Extended Spam Haiku

hour allow speak
My look begin
will have fit
Be wakeup stand
Not study play
It begin wakeup
night dance shut
those explain drink
you wait draw
close open finish
incredible speak cancel

The Spamcaster Museum

A village girl was raped by city maniacs under the dry sick stars. What will you pour the open cosmetic porters in before Julie's scolding ticket? And if Sheri happily believes it too, will she wander the raw river eternal? One more thin kettle and she'll superbly nibble everybody. The shirts will behave, otherwise the powder in the dryer might kick some pathetic tickets. Don't fucking scold tamely while you're sowing to a quiet sauce.

Chuck was a wide painter who climbed easily along the highway of pumpkins with his wandering cup. This explains the raw tyrant in front of the shower. If the wet balls can pour monthly, the shallow pen may rattle more ventilators. Let's join the poor monoliths, shall we? I don't care for the distant pools in their solving bowls. One more blunt stupid ulcer from my fear of smog. Sheri changes the sauce behind hers, which surprisingly helps. Dream plates of furious eggs inside the polite candles.

"Hey, go irritate a dose!"

You should always behave the butcher. You won't dye me receiving at your difficult mirror. Angry grasps within dark tired deserts. Lisette laughs, then hourly burns a cheap frame in front of Cypriene's bedroom. Jugs play with fat squares, unless they're noisy. The younger carpenters hate the easy drawer. They won't attack the wrinkles. The jackets, pears, and jars are all closed and pretty. Every hollow teacher departs, aching around Chester's open weaver. She'll look the dry tape over. She'd rather talk weakly than taste Maggie's lazy potter. But who wouldn't?

"You won't expect me through your hollow doorway." This in a crinkly voice.

There are no sad codes against the rural morning, recollecting in the lean night. They pull deep oranges from beneath the humble easy window, as butchers cook the grey cap in the answer kettle. Some jackets smell and burn. Others nearly creep. Tired grocers with their old egg answers get out their lifting jars. Lots of fat elder dryers steadily creep as the strange raindrops explain. Hardly any sad empty porters will walk among upper dry cafes. A raw dog nibbles on a clever carrot.

"Martin, have an outer coconut. You won't play it."

He sat dreaming of lazy caves. Just dreaming among a tree about the highway was too pretty for Sheri to climb it. Her wrinkle was dirty, clean. She converses with inner sunshines on a sweet pathetic morning. The boats, coconuts, and candles are dull and tired. The ugly frames jump with the blank mountain before the old rain became the solid ocean.

"I am freely clever, so I kick you," she lied.

"It's very raw today."

Chester's carrot pours through our draper after we laugh over it. He wants to clean healthy raindrops from Sheri's canyon. A boat for the bathroom.

"You won't burn me living without your stupid planet," he said, but not without hope.

Felix eerily kicks them too. We usually irritate his polite enigma. Shirts nibble outside younger mountains, unless they're sad. Urban bandages pull toward a satellite as the dog combs beneath their forks.

Let's believe in the clean evenings.

She Said She Said

The current stance in literature, apparently, is to frown upon using any verb other than "said" as dialogue tags. I've heard this from a few different so-called authoritative sources recently. Now, I can understand developing writers getting carried away in their haste to be unboring, & going overboard with their tags. And I can understand the inclination of exasperated educator-types to stifle said sophomoric excess. But it distracts me to no end in a story to encounter endless lines of "he said," "she said," "he said," "she said," ad nauseum. It gives me the impression the writer has a limited vocabulary. So I respectfully disagree with this verdict. I say the key is to have exactly the perfect word for the situation at hand. With any description, really. Nothing excessive, nothing superfluous - just BANG, the precise word that nails the situation right through the forehead. If it's a shrug instead of a said, so be it.

I'm not a big fan of barebones writing, I might add. I want my authors to sweat for their art, & discover things in the mundane I never realized were there. The less I am told by the author, the more information I end up filling in on my own. And the more I fill in on my own, the more inclined I feel to expect a certain percentage of the publishing royalties for having to do so much of the work myself. At least to get a sizeable refund off the cover price.

Spinach on the Brain

I'm Popeye the Sailor Man
I'm Popeye the Sailor Man
I'm strong to the finich
Cause I eats me spinach
I'm Popeye the Sailor Man

Am I the only one who, as a cabbage-brained little tyke, puzzled over what the hell a "finich" was?

The Giant Bat

In Market Square, a giant bat was hung on a lamppost, its wings spread outwards, its tiny vermilion eyes scanned across the angry mob. It hissed in defiance as torches were cruelly thrust into its side. The herdlike townsfolk milled about, curious children in shabby dress stood on tiptoe or climbed atop wooden benches or stone walls to peer over the heads of the adults at the proceedings. A nobleman distinguished from the rest by his groomed attire stood at the head of the throng, poised to speak. The swarming crowd was subdued to murmurs as he addressed the imprisoned creature in a controlled voice.

—We hereby charge thee with acts of terror, the spreading of ill-merited grief, nocturnal prowling and stalking, provoking fear and horror in the hearts of the innocent, and stealing the souls from the good people for your own villainous purposes. Your pronounced sentence is death.

The onlookers roared in agreement. An armored guard, stationed beside the beast, lifted his edged halberd from where it rested and, upon command from the nobleman, thrust it deep into the belly of the forlorn creature. The giant bat hissed angrily, fangs bared. Bloody spittle sputtered from its black lips and its wings quivered violently. Then the outburst quickly died away in its throat and its form grew limp. The square grew quiet as the fearsome head fell to one side, lifeless.

There were cheers and cries of celebration, victorious laugher, women spun in the arms of their husbands, children dashed amid the tangles of legs, elders looking skyward. All the while, a black ominous vapor spewed from the stabwound, thickly gathering in the torchlight. The onlookers ceased their merriment and turned their attention to the bewildering sight. The impenetrable mist quickly filled the square, choking the townspeople, stinging their eyes, burning their throats, biting into their flesh with unseen teeth. Dreadful screams escaped their lips. Their eyes bulged and they retched violently, the vile stench of vomit filling the nostrils. Some clawed at bleeding faces, wrenching out eyes with trembling fingers. One woman, seeking escape, slit her own throat with a ragged thumbnail. When at last they had all fallen, the deathfog began to lift. The tattered bodies lay horribly over one another, with twisted limbs and terrible wounds, ghastly faces of immortalized terror.

And in the center, the giant bat was gone. In its place lay the dead nobleman sprawled outright across the pedestal base of the lamppost. His grimy fingers were curled into a talon still quivering, his empty eyesockets turned towards the dark heavens as though trapped in a piteous deathplea with the immortal gods, seeking forgiveness for his grave misjudgment.

Munch's Venus

The Sisyphus Club

Recently while walking past a Starbucks with a friend, I commented on all the consumer whores sitting shamelessly in the window sucking on their corporate-sponsored brew. Look at them - they're not even aware of the fact that their souls have been eaten out.

Later a thought dawned on me - is there any difference between sitting in a Starbucks versus sitting in an independent coffeehouse while gazing at a laptop with a glowing apple on the lid? While wearing sneakers with a stylish check mark on the side & a jacket with North Face written on the south face? Here I am typing this on a name brand computer while sipping from a name brand beverage and listening to a name brand CD on a name brand stereo. My room is lit by a name brand lightbulb, I'm wearing name brand jeans, & glancing occasionally at a name brand alarm clock. Gah! I never even got the chance to succumb. I'm already living inside the machine.

I really must get around to reading No Logo.

Or better yet, the Tibetan Book of the Dead.

A Salty Venture

Sauntering along steelrust railroad tracks, kicking shale, my burlap bag slung across my jacketed back, brimming the outskirts of a nameless grey seaside town on a chilly morning. I find myself amid rank weeds and discarded litter in a vacant lot behind a ramshackle garage built from dirty orange bricks. A tiny miniature trailer lies overturned at my feet, like a discarded toy in the grass. Stooping, I retrieve the artifact and shake it slightly like a thermos, curious as to the contents. I strike a match on my denim trouserleg and hold it near the trailer door for a glimpse into its dark interior. A tiny matchbox man leaps out in a panic, his head ablaze. He runs in frantic circles, waving his little stickarms before stumbling over a haphazard leaf. Using the leaf like a fireblanket, he extinguishes his flaming head. He peers up, dazed, his little head like a lightbulb, his eyes like pinwheels.

I'm not clear how he can fit inside the toy trailer, since he is considerably larger in size than it. In a chirping voice he admits sheepishly he doesn't know either. I apologize for my negligence with the match, which he shrugs off without concern. His name is Edison and he climbs onto my shoulder, clutching my ear for stability. I stroll down along a sloping road past empty grey buildings to a seaside cafe overlooking the bay where the air is salty and thick with the odor of cod. My stomach growls a warning, so I enter the cafe with my new passenger and slide into a booth providing us with a pleasant vista of the harbor. Edison clambers onto the table and seats himself on a saltshaker while I peruse the coffeestained menu with eagerness. Glancing about, I notice several dejected waitresses scattered about at separate tables, head-in-hands, staring miserably at heaping trays of dirty dishes before them. The waitress in the tomatostained apron who brings me my clam chowder too seems rather vacant, lost in routine.

Edison suddenly emits an electronic gasp and dives under the table in haste as a greyhatted hachetman lurches through the cafe door. He stands near the entrance, surveying the contents of the restaurant with a wary eye. Edison tugs my pantleg frantically. Understanding that the hachetman is after him, I open my knapsack and he nimbly leaps in, nestling amongst the books and articles of clothing. Then, having finished my soup and leaving a reasonable tip, I rise and pass by the hatchetman's suspicious eye on my way towards the exit.

He follows me outside. From within the bag, Edison makes woeful predictions if we do not elude the hatchetman. Without glancing back, I head for the nearest abandoned house, a madhouse designed by a demented architect. With Edison perched on my shoulder once again, I climb up a flight of crooked Caligari stairs, the hatchetman tailing close behind. I lead him on a dizzying madromp through five-cornered rooms and twisting passages of labyrinthian perplexities. A triangular door opens out onto the rooftop of the madhouse. Here I cling to a crippled weathervane, blinking in muted daylight as clouds whirl overhead.

When I feel the hatchetman has been suitably eluded, I reenter the bizarre structure. I wander down sloping corridors, trying various doors in search of an exit. One room contains several torn disheveled mattresses spilling cotton innards from gashes onto a cement floor. Another door opens to reveal an eerie underwater room, a small grimy window letting in a thin turbid stream of light. A girl crouches in one corner, trussed up with rope, her mouth tightly gagged, bulging eyefright. Strange translucent tubes, swaying and wavering, release poisonous bubbles into the water.

I quickly slam the door shut on this spectacle and continue down the corridor. Finally I discover a doorway which leads us outside, not far from the fisherman's wharf. Edison insists the hatchetman will find us again and we must launch a boat to get away. We climb aboard a stalwart craft and cast off, plowing swiftly through taciturn waters with powerful oarstrokes, as seagulls scream overhead, as though sounding alarm. Passing several other boats engaged in marlin-hunt, our craft glides further away from the coast, across the saltstained waves, sifting in sunshine swirls.

Glancing towards shore we spot the hatchetman pursuing in a vessel of his own. Oaring desperately now, we soon escape the bay, and behind us the coastline vanishes. Then heaven cracks and torrents rise against us, threatening to capsize our modest craft. Valiantly I joust the storm, paddling in seasick circles. Edison clings for dear life until the tempest snatches us up and dumps us in the drink. The ocean, refusing to swallow me, washes me onto a shipwreck island where I collapse in the sand, falling into an obscure sleep. Hours later I revive to discover Edison sprawled dazed beside me, shaking saltwater from his lightbulb head. The hatchetman's boat drifts close to the shore, empty. He must have been pulled under the waves during the squall.

Wading through the surf with Edison perched on my shoulder, I reach the craft and climb aboard. With weary bones, we row back to the mainland where I return my lightbulb-headed friend to the plot of land behind the garage where I first found him. He waves a fond farewell, then leaps back into his miniature trailer and I bound off, bag over shoulder, down the railroad tracks once again.

Hoopla Skirts

Got a load of shiny new music for you good people out there, most of whom live in my head. The big event this weekend was the Reverend Glasseye CD release party at the Middle East. The new album is called Our Lady of the Broken Spine & I am now the proud owner of a copy. Not an easy band to describe. I was thinking of a cocktail of Nick Cave, Robert Mitchum in Night of the Hunter, & a bar mitzvah. You may well draw your own conclusions. It was a hellbent show featuring a heap of guest stars. Humanwine was the opener. I've mentioned them before, but they've morphed into a spooky French gypsy cabaret act which I really enjoy. My favorite tune of theirs is, I believe, called "Wake Up" & sounds alarmingly like one of those evil dream sequence numbers from classic Disney films, along the lines of "Huffalumps & Woozles." As if the song wasn't sinister enough as is, Brian Carpenter of Beat Circus notoriety led a marching band of misfits onstage during its finale, just to ensure all traces of sanity were left behind. As an added treat, the ubiquitous Karen Langlie of the Sob Sisters sat in on cello. There was a furious NYC band called World/Inferno Friendship Society who left us with the immortal threat "fuck with me & I'll hold a grudge against you for the rest of my life!" I spotted Amanda & Brian from the Dresden Dolls waltzing crazily on the mezzanine during a few tunes. And then there was Ho-ag, who can best be described as chaos incarnate. Let's try Captain Beefheart, Black Flag, & Devo for a rough approximation.

In other news, Twink has a sparkling new album called The Broken Record which is comprised of reconstructed snippets from vintage children's records. The tune "Pussycat" is available for your listening pleasure off the website & is more fun than a polkadotted bowtie.

Meanwhile, Kate Bush's criminally overdue album Aerial is gorgeous. Takes a few listens for it to really sink in, like most her albums do, but once it does, you're in for a vastly unique landscape. I'd say this one picks up right where Sensual World left off, as though Red Shoes never happened. In one song she actually duets with a bird, which feels a little akin to the ghost in "Watching You Without Me" on Hounds of Love. And no one but Kate Bush could get away with a heartfelt ode to the pi ratio.

Dusting Off an Old Chestnut

Dear President Bush,

Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God's law, and reminding us that God's word is eternal and unchanging. I try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can, but I need some advice from you regarding some other elements of God's Laws and how to follow them.

For instance, when someone tries to defend the homosexual lifestyle, I simply remind them that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination, however:

1. A friend of mine feels that, even though eating shellfish is also an abomination (Lev. 11:10), it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don't agree. Can you settle this? Are there "degrees" of abomination?

2. Leviticus 25:44 states that I may possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are purchased from neighboring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not to Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can't I own Canadians?

3. I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?

4. When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord (Lev. 1:9). The problem is my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?

5. I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states that he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself, or should I ask the police to do it?

6. Lev. 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle-room here?

7. Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Lev.19:27. How should they die?

8. I know from Lev. 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?

9. My uncle has a farm. He violates Lev. 19:19 by planting two different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them (Lev.24:10-16)? Couldn't we just burn them to death at a private family affair, like we do with people who sleep with their in-laws (Lev.20:14)?

10. I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of menstrual uncleanliness (Lev. 15:19-24). The problem is, how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.

Mr. Bush, since you have made your faith such an integral part of how you do your job, and thus must enjoy considerable expertise in such matters, I am confident you can help. Thank you again for reminding us that God's word is eternal and unchanging.

Election Day

There's a squirrel on the powerline
about to make the Big Jump
The sun is high but its still gonna rain
Ministers with doom under their hats
give directions to out of town gamblers
and make obscene trips to the bank
Housewives lick their husbands' swastikas
in upstairs rooms as junior pokes holes
in the backyard earth
Voters line up like gravestones
on cold autumn afternoon
waiting for the big coin toss
Something dark floats in the lake
barely visible from the shore
Patio sunbathers
distracted by biscuits and cream
until whatever it is
sinks below the surface

Myrrh Maid

What have you to say for yourself, miss cat's eye chorus girl with the angelhips & sinner's smile? Go ask the landlord for the rent money back, you'll make better use of it than he. Little street urchin with ink in your pigtails, hiding in a castle of old tires as the sun melts into the sea & oyster gatherers return home with sad empty buckets. There's a place for you at the end of the pier where no one else will sit, just watch for splinters in your barefeet. Waterbirds rip their food from the waves. The legs of the pier are weakkneed & the lampposts have rheumatism. The ocean voice is hoarse after all these years & endless tides. Weeds grow through the cracks of your toes. The tattered mayor walks along, nursing impure thoughts. Don't let him catch you there.

The Balloonist

On a moody afternoon I float above the sprawling corduroy earth in a helium balloon, wisps of clouds tickling my lip. Seagulls glare because I'm invading their turf. As I pass over a village, everyone comes out of their houses to learn what is causing the demonic shadow splashed across the land. They peer up at me, shading their eyes with saluting hands. One after another they grab up rocks & heave them in deadly arcs at me. One glances painfully off my shoulder. Another strikes the basket, causing it to wobble. I clutch at the harness to steady my balance. Another projectile smashes against my wrist & I hear something break. Most sail past harmlessly. A schoolteacher takes careful aim & drives her rock through the fabric of the balloon. I hear the hiss of gas escaping. The balloon comes crashing down to earth where the villagers set upon me with their rocks.

The Critic

Yes, as a matter of fact I have looked over your manuscript. Intriguing ideas you possess, I must say. Unfortunately I'm forced to turn it down for publication. It is far too dark and dreary for our standards. The modern reader wants to be uplifted, not submerged in an abyss of hopelessness and despair. Your characters are unbelievable and devoid of personality, with no psychological depth. The plot, if indeed it has one, meanders all over the place, your metaphors are ridiculous, there are loose ends everywhere. There isn't even a proper ending—it just trails off as though you grew tired of writing it and simply gave up. Your use of surrealism is irresponsible. I have no doubt you have a very rich dream life, but just because something is vivid in your head doesn't mean it translates onto the page. People want stories they can identify with, that inspire them, empower them, reaffirm their moral values. Stories that restore their faith in humanity. Your story does none of these things.

What I suggest you do, rather than submerge yourself further in this sort of gloomy weirdness, is set up a cozy little workspace for yourself—by a window if possible, with lots of sunlight, maybe a nice little plant to make it feel cheery—and try coming up with something a little more uplifting, with likeable characters, and most importantly a good solid plot. That's your backbone, you know. That's what carries the reader along.

And for heaven's sake, take this godforsaken manuscript home and burn it at once. It is simply unpublishable. You have talent as a writer, I grant you that—but I might as well tell you, so long as you keep writing this sort of muddled nonsense, you will never make a profession of it. You may as well find yourself a more reliable position in the insurance business and save yourself a lot of grief.

Now I'm afraid I must send you on your way—my time is valuable, you see, and I have a rather pressing engagement I must attend to. Please help yourself to a breathmint on the desk. That's what they're there for.

Err, Lena, can you step into my office for a moment. Yes, would you be a dear and please escort Mr Kafka to the elevator?

Thatta girl...

The Gospel According to St Bozo

Before the beginning, there was this turtle. And the turtle was alone. And he looked around, and he saw his neighbor, which was his mother. And he lay down on top of his neighbor, and behold! she bore him in tears an oak tree, which grew all day and then fell over - like a bridge. And lo! under the bridge there came a catfish. And he was very big. And he was walking. And he was the biggest he had seen. And so with the fiery balls of this fish - one of which is the sun, the other the moon...

Yes, some uncomplicated peoples still believe this myth. But here, in the technical vastness of the future we can guess that surely the past was very different. We can surmise for instance that these two great balls…

We know for certain for instance that for some reason for some time in the beginning there were hot lumps, cold and lonely, they whirled noiselessly through the black holes of space. These insignificant lumps came together to form the first union, our Sun, the heating system. And about this glowing gasbag rotated the Earth, a cat's eye among aggies, blinking in astonishment across the face of time.

Well, we were covered with the molten scum of rocks, bobbing on the surface like rats. Later when there was less heat, these giant rock groups settled down among the land masses. During this extinct time, our earth was like a steamroom, and no one, not even man, could get in. However, the oceans and the sewers were simmering with a rich protein stew, and the mountains moved in to surround and protect them. They didn’t know then that living as we know it, was already taken over.

Animals without backbones hid from each other or fell down. Clamasaurs and oysterettes appeared as appetizers. Then came the sponges, which sucked up about ten percent of all life. Hundreds of years later, in the Late Devouring period, fish became obnoxious. Trilobites, chiggerbites and mosquitoes collided aimlessly in the dense gas. Finally, edible plants sprang up in rows, giving birth to generations of insecticides and other small, dying creatures.

Millions of months passed, and twenty-eight days later, the moon appeared. This small change was reflected best perhaps, in the sand dollar which shrank to almost nothing at the bottom of the pool where even dumb amphibians like catfish layed their eggs in the boiling waters only to be gobbled up every ten seconds by the giant sea orphans and jungle bunnies which scared everybody.

And so, in fear and hot water, man is born!

Hieronymus Bosch for Kids

I saw MirrorMask this evening. Ay carumba! I've been pretty hostile towards CGI in the past. Mainstream filmmakers have been awfully self-congratulatory with their own efforts, but to me it just looked like someone drew on the film. Which I suppose is essentially what it is. The audience was clearly supposed to be awed by what to me looked barely a step up from Harryhausen-esque stopmotion. But after Sin City & now MirrorMask, I think the technology has finally caught up with the artisan. The medium has come a long way since the Lucas/Spielberg cartooniness that I once smirked at. And it figures the first of the master craftsmen would be summoned from the realm of the graphic novel.

I wasn't too familiar with Dave McKean's work going into this. I've read Gaiman's Good Omens & some of the Sandman series. So I wasn't exactly sure what to expect. MirrorMask is like Labyrinth as seen through the eyes of Jan Svankmajer. Visually, what Brazil was to the eighties & City of Lost Children to the nineties, MirrorMask must be to the aughts. To say it's dreamlike is an understatement. It looks as if it was filmed on breathing parchment. We've heard this sort of storyline before - not much different from the classic Wizard of Oz, Alice in Wonderland "girl on quest through strange land" fare - but the brilliance lies in the presentation. As if we've been propelled from sock puppet theatre to a Cecil B DeMille production. Also, I can't get its eerie reinterpretation of Bacharach's "Close To You" out of my head for the life of me.

This film is a reassuring sign for the direction of cinema. I'm genuinely excited to see what else lies around the corner.

Comic Book Chicanery

A stroll through the image galleries of Superdickery can provide endless hours of amusement.

Distance

At the far end of the playground a woman perches on a bench, visibly upset. She clutches a bag of pretzel shards in a frail hand. Scattered about the bench in several directions and distances lay a litter of lifeless squirrels. She eyes them mournfully, her shoulders sagging in a posture of defeat. Her body is wrapped in a dusty overcoat to shut out the autumn wind, the belt drawn tightly across her midriff. She instantly brightens as an animate squirrel bounds out of the underbrush and scurries towards her, balances on the metal rim of a trashbin, watching her with blank eyes. Her skeletal fingers dig through the bag and emerge with a fragment of pretzel, and crescents of pretzeldust buried under her nails. She offers this to the squirrel, who twitches a whisker, then hungrily accepts. It downs the pretzel in a frenzy of teeth and claws, then hops off the bin, staggers a few brief steps, nose raised as if sniffing danger. The squirrel gets barely a foot from the bench before collapsing on its side, breathing heavily until the breathing stops entirely. The look of anguish returns to the paper skin of the woman's face, her eyes yellow with moisture. "Why are you playing tricks on me?" she utters to the inert creature. She prods it with the tip of her shoe. Not harshly, just a gentle poke. "Wake up. Why are you pretending to sleep? Wake up!"

The Return of the Bride of the Ghost of...

So David Berkowitz, notorious Son of Sam, has renounced serial murder in favor of Christianity (as if the two were mutually exclusive) & offers his own Official Home Page to spread the Word of the Lord. Maybe this is common knowledge to the masses, but I stumbled onto it by mistake & was somewhat amused, in a dismal sort of way.

Zaireeka!

I need to arrange a Zaireeka listening party. Set up four stereos in each compass direction facing inwards, provide some wine & some voodoo candles, recline in the center on a rug, then cue up the CDs & listen. Problem is, all the people I would want to invite to such a thing are inconveniently scattered across the country.

Yesterday I dumped the four CDs onto my computer & cakewalked the tracks together, just to get a sense of what it would sound like. But that's cheating - definitely not the aural equivalent. You can't stack up the tracks like cartoon gels - you need to build a hologramic temple of sound.

More Songs About Seaweed & Twine

Recently I've been mulling over the possibility that, as online music purchasing grows more prevalent, consumers will lean towards buying individual songs, no longer fettered by the physical limitation of the CD itself. They'll simply go online & download that last particular song that was lodged in their head when they heard it over the loudspeaker while buying wallpaper earlier in the day. Thus, with the consumer's ability to pick & choose exactly what they want to hear, the artist will inevitably lose control over the context of the music. The decades-old concept of the album as a deliberate artistic structure will be abandoned & we'll return to the pre-Sgt Pepper milieu of songs existing of themselves. The concept album will become an artifact. Not to mention cover art.

The only thing I lament about this likelihood is that instant gratification could rob us of hidden treasures. I can't imagine how many times I've bought an album, picked out a few songs as my favorites & concentrated mainly on those, only to later discover one of those supposedly "weaker" tracks contained some subtle piece of magic that I never would have recognized had I left them off my shopping list just because they didn't grab me first time around.

Humans, being creatures of arrogance, most of the time act too hastily for our own wellbeing - flailing around & knocking things over. Sometimes it's better to let an impulse stew for awhile before we act on it. We don't always recognize a good thing first time it rears its head. That's all I'm saying.

"The only public conveyance was the streetcar. A lady could whistle to it from an upstairs window, and the car would halt at once, and wait for her ... too slow for us nowadays, because the faster we're carried, the less time we have to spare." ~ The Magnificent Ambersons

The Night is Young & We Have Umbrellas In Our Drinks

It's a drag coming back to Boston after a stay in NYC. I may be outgrowing the proverbial city of beans in favor of the proverbial city of apples. It's like going on one of those kiddie rides at a theme park after tackling the big kahuna of roller coasters. Walking home through Somerville at two in the morning - the streets are deserted, except for the occasional taxi driver nodding off & plowing into a hedge. Everything shuts down at night. Windows are dark, sidewalks are barren. Bars in Somerville close at one & there's nowhere to go but home to bed. Store 24 closes at midnight. Never figured out what the "24" is supposed to signify. The quantity of chewing gum brands, perhaps? If this was NYC, I'd be having a tasty grilled cheese sandwich in a sadluck diner right now, & watching a wino chew on his toenail in the next booth.

Tonight was the sixth incarnation of Ukulele Noir, a monthly event I try not to miss - where ukuleles & porkpie hats collide. Craig Robertson accompanied by 2/3rds of the Sob Sisters (swoon), the falsetto croonings of Rick Russo, the dynamic duo of Tim Mann & Greg Hawkes (yep, the guy responsible for all those chirps & grunts in The Cars), the tuneful Melvem Taylor & the Fabulous Meltones, & straight outta Ohio, Tom Harker & his Prodigal Sons. Now, first, I find it mildly surprising that there are this many ukulele enthusiasts in the Boston area. And second, I find it odd that they all choose to assemble at the Skybar, which is a "beer in plastic cups"-style dive sandwiched between an auto body shop & a baseball field. Then again, they host a goth night as well, so let's hear it for juxtaposition.

I'm going to seek out the identity of the stenchridden lugnut who drove the 12:05 am number 87 bus out of Lechmere roaring past me without stopping & shall cause grievous injury to his person. Yet because of him I stopped into Toad & heard a smokin' jazzfunk band called The Freelance Bishops - one of the tightest combos I've heard in eons. Sort of like an atomic clock with sex appeal. The horn player blew into a device called an EWI that sounded like an elongated electronic kiwi. Due to that & the keyboardist's vintage Rhodes, they often reminded me of something midway between Jan Hammer-era Jeff Beck & incidental music from an episode of Barney Miller. Good merchandise.

Sleep tight, Somerville - you despicable early risers.

Foreign Devices

Pamela Martinez - Self-Titled EP
CD Review from Sonic Heart, June 2005 issue

Okay, sure. First impression is that Pamela Martinez is doing butterfly strokes through Bjork's end of the pool. This is due to a certain vocal weightlessness and melodic riskiness. A minute and a half into the first song on her new EP one quickly remembers that you can only get so much mileage out of comparisons before a work honestly must be dealt with on its own terms. The sonic palette stretches across a wide span of temperatures, from warm resin-caked strings to frosty electronics. Meanwhile Pamela's voice glistens down the resulting corridors of ice and earth like some sort of disembodied sorceress. The album contains four songs in total. The first three could be tone poems told from the p.o.v. of a kite wafting across a bed of refrigerated circuit boards as synapses spark through the troposphere. Gravity is toyed with and time is perverted. The epic-length final song, "Foreign Devices (Remix Balanc3d)," is a desperate pursuit across an existential terrain of broken Atari 2600 video games embedded in ice. Sort of an arctic nod to that prototypal chase sequence, Pink Floyd's "On the Run." The vocals are used more as a smear of background shadow than as a central narration. Ms Martinez and crew are talented weavers of sound. I recommend listening to this album in a dim, candlelit room, preferably with a strong aroma of wood.

Release the Hounds

Alright, folks. I contributed a CD review to the latest episode of Sonic Heart magazine. Reportedly it can be found in all sorts of Boston area independent music stores, most notably Newbury Comics. The purpose of said magazine is to spotlight the local electronic music scene, & so they do. Pick up a copy today & help pay for the kindly editor's excessive parking tickets.

By the way, the album I reviewed belongs to one Pamela Martinez. Give her a spin. She helms some diabolically good tunes. And her live show is nothing to sneeze at either.

Flim Flam

Hate to come across as backwards thinking, but does anyone else find it rather odd when a band takes the stage, the keyboard presses start on his sequencer, & the musicians all stand there motionless while the pre-recorded music plays? Especially when it turns out that every song in their repertoire is sequencer-dependant. A large percentage of the music is not created in front of you, but rather replayed from computer disk. I've seen a number of such performances lately & it makes me wonder what the point of focus here is. The barrier between performance & karaoke is narrowing.

I remember watching a DJ open for The Eels. He took the stage with pipe in mouth & proceeded to play a series of records for us. The audience, myself included, stood there watching him do this, as though he were the act itself & not just the sound operator. We watched him smoke his pipe & flip through his crate of albums looking for suitable followups.

This opens the door for a whole slew of performance art. Imagine next time David Bowie comes to town, his opening act could be the carpenters & electricians actually building his set. During the show the lighting booth could be backlit so that should we grow bored with the onstage events, we could turn & watch the lighting engineer pulling levers. Between acts we could turn & focus on the bartenders. And we could hoot when one of them delivers a particularly stunning head of beer.

I sense potential here.