The Melted Half

(illustration by illy jimmy b.)

{Supportive author Trent Ables offers reflections on one of the smaller moments of life. For more info, check here for Trent's day affirmation.}

The digital-cinnamon LCD clock turned to the hour of 12:00. Realizing that this was the latest I had ever stayed up, I lazily glanced over at the green metal box hanging in the car window. The noises issuing from the battered speaker were die-cast explosions that sounded like a million Hot-Wheels being dumped onto pavement. The light from the screen sat in the reflection of the varnished hoods and chrome work, all pretending to be little movies. We were parked in a lot that had been dressed up and taken out for drinks, as it always was during the mild summer nights. I began to notice all of the smells surrounding the car. The roof had given way to the fabric that concealed it, draping the interior like a tarp covering a fresco. The blanket contained a peculiar mixture of smoke-stain and dryer-exhaust.

I leaned back in the seat spilling some of the cold and chewy popcorn into the back. I hunched over and, blindly groping the floor, tried to clean it up as best I could. I came back with a handful of sticky pennies, popcorn, and a crayon. This was a typical handful of in-car leavings, but the crayon struck me as being out of place. The family I was with had children that were not specifically of coloring age. Both of the brothers were from Florida and had motley hair cuts that reminded me of failed Keanu coif. These were not the people who would color. The gender of this crayon was ‘Cornflower.’ This color had nothing to do with corn, or my preconceived notions towards the colors of flowers. This was a nomad in the vast desert of car floor, hopelessly searching for a shred of paper to feel itself becoming on. It was getting used to the idea that no matter what the surroundings would be, it would never be remembered to these people. However it came to be settled on this short haired floor, this would be its last tour of a color duty, never embarked on. Yet here I was, holding this tool in my hand, bent over the car seat, still pretending to look for a self-created mess. I squeezed it and this became more important than the gigantic spectacle of a movie playing in front of our car windows.

I color with my wife sometimes. She has shown me the subtle art of shading, divulged the secret of consistent direction of strokes, and shown the beauty of Cornflower. The drive-in has lost its screen and been made into a parking lot. Just a regular parking lot.

Amazingness Hitting Selves Soon - "Pooping Through the Wig" Book!

For the first time ever, author Kenneth Tablescoash discusses this monumental work with the layman.

"I never knew that so many people would get ‘behind’ this project, and coming from a purely statistical background, the proof is in the numbers. More Americans are pooping through their ass-wigs than ever and it’s time to tell not only my story, but theirs as well!"
- Kenneth Tablescoash, author of Pooping Through the Wig

"...an instant classic to be cherished for years to come--an all at once horrifyingly touching and memorable testament to the human spirit." --Matt Lauer, Today Show

Includes indelible insight and information
on such all-encompassing topics as:

• Pooping
• Wipe Allocation
  
• Game Planning
  
• Showering
  
• Income/Outcome
  
• Disability
  
• Clinger Accumulation
• Education
• Ass Forecasting
  

This is so important, and in these difficult times, it’s even more importanter to remember that no matter who you meet or how far you get in this world, chances are not only do you have crap in your cheeks, but they do too. Chappy butt flaps are a common thing, and have nothing to do with wipe-coverage.

Published by Sweep It Clean Books

Please call for a copy of this amazing book

432 Any Street West Townsville, State 54321 USA (543) 555-0150 (800) 555-0150 www.backitup.com

High School Reunion Reply

{We here at elevendy twelven like to look forward, not back. So continuing our tradition of awkward, yet creative, randomness, we will not be attending our high school reunion. Scrupe!}

Mr. Reunion Organizer,

I've sent back the sheet you wanted me to fill out. Thanks for sending it my way.

I have to say that, surprisingly, I found your email incredibly refreshing. I think was expecting some sort of themed email when this time came. A kind of overly glossified correspondence reminding me to "party like it's 1999" again, or break out my Lee jeans and King Soopers belt. But not you. You were Succinct. A kind of anorexic message showing no fat whatsoever. Even the lack of a salutation--something like a 'Thank you' or 'Talk to you soon'--made me feel so, well, painfully welcome to this whole project. Thanks. Honestly, it was a great email to receive.

I must warn you that my "help" in this project will be incredibly limited. You see, over the last five years or so I've become a recluse of sorts. The human affairs of danger and dignity--those instances that transpire through and across the lives of each and everyone--have left me emotionally obese; have scarred the face of my confidence in repugnant ways; and have resulted in moral disfigurement. In short, I live in New York.

Actually, my mind and face melted into an ooze of disbelief when I saw you on the 1 train not more then seven months ago. Or was it the A? Either way, there you where, reading a book, propped up against the subway door (just like they tell you not to)--seemingly as yourself as you ever where. Actually, there is still a seed of doubt in my mind as to whether or not it was you, and you may confirm that seed bursting into a flower of mistaken identity, but as I stole looks at this person from across the way, I convinced myself that it was you. Probably studying at Columbia, furthering your education--or maybe even teaching out here as I remember you had a penchant for foreign languages. Either way, it made my night--the constant guessing, the wondering what you were up to. So if it was you or not, thanks. I appreciate it. Because I remember when I used to think (silently and aloud) that you would be a great toothpaste model. Geeze, I was an asshole. Maybe still am. But I said that in reference to your great and infectious smile--the one aspect of you I do and will always remember. So if you took, or take, offense to that cavity-fighting line of thinking, please know that it comes from a genuine place of endearment and nostalgia.

Upon reading your email for the up-teenth time, I realize that maybe you too are not exactly super excited about putting this together. But if you imagine me saluting you right now, with a face of pride and admiration, you would get a fairly accurate picture of me this instant, as we type. The only difference is that I'm not sure if you're imagining me sitting or standing. Know that I'm sitting right now, but will be standing later--so I guess either works.

In summation:
Will I attend the reunion? Um, no. The only reason I would like to attend would be to you see you and gauge the uneasiness this email may have created between us. But you know what: it's better then nothing--which is what we had before this email.

Will I help? Sources say "not all that much." If you need small donations or something of that sort, I can probably throw those your way. But if you're looking for someone to do mass emailing or sleuthing, you'll have a hard time hearing back from me. In situations like that I use snail mail. Actually, I have a facebook group called "Letter Writers Unite!" We write each other constantly but meet online every second Thursday of each month. It's fun. And redundant. Check us out.

I hope all is well with you. I really do. And thank you for involving me in this process. It doesn't look like I'll be doing much, but I do appreciate the correspondence.

Explosively yours,

selfstonishment

Suprise Steve!

Surprise –

We were crouching. Our legs, arms, and torsos had been snuggled tightly behind the outline of Steve’s couch. All of us had managed to hide our bodies very well, while I was busy trying to hide my emotions. The tingling in my feet was the first sign, the neurons firing like twelve rifles at a funeral for the contents of my bowels. Hold on…I started sweating like a Nelly video, but decided that the surprise would be all too much with no clothes on. It was getting hot in there though. A deep quiver slammed through my gut. There was no way I would be able to explode from a dead squat AND give surprise birthday wishes. We all held on to the couch. I was the only one clinging to it like a bloated chunk of driftwood. I was alone floating in a river of fear and on my way to the ocean…the dark, cold ocean.

Keys. Jingling and dropped. Our accomplice was nervously explaining how it would be good to just have a quiet night. Laughing. How could they laugh? My heart jumped into my leg warmers, and a dash of pee blessed my underwear. The look on my face was a smile and the coy apprehension of a female spy who knows how to get the information she wants…oh she knows. The door opened and time slowly approached a complete stop. Frozen behind Steve’s couch we looked at each other for the right time to spring. Not knowing exactly what certain hand gestures meant, we took our time trying to decipher when we would rise. Rise indeed like an ambushed Lazarus from a once sullen and dark grave. We all would become a pillar of shock and celebration that would mark Steve’s 31st making it the most 31sty it could ever be. At that moment we shot upward.

“Surpirse!” The following happened in under a tenth of a second: Steve looked at us as if we were a loved one visiting from the deep, quiet sleep of eternal life, he then smiled and it was at that moment that I was overwhelmed with fear. A fear so complete and consuming that I raised my hands to my face, as if to defend my silken emotions from the tarnish of solid dread. Nothing could stop the scream bellowing in my salivating mouth. I yelled in horror. My waist size shot up a number, due to the sh*t overflowing my jeans. Surprised Steve?

Not like me, oh no….not like me.

Memories of Remembrance: A Tribute to Never Forgetting #2

{The 2nd installment below. See the 1st here.}

indeed.

Liquid Salad

Where's my Dr. Bell Pepper?

Tote-Baggery

{Taking a stab at the serious op-ed piece. This one never made it to press.}

Whole Foods has released its most sought-after product to date: a tote bag. The canvas Anya Hinmarch–designed bag had New Yorkers waiting for hours in lines that stretched around city blocks. The main draw of this tote––the most basic of bags, two straps and a bucket of material––is the stitched “I’m not a Plastic Bag” message across the side. Meant to raise awareness concerning the dangers and environmental pitfalls of the plastic grocery sack, this tote and its bubbly, sewn letters has become the summer statement of underarm fashion. The appeal comes from the pitch-perfect mixture of ironic missive and eco-awareness, and, of course, the honesty of the text. It indeed is not a plastic bag. But why stop there? Why not come clean about yourself and motives? For the next round of totes, I have some suggestions for Whole Foods:

1. I’m a Basic Marketing Strategy – It doesn’t get more candid then this on a tote. This acknowledges that people are walking billboards, so read the slogans. Next thing you know, you’re in Whole Foods convinced you need soy bubble bath solution.

2. I was Purchased on Ebay for $200 – Yes, these bags are online and, yes, they sell for preposterous amounts of money. With this, you’re not so much into Whole Foods or getting rid of plastic bags; you’re more into putting out the perception that you’re into Whole Foods and getting rid of plastic bags. Public assumption is not cheap.

3. I Carry Groceries More Expensive than Your Rent – Not everyone can afford the top-of-the-line organic fish, spinach or wheat grass. We may all want it, but a head of lettuce at C-Town is $1.28 while the new Whole Foods on Houston Street boasts a smorgasbord of leafy greens that cost more then the two-train trip to get there.

4. I’m Going to Make the Environment Trendy – As much as environmental conservancy turned fashionable might cause some to cringe, it’s probably the first realistic step toward change. Next, look for totes emblazoned with “Oil is for Losers” and “Al Gore is Handsome” dangling off the shoulders of Bono and Sting.

5. I Came Here to Find a Date but Ended Up with This Bag – Recently Whole Foods was revealed to be where the New York single and lonely gravitate. It makes sense; finding a boy- or girlfriend can be just as challenging as trying to find white bread made without bleached flour. Whole Foods has both, sometimes in the same isle.

6. I’ll be Left At a Friend’s House in Three Days ­– How many totes really go the distance and stick around for years? Not many. So choose wisely when traveling with said tote, you might accidentally bestow a fashion gem to a friend when you rush out to catch the train.

7. I'm a Goodie Bag from the Wild Oats Buy-Out Party - What does a company do when it purchases its only real competitor, like Whole Foods did last month? It throws a party. This bag came complete with actual crushed wild oats and various Monopoly game pieces.

8. I’m Saving the World Better Than You – Have the tote be the ultimate in school-yard bravado. Be sure that everyone who reads this is aware that you wearing the tote in public dwarfs anything they might ever conceive of in terms of world salvation.

9. I ♥ Tote Readers – If you use a tote with writing on it, you mean for people to read it. Why not show some compassion for those of us who take the four seconds of our lives to interpret your patterned shoulder bag? Honestly, we’re usually disappointed so a little empathy would go a long way.

10. I’m That Somewhat-Annoying College Student Whose Sense of Humor Revolves Solely Around Pointing Out the Obvious in Bag Form – Pretty self-explanatory.

The New Guy

{This is the story of a new co-worker of mine and how he came to work in book publishing. This is how he tells it, in third person. I replaced his name and the names of his family to respect his privacy.} New Guy was in the habit to live on the remote island awayed from the Peninsula of Kamchaska. Fishing in dwarf-ish lake from which we lived for the account were our unique means of the foodstuffs. The uncle, considered forward thinking of families because of residence in Quebec, learned us that we also could "shop" by the gross. The uncle brought to young New Guy and to family the old generator and the unusually long set of cables of the jumper. Uncle adjusted the portable right of the machine of an electricity front to the poor two houses of a beach of a bedroom and carefully connected them. To check a stream, the too-confident uncle brought a jaw of the free black and red ends of a cable together. The spark clapped between them, the uncle nodded in the agreement. New Guy was both in expectation of parents and supervision from an entrance, we saw that the uncle stretched a cord to coast of lake and thrown two ends of cables of the jumper in water. There produced a sad, muffled buzz, similarly to the fly caught in an interval in glass and the screen of a window. Then, as far as twilight of arriving night would show us, baby-ish patches of shining have begun the impact floating on a surface of lake.

It was the majority of a fish which New Guy and parents ever saw at once, more then annual value was easily there. The dinner now was served For ever. The uncle only looked out on his performance, any doubt, thinking that he made its good business in the help to family of his sister, his bank of destiny now spilling with a stock. Father, however, his opinion was shaken. All duties he should obey: the beginning morning fishes, constant search of the following good fishing strain, clearing to come home empty handed. Now he could leave his work in coal mine because family could eat. There is no more a closed soot mouth, dressing and eyelided. There is no more wheezing of him is itself to sleep. Father suddenly felt tears well in his eyes, maybe the world floated. In an instant of great delight, father left the party of his wife and the son, stirred a network which was always ready on an entrance, and passed to his suspending fish, measured extraction. New Guy and mother which compare in ecstasy, is proud observe him. The uncle still monitors water, trying to measure how the "a fish by the gross" technics demanded, when his brother-in-law resolutely walked past, to him now and to the future dinners.

It borrowed one minute for the uncle to understand precisely that father planned to do. Really it was a rumbling still-on generator which agitated him from his narcissism, looking through his kill. As he lunged to the husband of his sister, the uncle already knew that he will not make it, water would achieve father all over. Instant water lapped against naked foots of father, a muffle crackle and the person of aged years twisted silently in a pain and fallen to water. New Guy would remember movements father briefly made there on fine coast, imposing in the most thin sheet of water. It reminded of a dying fish, only on the contrary: alive water caused curvatures and struggle, not air.

Shocked, dizzy, scared: New Guy, mother, and the uncle were all these things. And as New Guy observed a shout of mother to her brother to switch off the machine of an electricity front, everything that New Guy could do was sit on the entrance and look out on lake, our lake, now dotted with dead. And dead father. New Guy knew, during that moment, that his unique choice should be leaving. Leave this place and succeed mother and fallen father.

Destiny was clear: New Guy would be included in the romance book publication industries. There, demons during this day set in soul could be that killed, and life postponed into the freedom.

Why no Jury Duty (longform)

{Sent today}

To Whom It May Concern:

As of August 13, 2007, I have been selected to serve my civilian duty as juror for the 12th District Court of the State of New York. This letter is to regretfully inform you that I cannot fulfill this obligation. I will have you know, however, that this decision is not made by choice, but rather by situation.

To fully explain myself and my reasoning for abandoning the task assigned of me by my state and city, I first must clarify a few particulars fantastic in nature:

1) Gnomes exist.

2) Regardless of what some folklore states, gnomes are not very reasonable or pleasant when there is a lack of sugar in their tiny bodies. Plainly put: They become quite irate and sharply rancorous with their actions and words when sweets are absent.

I myself believed neither of the above points until I awoke one morning, not a week ago, to a gnome sitting on the headboard of my bed. My eyes opened only to see the bottoms of two small leather boots gently tapping aloof not a foot above me. Wanting to see if I was dreaming my first reaction was to rub my eyes or slap my face or get some coffee; a movement of some sort was needed to reacquaint myself with the reality I’ve come to know where clock radios and caffeine take the responsibility of waking you, not the rapping of miniature feet. But my attempt at such a movement was disheartened at once. I found myself restrained to my own bed by fishing line. My fishing line. The spool lay down on the floor in knots.

The gnome above took notice of my jarring about and then went on to calmly whisper that I have been chosen to provide for him and his “ilk,” as he put it. He continued with words of quiet encouragement and reassurance of no harm as long as I participated willingly. Of course, scared for my sanity and life, I agreed.

As the hours passed I began to realize that an entire fleet of gnomes, with their pointed, floppy, mushroom-skinned hats and matching earth-made apparels, were sacking my home. I could hear things being thrown about, shelves crashing, glasses breaking, all while their weensy, breathy voices ricocheted through hallways that were once mine and comfortable. Finally, after enough time had passed that I was convinced this was indeed really happening, I asked the gnome above what it was they were looking for. “Powdered creamer,” he simply murmured.

Here, two folds of terror shot through me: 1) the audacity behind being restrained for a cheap coffee accoutrement and 2) I had and have no powdered creamer in the house. How this came to be, how my home––the home of a coffee enthusiast, whether expensive or cheap––came to be empty of creamer is another letter in itself, but suffice it to say that a certain significant person in my life left for a new batch of powered flavor for our morning brews only never to return. My personal life, like my coffee, has been devoid of smack and sweet-spice ever since.

It took the team of gnomes only a few hours to come to the conclusion I had known already: no creamer. At this realization, the gnome who was my company for the morning was called away by some unseen mumble-hiss. Next thing I saw was a swarm of ten to fifteen gnomes struggling, dragging a bread knife down the hall toward me and the bedroom. They only made it halfway until each one collapsed exhausted, panting, their curses sounding like the rubbing of a thousand insect wings. Then they gathered themselves again for another task: a wooden spoon. This time they progressed stoically to the door frame of the bedroom then, again, fell to the floor too fatigued to continue.

Afraid, I tried to tell them that someone would be coming soon, hopefully, with creamer, that it was on the way, but they only ignored me, throwing up their minute hands as if to bat away the lies I was hurling at them. The group limped back toward the kitchen and, again, I had to endure the sounds of my belongings being tossed and broken. When they came back into my view a few of them where carrying a white-topped orange plastic bottle with amazing ease. The gnome that woke me had a fingernail-wide grin on his face while he walked toward me, I could tell even through the beard. I braced myself as they climbed the bed, completely unaware of what was to happen next. As the small, bearded men crested into view, I finally saw what it was they were hoisting: Bubble solution.

The next few hours of my life are ones that will forever change me. Parts of my soul have died; aspects of my person dissipated like wet footprints in summer’s heat. What happened next, what these mini-monsters did to me, was completely unforeseeable. They climbed all over me, on my chest, my face, in my hair. Their feet sunk into my skin, their breath smelled of upturned soil. One of the gnomes positioned himself by my ear and whispered, “Just tell us where the creamer is. You think we’d come here if you didn’t have any? We know you. We know all about you.” Then the four who were standing on my face pried open my eyes, two to an eye. The bubble solution was maneuvered on to my chest and then the rest of the group burrowed under my pillow and propped up my head. I was staring at a bubble wand, its circle filled by moving, soapy colors, with eyes pulled open. It might as well have been the barrel of a gun. Two gnomes from behind the screen of iridescence then took deep breaths and finally exhaled. Bubbles, hundreds of bubbles, hit my eyes.

Torture. It’s the best word to describe it, what I’ve been though. Even now, I’m still tied up, eyes raw and red. At this point, I bet I have enough soap in my eyes to blow bubbles out of them, from the inside, my thoughts acting as air. Please know, as of this moment, I am dictating this letter to you. Like a game of Twister, a gnome is hoping about and contorting himself on the keyboard of my laptop so that this letter will reach you. It is the one favor they will grant me. They have no intention of letting me go, or believing me when I tell them that I have no creamer. This ordeal, though maybe far from over, has pained me greatly, but the prospect of maybe surviving this only to go to jail for failing to attend to my civic duty of juror, truly deflates my entire being, soul, body, and mind.

I pray for your understanding. And also creamer.


Yours,


Selfstonishment

Zebra manufacturer cookbook manual

{Keeping the spam poetry going. Simply succulent.}

Helicopter sandal bagel press with a quail mansion wrist band. Elephant squish car door handcuffs put spirit guns to cockroach doctors. Enigma machines encode typewriting synthesizers. Yes? Starship dentures, artificial teeth pop. The pickle jar drum set sound makes neon light pea shooter ointment. Blowtorch spritz bottle. Loaded gun bazooka sofa. Gorilla stabilized penguin toe?

An enclosed basketball court dancer rabbit sniff in an south dakota russian neighborhood park playground. All for a civil war army aircraft snow blower. The World War 2 reception birthday present was given in the bowling alley furnace still attaching the pine tree feeding tube. Teacup can opener hairbrush? What an unreasonable question for a softball butterfly.

I have bookcase pantry gymnasium access.

Look to the toot beep rhino lighthouse and listen for the unicorn honk. My shoe lace bass canoe rock climbing appeases costume wrestling tackle mask goaltenders.

Wanna see through my magnifying glass projector sunglasses?

Or partake in my baboon body part armchair?

Fresh out of the water glue bubble bath, one might tutor genius eardrum hardware hammer tools. Under the dummy bikini patio ceiling light, self's limerick panel abdomen landing gear touches my cardigan armhole walnut.

See you at the balance beam workshop.

Spam Subject Lines

{These are actual subject lines of emails found in elevendytwelven's inbox}

- John Kerry has approved your mortgage!
- For example, avoid leaning away from the speaker and folding your arms which can be interpreted as a lack of interest.
- Lenore Martin on or exhaustible

- Morris time and a half molest

- Aurora Correa by ron or selector

- Mary Calloway her methylene the sanford

- Lina Alvarado I roulette the residue

- Helga Tripp A typeface he quipping

- Queen Carr I epistemology the bulk

- Bette Lloyd Be revet of volleyball

- Ken Connelly I my cashmere

- Pansy Gregory As in sensuous

- Grisham Doretha Re: My darling.....

- Christiana Since the collapse of the Soviet Union and the end of the old world order

- Elise Payne The barkeep as destruct

- Ariana Still Happy With It All
- Is it burlap

- so baneful, so bugle

- sex can

- I as venereal

- straightjacket self-explanatory

- so resentful a rodent

- you a winner!

- no one can tell. Pterodactyl

- be my waterline

- you salvation of tusk

- In-laws titillate

- vaporized scythe

- do you think Bush is a gay?

- once the angle of the blade is ruined, you might just as well throw them out

- It begins with your family, but soon it comes around to your soul
- this best move success made people only boulder
- hotel pakistan want embassy missing using bomb defensive might

And, lastly:
- Her hairy white fancy bra prepares for fight and their red cat is thinking.

Visit Denver

Check the Molly Brown House. Enjoy the Mountains where you can hike, swim, jog, and play golf. Also be sure to visit our most treasured historic landmark, a symbol of Mile High pride, the 7-11 located at York and Colfax.

For more info check
www.seven-elevendytwelven.blogspot.whydidyoupunchmeinmyfu*kingface.com

Frightful Visions-Fearful Shadows, 1st installment

A gray mist had settled on the lower section of Manhattan as Daniel closed his Power Book and looked at the clock. 3:00 AM. Why did he decide to take the Tanaka account? To reach his clients, it was required that he stay up late, to reach them early in the morning. Tonight he was care free as they bought his bid to redo the line of shin enhancing lotion cream drink. His associates shut the lights and moved to an after hours joint on Rector. It was 4:30 when Daniel made his way to the W station. The offer was given for a cab to be split, but Daniel was nursing his last Harps in the jon and had missed them. He saw them drive away and he was left alone. The air was thick with silence. For downtown to be so loud and clamorous during working hours, after they all had gone, the decible level was excrutiatingly low. All he heard was his Rockports shuffling the loose gravel, and his liquor heavy breath struggling to maintain respiration.

He trained his eyes on the two globes glowing red at the top of the stairs. His legs were swollen as they bent, to lower himself down into the station. He could hear a train coming to a stop and he quickened his pace. He jiggled his keys around the mess of napkins and dollar bills to find his fare card. He had to swipe the card twice, and bruised his left thigh on the turnstile. He had missed the train. He peered down the tunnel and saw the two red lights on the last car slide uptown. He caught a glimpse of the tracks. He started to lean in, and stare.

Was it true what they said about the third rail? Swaying back and forth, he imagined himself falling on the grease stained metal. A crack from his ribs had knocked the wind out of him. A train quickly approached. First his fingers were split from his hand, then his thorax burst open as he was repeatedly struck by the wheels. He was divorced from pain as his brain trickled out of his ears, along with all ability to feel. Darkness surrounded him.
He got a grip and fell back on to the wall. He was sweating profusely. He had not fallen on the tracks, but his feet had a tingling in them, similar to the feeling of peering down from great heights.

His head swaying, he issued a Camel from his coat pocket and lit it. Absolutley no one to be seen. He felt a slight breeze coming from one of the tunnels, so he thought some train would be coming soon. He took a deep pull off of the cigarette, and exhaled imagining a bygone year, where a man could smoke where and when he wanted to. Just then he heard a plastic bottle slide across the platform on the downtown side. He looked and saw no one. He blinked very slowly and tilt his head. His eyes began to swivle in their sockets as he raised the Camel up again. The blue smoke burnt his eyes and he put his hand up to squeeze them. He opened them as a tear formed and saw something moving.

Not sure what it was, he smashed the smoke into the ground and threw it into the pit, where the tracks were laid. He stood up and brushed his pants off. There, across the platform was a man. He was of normal height, and a solid build that bordered on stout. His glossy visage had composure and he seemed to have purpose. His face was not the issue. This man was wearing nothing but a grease stained t-shirt. His testicles were dangling like a hairy broken muffler beneath his undercarriage. No shoes, no watch, no hat. Just a large t-shirt. The man began to laugh, then he farted. Daniel's brow came to a crunch in the middle of his face. He bent forward to begin purging himself. He lost balance and fell head first onto the tracks. He rolled over to pick himself up but lost control of his hand. It slipped on something and his chin came crunching down on metal. Daniel was dazed, lost in a swril. He looked up and saw the man.

The t-shirt with man inside begun to lower itself onto the tracks. He crawled delicatley over the tracks onto the side where Daniel was. On all fours he began to go through Daniels pockets. Just then they both looked up. The W. The man lept out of the tracks, as a piercing screech blazed from the oncoming train. Daniel rolled over once again. He had never seen such a frightful vision, such a fearful shadow.

The Gladys Update

{Part 2 of Lewmont Alec DeMarq's guest-blogging.}

Shortly after my last post, and in an emotionally blinding blitz, I tried, for the second time, to power up Gladys.

At first things appeared fine, harmless, trivial. In the splinter of a second, I considered my pain forgotten, my isolation erased, and my inner-fortune returning.

Then, that all changed just as quick.

My PX-2500’s, or Gladys’, movements became jerky, haphazard. The visor shot up into its PVC dome to reveal two naked camera eyes, slapdashing back and forth, panicked. A metallic whine pealed from the droid and filled the room, causing me to cringe. Its hands shot up and covered the ear-mounds as if trying to keep something from spilling out… Perfectly against my wildest imagination, unanticipatedly, and much to my own horror, Gladys then proceeded to twist and rip its head clean off.

I witnessed a suicide; my own creation’s self-propelled euthanasia.

My psychological state has been awash for hours. I cleaned up my latest mess feeling a heavy hollow in my ribs, empty, utterly alveolate. I had to let open my windows hoping the stinging redolence of singed plastic would dissipate. I was breathing in the remains of my happiness, the last traces of what might have fixed me. I sobbed uncontrollably.

Once I regained and composed myself, I began to write my post for this site. In all honesty, I cannot tell you why; it just felt right. I then found a comment on my last post from the wise, the charismatic, the undaunted Jonald. He was, in fact, the flicker of encouragement that brought my self-confidence to such heights I felt fastened to the idea of sharing a bit of myself (other then snow globes) with this world. He lived across the hall from me during my freshman year at Yale. Jonald was just as lonely as I was, but his impelling mind was put to good use; Jonald created the modern-day weblog, or blog, to deal with his companionless excuse for a life.

In my lugubrious mind frame, the message he left me was inspiring, helpful, and very much needed. Thorough his kind words I’ve found that I don’t need a robot to discover love and companionship. All I need is a blog and fellow bloggers, because even virtual concernment is still concernment. And that is, if even the only thing, what I consider to lack. It is good to know those with the similar interests can heal even the worst of maladies.

So I thank you, again, Jonald, and bloggers everywhere. You all have the ability to make me feel loved. A truely treasured sentiment by yours truly. Expect in the forthcoming months a blog of my own, complete with clever name and graphics. Much thanks to elevendy twelven for not only introducing me to their one (1) reader, but showing me the power of the blog. How the possibility of someone reading my inner-most thoughts (and maybe even caring about them!) can partially fill the very void Gladys was designed to occupy. But how slippery a possibility can be! Yet I grasp with vim and vigor.

Please pray for me.

Until then…a gracious good-bye.

Dans ma vie

{The following post is the first of two installments from guest-blogger Lewmont Alec DeMarq. His forthcoming novel, Snow Globes filled with the Tears of Children, due out this winter, is a blinding bildungsroman tale that traces DeMarq's life from the slums of Flagstaff, AZ to his Ivy League education to his discovery of-- and ultimate success because of--Smooth Banishment, the cologne that changed the fragrance game. Please enjoy.}

My hands smell like science, my eyes burn with pride. Soon the residuum of my labors will come to fruition. After many a night slaving over my drafting table with protractor and pencil in hand, I am a few clockwise turns to the right from having a new companion.

True, I revel in a snow globe or thirty, but, alas, these traits, this dedication to a glassed, permanent winter paused behind swirling confetti, afford me very little conviviality. Yes, I've tried those flagitious, malevolent substances that rob individuals of their youth and luster by way of injection or inhalation; sadly, attempts to escape my acute forlornness were mainly by way of illegal drugs. But I learned fairly quickly, that my extreme dissolution would only return twenty fold each and every time the serpentine effect wore away.

Swerving in and out of my cold, dead, hebetudinous labyrinth, I tried to focus my attention on globes, pour my passion into plastic skylines, the properly-angled jiggling of knickknacks, and the subtle twinkling of synthetic snow. But even they couldn't change the barefaced fact that most nights the Food Network was what lulled me to sleep instead of a caring, caressing hand tracing trails on my cheek. I would awake in starts and fits, only to have reality wash itself back into my eyes and my mind: I am alone.

It is not advantageous for an intellect such as my own to be devoid of conversation or stimulation. I need to discuss the problem with the deli isle or how six inches do make a difference or how good my air tastes. Oh how these things tear at my very core!

As the cliché goes, Desperate Measures for Desperate Times, and I have taken it upon myself to dramatically improve my situation. I give you my new roommate, the PX-2500, or Gladys, for short:

Here, as you can see, I'm running the performance program. The Fugal Horn creates the most tranquil, unflappable intonation, in my opinion. The ceremony pictured here was not perfect-- some notes flat, others ear-bleedingly sharp--but showed immense promise.

I will post more pictures when it is complete, maybe even video. But please join me in wishing Gladys success. My life, as I know it, needs this.

Thank you.

Adventures with Baby

{Adventures with Baby is a monthy installment that allows us to look deep inside the consciousness of one of America's own. The strained, waste-strewn box is this modern culture and he is the man-boy, only to allowed to grow as much as this life will allow.}

The child awoke to a bad case of the bends. Grasping the night before, a night of revolution, holding the choice laser of destiny ... the old ,shoot first and ask questions later. It wasn’t so much the daily exercise of swimming in his oblong fish bowl full of scotch that brought the destruction of his machine but more the long exhausting adventure through the no-name roads of conversation. Her name was Shit Dick, Veronicolin, or something. She held a cup of skull which made him think she was a real Viking of sorts, wearing a blood stained shirt and crushing her breast into a big, tamed beast she named, ‘my man’.

-Main stream hip-hop is destroying Africa with all the cocaine drug trafficking going on.

-Where did you learn this?

-It’s a fact.

The child stared into his empty cup while his companion conversed absurdities to the Viking. He kept taking sips of his ghostly drink so not to speak. The Viking could tell he was hiding something. She attacked. While on her rampage of belittling the child he stared deeper into his cup. He could see his reflection in the stubborn droplets of vodka and realized why God was doing this to him. He first thought it was because of his appearance. The childish face full of childish stubble. Damn, baby forgot to shave again, you fucking baby. Short soft hair that hadn’t fully come in yet.

-Why don’t you like Ol’ Dirty Bastard?

-Because he’s old, dirty, a bastard, and he’s dead.

The child left the room and went on his way home. It was a dark fuzzy night. He relied on his cigarette to guide him through the streets. When all had fallen silent he dreamt of Russell Jones screaming and clawing at his coffin, crawling from the depths to fight Vikings. Scratching the surface. The woman who was sworn in to take care of the child, to watch baby, placed the little man in the shower. The water was hot.

-We listen to intelligent political rap.

-Shit dicks.

Getting more annoyed with his memory he tried to get his mind on to better things. In the shower, he looked down noticing his new friend. An oddly shaped fellow. He wished that he had the same powers that this friend had, the power to grow into one strong large muscle. Thinking how it would have helped earlier that night, during the ongoing Viking blaze of mayhem. If only I could do that! What would she say then! He finished.

That day he had to work a double shift of mindless running back and forth, holding burning plates in his palms while entertaining the anonymous. How can these people allow a baby to work this many hours? I wish my mind had the narrator’s voice from the wonder years, I don’t even hear anything. Whatever happened to Fred Savage? Whatever happened to Winnie? God damn my allergies are killing me. He sneezed throughout the entire day. Why doesn’t anyone say bless you? I’m always on top of it, for all I know Millhouse might be right and my unblessed sneeze has erased everything that’s good and everything I’ve achieved. He was picked up by his caretaker who drove him to their neighborhood bar.

3 Rumpelmintz and 6 Papts later he could be seen 360 degrees around the bar dancing and singing Ol’ Dirty Bastard’s return to the 36 chambers. He noticed he was being watched but did not care for these people did not get it, but he realized a character was paying close attention to him. An oddly looking fellow: a man in makeup, a she with Captain America’s jaw line, a sausage smuggler in a skirt. He approached the man-her. Throughout the one sided flirtatious conversation, he cornered the decision to employ a science experiment on his two buddies who had joined him for drinks.

-What’s your name?

-Janet.

-Would you like to smoke some weed Janet?

-Yes.

Leaving the pissed stained walls and the origins from which they came from, the child was immersed in an argument with his friend.

-I don’t know if this girl should come over man, Ryan’s kind of freaked out about bringing people over he doesn’t know.

-I understand but think about it this way, you’ll have a cute girl to smoke weed with.

-Yeah, well I’m putting this in your hands and anyways you have a girl.

The child laughed to himself. It’s not even on that, man. His friend placed him in the child seat and they were off. Shit dicks.

Serious Movie Reviews

Title, Dialog Contribute Next To Nothing
-A serious movie review by
Pissenger Padgeins-

“Rear and Pleasant Danger,” the first installment of Cory Elon’s three-film threadbare-arcadia serial, is densely peppered with random acts of coitus, pulpy money-shots, and painfully obvious hotel-room scenery. The human struggles of connection and acceptance are staples of American culture––evidenced by the last six years of ‘The Gilmore Girls’––but Mr. Elon’s character’s tap into something different, acting more like sex-crazed zombies with endless slews of crotchal moisture.

The film begins in medieval England, at least that is what one is led to think when Paige Patella––the only female lead––appears wearing a corset gown and tiara. She is told of her father’s stress in dealing with the defiant rouge factions in Ireland. Worry is splashed across Ms. Patella’s face like paint, heavily and deliberately glob-like. The young male messenger who brought the news ends up having to catch her from fainting; obviously the stress levels of the father of Ms. Patella’s still-nameless character affect her deeply. Next you know, the messenger is naked, standing with eyes closed, while Ms. Patella, now very conscious, seems to have found a cure for her worry in the form of swallowing again and again the young man’s machismo. How this strong connection came to be, how their clothes mysteriously disappeared is part of Mr. Elon’s elaborate trickery. While the camera focuses on more buttal and tittal angles, it’s almost like the story already doesn’t matter.

Next we find ourselves in what looks to be a modern-day apartment, if today was 1985. The couches are screened in plastic; the art looks like Max Headrum just sneezed on the wall. But Ms. Patella is there, this time dressed in nothing but a Mickey Mouse t-shirt. The plumber shows up, which she seems to be expecting. What happens next can only be described as elbow-pit copulation, with the bearded plumber repeated asking, “You want my pit slice?” or “Are you watching that flesh wrinkle?” Yes, Mr. Plumber, many of us are watching, and wondering. Ms. Patella’s character can only respond to such metaphysical questions with a very poignant, “Fill my trapper-keeper with your college-ruled!” Education is indeed flexing itself here.

It can be hard to keep track of everyone within such an intricate plot, but things start to almost make sense when, for whatever reason, Ms. Patella visits an apparently near-by quarry. She watches the men work away at the limestone, in their plaid working shirts and hardhats, while thoughtfully chewing her upper lip and, in a moment of self-reflection, warms her hand in-between herself. Here we get the only real insight to Ms. Patella’s character’s motivations: natural landforms and the harvesting of rock remind her of her own sexual valley and the work she’s put into forming it. She is obviously proud and as the scene proceeds to fade out, we are left with a small sense pride ourselves having pieced together some aspect of plot and character drive.

We fade back in to Ms. Patella, obviously high from her introspective trip to the quarry, engaging yet again in genital activity while holed up in a very sterile hotel room. This time she’s quiet, just throwing looks of confusion-mixed-with-inattention back at her now-sixth partner of the film. He’s the loud one this time, deploring her to enjoy his “Mendous Member” and to be affected by his “Mazing back-u-puncture” technique. These words (Tremendous and Amazing) are obviously said wrong to show the audience that this partner has trouble, like some of us, expressing his inner thoughts and feelings. Unfortunately, Ms. Patella’s character doesn’t seem to care and we are left to ponder her all-too-realistic choice of just exchanging bodily fluids with the random man and not helping his phonics. She leaves him deflated and sleeping.

The crescendo of the work occurs after this random-room encounter. Outside of the hotel Ms. Patella’s character runs into two little people. Referring to themselves as “honest, vage-loving midgets,” and after an exchanging of very bare and basic dialog, we find out that they are on the run. Ms. Patella, possibly making up for the lack of compassion in the hotel room, seems to be over flowing with empathy in the parking lot. She’s obviously affected and motions them behind a car were we are led to believe that Ms. Patella’s character somehow stuffs them inside of herself. She stands up, straightens her skirt, and walks casually away. In a moment of directorial genius, Mr. Elon then shows us the two little people, tucked away in Ms. Patella’s character’s neither-regions. They are all smiles and happy, relieved to thwart the threat that plagues them. So jubilant, in fact, that they themselves begin to engage in sensual action, right there surrounded by the pink and soft of Ms. Patella’s supposed birth canal. This, of course, affects Ms. Patella and while she is standing in line at what looks to be a Subway, she collapses to the floor in mysterious ecstasy. Their hidden love-making has brought about similar results upon Ms. Patella’s character. The metaphor here is a touch forced, but still relevant: She can harness any love she wants, but the inner love is what swings the heaviest hammer.

The end of the movie is confusing, but I think so on purpose. As we fade out from Ms. Patella grinding a bag of Sun Chips against her pleasure-pot, we fade into the future, 45 years from now. The Earth is barren, the moon broken into shards, and people seem to have morphed into marsupial-human-mix-type creatures called at one point “Kangavites.” Two of them hop toward each other and proceed to massage each other’s pouches until plastic fruit explodes from their furry honches. Humanity has lost, sensuality has abandoned. And we, the audience, are left understanding: Ms. Patella’s nameless character, a presence more then a person, wanted all the love she could get. She was a prophet and knew the future was effete and bleak. Neither the dialog nor the title contribute to this only-possible conclusion, which is a testament to the director’s aptness, but still leave you a bit confused. Which, if you think about it, is how life portrayed as art framed through life made with artistic tools really is.

Elevendy Twelven presents...

You may remember them as love songs. Not so much this week.

Fu*k Me Tender – Elvis Presley, 1956
It's Only Fu*k – The Beatles, 1977
And I Fu*k Her – The Beatles, 1964
I Will Always Fu*k You – Whitney Houston, 1992
Endless Fu*k – Diana Ross & Lionel Richie, 1981
That's The Way Fu*k Goes – Janet Jackson, 1993
P.S. I Fu*k You – The Beatles, 1964
I'll Make Fu*k To You – Boyz II Men, 1994
Best Of My Fu*k – The Emotions, 1977
I'd Do Anything For Fu*k (But I Won't Do That) – Meat Loaf, 1993
It Must Have Been Fu*k – Roxette, 1986
I Need Fu*k – LL Cool J, 1987
Fu*k To Fu*k You Baby – Donna Summer, 1976
I Want To Know What Fu*k Is – Foreigner, 1985
Baby, I Fu*k Your Way – Peter Frampton, 1976
Stop To Fu*k – Luther Vandross, 1986
How Deep Is Your Fu*k – The Bee Gees, 1978
All Out Of Fu*k – Air Supply, 1980
Fu*k Will Keep Us Together – Captain & Tennille, 1975
I Can't Make You Fu*k Me – Bonnie Raitt, 1991
Because You Fu*kd Me – Celine Dion, 1996
Words Of Fu*k – The Beatles, 1964

Unsolved Ejaculations of Mystery

I dreamt of a pitched tent nagging at my sexual campsite. I wondered, Should I throw dirt and smother it? Or wrestle it like a sedan-sized bear, using every once of my strength and guile to keep my food stuffs safe.


But then awake, I noticed it wasn’t morning.

The other side of the bed, my bed, was cold.

Where was she? Did she leave?

Earlier tonight. Yes. She came over. We talked, mostly about nothing: my quiet habit of picking the seeds off of a strawberry before eating it, her compulsion to lick salted meats and collect coats of all kinds. It was nice. The food was nice. I made a fantastic salmon smothered in a cheesy dill sauce with a side of buttered-broccoli.

I was sure then that night was at full tilt. Even the drab talk of the weather and coming cold could not deny it. Nothing less then sex was left. Her eyes and bare nipples made that clear.

Then she dipped into her purse. A bizarre thing, it was. Like the neck of an alpaca; furry, slender, somewhat annoying, with straps. She brought out two blue hexagonal pills. Ecstasy, I thought.

“I want you to suitcase these,” she said.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“No. I want YOU to suitcase these.”

She had a firm grip on my wrist by then, reaching across the table. Her naked chest was covered with dill the salmon missed. She must have seen the confusion in my eyes. Suddenly, we were standing and my arm was wrenched behind my back and she was fumbling with my belt.

I’m not opposed to new things. I believe it makes me smarter, wiser, a better person. It might not be clear now where and in what ways my life will improve having experienced a stranger’s (albeit an attractive, top-less stranger’s) finger pushing two unknown pills up into my body from the back door, but I’m sure it will make itself clear in due time. I now at least know “suitcase” to also be a verb. Until this night, it was merely a sad, sad noun.

She called them “enhancers.” I was still thinking Ecstasy. But now she’s gone and my body is stiff and sore and alone in bed. A pinnacle of comforter rises from the middle of me, screaming with my heartbeats.

Quickly I do the math. Six, no five and half hours ago we finished dinner. No sex was had, that I can remember.

“Gwen?” I call, thinking maybe the topless blond I paid for “interesting fun” is still here.

The only answer I get is the familiar quiet of the walls and floors and carpet of my two-room apartment soaking up my sound. Nobody is here. Just me and my thundering erection.

I’ve never thought of using a male stimulant. Actually I still don’t. Not yet, at my age. But at the same time I never thought I would be afraid of my own penis either. Here it is, a fleshy flag pole fighting my boxers and the sheets above it, trying to blast off, break through the ceiling, explode into flashing glitter-balls the shape of a peace sign or the American flag.


I know what I have to do. Every man would.

Deflate the urge, manually.

I’m like a prize fighter who’s slept through the first eleven rounds to wake up hurting, eye swollen shut, cheeks slick and puffy with pain. There is one more round to go. This will not be graceful. This will not be set to pretty music. This will sting a bit.

I reach around under my bed for the magazined smut. Oh, it hurts to move. The stash that has been kept under countless beds since my adolescence has been a constant comfort, not so much in my use of it but more in the existence and the readiness of it. If the two or three magazines were any more accessible they would be on my bedside table, but that just isn’t the look or the comfort I’m going for. While feeling for the porn, I briefly picture a naked woman pouting her lips and twisting a nipple on the way to self-exploration with one hand, holding on with the other. She’s on a helicopter, banking in at some ridiculous angle to save me, hair all curls and wind.

I position myself. The magazine is open.

The pages are familiar, the faces and poses contrived. This won’t do. I close my eyes, try and settle myself, try to forget my member. I wonder whether my feet or hands will have to be amputated because my penis is hogging all the blood. Then, in my mind, my manhood becomes a hook, all that will be left from this horrible ordeal. Some sort of prosthetic grapple hook. I will be only able to mate with robots and cans of pineapple juice. But I will have a way to get into my car when I lock the keys inside.

See, there are upsides.

No. That won’t happen. It can’t. I just need to get on with it.

I fuddle between images of the suitcase-these-and-I’ll-leave girl smeared with dill, a co-worker at the microwave in the empty third floor lounge, a familiar yet random busty park ranger coming across my lone campsite, but nothing is holding, nothing enticing. My imagination–grown strong and vivid by the very practice of self-satisfaction on a weekly, if not daily, basis–is at a loss. Frustration ensues.

I try not to give in to the thoughts washing through my mind. That I am now welding a weapon, a billy-club of blood and vein; a battering ram capable of pulverizing the plastic cage of some nefarious hamster; a quarterstaff used to punish those that steal or use inappropriate language. This is not my gentle member. This is not my beautiful house.

Then my mind flashes. She returns, my Helicopter Girl. She is laying down this time, on the floor of the machine, arms and hair spreading down toward me, a sly smile on her face. She wants to save me, to send down a rope to bring me closer. And I will have it, have her. This will be my own Clancy novel, full of bad dialogue and military intrigue. And I will get in the helicopter, after just exposing some Russian covert operation for the greater good, on my own, under the radar of the United States Government. And she, my Helicopter Girl, is my prize. She won’t mind that I had to suitcase two strange pills. I had to, to save the country. And she’ll see that, she’ll know that, and be turned on. She’ll have no choice but to please me, tie me up right there in the helicopter with ribbons of bullets…

A few thoughts later I can feel the end approaching, my goal almost procured. I had to let my mind go where it wanted, trust my imagination. A healthy, flaccid me is soon here. A few moments left.

The release is momentous. Memories even seem to leave with it. I forget for a second how this all happened, how my body came to ache. But that is no matter compared to what my casting loose brings about.


Parkas, rain slickers, down jackets, leather blazers; my bed is filled with coats. I just came coats.

The shock is numbing. And when a still-topless Gwen appears from my closet and gathers as many jackets as she can from between the sheets, then kisses me before leaving, all I can do is blankly watch.

Outside it is snowing.

Slipping Into Something More Confusing

After a night of wonder and romanticism, we went back to her place.

We strolled down her street, taking our time building the tension. My heart was racing as my thoughts bounced inside my head. How would it begin? What would we be doing right before, right after? Why did I have a pocket full of napkins? I was ready to take this mission on. I wanted her more than a fugitive wants to not be followed everywhere. We walked up two flights of stairs. She opened up the door. We walked in, and the standard drink was offered. I accepted.

Then she said, "Let me slip into something more confusing."

I said sure.

She went into her room. I took off my shoes. I slid into sex-mode.

She came out of her room wearing my clothes. It was going to be two of those nights. We maneuvered around each other's perimeters. She set off my pant alarm. My sexual searchlight spotted her prison break and my agents went to work. She offered the obligatory cavity search; I did the gentlemanly thing, and hammered an Out of Order sign on my backwater terrace, then placed the lobster bib around her flesh cummerbund.

She then found the conch meat I was hiding, and located it towards her nether-suburbs. I whistled, and my Clydesdales removed themselves from their stables, chasing a rabbit with pig-tails around an oval shaped coliseum of clumsiness. Needless to say, things were getting pretty eligible. I let her knead my loaf. She wore a smelting mask with a mirror with a picture of what she thought it would be reflecting taped to the front. It was spot on. Except for the discount flipper rack. I didn't see one of those in her apartment. But I could have been mistaken.

Then the main event.

The five-play was over and it was time for the regular programming to continue. She told me that she wanted me to own her notch. I remembered to her that I would only want to do that. She blushed and then winked at herself because at that moment I put on the mirror clad smelting mask. It now had a picture of her winking at herself. My hands turned to feet. My cold was hot. I was so eligible.

I couldn't control yourself, and I freed me. I freed me good.