Sundays with Kids in the Hall

Sundays with Dead Kennedys

Still rings true today, 22 years later.

A Roadtrip a Breakneck Speeds. ACT I: Slippery when wet.

Speeding down the superhighway, at a rate that was difficult to manage safely, I found myself intensely keen of my surroundings. Almost a hyperawareness of the minutiae. A screaming projectile, piloted in the dark unfamiliar South, with absence of safety and decorum. Reaching speeds considered by most to be inappropriate under the conditions, the dull hum, mesmerizing and frantic, I noticed something shooting across the bow. Screeching brakes, not the anti-lock type, but the one's that would throw you into a power slide on a perpendicular path headed for the startling mirage.

"What the hell was that?", I said aloud, I think. At least I know I thought it. No one every says such things to themselves.

It was an armadillo. I've never seen one in the wild, except those on display, but thats what it was. I saw the coat of armor. What else could it have been? Digging into the frequently open vaults of the mind, the familiar dark places, I realized that it indeed was not at all an armadillo. I had crossed the Mason-Dixon Line but I couldn't be that far south. A wombat. That's it. It must have been a wombat. I'm sure of it.

Second guessing my first sighting of the impulsive nocturnal behavior of the armadillo, I mean wombat, the prudent choice for the moment would be a stop at the first available greasiest of spoons. The circular corner booth is best, a full view of all the characters in the play unfolding before me. Not a dress rehearsal, but opening night with the fervor of anticipation for the red and apparently heavy curtains to whisk effortlessly open. Once again intensely keen to the minutiae of the moment I could see beyond the set and into the dark allure of the backstage preparations.

Stepping out from behind the counter, which serves as a barrier from the theatrics of the stage, on a direct path to the circular corner booth, the waitress arrived and directly stated that she was my server this evening. I know I didn't say waitress aloud, I'm sure of it. No one every says such things to themselves. Not at all what she appeared to be, milling about behind the counter, my attention focused across the cheap speckled vintage formica. My view had been distorted by the actors front and center, difficult to anticipate what would debut from stage left. Postioned before me, previously elevated from behind the barrier, I heard the tall twang of the local vernacular.

What can I git for you?

What are you serving?

What do you like?

What are the Specials?

Check the board.

I can't decide.

I'll decide for you.

Exit stage left. The set had changed abruptly while peering backstage and with a quick costume change the server reappeared again from behind the counter bearing a tray filled with unknown delicacies.

I've decided to take that with me.

Checking the GPS, I was indeed traveling south. Acellerator pressed to the floor, speeding once again down the highway I reached for the unknown speciality, meticulously packaged by the server, only to find that the contents were unexpectedly raw. Much like the inside of an armadillo's articulating protective shell providing a glimpse into the perverse and vile innards of the startling mirage encountered before.

As the glowing dashed lines of the highway pass, blurring into a solid streak attributed to breakneck speeds, no longer startled by inward glimpses of raw armadillo, I pressed forward as the witching hour approached.

Pupils constricted, in the distance, to the south, an object again begins to cross the bow.

Baring instinctual responses, my foot eased off the brakes, barrelling dangerously forward with only the thin windscreen as my chaperon.

Fear and Loathing in the Northlight: Observations of the Bound

Amidst the grip of those who were chosen to oppress, no one dare to squirm out between the cold grip of the One. Under the guise of discourse, a silken gag has been thrust down the throats of the willing and the free. Like an infant Starling waiting for the pabulum of life, dependent upon the vomit to serve the One, they line up to receive their daily offering.

As the sun rises in the east so too do the givers of light. Casting the heat of its beam into the crevices between the obscurity of the silence. Yearning, in disgust, for the vomit delivered as sustenance and deemed the bane of their own existence, the Starlings are to be kept in the Northlight, the constant shadow from the rise of light to the looming darkness.

The collective Starlings chirping had created a spark. Light originating from the shadows, never possible before, is the new communication of those who seek flight, freedom from the unending shadow, soaring into the light. Northlight is pleasant and soft, a numbing passive source lacking the brilliance of a specular highlight, a dull general illumination of objects and subjects of the Throne. The sparking chirps have the ability to touch the feathers of others and ignite, into a blaze, making the wings flap vigorously to gain an unexpected but welcomed loft.

A challenge of light is the manner is which it is directed, bending and focusing its energy, to fall within the shadows. The sparks have not fallen on the flammable infant feathers, light and fluffy, nor resting upon a cinder forming mass. They have rested among the moss, damp and extinguishing, ever so common in the calming Northlight.

The One has vowed to abstain from delivering its loving vomit and replace with a crushing blow to the wings of the Starling. Forever to be reminded of the freedom by flight, the broken and mangled wings, merely remnants of the instruments once capable of beauty now lay silent and still at the sides of the Starlings.

Resting upon a perch, for all to see, locked in a cage made of twisted bars in elegant swirls of extravagence leading to the golden finial atop the Starlings, a false grim memory of the spark of light.

What can I say but a picture is worth a 1000 (CENSORED)

The photograph above is by American photographer Nina Berman.

Walking around town, my kids school, Wegmans, I hear people say that were are over there to protect our freedoms. I can't help but think of this photograph and the news from Walter Reed Army Medical Center lately. These soldiers coming home after protecting our freedoms, including the 1st Amendment, only to be told to keep your mouth shut on American soil. Of course they will deny a gag order. Do you think they would admit it? That would ruin the illusion.

Rep. Louise Slaughter (D-NY) "Any attempt to silence the very soldiers who brought their own mistreatment to light, or to hide ongoing abuses from the public eye — if such attempts are occurring — would be morally reprehensible......It would be an abdication," she continues, "of one of the most fundamental responsibilities of our government."

And to you, Maj. Gen. George W. Weightman, go fuck yourself you motherfucking piece of shit.

I hear Starbucks is hiring.

Simply Banksy.

I had surgery today. What did you do?

Sorry I missed your call. I was somewhat unavailable to answer as I was as high as a kite with streamers and little aerodynamic bows while my intestines were gleaming under the radiant spotlights. I felt like a star. An Idol if you will. There were also unicorns and rainbows to add to the festivities. Science is wonderful. Timothy Leary says hello.