The Wasp Factory

One of favorite books is "The Wasp Factory" by Iain Banks. I won't go into any detail about the content of the book, but I will say that I do not recommend it. In fact, if it were not for the twist at the end, I would have flat out hated it. It's horrible. In a good way? I don't really think so. But anything that nestles into your brain and continuously bothers you, years after the fact, must be good on some level.

Anyway, I was compelled to write a song based on this book. I'm certainly not the first. Paul D'Amour (TooL, Lusk) is down right obsessed with the book, and it's author. Others have quoted this book through song. But I never felt it was properly summed up, musically. So, I wrote my own interpretation. Not of the subject matter, but the feeling of the book in general. The tension that it builds in your fragile mind as you anticipate the next awful chapter. The worry of worry itself.

So, I came up with this little ditty. It fills me with dread and anxiousness every single time I play it. I love it. I hate it. It was a rare case where I set out to make something, and the final outcome fit the bill perfectly.

Many people might find it dull. Or pointless. I accept that. But close your eyes and clear your mind and press play. If your thoughts are filled with pleasantries, than you, my friend are dead inside.

First Podcast!

Christopher Hart, Jon Mark Pitts and I have started a new podcast called "Tales from the Spacepod". We have wacky discussions about ufos, cryptids and the paranormal. Not safe for work by any means. So, headphones on!

Until I can figure out how to get this shit up on iTunes etc, I will be posting these here.

November Rose

This song was written for a film I never made. Well, not yet, anyway. The film is called "Zombie Hicks & Rockabilly Chicks". I gave up on it in the midst of Zombie overload, but I will more than likely make something out the story. A comic book, perhaps.

The scene (and possibly a future music video) is the Tex Bandit Three's debut number. Picture three Old Timey cowboys, with matching Western outfits, sitting around a fire, eating people and crooning this tune, to get the proper effect.

Laura

This is from my electronic album "This Mountain Will" under the moniker, "Satellite Boy"

Musically, I think I was going for Soft Cell with a driving beat, inspired by Radar Love from Golden Earring. By that rationale, I guess I should have named it Tainted Radar Love. I can't explain why I went with a -1940's era crooner- voice, but it's my favorite part of the song.

The name came from a series of recurring dreams about a giant tortoise, imprisoned in a bamboo cage in the jungle. I would stumble upon this creature and he would shove his head through the bamboo bars and scream, "FIND ME LAURA!" Although, he may have been saying, "FIND ME, LAURA!" Either way, it's a troubling dream.

The noises at the end are from hitting the weather button on my police scanner and recording multiple tracks with reverb. There's also a subliminal message spoken quietly as the song fades, but I cannot remember what it was, or to whom it was aimed.

Tell me how you feel after listening to it. Maybe we will get a clue about that message.

To Build a Robot

A quick blueprint for a robot made from misc. stuff and things.

This will be my current side-side project. I will have a robot in my house shortly. Long overdo, really. If this "sculpture from junk" turns out well, I will be making others to sell. I just think it should be that sort of world.

SINNER

This song came to me as I was falling asleep on the couch. I woke myself up and went straight into the studio. I wrote and recorded it in about 30 minutes because I just wanted a rough demo that I could polish up later. When I played it back though, there was nothing I could think of to add to it. So, I mixed it down and called it good. I tend to favor the songs that I record in this fashion. I guess it's because I don't have time to fret over trying to make it perfect and it just sounds more natural. Or maybe I just like my voice better when I'm sleepy.

The visuals in my head, when I wrote the lyrics, were set in a Spaghetti Western, despite the Middle-Eastern accents. A guy tells his wife he's been cheating. He's sorry and ashamed. The other woman hurt him somehow and he comes crawling back to his wife asking for forgiveness. She doesn't give it to him. So he takes her out back and throws her into an old well. It's an awful story. And I don't know that it has a moral. I just liked the pathetic and hopeless imagery of it.

Just a short while after mixing the tracks, I saw the clearest UFO I have ever seen in my entire life.

That story will come soon.

Promo for my comic book Edgar Rue

I plan on creating at least 12 issues of Edgar Rue. Maybe more if the response is promising. I have a hard time summing up this comic. A pal of mine thought it was Tim Burton meets Dr.Seuess.

I can roll with that since they are two major influences on me.

The song in the promo is called "Edgar's Theme". I wrote it with the hopes of ripping off a Danny Elfman vibe without copying him outright.

There will be a new Boron Comics website soon, featuring Edgar and other comics by myself. Until then, IndyPlanet.com is the best place to buy issues of Edgar Rue.

Watching Children Play

I like to drink whiskey under the tree by the playground. It's poignant watching all the little kids running around. Screaming their little faces off. Pretending to be pirates, or firemen, or aliens, or gangstas. It's amazing to see how alive they are now, and to think of how dead they will someday be.

Not in some sick, or morbid fantasy. Just a solid, healthy realization.

That little girl on the slide. Car wreck.

The chubby little boy on the teeter-totter. Cancer.

Ditto for the boy on the opposing teeter-totter.

In fact, several will go from cancer.

The girl on the monkey-bars. Drug overdose.

That daredevil on the merry-go-round looks more like a suicide to me.

Sad? I guess. Hopefully I won't be around to see any of them go. I got my own schedule.

Speaking of which, I better get back my birthday picnic.

Cake is waiting.

"Lullabye"

New video for my song- "Lullabye" This was made in Photoshop and After Effects. I was trying to simulate the look of an old film of an old plate-puppet show. Not sure if I fully hit that mark, but I do like the look of it.

Thanks to Christopher Hart and Kristina Boyd for loaning me their photographable mugs for my lost little plate-puppets. I buy their situation. I hope you do as well.

R

Ronnie & Donnie- Candy Bar

Ronnie & Donnie- Mammoth Cat

CLICK TO ENLARGE

Robot Man

A little ditty about a little robot, featuring a little doodle of the little robot from the little ditty.

Hunting Sea Monsters

An excerpt from my novel- "The Incident Concerning Howard's Shortwave Radio"


When little Adeline turned 10 years old, her father, Howard, had prepared a special day for her. It was a Thursday and he asked wife, Carol, if she could skip school for the day. She never liked the kids to be absent for even a single day of school, but she could tell that her husband was up to something. Howard's eyes were the deepest of brown, but when he was excited about something, they were positively black. Carol conceded and let Adeline have her special day with her pop.

The morning was kicked of with a drive into town for ice cream at Marvin’s Diner. Adeline had strawberry and Howard had Rocky Road. They walked down Evergreen Avenue licking their frozen treats.

Adeline squealed. “Daddy, can I go on that?” Pointing to a golden stallion with a fiberglass mane and a plastic lasso. “It’s only five cents! Pleeeeaase daddy?”

This was Adeline’s day.

“Ok, but finish your ice cream first.” Howard said as he chomped the last crunchy bite of the bottom of his cone.

“I don’t wannit anymore!” She handed the rest of her cone to her dad, who quickly chomped it down.

Howard wiped off the sticky ice cream from around Adeline’s mouth with a napkin and produced a nickel from his pocket. He plopped it into the slot in the stallion’s saddlebag and a tinny “Neigh! Neigh!” bellowed though the horse’s mouth. Adeline squealed again as Howard lowered her onto the galloping steed.

She grabbed the reigns and yelled “Gitty up Buckaroo! Gitty on up!”

Howard leaned down on one knee and watched his seven year old girl ride the fastest, most powerful, most beautiful stallion in all the world.

Of course, all good things must end. The horse slowly came to stop after a few minutes. Adeline was sweating a little from all the excitement. She had, after all, just barely escaped being scalped by a party of Lakota Indians.

“You wanna go again?” Howard asked.

After the second equestrian adventure, Howard and Adeline headed for home where Howard had another adventure planned. Earlier that year, Howard had read Adeline a condensed, sugary, kids-version of 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea. She was never in her life more fascinated than she was with the idea of the Giant Squid. Adeline became enamored with the thought of sea creatures. She never really pondered the Sea until that book. It was always just right outside her door. It was like the sky to her. She was aware of it, but spent little time thinking about it. Howard decided he would take little Adeline out in the dingy to hunt for sea monsters in the calm waters of the inlet cove near their house.

When they arrived back home, Howard told Adeline to run into the boat shed that sat at the foot of the yard and grab a couple of life vests.

"We're gonna take the boat?" Adeline inquired. She had only been out in the dingy one other time so this was an occasion in and of itself. Before Howard could answer 'yes', Adeline jumped out of the pickup and ran full speed down the hill toward the boat shed.

Howard grabbed a backpack out the bed of the truck and headed down to the rocky beach. It was a picturesque Spring morning and the waters in the cove were unusually glassy. Adeline made a bugle sound, as if a king or queen were about to appear, and leaped off the short bluff that separated the yard and the edge of the beach.

Howard feigned fright. "Ahhh! You got me!"

"Surrender all your treasure me matey and I may let you live!" Adeline said in a heart-meltingly terrifying grunt. She picked up a small piece of driftwood and held it up to her father's belly. "All of it, I say!" She gently poked his belly with her newly acquired sword.

"I surrender! You are far more salty than I, sir"! Howard said with his hands in the air.

"I'm not a sir, daddy! I'm a lady of the sea!" Adeline said in a decidedly less playful tone.

"My humblest apologies m'lady!,” Howard pleaded. He cleared his throat. "Lady of the sea." He took a bow and fell on one knee. "I can only offer my loyalty and these precious stones from the Orient." Howard unsnapped the backpack and pulled out a small plastic fishnet bag. It was filled, to nearly bursting, with plastic jewelry.

"Oh!" Adeline said with intrigue. She mercifully lowered her sword and upon closer inspection of the booty, dropped the weapon altogether. "Oh, these will do nicely!"

By the time the two had wandered down to the boat dock, Adeline was wearing every piece of jewelry that was in the bag. She had to keep adjusting the bracelets to make them less irritating on her young baby-soft skin, but taking them off was simply not an option. "This one's my favorite!" Adeline said as she held out her ring-covered right hand.

"Which one?"

"This one!" Adeline said impatiently. "The blue one. It's my favorite ring ever."

Howard chuckled and lifted the Lady of the Sea into the small, rickety boat. Adeline never took her eyes off her new treasures. "Alright now, fun's over." Howard said sternly. Adeline looked up to see her father holding a small gun of some sort. "You know what this is?" He asked her.

"No." Adeline said as if she'd done something wrong and been caught.

Howard held it a little closer to her. "It's a harpoon gun."

Adeline's eyes widened. "Like in 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea?"

"Exactly. You know what this is for?" Howard asked, tapping the gun and maintaining his dour tone.

Adeline shook her head in a hurried fashion.

"Well, there's been some reports of a sea monster pokin' his big, green, ugly face around here." Howard explained while scanning the horizon of the water. "And it's our job today to find it and kill it. With this very harpoon gun."

Adeline's posture stiffened. She slowly turned to face the water. "Here?" She, wisely, whispered. She knew she dare not alert the monster of their coordinates.

"Right here." Howard whispered back. He handed her the wooden gun and some spare rubber band harpoons. "Now, here's the plan. I need you to lean over the edge of the boat and watch for him. He'll be dark green and looooong as a football field. Now, we may be lucky because everyone knows sea monsters like to sleep-in late. If we can catch that bugger before he wakes up, we can be home in time for Gilligan's Island."

"Yes! Let's kill him in his sleep!" Adeline shout-whispered. She took her brave post, leaning over the edge of the tiny vessel.

Howard untethered the boat cord and quietly picked up the oars. Ever so gently the wooden paddles broke the surface of the water, and the mighty hunters were sea faring. Adeline took her job very seriously. She had plenty of time to gaze upon her sparkly jewels after the hunt, but for now, the safety of the entire town was resting on her monster spotting abilities.

"Daddy, what's that?" Adeline whispered nervously.

Howard peaked over the side of the boat and softly replied, "That's the cable mooring for the dock. Keep lookin'."

She held her post. Howard steered the vessel further and further away from the shore. There was a curved rock wall that provided a natural barrier between the cove inlet and the open sea. Howard rowed the boat all the way to the shadowy waters near the wall. "Ok, if I was a sleepy sea monster I would tuck myself into a spot that was out of the sunlight. Wouldn't you?"

Adeline nodded. She understood all too well. She hunched lower toward the boat and reached for her gun. Without taking her eyes off the water she loaded a rubber band around the tip and stretched it behind the trigger. Howard slowly crept the boat along the rock wall. Adeline gazed, bravely, into the shadowy water. Howard reached into his backpack and discreetly pull out a small mirror. Adeline quietly squealed, "Eeeeeeh! Daddy! I see it! I see it!"

Howard leaned over and saw the beast laying on the bottom of the water. "Stay calm. That's him alright. Luckily he's still sleepin'. Quick, shoot him before his wakes up." Howard quietly lowered the mirror into the water behind his back.

Adeline took a steady aim on the head of the creature. She slowly pulled her thumb back toward the trigger.

Howard angled the mirror back and forth, silently, behind his back.

Suddenly Adeline screamed so loud that the seagulls resting along the rock wall shot up in cloud of feathers and honking chaos. "He's awake! Daddy the monster's awake!" She watched in horror as the beast's eyes glowed in the murky water.

"Shoot it, Adeline! Shoot it now!" Howard yelled , still holding the mirror underwater.

Adeline fired directly toward the creature's glowing eyes.

"Bulls eye!" Howard yelled, causing Adeline to jump a bit.

She peaked into the water and the eyes were once again black. "I got him! I killed him!"

Howard shoved the mirror into his back pack and began to row toward the shore, quickly."You sure did! We better get outta here in case he's got buddies around!"

Adeline put her arms into the water and helped row. "You think there's more? 'Cuz, I could always just shoot...oh no! No! Daddy my ring fell off!"

Howard kept on rowing. "You got handfuls of them, Adeline."

"But my favorite one fell off! My blue, sparkly one!" Adeline pleaded.

"Well I'm sure we can find you another blue sparkly one." Howard assured her as he continued to row them away from monster-infested waters.




This was the daddy that Adeline would choose to remember. The playful, kindhearted and attentive daddy.

She would dismiss the memories of her daddy locked up in his radio room for days on end. She would set aside the years of him drinking too much and saying hurtful things. She would forget the man that once brought home another lady into their house while the rest of the family was at the carnival.

This was her daddy. And from the right angles, if you blocked out certain parts of the view, it was just perfect.

It wasn't until years later that Carol finally told Adeline about the log Howard placed against the rock wall the day before Adeline's birthday. About the two metal bottle caps he nailed to the head of the "beast", and about the mirror he used to reflect the sunlight onto bottle caps causing them to glow to life. On some levels, Howard never truly forgave Carol for telling Adeline his secret.

The rest of Adeline's birthday was spent at the petting zoo, just off the highway near Raymond. When Carol came home from school with the other kids, Adeline ran to greet her at the door. "Mommy! Guess what daddy and I did today!"

Carol set her purse on the counter and kneeled down to Adeline's level. "What did you do, Adeline?"

"We went hunting for sea monsters!" Adeline replied, in a voice loud enough for her siblings, still on the porch, to hear.

"Oh my goodness!" Carol said, as she flashed a loving look toward Howard. "Well, what happened?" Carol asked her overly-excited daughter.

Adeline held out her right hand. "I lost my favorite ring."

The Spacemen

Filby lifted the access panel and pulled out the feedline for the new sensor unit on the International Space Station. He stripped back the sheathing from the wire and snapped it into a small junction box. The sensor light blinked, indicating a successful connection. He gently tucked the wire back into its cubby and replaced the panel door.

Marcell lowered himself out of the utility capsule and slowly towed himself along the sensor arm toward Filby.

"Looks good." Marcell said, tapping the newly installed sensor unit.

"Yeah, well that's the last one. Let's head in and set up the software."

"Sounds good"

Marcell began to pull himself toward the capsule door, but stopped just shy of it.

"Hey, Filby? Are we spacemen?" Marcell asked, staring off into the celestial void.

"Well.....we are men. And we are in space. But....I don't know if we could accurately be called spacemen."

"Why not?"

"I guess when I think of spacemen....I think of men from space. Not just men in space. We are from Earth. We are Earthmen."

Marcell continued toward the door but stopped again.

"I don't like that. I mean, look at us. We are wearing spacesuits and we have bubble helmets on our heads. Think about when we were kids. If you saw a toy that looked like we do right now, when you were a kid, what would you think it was?"

Filby rubbed the bottom of his bubble helmet.

"Hmmm. I guess I would think it was a spaceman."

"Right?"

"But....I would also assume that it was from outer space. Or from the future. Or both."

Marcell sighed heavily into his bubble.

"But when we were kids, now was the future. This is the past's future. And in a few days, we will be coming to Earth from space."

"Well, I guess maybe you are right. Maybe we are spacemen."

Macell smiled and pulled himself into the capsule. He reached down and grabbed the toolbag from Filby and set it inside. Filby climbed into the capsule and latched the door.

Marcell lifted the toolbag into a vinyl pouch and stared out the tiny window of the station. Earth was perfectly framed within the contours of the space porthole. He watched the swirling clouds slowly shifting along the bends of the giant sphere. In the clear spots, the deepest, most magnificent shades of blue pierced the black curtain of space. The sun was rising from behind, sending brilliant shafts of golden light across the edge of the planet.

"You know..." Marcell said

"...I changed my mind. You were right. We are from Earth. We are Earthmen."

Whiskey James

This is by far the most popular song I've written. It's a simple, catchy little ditty that I wote in the mid-90s and I have recorded several versions of it. This one is the best, though. I just got lucky with the production of it because it seems to fit the content perfectly. Dry and dull with just the right touch of reverb.

The song was inspired by a true encounter I had with a legendary hobo in Seattle. In the early 90s I was spending a lot of my time wandering through the slums of the Emerald City with my band mates, Steve and John. At the time, we were in way over our heads with the shit we were putting into our bodies, but we were young idiots trying to be hip and interesting. What better reason to take drugs, though?

There was a large area of trees underneath the freeway, known as "the jungle", that was a hot spot for local homeless people, junkies, prostitutes and other assorted weirdos. Naturally, the three of us found endless hours of entertainment mingling with these people in the trees. We even slept there in our sleeping bags quite often. Although, it almost cost us our lives more than a few times.

One night, after playing an unsatisfying show at some puke and piss dive bar near Shoreline, we had found our way back downtown to score some "interestingness". We were not having much luck so we joined a hobo campfire under the trees and slyly helped ourselves to their warm Buckhorn beer. One of the hobos had a little Pocket Pal harmonica and was treating us to some old delta-blues standards. He was amazing. Steve told the man that he should join our band. He was only half-kidding. We asked everyone we met to join our band. It was a stupid inside joke.

Days later I was killing time in a record shop in the U-district and I saw the harmonica wizard walk by the storefront window. I walked out and called for him. He didn't recognize me but I offered him a cig. He accepted and we sat on the moldy, damp Seattle sidewalk and smoked in silence.

When the hobo crushed out his cigarette, he flicked it at a passing car and stood up.

"You wanna have some drink?" He asked, pulling out a crusty old flask.

He led me to a tiny little area under an I-5 overpass that had clearly been used as a makeshift home/toilet. Probably by many people. It smelled unbelievably awful, but there was a log under a tree. What more could you ask for? We passed the filthy whiskey flask back and forth and chain-smoked for hours. He told me his name was Whiskey James. A moniker he won back in the war, as he would put it. I felt honored to know somebody named Whiskey anything.

I won't ramble on and on, but I will say that we became good pals. I would meet up with him every time I was in town and we would find some wooded area to get drunk and talk about his crazy hobo life. Occasionally, we were interrupted by crack-whores who needed to use our space to give someone a handjob, but we usually managed to find a spot where we wouldn't be bothered.

Just a few weeks after we had met, I was informed by some of the locals that Whiskey James was gravely ill. He was clearly not the picture of health, but I was still shocked when I found out he was actually dying. I managed to get in to see him on his, utterly-depressing, hospice deathbed. He was white as a sheet but he lit up when he saw me. At least I tell myself he did. I sat and shared a cig with him (well, a few drags-worth before Nurse Nocompassion made a stink). I'm pretty sure she wasn't even a real nurse. Anyway, I had a gig to make it to that evening and I couldn't stay with him any longer. I left him there to die in that awful, dreary place.

I never went back to the hospice to check on him, but I later found out that he died that very night I saw him. For some reason that sort of made me happy. I even hoped I was the last face he saw. That he cared about, anyway.

By the end of the summer of '92, my band had totally disintegrated and we all parted ways. I took a greyhound back to Wenatchee and resumed my sorry attempt at High School. John later got arrested for breaking into a jewelry store. Steve was also later imprisoned for shooting his girlfriend in the head. Long story. It too, shall be told.

Needless to say, this song is deeply meaningful to me, and I love that people love it.

It still pains me when I hear/sing the last verse...."I carried him through the woods, way out of sight. And buried him under the pale moonlight."

I wish it really had ended so beautifully.

Swans Have Flown

I often get asked what I think is my best song. I always answer with this little shanty/ballad. I realize I am in the minority in thinking so. The next post will be the song that everyone else (practically) thinks is my best song, and the story behind it.

The first part of the song is a capella. I actually had planned on doing an entire album free of any instruments, using only vocals or body-made noises (insert childish giggle here) but the same time I was working on the album, Tom Waits had just released "Real Gone". While there are sampled instruments (his own), it is created mostly with just mouth noises. I quickly gave up the idea, but I always loved this little bastard all the same.

The lyrics were inspired by a drunken conversation I had with my pal Danny. We thought it would be pretty awesome to make a film about a pack of swans that eat some moldy bread at the park and go bat-shit insane and declare war on humans. The words are sort of like random quotes that I imagine scared and confused people might say when the swans claim their "no-more-fuckin'-around" stance, followed a calming ballad by the refugees of the great Swan War. I still think that film would be pretty awesome.

Sheep 2

Sheep Experimentation #1

HAUNT

I’m sorry you can’t ascend.

I wish I could help you. Ghosts must be the saddest
souls. Trapped. Neither here nor there.
Not loved. Not really hated.
I don’t pretend to understand your misery.
And if I could do ANYTHING to free you from
this house I would. But I can’t. You are not mine
to set free. You were here when I arrived.
You will be here when I depart.

Trapped.

You are a legend. Even the
trees know your name. You played on them as
a child. Some of them are mere dead stumps in
the yard now. But they know you. As do I.
I’m not frightened of you. I understand
you. I’m not frightened. I love you.

I will always love you. I will stay in this old house
until my body dies. I swear I will come for you then.
I will be with you. I will haunt with you. For eternity.

To Kill A Nagging Wife

Ben had had it. He was at the end of his rope. For four years, he had tolerated the constant nit-picking. The non-stop verbal vomiting that spewed from the ever-open mouth of his wife, Andrea, had led him to not only ponder the thought of murder, but to actually act on the impulse.

It was a simple plan, really. He would cut her head off with a machete, bury the remains in the backyard and pave a BBQ patio over the makeshift grave. He thought about other methods. Poisoning. Strangulation. Gunshot to the brain. Smothering her in her sleep. These would suffice, but he thoroughly enjoyed the thought of that miserable, negative mouth being permanently separated from the cruel brain that powered it.

And so, decapitation it would be.

Andrea returned home at 6:30 pm following her usual "no boys allowed" after-work happy hour ritual. Ben had gone about his business of doing the dishes, cleaning the cat box and making supper.

"This turkey is salty. What is it with you and salty food?" The beast said, shoveling more salty bird into her gullet. "Jenni's husband is a wonderful cook. Lucky her. I had to go and marry Chef Boy Tardee."

Ben had given up defending himself long ago. Tonight, however, he was particularly quiet amidst the verbal assault. He was peaceful and still.

After Andrea had finished off every last ounce of the turkey, she refilled her martini glass with straight bottom-shelf gin and flopped down onto the couch. She flipped through the channels on the TV. "Hey, look. Your stupid Discovery channel show is on. Too bad." She directly entered three digits into the jumbo-sized remote and settled in for her favorite Hollywood gossip show.

Ben decided now was the time. After all, it's better to die while you are doing something you enjoy. Everyone says so.

He quietly grabbed the freshly-sharpened machete from the closet in the hall. He hid it there before the beast came home. His heart began to pound. He felt dizzy but not weak. In fact he hadn't felt this strong in years. As he inched toward his, soon-to-be-late-wife he bore his fingers into the handle so deeply that it burned. He stood directly behind her.

"I don't suppose you remembered to pay for the......."

SLICE

There was an unpleasant squeak from the open throat. Which came as no surprise to Ben. Nothing pleasant ever came out of that throat. The amount of blood was staggering. It sprayed from the meaty hole, where Andrea's head used to be, like a water feature at a ritzy Las Vegas hotel. Slowly the fountain recessed back into the meaty hole.



Ben dropped the machete.



"Well, dear.....I can't say that I will miss you....but-"



"I....my.....my head......" Andrea's severed head muttered through a watery, blood-filled gurgle.



Ben's heart stopped cold. His wife's head was 6 feet away from the body it once belonged to. It really should not be talking.



"oh.......my fucking head!" Andrea's head yelled. "You cut off my head?"



Ben felt his knees give out under him and down he went. Andreas's body slumped off of the couch and onto the floor. Her head swiveled around, like some nightmarish weeble-wobble, to face her husband.



"How fucking dare you?! You had no right to do that! You pathetic little boy! So what? You thought you'd just kill me and that would be that? Ha!"



"....you are dead.....you should be quiet." Ben whispered in disbelief.



"Dead? Ha! Do I look fucking dead to you? You pathetic piece of shit! You can't kill a harmless woman in cold blood? You imbecile!"



"You should be quiet!" Ben shouted. He crawled over to Andrea's head and pulled it up by the hair.



"Oww! That hurts, you retard! Put me back on my body right now!"



Ben ran, with the dripping head, into the kitchen. He frantically threw open the cupboards looking for the Glad bags. Finally he found them.



"Oh....oh don't you fucking dare!" The nagging, dripping head squawked.



Ben dropped the head into the black bag and tied it up tightly. He ran to the backyard, grabbed a spade and dug the hell out of a head-sized grave. He could hear his wife mumbling something or other through the bag. Finally, he felt the hole was deep enough to toss the bag into. Once the head was securely interred, Ben ran into house for the body.



Exhausted, Ben patted down the last bumps of dirt over the grave of his beloved wife. He exhaled deeply and began to laugh.



He was too tired to mop up the blood in the living room, so he left it until morning.



The sunrise of the following day felt sweet and new upon Ben's face. He lay in bed for a while marveling at the brilliant feeling of freedom that was sweeping over him. His bliss was soon interrupted by a mesh of voices coming from the backyard. Three, maybe four females were talking just outside his bedroom window. He panicked. Did the neighbors see? It was possible. He surely wasn't overly cautious about the whole affair. He dashed out of bed, draped his bathrobe over himself and headed to the backyard.



He slowly opened the backdoor and peeked out toward the voices. There was nobody there. But the voices grew louder and louder. He walked out into blaring morning sun. His eyes adjusted slowly. He inspected the grave. To his bewilderment, it was covered with daisies. Last night, it was a bed of dirt, and now it looked like a prize winning garden. He approached the flowers with caution. Suddenly, the voices stopped. The flowers all turned to face Ben. Every single daisy bore the likeness of Andrea's face.

Ben swallowed loudly. He couldn't believe it. It wasn't possible.

All at once, the Andrea daisies started nagging. "You miserable little shit!" "You will never be rid of me!" "You are worthless!" "...my life was not..." "....son of a bitch..." "...see you hang for this..." "...can't do anything right!"

The voices grew louder and louder. Ben ran to the shed and returned with a pair of loppers. He maniacally lopped off the head of ever last nagging daisy, until finally they were silenced. But not for long. The lopped off daisies continued to nag and belittle Ben. They floated atop the grass blades and continued to torment the poor murderer.

Ben ran to the garage and returned with a gas can and some matches.

"You should really be quiet!" He yelled through gritted teeth as he dumped gasoline over the nagging clippings.

He flicked a match onto the decapitated daisies and quickly they were charred into ashes. The ashes floated up into the air and Ben breathed them in. He choked on the smoke and headed back inside.

The voices continued. Now he could feel them resonating throughout his entire body. Echoing off of every bend of his skull. The microscopic naggers were coursing through his veins. He screamed in agony, but he could not hear it over the deafening voices. He ran to the bedroom and pulled out a small safe from under the bed. He dialed the combination, swung open the metal door and pulled out a small caliber handgun. He loaded the gun, laid on the bed and wept over his condition.

He could see no other escape. He said a quick, generic prayer and lifted the gun to his tear drenched face.

He felt a tremendous pinch as the bullet entered the right side of his brain. "I got you now."

He fired a second shot.

The voices stopped.

ASS-id Flashback: A Tale of Two Shitties Part II

If you are reading this whilst eating, you may wanna skip it altogether.

I will keep the second part of this uber-mini-series brief, as it's really all about the ending. Fuck. Was that an accidental pun? I love those! Anyhoo, I was returning home from Seattle with my bandmates and a couple of girls we met at a show at the Off Ramp. We were all going on around no hours or so of sleep. I was coming down from what could be considered a pretty low high and John, the drummer, was "riding the snake" on many hits of pink dot acid. I have only taken acid 5 times in my whole life, and it was usually pink dot. These were little white tablets with......pink dots. Drug dealers should never be expected to be very creative.

John was feeling his acid pretty much full-on. He was also feeling up the girl that was sitting on his lap. I remember feeling ill-at ease about this situation due to the blatant lack of automobile safety involved. I've never claimed to be very rock-n-roll. To this day, I could not tell you the name of the girl but she was very pretty. I have no idea how she planned on getting back home to Seattle.

Steve was at the wheel of his uncle's car (this car was a depressingly large part of my youth) and some other girl was in the front passenger seat. Which left me to cuddle in the backseat with the grope-tastic duo.

John asked steve to pull over so he could "empty the tank". We were somewhere over Blewett Mountain Pass and there were many cars on the highway but no shortage of trees to hide behind.

Steve pulled onto the shoulder and John headed for the woods. A few seconds later he emerges from the dense greenery and yells "false alarm. sorry mangs." still zipping his fly. He repositioned the pretty girl securely onto his lap in the backseat and we were on our way again.

About ten minutes down the line, John said "What the fuck? I think I gotta stop again, mangs."

We all groaned. Steve pulled back onto the shoulder and John once again vanished into the forest. This time he was in there for about 15 minutes before Steve finally honked the tinny horn of his borrowed uncle's car. John stumbled out of the woods looking quite disoriented. He slowly walked toward the car and climbed in onto the pretty girl's lap. She laughed at first but when he didn't get off her, she politely shoved him off. They switched places and we were once again on the road.

Unbelievably, not 10 minutes later we were back on the side of the road. "I don't feel right, mangs. Not one fuckin' bit of me fuckin' feels right." John moaned as he climbed out of the car. He started pulling his trousers down and ran in front of the parked vehicle and toward the highway. Steve honked the tinny horn but John paid it no mind. It seems that in his drug induced confusion, he was thinking that he needed to use the car for privacy from the busy highway. But he was on the wrong side of the car.

He crouched down against the rear wheel............no....no I musn't.....anyhoo, I looked down to witness what appeared to be a very constipated drummer on acid trying desperately to shit on a car. He was failing, however, and after what seemed like a "college try" length of time, he gave up. He yelled a few curses that I could not quite discern over the noise of the highway, and stood up with his trousers still in utility mode. He bent over to pull them up. As he did, his ass exploded onto my window (thank Sweet Jesus it was rolled up) and in an instant my world went figuratively and literally, dark.

Once the initial shock of the 'sideways shit storm' began to fade, we all exited the soiled vehicle to ponder the shitty situation. John was laughing so hard that he was choking for oxygen. Steve walked away from the scene of he crime as not to vomit. The girls were laughing but I got the feeling that inside, they were clicking the hell at of their ruby-red heels. When John finally compsed himself, we forced him to clean his ass pudding from the window. Steve drove home at around 106 mph as to keep the smell as far behind us as possible at all times.

There is no real punchline here folks. I just wanted it on the record.

ASS-id Flashback: A Tale of Two Shitties PART I

I was recently having "coffee" with a pal of mine and I was sharing a story with her about another pal of mine, concerning his last dance with LSD. She chuckled. We paid the tab for the drinks and parted ways.

On the snowy, fog-ridden, drive home I realized that I had actually melded two stories into one. At first I felt silly, but since BOTH stories involve a pal that took way too much acid and consequently had issues with bowel movements, I forgave myself for the melding.

So here is the correct retelling of both accounts, conveniently broken into two parts.

PART ONE

It was 1995 and I was en route to the "Hemp Fest" celebration in Rainbow Valley, an actual "working" -used here in the loosest possible way- hippie commune just outside of Centralia, WA. After getting lost for about 3 hours, we finally found the mythical Valley. When we saw the brightly painted, non-working buses along the road we knew we had arrived.

I was with my girlfriend Jenni, my cousin Bobby, and one of my best pals, Jayson. I was 20 at the time and hadn't smoked pot since I was 15 so I brought a case of Schmidt Ice. Let us pause now for a brief collective shutter. Schmidt Ice................

Anyhoo, once we found a nice parking place in the mud, we walked around looking for the "Rainbow Ceremony". Supposedly a spiritually moving event involving fire-eating and boobs. There was a midget with fire red hair leaning against a small rock near the entrance gate.

"Hey, man. Where's the Rainbow ceremony?" Jenni asked the midget.

My cousin Bobby mumbled " Oh I s'pose you'd like to know where me pot o' gold is too!" in his finest Lucky Charms accent.

Jenni glared at Bobby. Jayson and I were nearly pissing ourselves. The midget must not have heard the joke because he wasn't laughing. He just pointed at the gate.

Inside the gate was a large horse pasture filled with hundreds of creeps. Ok, not all of them were creeps but they all sure as shit GAVE me the creeps. There was no real ceremony going on, just rampant veggie-friendly mingling and plenty of the usual hippie stink wafting through the air. We pitched our tent near the edge of the field for easy escaping if need be. I learned this little trick the hard way.

We hadn't quite put the last stake in the damp ground when a 4-wheeler approached us. Atop this decidedly un-earth-friendly steed were two men. The driver had a green grunge-cut and the awkwardly positioned passenger was sporting foot-long dreads.

"Hey brothers. I'm Captain Good Times. Dig?" said the be-dreaded passenger, still hugging his chauffeur. "What do you need?" he asked.

Jenni, never one to miss a drug cue, stepped out of the tent. "Got any 'sid?" she asked.

Captain Good Times produced a laugh that caused me to look around me to see where the baby goat was. "Gotcha covered, man." the be-dreaded goat said as he pulled out a baggie filled with paper blotter acid.

Jenni and Jayson opted for seven hits each. Bobby and I chose to pass on the tempting offer. They paid the goat, dosed their score and we walked around looking at shit. Bobby got bored and headed back to the tent to eat some of the pot brownies Jenni had baked.

After a couple hours of mingling with creeps, the three of us headed back to the tent. Jenni and Jayson were getting pissed because they were not feeling their high, and they were thinking maybe they had bought junk drugs. Back in the tent we saw a ridiculously smiley Bobby and one empty pan of pot brownies. I don't know how much pot was in those brownies, but judging from the look on Jenni's face upon realizing that it was all gone...it was a lot.

Bobby and I started drinking the warming beer whilst Jenni and Jayson went to get their money back from the fake drug-selling goat. When they returned, they said the goat was amazed that they were not fried out of their brains. He stood by the quality of his product, but offered more hits of acid in lieu of a refund proper. 7 more hits each to be exact, which brings the grand total to 14 hits each.

About the time they had dosed the new hits, the old ones kicked in.

A half hour later Jenni was too high to stand up and she rolled into a ball in the tent, mumbling something about cotton and Jim Morrison. Bobby's eyes were jet black with pot-induced coma and he was going nowhere anytime soon. I was about 10 beers into it and bored so Jayson and I went walking around. He was having trouble speaking but other than that, he seemed fine.

All of sudden he fell to his knees and shoved his ass toward me. "Dude! You gotta help me out!" he yelled. " I think I just shit my pants! Put your hand down there and check!"

I scratched my chin. "Uh.....couple things here, chief. First of all, even if you didn't shit your pants, I would not want the unique experience of pawing around in your trousers. Second, if you DID shit your pants....see where I'm going with this?"

He really could not understand how I could be such a heartless dick. After all, we were buddies, and here I couldn't just fulfill this one simple request. He kept asking me but I stood my ground.

"But...my legs.....the veins are on the outside of my legs!" He yelled.

"Ok, I tell you what....I will feel your legs to check if that's true. If it's not, we can assume that you also have not shit your pants. Make sense?"

He pondered for a second. "My legs!"

I knelt down next to him, rolled up his jeans and grabbed his legs. To my relief, the veins all seemed to be safely inside where they belonged. "Good news! No veins, sir. All tucked away in a cozy bed of.....flesh and.....tissue." I assured him.

He immediately got up and started walking as if nothing had ever happened. "Dude, thanks for making sure I didn't crap myself." he said.

"No, no I just checked your legs, see?" I replied, slightly worried about they way he might recant this story. "But it's all good."

We finally came upon an outhouse where Jayson could do a full-on inspection. He cut in front of about 30 people in line, darted inside and before the door had fully closed, he came back out. His pants were around his ankles and I remember being amazed how he had taken them off so quickly.

"Dude! How the fuck long was I in there? Straight up!" He cried.

"Uh...like 2 seconds. Tops." I said. The crowd began laughing at the strange, panicked, pant-less man.

"No! I was trapped! For like...hours!" Jayson said. " There was a pyramid of shit...and bad a man.... and it was...oh it was just fucking awful!"

I did what any good pal would do in this situation. I joined the crowd in laughter.

Eventually, Jayson shed the unpleasant effects of the drug and we made it back to the tent with little incident. I was relieved that fecal matter never really entered the picture.

The same can not be said of the next story.....

Time machine of sorts.

If I could go back in time...well not like going back to the 50s to see Elvis sing in a barn, or traveling to the late 80s and stealing and recording all of Nirvana's songs before they get a chance to, but more like starting life over again. If I could start over, I think I would prefer to be an asshole.

I think assholes have it made.

But it really needs to be set in motion at an early age. That way, people will sort of grow along with certain aspects of your assholism. I once tried to switch from being a decent guy to being an asshole but I just ended up being a jerk. Nobody likes a jerk. But everyone loves the asshole at the party that says and does whatever the hell the wants. Even if they don't realize it, they love it.

So, that's what I would do if I could go back in time.

I'd also probably kill this one guy.

Ignorance: Phase II

I was once at a small gathering at a home in the hills surrounding Malaga, WA. The affair was casual to the degree of near-pointlessness. There was beer and a couple of ugly girls but other than that, no real amenities. I went there with my good pal Steve because he was invited by one of the ugly girls. Please do not be offended by my liberal and direct use of the word "ugly" here. You see, these girls were ugly on the inside. Well...probably. I never really found out one way or the other because they were so ugly on the outside. Anyhoo, so we were getting ready to bail for a rousing game of Duck Tales 2 back at Steve's palatial studio apartment.

As we were saying goodbye to the unfortunately faced gals, this.....gentleman came into the living room from the kitchen. He was wearing a Adidas t-shirt and a Yankees starter cap with the obligatory douche-bag tilt to the side.

" 'sup Corey?" The least ugly gal asked.

Corey. I don't why but I could have guessed that was his name.

" ' sup homegirls?" He replied, in keeping with proper "wigger" parlance.

Corey was something of an enigma in that most "homies" will act or "front", if you will, the typical tough guy "yeah I'd shoot a muthafucka" bravado. Corey however, was more interested in being perceived as an intellectual. I discovered this whilst perusing some records in a crate at the party. I pulled out a copy of Furtwangler conducting Beethoven's 9th symphony, supposedly one of the more sought after recordings of this particular symphony.

Steve and I were obsessed with Beethoven and I squealed for him to come see. "Look! Furtwangler doing Beethoven!"

Steve stole it out of my hand and we did a dance that could only be safely done in front of wiggers and ugly girls.

Corey grabbed the treasured vinyl from Steve's sweaty hands and glared at it.
"Furtwanger? Why would I wanna hear Furtwanger doing Beethoven?" he asked.

Steve and I looked at each other. "You know classical?" I asked.

"Fuckin' kiddin'? I have all of them." He wisely admitted. "My favorite is the 16th minus A."

Part of me died and went to heaven just then. Folks, he actually said "16th minus A". You know, the famous "math" piece by the great Ludwig Van. Oh it gets better.

"But if I'm gonna listen to Beethoven , I don't wanna hear no cover band. I want the real thing." Corey explained, handing the laughable record back to Steve.

"So you.....have only REAL Beethoven recordings?" I asked.

"Yep. There were my grampa's." Corey said.

"Wow. That must be....hella rare." Steve replied, again in keeping with the parlance of our company.

"Shit yeah, they are!" Corey barked. "Hella rare, homie."

Corey lifted his cap and tilted it toward the left side and exited back into the kitchen. Steve and I headed out the door in a hurry because we could not hold back the laughter a second longer. We would have died.

"Wow!" I said while gasping for air. "That guy rules."

Steve lit a joint in the driver's seat of his borrowed uncle's car, and buckled himself in for safety. "An actual recording of Beethoven. I bet he keeps it on a mantle next to his original Michelangelo on black velvet and a Polaroid of Jesus." He said through a cloud of purple smoke.

We headed back home for Duck Tales 2.

I miss Steve dearly. I remember this day vividly every single time I play the Furtwangler record he stole for me as we left the party.

Ghost

He awoke in a pine box.
It didn’t really matter though. He knew he could pass
through solid objects. As he floated up above to the
ground, he recognized the town. He knew his bearings.
He made a course toward what was once his home. He
missed his wife. He wanted to see her. To embrace her.
To tell her all the things he never did in life. He began
preparing a statement. As he floated down the poorly
lit street he grew more and more excited.
He cracked a smile of hope and anxiousness. A cool breeze glided across his
sunken face. His home was now in view. Almost there. He
could practically smell her trademark candy-like perfume. He
braced himself for the first view of his immortal beloved.
He passed through the closed front door. Up the stairs.
Through the bedroom wall.

Blood. A gun. A body. A note.

“The absence of your presence is overwhelming...”

She is dead.

She awoke in a pine box.

Night Of The Satellite

I remember August 12, 1987. I was a small lad
playing in the swamp near my home. All was normal
until I noticed some frogs exiting the swamp. Three
or four.....then ten...twenty. It was like an
amphibious exile. The only other witness to this absurd
display was a mole watching from a log near the swamp.
I began to grow nervous. I leaned over and peered into
the murky water to see what the hell was going on.

I saw a red blinking light under the slimy moat. It seemed
quite distant which was odd since the swamp was only
three feet deep. Soon it appeared to be about to
surface and I backed away from the water. Then, all of a
sudden..SPLASH! I realized that the light was not
in the swamp at all.

It was being reflected from the sky. It was a falling
satellite! And it fell into MY fucking swamp! The most
amazing thing transpired next. Out of the bubbling
swamp water, from within the steaming satellite
came forth a.....wait. What the hell am I thinking?

Moles can’t see!

The Shit Star

Timothy lived in a hippie commune in 1968. He loved lying on the grass and looking up at the stars. One night he wished upon a very faint and distant star. Then he fell asleep. When he woke, he began the first day of what would be the worst week of his life.

His dog "Santana", died on Monday. Tuesday he fell while hand-fishing in the river and broke his collar bone. Wednesday he contracted Elephantiasis. Thursday he was partially mauled by a cougar. Friday...nothing happened. But still. What a week. On Saturday, Timothy decided to speak with the communes’s soothsayer. Timothy told him about the string of unfortunate happenings. The soothsayer asked Timothy when it all began. Timothy explained that it was after he had wished upon a star. The soothsayer asked Timothy to show him the star. Later that night, he did.

Upon seeing the star, the soothsayer shook his head and said. "That’s the Shit Star, amigo. There is only one in all the galaxy. And you wished upon it." The soothsayer went on and on about the fascinating history of the Shit Star. Timothy was bedazzled by the uncanny science and legend behind the star, and of the astronomical odds of him wishing upon it. But, mostly he was just irritated that someone was taking 45 minutes out of their evening to tell him how much of an unlucky bastard he was.

Ignorance: Phase I

Three months ago I was strolling through a popular trail in the nearby woods at the foot of the Enchantments. As usual, I was not the only person on the path that morning. I passed by a cute Hispanic girl walking her ridiculous looking dog, a small family wearing matching nylon sports suits, and an old man in knee-high tube socks. None of these folks got much more than a slight head nod from myself.

Then, suddenly, a man came barreling around the corner of the trail screaming bloody murder. He wasn't really pronouncing words. It was more of an "AGGGHHHHHH OIGHY AGGH!!!"

He slammed on the brakes when he spotted me. I did the ol' "hey, I wonder what kind of tree that is to my immediate right" routine, as to avoid contact with his crazed eyes. The frazzled man screamed and ran right toward me. I didn't have time pick up a rock to throw before he reached me and grabbed me by the shirt. "The rabbits are all insane!" he cried, through a decidedly frothy mouth. His breath smelled of tobacco and fear. "You heard right! Out of their fucking minds, crazy!"

He shoved me aside and ran down the trail screaming to warn the others of these "insane" rabbits. I was relieved to be rid of him and just assumed the man was somehow experiencing an "enhanced" trail hike. After all, the forest is a pretty awesome place to smoke drugs.

I continued on my way. As I rounded the bend of the trail, I was met with a sight that sent a bolt of shivers down my neck. A dead girl lay in the middle of the trail. A pack of wild rabbits were eating her brains right out of her skull. The rabbits were all walking on their hind legs and their eyes were glowing yellow. One of them spotted me and began to walk toward me. As he drew near I thought to myself, "What the hell is the matter with that guy? They aren't insane. They're clearly zombies. God. How can people be so clueless?"