Obsolete

Well, no, I won't be updating that today, either. Sigh.

Because first I've got to put out an appeal for technical assistance from the electronic musicians in the audience: how do I get my old MT-100 sequencer (with the funny little QuickDisks) to put out MIDI clock pulses, and how do I get the digital piano synced to 'em? The Roland website was no help, and of course I don't have the manuals for either instrument, and damned if I'm gonna pay a zillion dollars a minute for what is laughingly referred to as "technical support." I mean, this can't be too hard, can it?

Answers on a postcard, please.

Nobody Ever Got Rejected by a DVD

If you have not yet done so, read Graeme’s article “Porno People,” which nicely reflects many of my feelings about the subject. Then read this friendly message from the folks of the porn industry, courtesy of the hardworking joes at Moden Humorist:

“Many young people today are turning to sex as a recreational activity. ... [But] intercourse is far too dangerous for the layman to participate in. We all enjoy a visit to the circus, but that doesn’t mean we should get into the cage with the tiger! Like skydiving or high-wire walking, sex is something best left for trained performers — professionals who have honed and surgically altered their bodies for use in the pornographic arts.

“Take for instance, my good friend Kitten St. Croix...”

Funny, terrifying, and wince-inducingly accurate.

Tighten Up

Speaking of young Daniel: this. Yes. And might I add that the word you seek, when discussing either the jacket, Gibraltar, or the dire situation, has nothing to do with rectilinearity but is instead from an archaic word meaning narrow? Ah thenkyew.

Unconventional

As Mighty Joe Zenith so rightly points out, TV Go Home has indeed done it again. But... not our Dan, surely?

Nada Grande

Congratulations go out to Jonathan, who knew that the correct answer to last Thursday's riddle was Nothing, and who wrote in to tell me so.

My sabbatical from the Underground continues, though I did check in just long enough to re-register my username, so's no pesky cybersquatter can go around pretending to be me and either blackening my good name or making me seem a lot cooler than I really am. And we wouldn't want that. Well, I wouldn't, anyway.

New poem in the Clinic later this week, with, it is hoped, a multi-media surprise attached. Watch this space.

Loud As A Very Loud Thing

Turtle in the road this morning, fully extended, green and immobile and big as... big as... as—

—I find myself at a loss, like the homicidal protagonist of “O’Malley’s Bar,” spluttering “with an ashtray as big as a fucking really big brick I split his skull in half,” as if he were reaching for, and failing to grasp, a phrase rather more poetic. That happens a couple of times on Murder Ballads—the speaker stumbling, breaking the rhyme scheme and/or the meter—I think to show the intrinsic inarticulacy of violence, its pre-verbal nature. Violence defies language, coming as it does from the reptile brain.

And that monstrous turtle’s reptile brain couldn’t even get it out of the goddam road at the height of rush hour. Big as my briefcase, he was.

There.

A Riddle

Greater than God.
More evil than the Devil.
The poor have it.
The rich need it.
And if you eat it, you will die.

What is it?

Ten Unmediated Pleasures

1. A linen shirt growing smooth beneath a hot iron.
2. The moment I notice she's kissing me back.
3. A spider's web, stretched across the casement of my office window.
4. Feeling my age—and realizing that I would never want to be young again, not for a million fucking dollars.
5. A small girl on her bicycle.
6. Panama'd dozing on a park bench at midday, drowsy heat dissolving the knots in my shoulders.
7. The sound of church bells.
8. The sight, through a window, of parents and child, standing in grass to their knees, holding hands in a ring.
9. Geese on the lawn, leading five grey-green goslings like web-footed tennisballs.
10. Her. And her. And them. And you.

Collective Are Go

With the formal launch of the Barbelith Webzine and the attendant explosion in the site's hit rate, I'd like to say hello to our hundreds of new readers.

Feel free to say hello back, and remember: I can see everything.
Now get your filthy hands out of there, you sick little monkey.

Work In Progress

[image redacted]

PAGE 11 (5 panels)

6-panel grid, 2 wide by three high, left-hand panels wider than right, two bottom-left panels knocked together.

Panel 1. From this point on, our mystery man is referred to as Luther Grant. XCU as he rubs his head with one hand, eyes squeezed shut, panicked but trying to get himself under control.

CAP:         THAT VOICE AGAIN.

CAP:         RUN, SHE SAYS. BUT WHERE? HOW?

cap:         BREATHE DEEP. GET IT TOGETHER.

Panel 2. Wider shot as Grant pats the pockets of his jacket, one hand inside a pocket. Give us some detail of the bathroom. It's shabby, disreputable: risque posters, faded and torn, on the walls. This is not what you'd call a legitimate theater...

CAP:         AND THINK.

CAP:         WHAT HAVE I GOT TO WORK WITH, BESIDES A LUMP
             ON MY HEAD AND A CORPSE IN THE ALLEY?

CAP:         A WALLET, KEYS, ANYTH--

Panel 3. Largest panel, extended down to the third row. Moodily-lit head and shoulders shot of Grant holding a 9mm semi-automatic pistol in front of him at eye level, dangling it by the barrel gingerly, with two fingers, like he doesn't want to touch it at all-- holding the gun like it was stinky dead fish, with a facial expression to match.

CAP:         Oh, FUCK.

Panel 4. Three-quarters reverse, over Grant's shoulder, as he ejects the clip and inspects the gun--his face suddenly cool and professional.

CAP:         OKAY.

CAP:         NINE IN THE CLIP AND ONE IN THE CHAMBER.

CAP:         HASN'T BEEN FIRED TONIGHT.

Panel 5.  Sets the gun atop the toilet tank with one hand, the other again inside his jacket.

CAP:         AND... WHAT'S THIS?  I.D.?

CAP:         ANOTHER PIECE OF THE--

[image redacted]

PAGE 12 (5 panels)

Same setup as previous page, but flipped upside-down.

Panel 1. Largest panel, extending into second tier. Grant's POV. CU Grant's hand holding a leather billfold, flipped open: the left half holds a driver's license with photograph and the full name GRANT, LUTHER visible; on the right, a policeman's badge. Scroll at the top reads PRECINCT 35. Badge number, center, is 714. Scroll at bottom reads DETECTIVE L. GRANT.

             NO COPY

Panel 2. Reaction shot Grant, staring dumbfounded at the badge in his hand. Bathroom door visible behind him, and a faint voice coming through it.

CAP:         HOLY CHRIST.

CAP:         I WASN'T EXPECTING THAT.

VOX(out):    I KNEW HE WAS TROUBLE, THE WAY HE COME
             RUNNING IN HERE...

Panel 3. Grant turns towards the door, startled and frightened: the bdge slips from his fingers.

CAP:         HOW COULD THIS BE--?

GRANT:       HUH--?

SFX:         NOK NOK NOK

VOX(out):    POLICE! COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE 'EM!

Panel 4. Shot through the bathroom window--Grant looking up, gauging the possibility of escape. Show gun, still atop toilet tank--and, if angle permits, the badge lying on the floor.

CAP:         HER VOICE.  IN MY HEAD.

CAP:         "RUN."

VOX (out):   COME AROUND THAT CORNER, BLOOD ALL DOWN HIS
             LEG AND HELL-BENT FOR ELECTION DAY, HE WAS...

CAP:         NO.

CAP:         NOT THIS TIME.

Panel 5. Grant down on one knee, facing down; picking up the badge with one hand, placing the gun (still broken open) on the dirty tile floor with the other. Grant is suddenly composed. He's turned obliquely towards the door, so it's visible in the panel--shouting coming through the door.

CAP:         I DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED.

SHOUT (out): SIR, OPEN THE DOOR!

GRANT:       ONE--ONE MOMENT, PLEASE.

CAP:         I DON'T KNOW WHO SHE WAS.

[image redacted]

PAGE 13 (5 panels)

Page bisected vertically by a central horizontal panel, a big parallelogram running from lower left to upper right. The two resulting triangles are themselves bisected horizontally. A mood of swirling action and confusion in the weird angles and fragmented figures.

Panel 1. (Irregular tetragram at upper left) Grant straightens his tie, preparing to exit--double-checking the name on the badge.

CAP:         DON'T KNOW IF IT WAS EVEN ME THAT KILLED HER.

GRANT:       I'M A POLICE OFFICER, GENTLEMEN.

GRANT:       Ah, LUTHER... GRANT. Um. DETECTIVE LUTHER GRANT.

CAP:         PRESUMABLY.

Panel 2. (Right triangle at lower left, point down) XCU Grant's hand turning the doorknob to open the door.

CAP:         BUT IF I'VE GOT ANY CHANCE AT ALL...

GRANT:       I'M--I'M UNARMED.  DISARMED.

GRANT:       AND I'M OPENING THE DOOR...

Panel 3. (Central parallelogram) From behind Grant, silhouetted in the open bathroom doorway; his hands are up, one holding his ID & badge. Beyond him we see the two uniformed cops from Page 10: the taller of the two, BOZEMAN, has the muscles and the mustache. The shorter, SHREVE, has a pot-belly and a big, beaky nose. Both men have their guns drawn and trained on Grant. Behind them is the elderly Theater Manageress, eyes wide with shock.

GRANT:       ...NOW.

CAP:         ...THIS IS IT.

Panel 4. (Right triangle at upper right, point up) Tight three-shot: Bozeman and Shreve at the foreground, guns drawn, tense, ready for anything.

SHREVE:      KICK YOUR WEAPON TOWARDS OFFICER BOZEMAN, THERE.

GRANT (op):  I'M, ah, GLAD TO SEE YOU GUYS.

Panel 5. (Irregular tetragram at lower right) Shot of the hallway past Bozeman and Shreve. MLS the Manageress, running away, glancing backwards in fear: she has apparently decided this Not a Good Place for her to be.

GRANT (op):  I'M NOT SURE WHAT HAPPENED OUT THERE, BUT
             THERE IS SOME BAD CRAZINESS GOING ON--

SHREVE (op): Mm-Hm. I'M GONNA HAVE TO CHECK THAT BADGE, SIR.

[image redacted]

PAGE 14 (5 panels)

2x2 grid with a small inset at lower right.

Panel 1. MS three shot. Shreve's putting his gun back in its holster with one hand, has Grant's billfold in the other--inspecting the badge, grim, businesslike. Grant's hand still out to Shreve, having just passed him the billfold, very nervous. Bozeman hovers nearby, gun lowered but still watchful.

GRANT:       OF COURSE.

GRANT:       LOOK, I JUST CAME TO A WHILE AGO. I THINK
             I'VE HAD SOME KIND OF HEAD TRAUMA...

SHREVE:      SIR.

Panel 2. A 90-degree shift--the effect of the camera slowly circling Grant as he stands still. We're behind Grant's back. Shreve stands behind Grant with one hand on his shoulder, passing the billfold to Bozeman with the other. Grant's unsteady on his feet, stumbles awkwardly forward. He turns to us in profile, eyes wide. Bozeman is holstering his gun, leaning forwrad to see the badge.

SHREVE:      FACE THE WALL, HANDS BEHIND YOUR BACK.

GRANT:       WH-WHAT--?

SHREVE:      NICE TRY, SIR. BUT YOU'RE UNDER ARREST.

SHREVE:      BOZEMAN, TAKE A LOOK AT THIS.

Panel 3. An oblique shot along the wall, with the long hallway receding in the distance and the theatrical posters visible down its length. Shreve, angry, moves in to push Grant up against the wall, his hand behind Grant's head, shoving hard. Grant's face turned towards us, mashed against the wall, features distorted, anguished. Bozeman, looking at the badge, smirks hideously.

GRANT:       BUT--YOU CAN'T--

BOZEMAN:     Heh. JESUS.

BOZEMAN:     WHERE'D YOU GET THIS BADGE, A CRACKERJACK BOX?

GRANT:       I--I DON'T UNDERSTAND--

Panel 4. Tight XCU Grant's face, horrified, realizing: he's been set up. Edges of the other figures--Bozeman closest, moving in to restrain Grant's arms, Shreve stepping away.

BOZEMAN:     THERE'S NO 35TH PRECINCT IN THIS CITY, JACKASS.

SHREVE:      SUSPICION OF MURDER AND IMPERSONATING AN OFFICER.

SHREVE:      BOZEMAN, CUFF HIM.

Panel 5. Inset. Flashback/photostat of Page 5, panel 5, CU the little girl.

GIRL:        RUN.

RUN. Opi8. Soon.

Circling

Holding pattern, this week at the House of Fear.

The new entry to the Poetry Clinic is currently in triage: I’m cooking up a special surprise on that score that should be ready to go after the weekend.

Having made some alternative image-hosting arrangements, I should soon be able to re-present the RUN preview that once appeared in this space: with luck that'll be sorted before the project actually goes up on Opi8 and makes the concept of a “preview” entirely moot...

As a reward for your patience, here is a link to lots of funny pictures of monkeys.

Enjoy.