Thursday, April 21, 2011


Dr. Yours Truly: "Would you like me to go over it again? I thought this sort of thing usually clicked instantly with you."

The Head: "Yours, please repeat our special guests greeting. Speak slower this time around."

Dr. Yours Truly: "Sure thing. All four of them, in unison, recited this exactly:

The Dog has caught its tail.
The Dog has chewed and swallowed much of its tail.

When all is said and done, the Dog will poop out the tail.
And still Man sits with folded hands, chewing the flesh of Man."

The Head: "Hmm."

Dr. Yours Truly: "I like the part about everything being said and done. Our guests sure know how to write poetry. Mmm, great poem."

The Head: "So, you think this is a poem?"

Dr. Yours Truly: "Yep. I mean, it is a poem."

The Head: "It's from the Bible, Yours. Well, at least part of it is. You mean to tell me, that after every thing that occurred during the conference, upon hearing their response, you thought it was a poem?"

Dr. Yours Truly: "It is a poem."

The Head: "Doc, you're worth every penny. By the way, I thought I told you it was OK to rig the raffle. How was The "Artists'" number drawn?"

Dr. Yours Truly: "Hey, I did rig the raffle. I rigged it so that my number would be drawn, so that I could have been the one to greet them. But, raffles aren't what they used to be. And, fair is fair."

Thursday, April 14, 2011

It Happened One Day

The world sat in the corner of the waiting room. As Son sent a woman, who when asked “What exactly is wrong?” could offer no other explanation besides the circling of her face and throat coupled with a distracted “I’m just… I don’t feel good”, to return to a waiting seat, the world began to sing. Simultaneously, it sang two songs, each in two octaves. One song it sang to the left, and one song, to the right.

It had become habitual for Son to listen to the world’s singing. Son loves music! Why should he let one human-music inspired self-mutilation experience ruin all music for him? The world has a quite distinguished singing voice, mind you. Anyways, the world sung, and Son heard.

To the right, the world sang:

(In the voice of Jane) “Mam, before you return to your seat in the waiting room, please allow me to explain just one more thing to you. What I am about to explain is for your information. Just in case you saw that strange and bulky object in the alcove directly behind you, and wondered what “on earth” it could be, I have the answer! I can inform you of its purpose. It is a new and pharmaceutically revolutionary “machine-object” that can, and if you elect to utilize its services, will save you a trip to your local Walgreen’s, CVS, what-have-you, etc. The “machine-object” behind you has been named “The Insty-Meds Machine”. Listen now, to this! This “Insty-Meds Machine” is more-or-less – and in my opinion, more – a “Vending Machine”. But! Instead of vending your typical “Nutrageous”, “Jay’s”, “Lay’s”, or “Funyuns” snack items, the “Insty-Meds Machine” vends medicines. You can, if you elect to use its services, buy any number of medicines that the doctor – who I assure, will be with you shortly – may or may not prescribe to you. Your “Amoxicillins”, “Z-Packs”, “Robitussin AC”, “Prednisone”, “Albuterol”, “Valium”, pills, syrups, suspensions, what-have-you, etc., etc., etc., are all inside of this machine. The only thing stopping you from purchasing your medicines from within the very room in which we sit, is your permission. Yes, I need your permission. Permission to scan your supplementary prescription insurance card into the “Insty-Meds Data-Base”, a data-base the “Insty-Meds Machine” is close friends with – maybe even best friends. Let me be honest with you for a second, I don’t think there is a secret between them. Do you think “Machines” have realized within their “Machine-Potential” their ability to tell lies? Woah, woah, woah, Jane! You’re getting yourself sidetracked here! I’m sorry about that Mam. So, do you give me permission to scan you prescription insurance card into the “Insty-Meds Database”? So that in the case the doctor prescribes to you any of the medicines currently in-stock within the “Insty-Meds Machine”, based upon his or her provisional diagnosis, which is of course based upon whatever those symptoms were you informed me of a few minutes ago, you will be able to purchase those prescribed medicines right here, without even going to the CVS right around the corner.”

(In an obese and tired woman’s smoky exhalation) “Nah, that’s ok, I have to go to Walgreen’s anyways.”

And to the left, the world sang:

(In your Mother’s voice) “Hey, this is your Mother. I’m good. How are you? Good. Hey, I have a question for you. Can you answer a question I have? Yeah, I was wondering, how much does a pack of Newport 100’s cost? You don’t know?! What do you mean you don’t know? You don’t know that they cost Five-Dollars and Seventy-One cents? How is it that you don’t know this? Do you mean to tell me that you didn’t buy a pack of Newport 100’s this morning at Shell-Station #1068? Oh you did! I see. You just didn’t bother to look and see how much they cost, with tax included. Did you buy this pack of Newport 100’s with my debit card? You did. Well, thank you for at least being honest with me. Can I ask you another question? Can you let me in on something? How did you get my debit card? I never gave it to you. Your father is under strict instructions not to give it to you. Did you steal my debit card? You did?! Well, thank you for your honesty. Jake, are you listening to me? Don’t be a thief! Don’t be a thief. Oh? You’re going? Ok, well… I have to get back to work anyways.

Aha! I knew it! Something just told me!

Steve, are you there? Yeah, yeah, it’s me. I’m at work. Steve? Before you do or say anything to him, go into his room, look through his stuff, and find his cigarettes. When you find his cigarettes, destroy them. Destroy the cigarettes. Guess what? He stole our credit card. That means he is coming into our bedroom, at night, while we are sleeping, and going into my purse. Yeah, I know! From now on, we are sleeping with the door locked, ok? Ok? Ok. After you find the cigarettes, what are you going to do? No, no, after you destroy them. You’re going to punish him, ok? Ok. Love you too, sweetie. Wait, what did you just say you did? I thought you were going to start building the deck today. What?! You did what?? Honey!! Why would you move my landscaping rocks?! Ok, yeah, gotta go. Love you, too.

He moved my landscaping rocks!”

Now, the world never intended for Son to do what he set his mind to that day. The world was only singing. But, when two songs, sung in two octaves, swirl round and round the air of a room, tiptoe all the way through Son’s ears’ canals, meet upon their arrivals in the center, shake hands, and say “Good to know you, friend”, Son is just the sort of person who tends to wonder “What in the world” would make the world want to sing such songs. You know the type. So, one can understand how easy it really would be for Son to misinterpret the songs’ meanings.

As the songs, long since over, resonated within and without his mind, Son sat, stared at the ground and thought to himself: “Well, I suppose this must be it. Why didn’t anyone tell me that he was being serious when he claimed every imagination of the thoughts of their hearts was only evil continually? Come on, it sounded like he was exaggerating. Geez. Well world, how big do you want it to be?”

Meanwhile, in the waiting room, there are five children – one boy and four girls. Each has a smart phone in their hands. All five smart phones render the song “Baby” by Justin Bieber. Though, each child had pressed “play” according to their own time. The smart phones spew tinny and distorted versions of the words “baby, baby, baby, oh baby”. All five children are dancing. All five children are tracing the words. Each in their own time. At the very least, this situation, event, what-have-you, is informing one boy’s and four girls’ sexuality.

Horace and Doris buy Ice Cream

Horace and Doris stand in line to buy the soft-serve ice cream the boy behind the window and counter will arrange in either a sugar or waffle cone. Doris looks at the ground. Horace looks to the left, and to the right. Then, Horace joins in Doris’ gaze-stance. He slightly lifts his right foot, kicks a pebble, shrugs, and puts his hands into his pockets.

“What is the matter, Doris?”


As the vocal chords inside the throat of Doris swing back and forth, pitching the i, n, and g across the center of home plate, a sensation suddenly fills her body. It is a sensation Doris typically feels. Doris was not handed down the name of this sensation from a mother, brother, or aging cousin. And, at this point in time, she has neither invented, nor has she chosen to agree with the name elected by some playwright, popular-music singer, or child. So, not having a name for this feeling that is brimming and boiling over the edge of her “pot”, Doris opens the book she is reading to pages 59 and 60, page 59 being the last page she read.

You know what they say, “A bookmark never forgets.” No, a bookmark remembers.

On this day, Doris is using a one-dollar bill as a book mark. Horace and Doris are still waiting for their ice-cream cones. As Doris’ eyes descend towards the book – so that she can pretend to read, so that she doesn’t have to invent a name for a currently unidentified feeling, so that she doesn’t have to talk to Horace – they are attracted to some words scribbled on the backside of the one-dollar bill. Simultaneously, Horace imagines himself making contact with the “Nothing Ball” thrown directly into the center of his strike-zone (he would have hit it out of the park!), and the scribbled words on the back of the one-dollar bill bookmark come into the eyes of Doris.

As she reads over the scribbled words, the previously unnamed feeling she felt leaves her body. This happens because the nature of the scribbled words could be called “abrasive”. The scribbled words poke many leaky holes into the soles of her feet. By-the-way, that unnamed feeling she felt was a liquid. The words scribbled upon the back of the one-dollar bill bookmark are gaseous. Through the poked holes, the scribbled words slowly ascend and fill each and every cavity within Doris’ body. She quickly identifies the feelings she now feels. She knows their names. She is surprised, excited, and afraid.

In her mind Doris thinks: “Wait a second here… How could… No, it’s not possible… Is someone talking to me? Hello, is anyone there?”

Doris shuts the book. Pages 59 and 60 are still marked by the one-dollar bill bookmark. The very same bookmark that to this day has the words “all of your nothings filled two jars neither heavy nor weightless suspended on a two-by-four dangling over city street the nothings are yours the jars are ours the two-by-four is mine” scribbled upon the backside with a orange-red crayon.

Saturday, April 9, 2011


"Hello World. A solitary "Shout Out" to all my listeners in X-County. I promise you all -- or should I call you everyone? -- that this hour's talking will be good and logical. So, lets get going. Why don't we? Nevermind.

BIO 105 professor T. L. Marsh once said of the twenty-first century's most profound and inquisitive logician, that "It was obvious to me at the very onset of the course that he was disinterested. His mind just wasn't inside BIO 105." The logician of whom we speak is of course the renown and controversial Roberto Rehn-Aldi. Rehn-Aldi was known to his peers as an avid "White Socks" "Baseball Team" "Fan". It has even been rumored that Rehn-Aldi may have been one of the first human beings to intentionally conceal the "White" "Apple" "Ear-Bud" "Head-Phones" in such a way that the "Head-Phone's" "Chord" hung in the cavity between his body's "Skin" and "Tea-Shirt", emerging from the point of a "Tea-Shirt" called the "Collar".

Retrospectively, we can safely say that Rehn-Aldi did all this so that he could listen to "Live" "W.G.N." "Radio" "Broad-Casts" of the "White Socks" "Baseball Team's" "Baseball Games" without drawing obvious attention to the "Fact" that during BIO 105, his mind's "Probes" "Marines" and "Zerglings" wandered through, and charted the regions of human-being consciousness that at that point in time were "Black".

Rehn-Aldi's bravely posed question "Do Dogs Chase Birds?" actualized the chasm within Frege's then wilting logical continent. Mmm, it still resonates in my mind, at least. When all was said and done, these four words had caused an entire logical continent to vanish. We are left to wonder whether or not deductive logic will rise once again from the center of a sea, just as Atlantis has. We think not. To call Rehn-Aldi a sea-creature biting at a line would be more than insulting, it would be illogical. Rehn-Aldi is not a sea-creature. Deductive logic is not a bobber.

If it were not for Rehn-Aldi's twenty-first century spoken words, human beings would have never learned the secret -- the truth -- behind bird's flight and migratory patterns. Human beings would still be underneath the impression that birds "smelled their way to Florida" and simply knew how to get back home.

For those of you who are just now joining us within this point in time, let's recap. Birds do not "smell their way to Florida", sillies. No, birds follow the rings. In order to get to Florida, they have to collect almost all of the rings. A moment of silence seems in order. Let us ponder "Where in the world each would be today" if we human beings had never figured out how birds get to Florida.

An interesting side note, for those who are both still listening and still care: early evidence of this human-discovery to-have-been can be seen in aspects of twentieth century "Media". One begins to ponder the psychic capabilities of us human beings when considering the apparent clairvoyance of SEGA. It is obviously not coincidental that in order to complete each level in Sonic the Hedgehog, players of SEGA were required to adopt and mimic exactly the very means by which birds, to this day, use in order to get to Florida.

Although Rehn-Aldi is still among us today, he has not been much help in our hunt to uncover the "Reason" why human beings create games people can play on SEGA which unconsciously profess how birds get to Florida. Maybe, just maybe, we should look deeper into the original question posed by Rehn-Aldi. Do dogs in fact chase birds? If dogs do chase birds, then what is it about dogs that fills their dog-bodies with the sort of feelings that inspire them to chase birds? If a dog is man's best friend, then unraveling this enigmatic ball of yarn of a question could reveal the profundities of the human psyche. And if after solving this riddle we are no more enlightened, then dog might not actually be man's best friend.

We'll leave you with this final thought: Have dogs betrayed us human beings once and for all? There is only one way to find out.

This is Son, signing off.

Until "Next" Time. Pffffft. Haha y'all, just messing.

Ah, wait! I have perceived several "Artifacts" from the time before that demonstrate that dogs do find birds, and dogs do hold birds in their mouths, but still no solid perceivable evidence that dogs specifically chase birds. Can you see the "Artifacts"? Can you at least perceive them? I have laced this "Broad-Cast" with them.

Once "More", "Good-Bye". Here are my apologies for speaking with the furry tongue of one who had not yet become. It's the only way I know how, I swear. Can anyone still with me taste the apology yet?"

Friday, April 8, 2011

More Interoffice Correspondence

Yours Truly says: “Good morning representatives of Mankind! And a jovial “hello” to you as well, Dogs. Let me begin by thanking both of you for the basket of apples that arrived in my temperature controlled food storage bin this morning. Yes, the apples are scrumptious. No, I’m not addicted – yet! Ha, I’m just hoping that neither of have mistaken me for Snow White! You know, because of my skin. Ha, only foolin’.

Alright, let’s get this show on the road already! Shall we? Ok, before we all start the work day, The Head – or “La Cabeza” for our Spanish speakers in the audience tonight, asked me to read out loud, in his voice, a letter that he had written only moments before I began my trek to the office bright and early this morning.

Ok… let me see here. Wow! He starts it with a truly old-fashioned question. Ok, geez. Well, here we go.


“My grandfather used to sit me on his knee and ask me this question every morning. By-the-way, for you information, I am not asking you this question. This is a rhetorical question. I am well aware, meaning, I already know how silly this question will sound to you, my employees. Bear with me. I have a point that I want to make. Something I think you all need to remember. Something I can’t believe you all have forgotten, again. The question is: “If you could travel backwards or forwards in time, to any point that had ever existed or will exist, and while you were inside that particular point in time, you only got to speak with one person, to what point in time would you travel, and with whom would you speak?”

The point that I want to make is that everyone here tonight is really ungrateful of everything I have ever done in my entire life. The human-being resource office, down here at headquarters, is getting more complaints today, than yesterday. This is not sustainable. I cannot sustain this. Neither can I stand it!

Please, knock it off. Yes, all of it. Knock it all off. In my opinion, each and every one of my employees is way to close to goofing off. Knock it off. Don’t goof off. If it wasn’t for my grandfather asking me the rhetorical question I posed to you all moments ago, I never would have had the insatiable desire to meet the first one of us! Do you see where I am going with all of this? Do you? If you are thinking “Yes, I see where he is going with all of this” then ask yourself this question, “Do you really?”

I mean to express that if I wasn’t asked that question every morning, sitting upon my Grandfather’s knee, none of you would have jobs. Alright? Is that clear?

So, everyone in attendance tonight, please bow your heads, close your eyes, open your hearts, and repeat after me:

“I will stop having problems that I feel compelled to submit to the human resource office.

I am thankful for my job.

I feel good about this.

Thank you, The Head”

And one more thing, I realize, meaning “I know”, that no one has to “know” anything anymore – thanks to me, and I realize that no one has to “remember” anything anymore. Even so, I am going to ask you all another question. A different kind of question. Your grandparents and great-grandparents and great-great-grandparents would have known the answer to this question I am about to ask you all. They would have known that what I am about to ask you is a “Science” question. Ok? So listen up.

What is it about us human beings that is different? Why did human beings end up on top of the food chain? Why not lions, or dinosaurs, or even dogs for that matter? Why are we the fortunate few who get to eat three meals a day through our nostrils? Because we know the secret of evolution. What is the secret of evolution you ask? Oh, sorry, I forgot nobody remembers anything these days. Well, let me tell you. The secret of evolution is that it behooves you to behoove. It has been established as a fact that we are the way we are because we were the species that learned how to behoove the best.

Do you see where I am going with this, human beings? If any of you want to keep your jobs, it would behoove you to behave yourselves from time to time. Let’s not forget what happened yesterday!

Your boss,

The Head”

Ok… Did everyone get that? Alright guys, I don’t feel like saying much else. If anyone has any questions, the door to my office is always open. Come on by anytime. Let me conclude by once again, thanking both of you for the basket of apples. Ok, well, representatives of Mankind, start working now. Remember, enjoy yourselves!”

Well, What Would You Do?

If I were Noam Chomsky this is what I would do:
I'd eat all ice-creams sold in Waterloo

Don't Smoke

Thursday, April 7, 2011

The Secret Ingredient

Brian says: “There would actually have to exist a perfectly contrived plan, plot, scheme, what-have-you, for anyone to even be able to consider my thought as rational. A conglomerate of powerful and influential people, all around the world, would have had to agree upon this single thing: the importance of florescent light's effect. Now, in my days here on "Planet Earth" I haven’t seen each and every people agree on many things. Come to think of it, coffee, opium, tobacco, chocolate, and alcohol seem to be the only "products" that have received a universal “thumbs-up”. That being said, how the heck could any one, or any group of people “pull the strings” in such a way, as to get each and every people "on board" with florescent light? Boy, if these people and their plan really do exist, my hat is off to them.

For crying out loud! They got people wondering, “Where is work?” and “Where is home?” I'm talking about TIME here Andrew! Time! My time! Your time! We all scream for "I"-time! Who knows, maybe in a couple-of-years people won’t even wonder anymore.

There’ll be no work!

There’ll be no relaxation!

You have to buy both in a bottle or a vial! Heck, have you seen these so-called "Five Hour Energy" drinks? Or what about "Mary Jane's Relaxing Soda", "Vacation in a Bottle" , or "Slow Cow"? Wanna know why this is happening, Andrew? Huh? Well do you?

Andrew says: "Sure, Brian"

Brian responds: "Well, lemme tell you.

Flo-rescent Lights. Say it with me.

Brian and Andrew chant together: "Flo-rescent Lights"

And Brian continues: "Don't get me wrong, Andrew. Were not talking about Marlboro Lights here, or Friday Night Lights... No! We're talking about Florescent Light.

Andrew says: "Uh-huh"

Brian says: "Woah, woah, woah. Don't take what I'm saying the wrong way. Come on now, don’t think I actually believe this load of hooey I spitting out. I’m just – you know – ranting, talking, imagining, letting off some steam.

But think about it, we’re all gonna be living under all florescent light in a second. Though maybe it's all part of the plan. Whether it is God's plan, or man's plan, I don't know! It's not my place to say.

But hey, you can still buy Coke in a can.”

Andrew says: “Well what do you know?”

Friday, March 25, 2011

Interoffice Correspondence

Interoffice Correspondence

From: Yours Truly

To: The Foundation

Dear Sirs and Madams,

I write today with the news. Yes, I have the news. The news myself and the entire Nohv Pairjen Miento organization have anticipated for weeks. I am confident that each one of you is aware of what I am hinting at – not that this is some sort of guessing game.

If the person reading this letter is reading aloud to the foundation, please cue a drum-roll to sound after you have spoken with my voice: “Drum-roll please!” If you have missed the meeting, and are reading this notice on your own, cue the drum-roll yourself. No demand necessary.

With that, it excites me to announce to you that yes, we have the mothers. The mothers are in. Each and every one of them has signed the universal consent forms. They have halted their previous birth-control regiments. And currently, all are en route to the facility. That’s rights folks, all four-hundred and fifty-five of them. They’re excited. I’m excited. We’re excited.

I’ve included the results of our recently concluded experiment which, if you’ve been following closely, establishes the differences in ability between fraternal and identical brands. It seems our initial musings were unsound. Needless to say, we’re going with the identical brand.

D.W. and I will be joining you all on Tuesday for negotiations with representatives from the identical brand. The negotiations begin at eleven o’clock. The Head has expressed a desire for us all to meet together before the negotiations begin so that any misunderstandings or qualms may be resolved. The Head has specifically instructed me to inform you that this conference will be a safe place. Feel free to air out anything that is on your mind. I suspect there will be much to talk about. With that, what say we meet at seven o’clock? If that is too early for any of your transpacific commuters (I know tunnel service isn’t what it used to be) let either me or D.W. know a few days beforehand so we can arrange to meet at a later time.

But not much later.

Best drink your coffee,

Yours Truly, M.E-B., Ph.PI., M.D.O.

Monday, March 21, 2011

Horace and Doris will achieve excellence for every child

Horace and Doris are in charge. Horace and Doris are in charge of watching. Formulas #304 and #320 are strung on separate strings around Doris’ neck. Whenever Doris begins to feel her nerves she alternately unscrews the dropper tops of the bottles of #304 and #320 and pinches. Then a droplet of either #304 or #320 falls upon, and is absorbed by her tongue.

Horace has a special job other than watching. Horace is the Doll Manager. Horace manages the dolls. Specifically, along with breakfast, lunch, dinner, and midnight snacks, Horace hands out dolls. When Horace pushes the dolls through the E1617E, 549FF1, or FEE97F stroked triangular flaps, it is his job to ensure that the pointer on the dial underneath each doll’s overalls points to the name matching the name embroidered above each flap. After 46 years of being the Doll Manager, Horace has only 11 times pointed the pointer on the dial to a name that did not match the name embroidered above the flap into which the doll was being pushed.

This afternoon, Doris would drop 5 drops of #304 and 6 drops of #320 onto her tongue. Horace would also mismatch names for the 12th and 13th times in his lengthy career.

Like Horace, Doris also had an additional task other than being in charge of watching. She was to ensure that not one of the 455 she was in charge of watching ever sang. On her first day of work at age 22, the bosses informed Doris that singing was absolutely a “worst-case-scenario” type of situation. The boss standing to Doris’ left plopped their hand down upon her shoulder, looked Doris square in the eye with eyebrows raised, and reassured Doris that “Really, it never happens. You have nothing to worry about.” Doris smiled politely, laughed “Heh”, jarred her head to the right, looking on the other boss, now nodding with his lips a little up-puckered.

“Time to get the dolls now, Doris. I’ll be right back.”

“Is it lunchtime already?”

“Yep. Did you remember to put the chocolate milk cartons in the refrigerator this morning?”

“Oh shoot, I didn’t.”

“Ah, that’s ok. I’ll go get the dolls.”

There were 6 dolls in total. Divided into two subsets, Male and Female. Each subset contained a black, brown, and white doll. The funny thing is, there were only two types of dials, Male and Female.

The Female dial had 14 names to point to: Guadalupe, Barbara, Martha, Esther, Lisa, Jane, Neus, Minerva, Laurel, Shawn, Cassandra, Elizabeth, Mary, and Montserrat; while the Male dial only had 11 names the pointer could point to: Mark, Steven, Eric, Paul, George, Fox, David, Matthew, LeBron, William, or John.

Doris met Horace in the double doorway that to this day leads into the gymnasium. Horace hugged all 6 dolls to his chest while Doris pushed a cart holding 228 lunch trays, each hosting a rectangular slice of Tony’s Cheese Pizza, a serving-size container of Mott’s Apple Sauce, carrot and celery slices, a plastic cup 75% full of Newman’s Own Ranch Dressing, a Capri Sun, and either a cold skim, 1%, or 2% milk carton, or a warm chocolate milk carton. She believed coasting downhill was only satisfying after climbing up one.

Horace and Doris crossed the threshold from their florescent-lit watching area into the gymnasium. The illumination of the gymnasium always came from any number of the 455 televisions within each one of the 455 stationary canvas shelters. Each shelter has a square base and a circular crown. These shelters are constructed with non water resistant canvases – the sort painters usually buy at Dick Blick Art Supplies – PVC pipes, and a little bit of thread. Each one houses a child. Horace and Doris are in charge of watching these children.

Horace and Doris approach the shelter of the first. Doris hands Horace a lunch tray. Horace pushes the lunch tray through a 549FF1 stroked flap. Horace then raises his eyes, and double-checks the name embroidered above the flap. The name reads “George”. Horace then picks up a Brown and Male doll. He unfastens the overalls of the doll and grabs the dial on the doll’s back with his thumb and forefinger. He points the pointer of the dial to the name ‘George’, pulls the string, re-fastens the overalls, and pushes the doll through the flap. As Horace and Doris move on to the shelter of the second, voices can be heard. If Horace or Doris hadn’t worked as Doll Managers, Lunch Ladies, or been in charge of watching for 46 years they would have heard these voices.

Supervisors, Bosses, Visitors, Flies-on-Walls, and Walls always heard the voices. The Brown Male doll spoke to the first:

“Hey George, Georgie, Georgie-Boy, Georgie-ol-Boy! How are you doing today? Hey! I’m your Dad! I love you! I love you George. I love you Georgie. I love you. I love you George. Hey! Lemme put your Ma’ on!

George? George? Is that you? George! My Boy! How are you George? This is your Mom! George? Hey! I love you George! I am your Mom. I love you George. Give me a kiss. Come on. Give your old Mother a kiss. That-a-boy. Ok George. Be good now. Wait a second! Guess who wants to say hi? That’s right! Dog is here! Go ahead Dog, say hi to George.

Hey George, it’s your Dad! Did you hear Dog? Dog loves you! Ok. Hey George, me and your Ma’ gotta’ get going! Ok George? See you tomorrow! Have a good day at school, George. We love you. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. No singing now! Ok Georgie-boy! Take care now.”


Friday, March 11, 2011


Very early this morning, a little grey bird arrived at her spring, summer, and fall home after a truly sustained trip. The friends and family birds of the little grey bird had become boring and annoying to her, as, for four consecutive days, they had done nothing together but fly, sleep, eat berries, and chit-chat. All of the grey birds cascaded down from the drippy cloud-layer when they realized their destination. Spiraling, the little grey bird floated and set down upon one of the branches belonging to the tree next to the school, which grew tasty berries.

Several sleepy-eyed people walked like ants upon a path towards the doors of the school. The little grey bird was happy to see the people of the school again. Sometimes, and usually when the tasty berries had become just berries, the little grey bird would sing a song for the people of the school. If the people of the school liked the song, they would drop crumbs of bread, French fries, or sour-patch kids upon the ground for the little grey bird to eat. Although the little grey bird was not hungry and had not yet grown tired of the tasty berries grown by the tree upon which she was perched, she decided to sing a song for the sleepy-eyed people of the school. How could she not? She was so excited to be back!

The little grey bird began to chirp her song. “Hey! Hey! Hey!” she sang. The little grey bird did not know of words besides ‘Hey’. She sounded ‘Hey!’ many times in seven or eight harmonious pitches.

As she sang, a notably sleepy-eyed boy slowly approached the tree. He saw the grey of the little grey bird in contrast with the kind of blue only a morning sky can be. The notably sleepy-eyed boy halted his walk, and contemplated what sort of reason, motivation, or intention a little grey bird might have to open and close her beak. He could not understand. He did not understand, because he could not hear the song of the little grey bird.

The little grey bird and the notably sleepy-eyed boy were immersed in air. The two bathed in unseen spinning molecules. Either one could only know of air in three ways: from the teachings of a parent, from a book, or from the presence of the smell created by airplane, bus, and car exhalations without proportional grass, lily-pad, and tree exhalations. Still, whether or not either the little grey bird or the notably sleepy-eyed boy was aware of the air, it certainly surrounded them.

All of these unseen spinning molecules are like ping-pong balls. They are buoyant and hollow. If one’s body so much as burps, trembles, or vibrates, all of the air in contact with a body will be moved accordingly. A bird’s song is especially suited for bumping unseen spinning molecules in such a way that it inspires people to drop crumbs.

The notably sleepy-eyed boy gazed upon the still opening and closing beak of the little grey bird. He contemplated furiously. Why would a bird be opening and closing their beak without also singing a song? Granted, without the mediation of a miracle, the notably sleepy-eyed boy would not come to realize that the reason he could not hear the bird’s song was because of the manner in which his head bumped air.

Within the head of the notably sleepy-eyed boy were four overhead projectors he had attained from his elementary school. As the bird sang, the four dusty, but functional overhead projectors within his head pitched, and cast out four different varieties of blue light.

The light of the first overhead projector propelled the blue of a ripe blueberry in sun.

The light of the second overhead projector launched the blue of a maturing potato spud, grown in cold.

The light of the third overhead projector concocted the sort of blue (really, more of an indigo-violet) seen as stains on the shorts and t-shirt of a kid who has rolled around in elderberries.

The light of the fourth overhead projector shot a beam of the blue of the sky, seen through a nimbostratus layer of cloud.

When the boy with notably sleepy eyes had halted to contemplate the opening and closing of the little bird’s beak, the lights leaving the overhead projectors from within his mind arranged themselves, intersected, and formed a cube of sorts. The cube assembled by the lights caged the little grey bird.

The notably sleepy-eyed boy stood, the little grey bird sang, the movements and understandings of unseen spinning molecules – air – were affected by both. But to reach the ears of the notably sleepy-eyed boy, the little grey bird’s song first had to ford the boundaries of the light. The light dismantled and broke the song of the little grey bird as the chirps roamed through its frame.

As the little grey bird’s song exited the square of light, eighteen hands emerged and stretched out from the midst of the darkness created by the contrast of the light of the overhead projectors within the mind of the notably sleepy-eyed boy. They edited the original order of the little grey bird’s song. If before deconstruction, the song was a subtle and uninterrupted flow of water from a sink’s faucet – beautiful in its simplicity – the eighteen hands had turned it into a noisy collection of shed dog hair, belly-button lint, dead skin flakes, and concrete dust – beautiful because of its existence.

One hand remained in the darkness. Before the smashed, broken, and now glued together song of the little grey bird entered the ears of the notably sleepy-eyed boy, this hermit hand sprayed down the transparencies atop each projector. Frantically, the hand drew a Kleenex out of a box, and erased the figures, images, and words previously written upon each of the four transparencies.

The hand quivered anxiously as he searched through the notably sleepy-eyed boy’s memories. The hand needed to remember before the song reached his ears. The hand remembered. The hand stopped shaking. The hand grabbed the nearest Vis-à-Vis transparency marker and quickly scribbled down what had been remembered. The work of the four lights and of the eighteen hands would have been exhausted in vain if the hermit hand had not remembered the correct fashion to interpret, translate, and express the little grey bird’s song.

The hermit hand had finished the rendition in time. Simultaneously, the glued-together song of the little grey bird entered the ears of the notably sleepy-eyed boy, and the mended lyrics entered the eyes of the mind of the notably sleepy-eyed boy.

The notably sleepy-eyed boy heard! Although, he did not hear “Hey! Hey! Hey!” Instead, his ears and eyes were flooded by and submerged in the labors of his mind’s hands and overhead projectors. He blinked and felt as though his contemplation was complete, that his wonder had been quenched. He began to bob his head to the glued-together song of the bird. This old and familiar tune, which may be beloved to many of you, looped over and over:

“Two trailer park girls go round the outside,

Round the outside, round the outside.

Two trailer park girls go round the outside,

Round the outside, round the outside…

Guess who’s back (back, back)?

Back again (gain, gain)?

Shady’s back (back, back).

Tell a friend (end, end).

Guess who’s back, guess who’s back

Guess who’s back, guess who’s back

Guess who’s back, guess who’s back

Guess who’s back…

I’ve created a monster…”

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

Natural and Artificial Flavors

…Well, then, does God love fictional characters?

No, Son, God does not love fictional characters.

Then… does God love people in movies?

Of course God loves the people who are in movies, Son

So God loves Robin Hood and Little John and Maid Marian?

Oh, Son… Are you talking about Robin Hood the movie?


Son… Robin Hood and Little John and Maid Marian are fictional characters; I’ve already explained this to you.

But you told me God loves the people in movies…

The actors Son, the actors

What are actors again?

Son, actors are the people who play the characters in the movies. In the movies, Robin Hood is a fictional character, he is a cartoon. Son, there is an actor who speaks for Robin Hood.

What do you mean?

An actor gives Robin Hood his voice, Son.

But Dad told me Robin Hood was a real person!

Yes, Son… Well… Maybe… Robin Hood might have been a real person sometime in history.


Yes, Son?

Is history a movie?

No, no… Son, history is everything that has ever happened. The Cream of Wheat you ate this morning is history!

Oh, ok. So history is not a movie?

Good, Son, good.

So then… God loves Robin Hood?

Let me try to help you understand this, Son. God only loves sinners.

What are sinners?

I will explain that to you, if you let me get to that.


Ok, Son, sinners are… Well… We are all sinners. I am a sinner, you are a sinner, Mr. Rogers is a sinner.

Mom! God does not love Mr. Rogers.

What? What are you talking about? Why is that, Son?

Mr. Rogers is a movie!

No, no, no, Son. Mr. Rogers is a man, he is a real person. He is just on television. People are not movies, and neither are characters in movies. Characters are in movies, but people are on television. Mr. Rogers is on television.


Wait, wait, wait, Son. You still need to understand what a sinner is.


Because you are one.

Oh, ok.

Sinners are… are… Sinners are messed up! We’re all people, and we’re all sinners, and we are all messed up. Wait, Son, wait! Sinners are not just messed up. Sinners are evil! Sinners are bad, bad people. We are all evil, we are all bad people!

Oh, ok. So Mr. Rogers is evil?

Yes, son, yes! Finally, you understand.

What makes people become sinners?

Oh! Nothing! Ha, no one can become a sinner. We are just born this way. Everyone is a sinner. This is just the way we are!

Oh, ok. So, I am a sinner?

Yes! Son… Geez. Wow. Yum. That is music to my ears. It tickles me pink to hear that you know that you are a sinner!

Why, Mom? Why does it tickle you pink? Why is that music to your ears!

Are you ready for the best part?

Uhm, ok?

You have just received the key! Now that you know you are a sinner, you can unlock the door of your heart and invite God to come live in your heart’s house.


Son! Son! You can invite God to come live in your heart. He gives you eternal life!


Son, since you are a sinner, since we are all sinners… Well, Son… there are two things that can happen to a sinner when a sinner dies.


Son, if a sinner dies, and God is living in that sinner’s heart’s house… Son, when a sinner dies with God inside their heart, they get lifted up to heaven to be with God forever and ever. For all eternity!


Eternity… Eternity is… It is… Longer than anything you can ever imagine! Imagine the car-ride to Grandma and Grandpa’s house in Indiana… Are you imagining it?


Now, imagine that the car ride never ever, ever, ever ended! We just keep driving and driving forever, and ever and never ever, ever get to Grandma and Grandpa’s house.


So, if you die with God in your heart, you get to live in the clouds with every sinner that has ever died with God in their hearts. This place you go when you die with God in your heart is called Heaven. It is the best place ever! It is better than anything that you will ever know here on earth. It is the best! Oh, but only the sort of sinners that go to our church will be in heaven.

Will Jaime be in heaven?

Yes, Son, she will be as long as she dies with God in her heart.

Yuk. I don’t want to go to heaven.

No, Son. No! Don’t you understand? Heaven will be awesome. It is the best place ever! Wait, wait, wait. I forgot to tell you!


Do you remember eternity? Do you remember how long it is? How long it feels?


Ok, ok. Son, if a sinner dies without God in their heart, they have no balloon to lift them up to heaven, the best place ever. They fall down, down, down into HELL! In hell, there is only fire, and brimstone, and the smell of sulfur, and sodomy, and rape, and pain, sorrow, and sadness. Everyone in hell is always burning. They are so thirsty down there! There is no water to drink. Everything is dry! There is no water!


Imagine driving to Grandma and Grandpa’s house forever, and ever without any water, or even Mountain Dew to drink!

What? No Mountain Dew?

No, Son. No Mountain Dew.

I want to go to heaven.

That is music to my ears, Son.


Yes, Son?

Since God is a balloon, can I put one inside Robin Hood’s heart so he can float up to heaven and drink water and Mountain Dew with me?

Thursday, February 24, 2011

Walter Benjamin

"Boredom is the dream bird that hatches the egg of experience."

The Storyteller


There is nothing that commends a story to memory more effectively than that chaste compactness which precludes psychological analysis. And the more natural the process by which the storyteller forgoes psychological shading, the greater becomes the story's claim to a place in the memory of the listener, the more completely is it integrated into his own experience, the greater will be his inclination to repeat it to someone else someday, sooner or later. This process of assimilation, which takes place in depth, requires a state of relaxation which is becoming rarer and rarer. If sleep is the apogee of physical relaxation, boredom is the apogee of mental relaxation. Boredom is the dream bird that hatches the egg of experience. A rustling in the leaves drives him away. His nesting places--the activities that are intimately associated with boredom--are already extinct in the cities and are declining in the country as well. With this the gift for listening is lost and the community of listeners disappears. For storytelling is always the art of repeating stories, and this art is lost when the stories are no longer retained. It is lost because there is no more weaving and spinning going on while they are being listened to. The more self-forgetful the listener is, the more deeply is what he listens to impressed upon his memory. When the rhythm of work has seized him, he listens to the tales in such a way that the gift of retelling them comes to him all by itself. This, then, is the nature of the web in which the gift of storytelling is cradled. This is how today it is becoming unraveled at all its ends after being woven thousands of years ago in the ambiance of the oldest forms of craftsmanship.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Friday, February 4, 2011


"In this way, language as the power of universals is given to us in order that we must transcend our environment, in order that we may have a world."

"Language thus becomes indispensable not only for the construction of the world of thought but also for the construction of the world of perception, both of which constitute the ultimate nexus of an intelligible communion, spiritual and moral, between all of us."

Frege's basic assumption: "mankind possesses a common treasure of thoughts which is transmitted from generation to generation"

People think, they do not have thoughts. "John has a thought" vs. "John has a diamond" vs. "John thinks"

"The point is that both "constitution" and "memory" are constructs -- culturally determined ways of looking at human beings, rather than scientifically determined ways of cutting nature at its joints. "Memory", which is our primary concern here, is not something that objectively exists -- a "thing", or a distinct and clearly determined aspect of human nature."

"We are going to determine that while we are still at the aphelion of our matter, for, when we arrive at the perihelion, the heat will be capable of making us forget it."

"Flesh composed of suns. How can such be? exclaim the simple ones."

Actual Memory vs. Imagined Memory:

What do you remember about your first ice-cream cone?

If you were your Mother or Father, watching you eat your first ice-cream cone, what would you remember?

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

A Rectangular View of History

I first wanted to use the word "square" to define this way of perceiving time and history. Then the thesaurus told me that "square" can also mean honest, or genuine. I think rectangular is a more accurate word as well.

One vertical side of history as a rectangle represents the Past. The other vertical side of the rectangle represents the Future. One horizontal side of the rectangle will represent Present A. The other horizontal side represents Present I.

The 'A' stands for actual, and the 'I' stands for imaginary.

My initial musings have me labeling the height of the vertical sides as "circumstance", and the length of the horizontal sides as "space / situation". I am thinking about this 3 dimensionally, but maybe this "view" should have more dimensions. Although thoughts, feelings, and emotions manifest themselves physically, I wouldn't minimize them to be strictly physical things. Each of those three things are a universe unto themselves, and deserve their own dimension in a rectangular view of history. Corporal situation is also its own dimension. So we are up to four.

Present A is determined by things uncontrollable, such as who one's parents are (and all that goes along with that: earthly situation, the exposure to ideas, etc.), and the state of the societies and cultures one is born into. The location of Present A is equally affected by the circumstances of the future. While the future is more malleable in form, the past's form is not entirely unyielding. This is so because our memory frames the past. The exploration of the past through memory allows our present "self" to genuinely react once again to static events.

This may be a flaw in my considerations however. Just as I am trying to squirm out of the grasps of a linear view of history, it is possible that an essential or elemental view of time itself is limited. If the exploration of the past allows us to reshape it, does it also allow us to choose it?

I mean this:

We have the past. The past is an ice cube, formed by the ice-cube tray we bought at target. When the past is re-entered, or explored, we can go back to the moment when the stage of ice was still water. Our memory is the ice-cube tray. A new reaction to a past memory gives us the opportunity to choose the form in which the water will freeze. I choose a star. But can we go even further back, to when water was hydrogen and oxygen? Or to when those elements were not elements at all? When they were unformed, part of something different? I don't know!

Anyways, Present I, being the imagined present, is represented by another point on the internal graph of history as a rectangle. I think that through behavior-awareness, pro-activity, and change, we can separate our "selves" from Present A, and approach Present I. The shortest distance between two points is a line, but that is not the only direction one can head in. The more aware one is of their actions, the more direct the path to Present I will be. There is also the chance that one dies en route. That doesn't matter so much though. I think that the reality of this perception of history is evident in proverbial advice such as "Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you'll end up among the stars." I am pretty sure that is how that goes.

Anyways, someone said something along those lines at some point in time.