Readable By Machines

PROVERBS FOR THE PAINFULLY AWARE

2010-01-05T19:38:00.000-06:00

Dear Readers,

Proverbs For The Painfully Aware is now available on Lulu.com. It's my first book of cartoons and would make a great gift for the insensitive. Only $15.98. Click here to purchase or sample the first part of the book.

A brief Description is appropriate right here: Eighteen proverbs written to give humanity a quick boost of serotonin, accompanied by eighteen demented drawings that suck it back out again.

HOW TO CONSULT THE SPHINX ON ALL MANNER OF THINGS

2009-10-12T23:47:00.000-05:00

In this modern day, it is difficult for the “pathless” (that’s you and me) to find respectable oracles that might offer either prophetic insight or incomprehensible mush to pathify our directionless lives. Telephone psychics have been washed from the earth by a flood of exposés, the daily horoscope applies to too many of us at once to make us feel special, and the local churches blather on and on about deity this and deity that and I can't for the life of me figure out why. So with an antiquarian’s eye, a classicist’s touch, and a philologist's tongue, I recommend that old standby, the Great Sphinx.

In days of yore, she was quite the lady. She always sat in the same place and challenged passersby to a game of riddle me this or I'll kill you flat. Most people lost, which then allowed her to eat them (those were the rules, bucko). What is striking is that she never lost her girlish figure, sedentary lifestyle and flesh-eating notwithstanding. As the years past, people learned just to avoid her road. "I wouldn't go that a way if I were you, bud." "No? Why not?" "Sphinx." "You mean that half-cat, half-girl thing?" "Yup, that's the one." "Wow, I thought she was dead." "Nope. Just naps a lot." "Thebes doesn't get many visitors, eh?" "Not really." "Any other way into the city?" "You could try the back room of the cigar shop up the way." "I might do that, thanks."

Legend has it that Oedipus answered her riddle correctly and she killed herself over it. But big half-lion ladies aren't that easily trumped. She had these little wings tucked in along her flank and she used those to keep from dying. Oedipus, true to his future, didn't bother to look over the edge. He just turned around and walked away, BLIND TO THE TRUTH.

And now we know she's alive today. She doesn't ask riddles anymore (men are too savvy for her), but she does offer her services as an oracle. Unfortunately, nobody can find her, so in order to get our answers, we must visit the greatest sphinx in the world: the Great[est] Sphinx of Giza. In Egypt. Because she is made of stone, you probably won't get much of an answer, but it's worth a try: she's almost 4,000 years old. Lots of wisdom in those old bones.

SOME TIPS WHEN CONSULTING THE ORACULAR SPHINX
1. Be vague. You've got one shot, so pick your question carefully. You want direction, not answers. "Where is grandfather's secret will" isn't going to work. Neither will, "How can I get better gas mileage for my '98 Corolla?" Make the questions vague so that the oracle can do what oracles do best.
2. Bring Gifts. Sphinxes like fruit in non-varnished baskets, songs sung angelically by boys choirs of no fewer than six lads, toothpicks (made of oak) , or ceramic blankets to help with that erosion problem she struggles with (any size will do and she's grateful for what she can get).
3. Yell loudly. The wind blows strong in Egypt. Plus, she's old. But don't tell her that you know.
4. Listen carefully. The wind blows strong in Egypt. Place your ear next to her lips. Don't be afraid, she hasn't eaten anybody since Oedipus Rex bested her. If you can't hear anything, look for the headphone jack on the right hand side of her lips (her right).
5. Interpret with care. Many people will tell you a) that oracles suck and b) that your interpretation is wrong. Whether or not they're right, you should go on your instincts. What you hear is what you hear and there's no denying it. They didn't spend the money on a round trip ticket to Egypt and stay in a cheap hotel crawling with bed scarabs, only to find themselves caught in a miserable dust storm that made the Canopic Tours bus tour a complete waste of money. And they didn't climb the stone bitch's torso only to find a really lukewarm pair of impassive lips and a load of no-oracling and no headphones jack either. And then they didn't suffer the embarrassment of discovering that the oracles of ancient Greece are alive and well and a lot more pleasant to consult, being windy holes in the ground tended by beautiful young women who show more than adequate concern for your troubles.
6. Follow her advice. No matter what. Otherwise you've wasted your money. And that's the real lesson here, kids. If you spent it, it was worth it. No matter what.

BOOKS BY BRHISCHIER

2009-10-10T16:48:00.000-05:00

FOR A LIMITED TIME ONLY:
DOWNLOAD A COLLECTION OF BRHISCHIER’S LATEST WORK.
a collection of humorous short stories, ranging the faintly autobiographical to the faintly demented (that’s everything from A to D folks!)

•Bills and Smokes and a Place Called Home.
Eleven Short Stories, Collection One.

Out of courtesies to publishers, these stories are available by request only, so please email brhischier@gmail.com for link and password.

THE CHILL IS NOT YOUR FRIEND, NO MATTER HOW NICELY IT DOES ITS HAIR

2009-10-09T14:18:00.000-05:00

I’m not an avid bill payer. I have other things to amuse me. Like my perpetually distracted brain. Does me favors, like a distracted brain should. So who needs another hobby like bill paying? Water? Pish posh. Electricity? Who needs it. See, there’s a coffee shop around the corner that doesn’t exploit mermaids for its marketing purposes and which suffices for caffeinated hydration and the occasional sponge bath. And electricity is taken care of by the roughneck’s secret weapon: the swiss army iPhone. Not only does it come with flash-light, world wide wonderweb, and built-in typewriter, but the usb port can power select household appliances such as electric can opener, electric back scratcher, and electric distillery. But it won’t power my electric blanket. So I’m terrified about losing the good graces of the gas company.

I’ve treated them well. Probably better than I treat my dog, who doubles as a comforter on the cooler days. Natural gas flows at great cost through all the pipes it can find in my apartment. Unfortunately, I have a very modern mid-90s thermostat, and I can’t figure that bum out. Since we’ve officially given the fake summer the proverbial biannual boot, the October days have been rainy and chilly. My precious fingers are cold to the bone and even my shins resist the temptation to dance when Puttin’ On The Ritz gloomily jumps out of my speakers. What is an overgrown delinquent to do?

Note my attempts to manhandle the system. I’ve set the thermostat “schedule” to run the heat everyday at a whopping seventy-something degrees. I’ve wooed the tiny batteries and tickled the golden gray leads that extend outward in recalcitrant pose. I’ve tried various Native American indoor weather dances to elicit that fine gurgling sound into my radiators, but all to no avail. Thus, in true desperate fashion, I’ve taken to keeping my bones warm using a variety of not unpleasant techniques. Yes, techniques. For you see, keeping that chill from the bones is a strange science, ruled by engineers and freemasons, of which groups I do not belong though I’ve asked nicely and I totally told them that I believe (believe!) in some kind of Supreme Being. Doesn’t help, so I’ve had to improvise. You can do the same, but it won’t be improvising any longer.

First, brew four pots of coffee and then fill two kettles with the hot-hot contents. Insert feet and two things will happen: via dermal osmosis, caffeine is directed into the system, speeding up the heart-rate that has been behaving like a cold-blooded invertebrate; then the coffee will (and this is nice) give the bones down there a taste of that wonderful warmth. Second, ask the dog to join you in the chair, directly behind you. That takes care of the lower back and immediately improves the posture while seated---in any chair. Third, a quick jog around the spacious apartment (with dry feet of course) will warm up the torso and confuse the dog, though one must wear a hat or a turbaned fluffy towel to keep the breeze from your speedy legs from cooling off the head. Lastly, encasing the head entirely in wool will allow the warm (warm!) breath from the never-chilly lungs (lucky bastards) to transfer warmth to the skull and all its pieces (eyes, ears, lips, horns, etc). These simple things require only the minimum of resources and a couple minor investments (kettles from the thrift-store, dog from the no-kill shelter (imperative to ensure that the beast is at least moderately well-behaved), jogging shoes or lacking those a fine set of callouses, and lastly a towel of sufficient square-inch count to cover the head.

Once again, I have solved problems that many men would struggle with (this being the age of monkeys). And I have done it without the assistance of the apartment complex maintenance man, who is less creepy than he is psychopathic and who always sings “Hold that tiger, hold that tiger, where’s that tiger, here’s that tiger, where’s that tiger, here’s that tiger” whilst fiddling with tools that I do not recognize whilst casually browsing the shelves of the local hardware store.

Take that, Chill!

FRED CAMPER EXHIBITION ARTICLE

2009-10-07T14:59:00.000-05:00

I’ve recently written an article for artist Fred Camper’s Pratt Institute exhibition. If you haven’t seen Mr. Camper’s work, spend some quality time on his website. The link to the article is here.

Cross-Talk Hobbyists

2009-10-05T09:05:00.000-05:00

“He’s stuck again,” says the second gnome in my head, whilst wearing a fez, no lie.
“What’d he stick it with?” says the first gnome in my head, looking up from his dusty stuffed oriole.
“Pardon?”
“What’d he stick the Ginn with?”
“What’s a Ginn?”
“A djinn with a cold.”
“Probably with a thermometer.”
“Did it have a fever?”
“Let me check.”
After a few minutes, during which I continued to read some very interesting paragraphs about the great George Formby, the second gnome in my head returned to his pal. He sat down slowly.
“There’s no Ginn.”
“What are you talking about, that’s absurd!”
“Calm down. But it appears that there is no such thing as a Djinn.”
“And thus the Ginn?”
“Doesn’t exist.”
“Even with a cold?”
“Even with a cold.”
“This is most distressing.”
“Yes.”
“How are we to take its temperature?”
“It worries me.”
“It could develop into pneumonia.”
“The silent killer.”
“The killer quiet.”
“The whispers of evil from the lips of a lung.”
“It approaches us all.”
“Nonsense. I can breathe just fine.”
“Show me.”
“I’ve been showing you.”
“Well why didn’t you say so?”
“I didn’t think you’d believe me.”
“Well I don’t.”
“So I think he’s stuck.”
“He must be. He’s giving us the spotlight again.”
“Feels nice.”
“Yes, it’s been a long time.”
“If only we’d come from a musical family.”
“If only.”

I TOOK MY HARP TO A PARTY

2009-09-30T13:04:00.000-05:00

And nobody asked me to play. The others were jolly and arty. So I took the damn thing away. So sang Gracie Fields.

Ooh, the pathos. Gracie Fields and me, springing the strings of creative rejection together. Gracie Fields and I, stringing the springs of our hearts across the yawning chasm between Yuletide cheer and the half-awake publishing world. Pretty tightly wound springs, too. Wouldn’t want to see those things snap. Rejection strains the will, a little. I didn’t write much for a week (lots of rejections), after having written something like 15,000 words in the previous two. Seven rejections in two weeks. I don’t mind so much, (honest, you bum, don't doubt me!) and most of the editors have given me little notes of encouragement, like an aunt who pats your head non-committally after a piano recital. Maybe the problem is words like “non-committally” with its repetitive consonantal obsessions. Or maybe they just don’t like the way I give them the story straight (it’s the story of an etcetera). Or maybe they genuinely don’t like the writing. Hard to tell. The worst part of it, though, is the paranoid suspicion that it’s something petty. I can’t stand pettiness in the real world, so suspecting it in the subreal world is a place I can’t go. It wouldn’t be fair to them. Their feelings would get hurt. They’d feel persecuted. They’d wash their hands of the mess and say, “Not mea culpo, you meanie!” Well, it ain’t mea culpa either.

Really, nobody is obligated to publish anything. Nobody but my mother, of course, and lord knows that isn’t going to happen. I tried to convince the parents to start a publishing house, but they couldn’t see past my own selfish intentions. I could easily see past them, like peering over a fence at the bikini-wearing neighbor lady. Nobody is obligated to write, either, but there I go again, doing what I want. This whole process looks like a psychiatrist’s amusement park.

Oh well, can’t let it get to me. Just gotta take my harp to a different party and hope that the champagne is flowing freely.

FLASH FICTION MEETS THE SHORT STORY

2009-09-23T13:36:00.000-05:00

Or does it? You know, this electricity thing has spawned a lot of things. Car batteries and electric doggy fences and lady consolers and flash fiction and—wait, I hear you say. Flash Fiction? Really, Mr RB Machines? Yup. Granted, it was written many moons ago, probably before there was any electricity to go around, by guys like Barthelme and his coterie of little midget monk acolytes before the internet was spawned. But it was the Electric Internet that made it a form, the way plastic dolls are made from molded plastic forms. Attentions spans became spider sized, so the fiction had to accomodate. Now all sorts of places are publishing Flash Fiction in addition to Short Stories, and the only thing that separates the two is a tenuous line in the sand made up of less then a hundred words.

Flash Fiction is a genre [sic] noted for its tiny form and vague, woolly tongue that conjures with both eyes on the prestige. Flash fiction bugs me, like ringtones bug me. It starts, has promise, then ends, for some ungodly reason, usually because someone picked up the damn phone. Flash fiction is just a short story that didn’t interest the writer enough to finish it, and a ringtone is a melody that intrigued enough to synthesize, but not enough to harmonize. The similarities end there, though. Unlike the ringtone, the flash fiction doesn’t get stuck in my head.

LIFE IN THE SUMMERTIME, 2009

2009-09-21T15:51:00.001-05:00

PART I

The present year, 2009, rhymes halfly with the word summertime, a poetic chronotype as rare as a solar eclipse or a volume of accentual verse in the American tongue, and thus I must take advantage of it by writing something, anything, about it. Unfortunately, the summertime of 2009 in Chicago was less summer than it was one of the lesser seasons, (lesser only because the attire of the ladies is greater) resembling in turns some of the warmer days of autumn or the drier days of spring. But only rarely could it be accused of being summer, Summer with a capital S.

PART II

One summer day, your pale author scraped together a load of pennies and dimes with the intention to purchase an air conditioner. This was early June, when sweat is conceived and born and wiped away. Coolness was inaugurated with the running of the air conditioner for twelve days consecutively. The electric bill was of no concern, for Summer was here. A quick glance out of the apartment window showed me many of the ladies were attired accordingly. And then the summer hiccupped (or hiccoughed, which spelling does not offend my spell checker) and neither my air conditioner nor my binoculars were necessary for the next three months. The air in the apartment remained warm yet cool, and the ladies wore longer skirts and longish sleeves and occasionally that great summer insult: jeans.

PART III

The summer officially ended the day after receiving my June electric bill, which was accompanied by a letter from the normally reticent proprietor of that shop. The letter is excerpted here: “...and in these times of economic hardship, we humbly request that you remove your sweaters from storage at the bottom of your bureau or the top shelf of your closet, and wear them as you take re-advantage of the air conditioners which you were no doubt accustomed to making use of at this time in previous years but for which you have since found little need.” For that excruciating bit of epistolary pan-handling, I promptly refused to pay my electric bill for three months. Curiously, they didn’t shut off the electric. Wishful thinkers, i suppose.

PART IV

It is September, and I find that I have few fond memories of the summer of 2009. That brief interlude of electric breeze in its dawning days is my sole joy. I only regret that in those days, rather than sit on the beach with my toes in the water and my eyes on the consolation prizes, I sat huddled around those vents, sucking in the freon lace that was spun from out its coils. The Autumn has now ascended the throne, and I can only expect that it will serve the summer the same insults it received in the masquerade. The coming week will no doubt have temperatures in the eighties, and I will gladly resume use of my air conditioner, to please myself and, against my better judgement, the electric company.

NOVEL AFTER ALL

2009-09-16T16:31:00.001-05:00

Wondering where the novel went? The one that was supposed to be published much earlier in the year? Well, it seems I have to wait for a little while longer. You see, there’s this little thing called “Submitting Your Manuscript” that I have been encouraged to try before plunging it into the abyss of self-publishing. And since I spent ten years on the novel, I might as well spend four months trying to publish it “legitimately.” Now, before we go all crazy over the word legitimate, let me say that I think self-publishing is an honorable thing to do, blah blah blah. I’d just like to try it the old way first. The book deserves that.

THE PET IS A REFLECTION OF THE PETTER

2009-05-05T08:20:00.000-05:00

Bad, Human. Good, Dog. The teeter-totter of evolutionary superiority has just slammed me to the ground. The mirror of my inadequacy is my slobbery friend. If only she knew that she could bite the hand that feeds her and get away with it...

Many Americans in my neighborhood are troubled by their own inability to be “good pet owners.” “Just what is a good pet owner?“ I ask them, hoping to free them from doubt with a little old-fashioned self-examination. But their dog answers for them. He shakes his head while the owner remains silent in shame. I say, “Relax, it’s probably not your fault, America!” Dogs of the world tilt their heads, not quite understanding my exclamation. It’s time to change!

IT’S NOT YOUR FAULT THAT YOUR PET MAKES YOU LOOK BAD. HERE’S HOW TO MAKE LIFE BETTER AND EASIER TOO.
        ❑        Pet might be too strong a word for your animal. A substitute word or phrase will help to orient you more accurately in relation to your Black Plague, your Old Mother’s Legacy, your Best Replacefriend, your Inland Emperor, or your Sticky Licker.
        ❑        If troubled by the troublesome behavior of the “pet,” consider replacing it with a pet who is a little younger (one year less is recommended). This allows you to start over again, but not from the beginning, which is sure to humiliate you. Observe the younger pet’s behavior for signs of the older pet’s wayward ways. If nothing is learned, repeat the process ad nauseum until the purchase of a pet embryo. Stop there if still unsuccessful. Consider retreat from the world of pets.
        ❑        Paste photographs of animals that share a stool with your pet at the species bar of life: Photographs are well-behaved and often better looking than your pet, which should make it feel inadequate. Keep them low, no higher than a foot and a half off the ground. The resulting docility is bound to please. This method has forebears in that great Italian laugh-fest, Il Purgatorio, by that snappy dresser, Dante.
        ❑        If Number 3 has you worried about ruining the paint job of your dining room, try fantasizing aloud about those fantastical creatures we call well-behaved pets. Coo names your pet has never heard, piquing its curiosity. Accidentally (“accidentally”) say another pet’s name while rubbing your pet’s belly or in greeting. If necessary, leave pamphlets from local shelters lying around.
        ❑        Bulk up the muscle in your disciplinary arm. One should never beat one’s pet, but one should at all times appear to be able to do so.
        ❑        Give your body a break and purchase a whip. You’ve probably discovered from Number 5 that too much dieting and exercise can be dull and damaging to the self-esteem. The whip is one of the few symbols of masculinity that can be worn in public and not suck scorn into the lungs of the bearer. Also, other humans don’t consider a whip to be a weapon; paradoxically, they will scatter when you take it off your shoulder. Your pet will too.
        ❑        Blame the pet and get a human instead. Harder than it sounds.

Sunside Research

2009-04-24T14:02:00.000-05:00

The gnomes in my head are concerned. The second one says, “What the heck is he doing now?” The first one quickly replies, “Well, he’s not taking us for a walk along the Lake.” “That much is obvious,” says the second.
—Well, why isn’t he?
—He’s researching
—I hope he’s finding out where to take us next
—Our skin is awfully pasty
—Our skin is oftly pasty
—Our skin doesn’t need to be so oftenly pasty
—The sun is out, Mr Hischier! Out with your damn self!
But I can’t, I think to them. I’m doing research. My tummy is grumbling for sustenance, and my brain, in an effort to feed its grumbling organ, is compiling very important data necessary for the feeding of the tummy.
—Does that mean he’s looking at restaurants?
—Perhaps he’s learning about organic farming
—Maybe he’s going to rob a grocery store
—He’d be better off going outside to find some homeless men to interview
—They certainly look healthier than we two
—That’s because homeless people are always outside
—And better fed than we are
—Cease this work and go outside!
—Cease this “work” and go outside!
—Find us a homeless man! I hear they even have wisdom
—Wisdom conveyed through witty remarks rooted in a nonpragmatic cynicism, laced a with a certain foul odor that speckles them with authority
—Pragmaticism rooted in a well-fed wit, laced in irony and sweat
But they’re wrong, these gnomes in my head, wrong to encourage me to sunnier venues, with little opportunity for the belly’s custom. Perhaps they’ll shut up if I take the dog for a walk.
—Yes! Please do!
—By all means!
And since gnomes and dogs clamour as much for attention as bellies do, I must concede. But only for a bit.

MY SENTIMENTAL MENTORS

2009-04-18T13:32:00.000-05:00

Overheard in my head recently:
—I can’t believe he doesn’t find that book boring [L’education sentimentale, by Gustave Flaubert]
—Why?
—Have you read it?
—Not much of it. Have you?
—Of course not. But the bits I’ve read along with him — — boring.
—Oh, I didn’t think so. I found it quite riveting thus far.
—Really? Look at his face. Placid, disinterested, occasionally distracted by the slightest sound. Not the marks of a face riveted by some text.
—Really? Look at his brain. Rushing along from sentence to sentence, registering the leaps of time with curious notations, marveling at the concise sentences that dispense with moments that most lives consider monumental, while dwelling on those things that are seemingly meaningless yet effecting sense.
—Nothing happens. Absolutely boring. Flaubert’s wasting his time [this sad little gnome in my head pronounced it Flaw-burt, with an emphasis on the burt, but the other gnome, the one with better taste, thought it kinder to let the mistake slide and instead took the conversation along a more insidious path]
—Perhaps it’s a mark against you that you find it boring.
—What? No. I mean, maybe it’s a mark against you that you find surfing YouTube boring.
—Actually, these are really marks against him.
—What a boring man we’re stuck with.
—What a boring book.
—Do you think he’ll finish it?
—Does he finish anything?

TE AMO! A MORTE! LOVE & DEATH SPEAK ANOTHER LANGUAGE! WHAT COULD THEY POSSIBLY WANT WITH ME?!

2009-03-30T09:28:00.000-05:00

Look out, Poutyhearts,

I see you’re sad again. It’s not just the lower lip protruding or the upper heart half-heartedly squishing blood with a little less pressure than usual. It’s that look in your eyes, at the same time vacant and piercing; it’s that shadow on your cheeks that no razor could illuminate for man or woman; it’s the strain in your shoulders from a hard-bowed head, beaten into a slouch by heavy thoughts. That’s how I know you’re sad. And I think I know why.

It seems there is not enough love to go around, these days. We’re such a big big world. But maybe we haven’t looked hard enough.

Love. Cute word. And small. Like love itself. Four letters that toy with you (“Honest,” says the word Love, “even ‘sex’ has only three letters. I’m one letter better!” But perhaps I’ve had it wrong. The shorter the word the better. Note well: “I”) But wait! Ignore my sarcasm! Do not, I repeat, do not despair! There are plenty in this world who have an endless, boundless, infinite capacity to love. I will list but a few. Go find your Poutyheart a friend.

PEOPLE, PLACES, OR THINGS THAT HAVE INFINITE RESERVES OF LOVE
        ❑        Death: the only lover to never give up, no matter how often we reject him or write him bad poems
        ❑        Soulmates: perfect humans until they begin to multiply
        ❑        Mothers: as long as there is an implicit understanding that no way, no how is that baby going to interfere with x, y, or z
        ❑        Boredom: persistent and grateful for the rapt attention it receives; much like a dog in this respect
        ❑        Dogs: caveat emptor and always reply to their kisses with, “No, thank you!“
        ❑        The Internet: where connection and friendship is just a glance away
        ❑        Ignorance: the only lover where ”More is Better and Less is Hell“; also, the most difficult to convince to return once you’ve hurt her feelings; must woo with television; good for a foursome with tv and the internet and you
        ❑        Fashion: ever-protean, ever-draining, but never will leave you unless you leave it first
        ❑        The Holy Trinity of Imaginary Friends: Jesus, Facebook and Pornography: ”You be there and we’ll be there.“ Connection at a gut level, with zero risk. What more could you possibly ask for?

TWO OLD MEN

2009-03-29T15:58:00.000-05:00

Two old men sat across from me on the El talking to another. They were sipping smoothies and wearing gloves.
—Strawberry and kiwi don’t mix well for me.
—I wonder if I have any ambition left?
—Tart and sweet, red and green, yet nothing festive is happening in my mouth
—Maybe I could farm
They were over 90 years old. Three trains had come and gone while they climbed the stairs from the turnstile to the platform. This wasn’t one of those handicapped accessible stops. They weren’t handicapped, but they were very, very slow.
—My last smoothie had tapioca balls in it
—I seem to recall many things I wanted to do
—I don’t know why they call them bubbles. Bubbles aren’t dark.
—And the women, them, too
—Bubbles
—All bubbles.
—But bubbles aren’t dark.
—Everything tastes like chalk

Inner Call Talk

2009-03-23T19:28:00.001-05:00

“On no.” “What?” “He’s considering a higher calling.” The two gnomes in my head were spying on me, listening to me mumble as I rearranged the furniture again. The scraping of the old coffee table on the older hardwood floor didn’t keep me from spying on them, though. “A higher calling, or the higher calling?” [Underlined for super-emphasis in case the italics weren’t enough] The gnome assumed a mere article of language would connote a difference. Silly gnome. The apparatus doesn’t make the lay, quoth the libertarian. “Is there a difference between them?” “Perhaps.” I could sense they were about to split hairs so I moved a lipstick chair closer to the lamp, pretending to pay them no mind. A dust bunny rolled out and I thought of Edmund Wilson, lipstick chair of my criticism shelf. Literary criticism. Suddenly the gnomes were right. Boy oh boy, he’s prime fuel for higher-calling thoughts if ever there was one. “And where is this higher aspect located? What is it higher than?” the second asked the first. “The lower callings, of course,” said the first to the second. “Explain, please.” And he did:

SOME LOWER CALLINGS, IN COMPARISON WITH ANY SINGLE HIGHER CALLING
        ❑        The Absenter of Worriers, also called a therapist
        ❑        The Savior of “The Whirled Around A Never-Dying Sun”, which immediately se-redundifié
        ❑        The Inner Comedian, confused by the rousting bouts of monologues that nobody hears except the gnomes in his head
        ❑        The Budding Cosmopolite, observing in every social more his chance to prove his recent betterment, fuddling his fingernails all the same
        ❑        The Fanning Bourgeois, goring novels and belles lettres and other things one-hundred-fifty years too late, believing himself to be Gustave Flaubert and Gertrude Stein reincarnated in the same mop of flesh
        ❑        The Paramodern Poet, claiming pound for pound that he’s an ‘ell y ‘ot better than a wall of steven’s bawdy l’erres, yet amounting to no more than a faking farthinghetti or a downable colliens
        ❑        The Fanatical Mystical “Lover” Of “Mankind”, bewildered by her own general do-gooderness and moral ennui, wondering when love will come to save not-them but just-her
        ❑        The Fastidious Lasher of Debit Accounts, lusting after infastidious lusheries, hoping to drown in the wonder of it all
        ❑        The Bleeding Heart Secretary, admiring her own bleached cuffs and dirty stockings, stench-bound in leather and socks, saving for her husband’s retirement and other future sundries, such as children and high-definition telephones
        ❑        The Rod Framer, wondering to do with all those rods
        ❑        The Farmer of Farms, wondering what to do with all those farms
        ❑        The Houser of Other People, wondering what to do with all her energie d’erotisme
        ❑        The Linker of Chains, linking chains and linking chains and linking chains

SPRING IS HERE AND THE ANIMALS ARE SCARY

2009-03-16T11:55:00.001-05:00

I had a cup of coffee in my left hand, a leash in the other. The coffee was no longer hot. The morning breeze had taken care of that. Scooped out the heat like ice cream from a tub, put it in a cone called the world that nobody could lift. The leash strangled my dog’s neck, which was a nice change. Usually the leash was the one being strangled. Instead of a yelping leash, I had a panting dog. I considered putting the coffee cup in front of her mouth, maybe get some of that panting heat to warm it up for free. I didn’t. That would be disgusting. I drank it lukewarm.

It was edible. An edible a drink. Perhaps downable would be a more appropriate word, but I think I’m saving that one for the dog. To use as a threat. Or an adjective. My downable dog. But the implications are too horrible, even for my sense of humor. Nobody would ever down a coffee. It just doesn’t make sense.

She looks up at me. She doesn’t mind the leash. It’s mind over matter for her. This convinces me she’s much smarter than I am. She wants my coffee. Licks her chops and says something about a caffeine headache. I ask her if she’d like a latte. “No,” she says, “A mocha would be preferable.” Preferable. I can’t believe I’m acknowledging a dog’s preferences. I hand her a mocha that was conveniently sleeping on the side of the road and she laps it up. I put the no-spill lid in my coat pocket.

The walk home is uneventful, but I doubt the adjective will hold out. Something is in the air. My coffee cup is empty and it dangles by my side. I admire it’s pleasant non-resistance. The only tug I feel is the peer pressure it feels from gravity. Not so the leash. The leash is misbehaving again. It’s seen a squirrel and is taking the dog with it in a mad dash for squirrel breakfast. The dog doesn’t seem to mind. I seem to mind, but nobody pays attention. No. I take that back. There are beady little eyes everywhere. I’ve just noticed them. The coffee cup trembles.

The squirrel doesn’t flee the leash. It sits and stares it me. I look the fool, dangling from one end of a twisted red leash. Then, behind a fence, a rabbit sits up on its hind legs and stares at my belly. It knows what to do. It points to the ground. Wants me to lie down, give up. I shake my head. “Negatory, little bunny.” High above me, in the Chicago sky, a mendicant seagull circles. It is looking for nothing, for it has found me, on the end of a leash, dangling from my coffee cup. My dog is nowhere to be seen. I hear a whimper. I look in my coffee cup. She’s there. She’s hiding from the seventeen cats which are now peering out of fourteen windows. They are whispering something in unison, some evil mantra from the secret spellbook of their kitty cult. I’m spooked. I ask the dog if she’ll protect me. She says, “No, a mocha would be preferable.” I pull the no-spill lid from my pocket and put it on my cup. “I guess it’s up to me to protect you then, Savvy,” I say. I think about soldiers in World War Two, fighting other soldiers for their lives. They wore a protective helmet back then. Seems superfluous in an air full of bullets. One should just not put their head up there, where there are bullets to be found. But as I’d seen World War Two vets walking around in broad daylight only just the other day, I figure the helmet must have some value. I put the coffee mug on my head. The dog jumps out. “Sorry girl,” I say. “I’ll have to protect you another way.” We cautiously turn around and creep toward home.

A line of army ants blocks our way. “Savvy, sneeze!” I command. The coffee cup helmet has given me courage and authority. She does as I say and the doggy expectoration clears the path, temporarily. We leap over a ladybug and Savvy growls at a dog she can see three blocks away. I point at birds in the trees and they fly away, startled at the gesture. We race into the alley, our eyes darting this way and that, looking for our final adversary: the parking lot cat. She’s a tan tabby with a pompous air. She likes to prove her brilliance by climbing up the sides of buildings. We don’t see her until it’s too late. She hisses. We run, paws over our ears. When we reach the back door, she lets out a triumphant meow. I fumble for my keys, the dog fumbles for hers, and one of us, I don’t remember who, gets the door unlocked.

Once inside, the dog and I look at each other. I remove the coffee cup from head. “I won’t tell if you don’t tell,” I say. “No, a mocha would preferable.” I brew her another cup.

THE UNLIKELIHOOD OF IMPOSSIBILITY; OR, REGINALD'S NULLED EDGE

2009-03-12T21:25:00.000-05:00

Or, for an exceedlingly alternate title (one can never have too many and there’s never ever enough to go around anyway so stop complaining and take a bite):
BE ASSURED OF THESE THINGS ONLY; THE REST IS JUST A BLUR
        ❑        The bottle of beer will not tip itself into a flurry of wonderment over your ridiculous afternoon tea
        ❑        The pig will not fly to Boston or Pakistan in a hurry
        ❑        The dollar bill will not fold itself into a tree house of enormous size, and the howling of your children will tell the neighbors of their disappointment
        ❑        The brass-balled boatswain will not cease believing in agnosticism, no matter how skilled the sophist in charge, nor how great the alliteration within his diction
        ❑        The lapel pin will never press the buzzer in time, regardless of how much you encourage it to do this
        ❑        His reflection will never feel disappointment about the dawning of the day
        ❑        The Secretest Picture will not float past the window of your space craft’s cabin on a tethered line of silk and steel, woven out of the anxious representations of your guilt
        ❑        The second part is rarely as good as the first part was in bed, and that’s not saying a lot about the tenor of the rift
        ❑        The naked mole rat will not read any of the best sellers from the golden age (l’age d’or) of French literature (page b’or), even though a few recommend them (heartily, me hearty)
        ❑        The taxicab driver will not pluck the kudos (Gr.) out of an angry she-cow’s laurel crown, awarded for the gravitas of her moo
        ❑        The whistling man will never light a stick of dynamite under water with the inappropriately named Strike-Anywhere match
        ❑        The rain will never be sad for you

MORE DOOM AND GLOOM MAKES THE DAWNING DUSK OF WINTER ALL SPARKLY

2009-03-08T13:13:00.001-05:00

“Look over there,” said the first gnome in my head. "I see it," said the second gnome in my head. "Not good." "How do you know?" "Didn't you read the star charts this morning?" "No." "Look at this," said the first. He pulled out a map freshly drawn this morning, detailing the synapses that had been firing while I was asleep. "A lot of activity in the procrustean region," said the second. "Makes everything conform to a predetermined thought." "Yes." "And note this sudden burst during his third foray into Remland? The Narcissism cluster came to the rescue at a very late point in the dream." "You don't say," said the second. "I do. And the alignment and subsequent conjoinment of his Cassandra axons with his Daedalian dendrites does not bode well." "He's screwed." "So I tell you to look again, over there." And the second gnome did as he was told.

POSSIBLE MEANINGS OF “WHAT THEY SAW,” ATTAINED FROM VARIOUS EXPERTS SINCE THE GNOMES AREN’T HELPING MUCH
        ❑        The octopus needs a new pair of shoes, says the teuthology hobbyist rather underestimately (I immediately consider redacting the above title)
        ❑        Two things must be clasped together, let me do it, says the wood-worker fingering two nails against my wishes (which did not feel good, though I could use the back-scratchin’, especially just to the left a bit)
        ❑        Frances Bacon is feeling lonely and wants a visit, says the Oxfordian night watchman, pointing the way away from Eddie de Vere (Oxfordian night watchmen are all alike)
        ❑        The Pathway to the Dead is muddy and impassible, says the taximeter cabriolet helmsman, stating the obvious (I still tipped him well)
        ❑        All the ghosts are lonely, says the married widow, spinning her wheel and catching raindrops in her veil, reminiscent of a spider’s web at dawn, low to the ground (and hard to avoid walking through)
        ❑        Boundington, Confoundington, Bring the soup to Ma! sang the lost heir to the Vanderwag-Skallybelt fortune (whom I found after a very short search of one Chicago underpass)
        ❑        There is no more cheese to be had, said the itinerant cheesemaker, brushing the last of the curd particles off his apron (and while others bemoan his lie, I do not, for I can live without cheese)
        ❑        Incorrect! There is no more whiskey! said the infant laborer (no comment)
        ❑        Home is where the heart is! said the well-read dog (yet curious how reliant on cliché this mutt is)
        ❑        Give me liberty or I’ll write another! says the Jack-of-all-trades (which isn’t a possible meaning at all)
        ❑        Blue isn’t as blue as you thought, says the teacher (and with one phrase I consider returning to school. This is a lie.)

WARNINGS UNHEARD ARE NOT UNHEEDED, BUT THEY SURE ARE UNHEARD

2009-03-06T11:05:00.000-06:00

“You think he knows?” asked the second little gnome in my head. “Look at his hand, what’s it doing?” asked the first little gnome in my head. “Nothing.” “He knows.” But it wasn’t true. Like you, I had no idea what they were talking about. Unfortunately, I had no way of inquiring. The little gnomes in my head, while literate and intelligent in that superior sort of fashion, are oddly stubborn when it comes to meaning. Meaning seems to be superfluous in their world. “Look, he’s writing something down,” said the second gnome. “I can’t see it,” said the first. “Get out of bed and see it for yourself.” “Just read it to me.” “It says, ‘What am I supposed to know.’ Do you have any idea what that means?” “Nope. I don’t know what that means,” said the first. “It almost sounds like a question,” said the second. “Well, he probably should have used a question mark.” “Or spoke Latin.” “Nos loquamabus Latin.” “No we don’t.” “Wait, there’s a question mark now.” “When did that get there?” “When I was getting the dictionary.” “Did it help?” “No, it didn’t have the word I was looking for.” “Did the question mark help?” “Hmmm. Nope. I still don’t get it.” “Maybe he doesn’t have to know.” “I hadn’t considered that before.” “How do you feel now?” “Pretty good.” “His ignorance is our bliss.” “It could be.” “It is.” “It is.”

IT DIDN'T HAPPEN LIKE THAT, SAID THE MARCH HARE CALMLY ON THE EVE OF ITS MENTILATION

2009-02-27T15:24:00.002-06:00

In fact, watching Frau Doglein rocket down the alleyway in search of dog heaven, I began to doubt everything I knew about gasoline — — and why not? — — a dog’s vapor-trailing breath reminds one quickly of the fumes of that fluctuating boxermotor beverage. And so I thought, “Who drove down this alleyway, once a day, beginning on March 2, 1942, with the black steel doors of their calm sedan dented from low-impact collisions with tiny fates and the sidewalls of the tires gradually roughened by callous floorsills and harsh washings?” But the dog cared not for such interesting thoughts. It only wanted to know: “what is at the end of this alley that wasn’t there yesterday? And wasn’t there a bunny?”

But there wasn’t a bunny. There was, I’m telling you, long ago, a 1942 Ford Sedan, whose champagne seatings piped of tales and pieces of same. Ladies gone missing from laddy’s imagination. To death? To Piccadilly? “In 1942, the hats were taller. Be thankful you aren’t wearing one, dog.”

Ignores me. Like all dogs. Thus goes the gas-dog, nuzzling under shards of fencing and heeding neither eyeball nor nosehair. “If the hare breeds today, tomorrow there’s a full head, ripe for the pruning snaps of barberous teeth. Eat not until the launching of the brood, Myself!” That’s what the dog thought to herself. “Myself.”

“Dogs have such eloquent thoughts,“ thought I with nary a laughline in sight. Yet there they were: mad dog thoughts. Multisyllabic and often polyvalent, a pooch for puns and I, the boy, mad for a punch in the imagination.

The blow came with the simultaneous spotting by dog and man of, respectively, march hare and rusted bolt from vintage license plate, scarred with the rains of seventy years and — — that’s all I saw. A dog on a leash is a tugger of wares, and those wares take weathers over marching thoughts or marching hares.

”He may be a rogue, but he’s no fool on the leash,” thought the dog...

THREE SLEEPS TO THE WIND

2009-02-26T09:12:00.005-06:00

Sometimes they get sleepy, the gnomes in my head. They get all nestled up in my brain and muss up the brainsheets and black me out at the most inconvenient of times. “Close the windows, we’re trying to sleep,” says the one. “Too much light, ack, ack, you inconsiderate fool,” says the other. But of course, I’m doing something that cannot wait, something terribly important, along the lines of organizing my papers or trimming the copious amounts of eyebrow hair that leap off my face without a single second’s warning: one day, nothing, the next day, a mutant hair almost two inches long. So I can’t close my eyes when they’d like me to, you see, regardless of their sleep needs. I’m sure they could manufacture some blinders out of old synapses or a pair of sunglasses from over-used axons. They know full well that I have a great deal to accomplish before beddy-bye, and two brain gnomes can’t reasonably expect one human to calmly draw his eyeshades at the first yawn.

Unfortunately, they don’t always take “no” or “I’m ignoring you” for an answer. The other night, in fact, I was very eager to finish editing a book published in 1941 — — nattily pointing out small typographical errors to dead typesetters, or circling areas where the plates left small round doughnuts of ink — — thus feeling superior for not having been published myself — — when the two upstarts decided they were tired. I had just circled an errant orphan, singling him out for second-edition extinction, when I felt myself nodding off. Whilst it is true, and perhaps a little unwise, that I was half-upright in bed and two martinis south, there was simply no call for their behavior. Without even so much as an “Excuse me, sir, if you could hold down the racket,” they simply shut me off. I didn’t even know I had an off switch. But there I was, perfectly still and fast asleep, the book slumped down onto my belly, the third, half-sipped martini resting wet on my chest beneath my right shoulder, and my pen still clenched in my teeth: I awoke slowly a couple hours later, knowing what had happened. “I wasn’t finished,” I said to Gnome Number One. “Shhh,” he said. “No, really, I only had three more pages of this chapter before I would have turned in,” I whined. “Mm-hmmm,” grumbled Gnome Number Two. “I’m going to finish,” I said rebelliously, ignoring their obvious resistance to my resistance. I heard a slight rustling of brainpan sheets and — —

Next morning. Martini spilled all over the book. Pen bitten through and staining the teeth. Crick in the neck. Forced half-smile. “Good morning, boys,” I mumbled. Bright and cheery, those damn gnomes had been up for three hours already, doing laundry (forgetting), scrubbing floors (reciting national anthems and such) and editing my novel. “Good morning, Bee-Arr!” I rolled my eyes and crossed my tees and drifted back to sleep.

LORD LISTER AND PROFESSOR MORIARTY PLAN A DAYMARE

2009-02-25T22:41:00.000-06:00

“Pass me that book,” says the second little man in my head, pointing past the shoe tree. “What for?” asks the first, whilst looking around for a book to pass. Doesn’t find one. No books in my head. “I’m looking for inspiration,” says the second. “What for?” asks the first, suspicious of anything needing the winds for motivation. “It’s time I commit a crime,” says the second, scratching the scalp beneath his tricorne balmoral. “Well, you must look for inspiration elsewhere, for there is no book around me or my reach,” says the first, in sub curiosa, and fondling his Borsalino bowler with admiration. “Tell me, though...” “Yes?” “A crime?” “A crime.” “Against mankind?” “Hmmm.” “Against a particular man?” “Hmmm.” “Against a kind of particular man? An enemy perhaps?” “Ah. No.” “Well, it will be more difficult to commit your crime if you don’t know your target audience.” “Right.” “You should know what benefits they’ve already attained in life” “Yes” “And what positions they hold which you might gain from” “I see” “And best of all” “Yes?” “How pleased they’ll be by your action, particularly if they are not dead as a consequent” “Right” “Helps with the general ennui” “The general what?” “The incipient laissez-faire of the entertainment consumer” “The lazy whatsits?” “The boredom” “Well I certainly intend for it to help mine.” “Can I help?”

EXISTS THERE AN OBSTRUSE COINAGE? ASKS THE FRANKLIN TO THE MINTER

2009-02-22T16:47:00.003-06:00

As I approach a fortnight sans Internet, I find myself increasingly drawn to my library for entertainment and knowledge. Now, lest one misconstrue my meaning, I do not intend to besmirch the spotless character of Mr. Internet by relating that the "entertainment" and "knowledge" from the library outshines that of the other; but I must admit it's been a lot more satisfying. First off, the light is totally different. The pages seem to respect my eyeballs and their corneas and retinas and things. Reflected light leaves me content and calm. Over enthusiastic photons in a hurry to crowd each other off the screen? not so much. Paper light is polite. Seriously. Second, there is none of that damned doubt that one's just lost another hour of life to a half-witted non-effort left lifeless by the side of the interroad just waiting for a Bored Samaritan to trot by on his trusty mouse. I sincerely hope that my little writelets haven't fallen into that category for you (whom I love). However, yesterday's bit has left some lingering concern.

"Really? Those words? What the hell did you just write? Are you actually saying anything at all?" Painful to hear, but I asked for it.

Most of the vehicles in yesterday's Odd List did at one time exist. Because the Internet is still a bairn, "Readable By Machines" may have accidentally achieved the dubious honor of first usage in cyberspace.

As to the murmured accusation that some of the words don't exist, I'd like to take this moment to ask you perhaps to refresh the browser after navigating to yesterday's post. Please note: the words are still there. They do exist. See?

Now, would somebody please hurry up and invent the "notch wallet"?

NOT THE VELOCIPEDE, SAYS THE DOCTOR

2009-02-21T22:36:00.003-06:00

Transportation being what it is, ie the dream of infants and emigrants alike, it should come as no surprise that the loss of a cherished mode of corporeal transport merits a tolling of the town bell and a lowering of the blown flag. Today, declared National Ciao! Nautoship Day, Ciao!, we pay the briefest of honors to transports of Yestertear's yesteryears.

NOT THE VELOCIPEDE, SAYS THE VIVISECTIONIST!

The Smolting Vanguard, says the Young Turk
The Cowering Wagon, says the Prairie Dog with that certain speech impediment
The Veiny Pushcart, says the Confused Mendicant with the empty notch-wallet
The Valvular Pump, says the Ambitious Lover
The Uxor's Wheelbarrow, says the Vagrant John in need of same
The Externally Powered Automobile, says the Average Of-age Hu-man
The Porter's Apprentice's Carrying Sack For Infants Or Small Humans, says the Weary Motherhead or Maid
The Pinaster Skate, says the Bedazzled Woodsman, sniffing the air and sounding the earth
The Queen Mary, says the Dryshod Wanderer
The Queen Mary Of The Scots, says the Homebody Executioner's Adulterous Wife
The Muktata's Slingshot, says the Muktata's Catching Mitt
The Crutch, says the Recently Evolved Homo Sapiens Anapodiens
The Butterflymobile, says the Harpy and the Stone
The Kangaroo, says the Orphaned Marsupial