongst the sudsy ocean edge, waving at gulls and staring at tide pool tidbits. Somewhere paced a man with a metal detector but I never saw him. What I did see was my classmate being snagged in the forehead by a fish hook. He wasn't my assigned buddy thank gOd. I would have taken a bullet for my bro, so you better believe I would have jumped in the path of a paltry pokey. The entire bunch of us munchkins gathered around our distressed peer as a salty fisherman and our quite incapable teacher plotted the painless removal of the nasty hook. Many a chin scratching ensued as little, unfortunate Bobby Timmy Jonny Jimmy Boy whimpered as his miniscule life flashed across his bitty brain's boob tube. What intrigued me was how blood free the scene was, the hook protruded from a snow-white patch of stretched skin, until old fishy man took his pliers in one hand and little Skippy's head in the other and *YANK* the hook burst forth in a spout of crimson. Blood sprayed across the sand and clumped in dark splotches near old Hermit Crab Alley. Ouch.
Once safely back on the bus the day had already bloated into myth. "Hey remember when little ol' Rusty Pants was decapitated by the anchor of a pirate ship? That was far out man!" We settled back into our vinyl seats and day dreamed of how we'd dazzle 'em back home with sea faring tales. Little did we know the sea was still with us. After half an hour on the road an acrid smell solidified in the air. It had started to grow feet and sketched out a name tag when the bus driver could take no more. He stopped his long, yellow chariot and slowly strode down the aisle with nose perked at attention. He stopped in his tracks at the source of the insulting odor. Huddling under him was a particularly odd kid grasping a brown paper bag. This fella wasn't geeky in the conventional manner he was just ultra creepy at first, second, and third glance (my heart goes out to his unfortunate buddy). He clutched his precious package tighter as Mr. Bus insisted on inspection, "What's in the bag?" "Nothing," he squeaked in reply. "Nothing smells pretty putrid. Give it up kid" "It's a present for my mom," Junior moaned in revolt. Suddenly the driver grabbed his parcel and opened it for all to see. Inside was the severely decomposed frame of a hefty fish. Its few remaining scales had blackened and flaked off the clinging, rotten flesh as small bugs scrambled up the skeleton like pebbles over a broken xylophone. Out the door it immediately went, and we rode on with the smell of mama's discarded gift hanging in our nostrils.
A glimmer of magic did return to this strange day. As we chugged down the highway a car pulled abreast our big ol' bus and inside the occupants held two baby tigers. We pressed our noses against the windows as they waved striped paws at our smiles. You may be thinking, sure that happened looney tune. Well, it may very well have been the hallucinogenic after effects of ocean air, bloody sand, and fishy gifts but those little cubs have sure stayed cute in my memory and that's what matters most. I wonder if they ever ate their owners. Adios!
- frosty
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