Saturday, July 29, 2017

Modern-day alchemy: waste-to-energy

I tell you.  They were dreamers.  Some had high intentions, while others were subversive.  The alchemists of old.  They sought a childish dream: to turn waste into gold.

I was a student(and still am) in the dawn of the conservation push.  We, as seven-year-olds were shown VHS films of large front-end-loaders trudging around the landfill.  Trash, as far as the eye could see.  We were being told this was our future.

Thirty years later it hasn't happened.  We have not become overrun by garbage, yet.

In the Back To The Future sequel, Doc Brown needed fuel for the fusion reactor in his time-traveling exotic(and highly customized) automobile.  He had a slot on the back of the car labelled "Mr. Fusion", into which he put anything he could find, like in the film he put common garbage from an alley, banana peels, empty potato chip bags, anything.

The trick to waste-to-energy is take the approach of making it a zero-waste proposition, like carbonized material being made into inks or something, preferably something that need not be sanitary, or sewn/hewn into building materials, something of a carbon fiber, instead of "wood products", which are our nice trees.

We don't appreciate the trees until they are gone, you know.

Whoever finds a usage for the waste gases will be declared the winner of the whole thing, I guess.

Friday, July 28, 2017

Movie idea: The Three Loves Of Charlie Earl.

First: It was a whirlwind. Dance and drinks. Few weeks in the apartment, then its off to a house, co-signed and all. Charlie Earl cuts grass outside with his self-propelled pushmow, meaning he just walks behind it with a hand touching it, like a dum-dum. Laura in upstairs bath, meaning to climb out of the tub, but slips. Her head goes through the window and is severed CLEAN-OFF by the glass. Her head rolls outside across the backyard and stops of front of Charlie Earl's self-propelled pushmow. Charlie is completely confused.

An end to confusion.

Title Card: Given over to waste.

Second love. It goes slower this time. Charlie is gun-shy about co-habitating. They have sleepovers though, and brunches in their underoos. It's good. Charlie leaves one morning in his British Racing Green MGB. She runs alongside the car. Charlie makes a game of it, grabbing hold of her hand, Helen's hand. His grip slips. She grabs hold more firmly. She trips over a root, and falls, before Charlie Earl can let go. Her body is pulled beneath the back wheel of the car.

Charlie stops the car in the next forty feet and looks back incredulously at another ruined love.

Title Card: Succumbed to Ruin.

Third Love: Angela the angelic goth girl. Things are more subdued this time. Charlie Earl just kinds of lets it happen. He's becoming jaded. He leaves her in the truck at the discount superstore while he goes inside for vitamins, underwear and a USB flashdrive. Back in the car, the engine is running and the air-conditioning is blaring, which happens to be filling the car with carbon monoxide. Angela peacefully goes to sleep, like an unwanted kitten.

Title Card: "Blessed Are The Sleepy, For They Soon Drop Off."

World goes to hell in a hand basket. The dead are coming back to life. Kristinna Lokken gets her American flag bikini. She rigid-mounts a high-caliber automatic on the back of a 2-ton flatbed truck. Finally, she puts on her open-toed heels.

Charlie Earl is consulting with his pastor, a Methodist of many years. One of Lokken's stray bullets hits the ESV in the pastor's hand and pages go EVERYWHERE. They scatter, babies. Charlie ducks until the truck is gone and goes in the sanctuary, where Angela's dead body lies in the coffin.

BUMP.

From the coffin.

The coffin falls and Angela crawls out and gets to her feet. From the back, we see that her dress has been cut by the mortician, to aid in dressing an immobile corpse. She has a nice lily white butt. But that's besides the point.

She stands there, pupil-less, and puts her head down, angelic, almost penitent, waiting for Charlie Earl.

He comes to her side and we pull back to see a wedding tableaux, with Charlie and the dead girl centermass and the sanctuary now full of people.

Midnight. Charlie Earl climbs off of Angela and lays down on his back. She nestles up to him and nibbles at his ear. He begins to muse how his life has finally turned around. We hear crunching suddenly.

She's eating into his brains.

FIN.

Friday, July 21, 2017

Sioux Schnell and Brickbart Schnell, a modern-day Castor and Pollux.

Sioux Schnell earned her masters degree in literature and married a degenerate lifeform:  a published poet.  He was an inconsolable moody marginally-functional alcoholic, and during his hard mood swings, he liked to lay hands on Sioux.  It was fire and ice.  Tender touches one hour, then beatings.

Sioux would hide from him.

He even coaxed her into drinking with him, trying to pull her into his void of emotional chaos.  It was funny because he wrote poems about trees and leaves.

But man was he an asshole.

Meanwhile Sioux's brother Brickbart read something on the internet.  Which, reading on the internet, is like putting a gun to your head, sometimes.

He played a lady.  Made her think he was in love with her, so she would become his girlfriend.  He had no hopes of closing the deal with her, so, at her behest, he went to a physician and was prescribed Viarga(tm).

The pretense had worked.

He crushed the pills and snorted them up his nose!  Instantly, he was like an omniscient, all-knowing superman!  But there was one problem.  The act rendered his eyes useless.  He was completely blind!

But now he knew too much.  Everything made sense.  In his mind, there were no questions, no worlds to conquer, and suddenly there was not a sense of wonder in anything.

So he committed sepaku.  By waiting, sitting in his lonesome bedroom for the next eighty years, in nature reclaimed him.

Wednesday, July 19, 2017

A fiction on special powers of perception.

"gimme some hair-wan" I said.  While he grabbed it from the plastic cooler he kept his stash in, I talked some more: "Got the Ford fixed."

He brought back the cash crop.  "Them fat women see that Ford tearing ass down the thoroughfare," he said,  "they'll throw something on you.  Whether you want it or not."

"Cowl-induction cold-air intake", I said, vacantly, inspecting the product.  "I was born with a cowl over my face.  That supposed to mean you got the second sight."

"That 'tornado' mess you write on that other site?" he said sitting down and opening a beer.

"No, man" I said.  "Like a sixth sense."

"The touch, you mean?" he said.

"If that's what its come to, then yar" I said.

I looked at the heroin.  I hoped it wouldn't stop my heart this time.  I had took to hitting alone.  I'd be a goner if it went wrong.

He took a sip of beer and said "the ESPN in 3-D!".  I heard the beer cap clink against the porch floor.

As I walked away, I heard him say, "bet the doctor thought it was a pumpkin-head."

Tuesday, July 18, 2017

teevee land apocalypse

My grandma loved Pernell Roberts.  I loved my grandma.  She also liked Little Joe.  But Little Joe was her buddy.  Pernell Roberts was her man.  I have a love/hate relationship with Little Joe.  I've always thought of him as a swashbuckling child of privilege.  Like JFK Jr without the planes and boats.

I saw Little Joe shoot a snake in midstrike once.  Didn't change my opinion of him.  Just fool's luck.  Women loved him, then left him.  What did they find out after getting close: what intimate detail pushed them away?

Pernell Robert was a scholar and a solitary man, quiet and dignified, and my grandma could believe he was being loyal to her as she tuned in every week, that he would be there, unattended, waiting for her attentions.

Pain was the highway.

The boys left early with their straw hats on, barefoot, fishing poles in hand.  One of the boys had the wicker kreel to put the caught fish in.  But in truth, they only wanted one fish: the big one, the king bass of the whole pond.

They fished until late afternoon, when it started getting so hot a haze was coming off the top of the pond.  They put their straw hats over their faces and dozed in the heat, while now and then sharing sips off of still-cool wellwater from a big Mason jar.

They saw a bare arm just under the surface of the water, out near the middle of the pond.  They decided to head home and tell their parents.  On the way, their barefeet padded against the orange dirt, and their fishing poles beat at the roadside weeds.

The pond was so far off the beaten path, so out-of-mind, that it didn't have a name like most other ponds.  But it was in McKinnon, which was place of woods and rolling hills, named after a trapper of old.

Dispatch sent Kurtzweil out.

He pulled Sandy's dead body out of the pond, crying all the while, thinking of his own wasted youth and now discarded dreams.  He put her on the bank, with her seaweed colored eyes staring up at the placid, sleepy sky, while Kurtzweil himself had a good cry at remembering his own past failings.

The sheriff and the other boys came.  Kurtzweil thought how the sheriff would tell the parents of Sandy about what happened.  Just then, the sheriff asked Kurtzweil to go see the parents, and hurry up before they heard it from someone else.

Son of a...

Later, he went into Wallsmark(tm) while sipping on a Cheerwine(tm), and descended on the clothespin aisle.  Ideas were coming to him, ideas that opened a mental pathway to a transcendent level of pain, and pain was the only way to advance, Kurtzweil had just reasoned.

Here was the pathway.

Monday, July 17, 2017

I saw the water, once; my heart burns there, too.

I saw, in her sock drawer, a picture of her fishing.  She had a turtle on the line.  She was laughing in glee.  Bare arms.  Warm weather clothes.  Smell of sweat lurking under the perfume, and a sprig of the eau de baby powder.

How I wanted to die, then.

How I felt harmed, hurt, with my mind bleeding within, the cranial pressure building, my memories fogging away, body parts beginning to convulse!

I said I loved her.

I said I loved her not.

I played with her "back massager" when she wasn't looking.  One of her kids came to the door and I threw the huge pink apparatus in disgust, as if it had been attacking me.

While she showered, I tried on her reading glasses.  "Look, I'm an idiot, now" I said softly.  Then I shuddered with revulsion.

I didn't change underwear or socks all weekend.  For luck.  My lucky "get ass" gear, ye ken?

Thursday, July 13, 2017

Bootleather.

The hold-up had went bad.  The money and our dynamite was gone.  Jodie dead.  Ted B.

So I was on foot, walking through the desert after the horse went down.

Someone in the hills kept flashing me in the eyes with a mirror or something shiny.  Probably one of those sorry-ass injuns, half-drunk.  Couldn't see sh*t off that.

Stumbled over a rattler.  Felt the tips of its fangs.  Luckily, my boot leather took the bite.  I felt the cold venom shooting down my leg, dampening my pants leg too.

Ocean's Two.

"You were in the movie Fargo" I said to the clerk, a short ginger man on the backside of middle age.  Damned if he didn't look like that actor fellow.

"Nar" said the clerk.  "I always been here.  We all always been here."  I didn't quite understand that last part, like he thought this was a dream or something.

But it was about to get very real, real fast.

Clarence pulled his stuff and wanted to do a Sam Peckinpah on the little fellow, several plugs to the chest.  I kept cool, just kind of playing off of Clarence.

The little man went crazy as the back door walloped.  Someone was coming.

"SHE'LL KILL YOU ALL!!!" said the short fellow.  The William H. Macy of a store clerk.

Clarence was running wild, f*cking-up sh*t.  Knocking stuff off shelves, and sometimes entire shelves put over into the floor.

And there she was.

Sex and attitude.  Black leather.  High-heel boots.  Big scatter gun.  Librarian glasses.  The glasses had a chipper yellow Tweety bird in each of the furthermost corners, Tweety from the Looney Tunes.

"This one is mine" I said.  Suddenly, I felt like a big, mean, old puddy-tat.

She cleaned-up on us, catching me a glancing blow with the scatter gun, but surprising Clarence around one of the aisles.

I unloaded and didn't land one shot.  I knew, now unloaded, I would get my ass handed to me.

She seemed satisfied, having made us look silly.  And the back door walloped again, then the little store got quiet.  I went to Clarence.  He was in a bad way, hurt bad.

"I'll remember you to Jules and the girls" I said.  And he died.  Or I guess he died, because he got real still then I walked away, back to the front.

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

Providence smiles, betimes.

From Suun Li, in the morning post:

Mikl.  May the sun shine rays of love and prosperity upon the open grass.  I write to ask if I may stay in your rooms in an upcoming trip.  Suun Li want see the Tittagglia exhibit, and stay for the hotdogs and slaw.

In response(from me, Mikl):

Dearest sour moon, Suun Li:  I've afraid the whole thing is quite impossible.  Just now I have, quite by accident, severed three toes, in chopping the firewood.  I shall be discommoded for some time to come and fractionally unable to attend to you, my dearest.

I was almost hoping for some kind of infirmity, that maybe I would go drink the dark creek water and catch the yellow fever, the kind where you have sharp stomach pains and the screaming diarrhea.

But providence smiled on me and I chopped off three toes instead.

So there.

Sunday, July 9, 2017

the doors of perception

fade in.

The Doors track, Not To Touch The Earth begins.

we see trees, a gravel road, and a cabin sitting idle.

The couple stops their SUV there.  Takes luggage in.

Wife fries bologna while husband tweets deviant poetry.

Back in the city, hubbie's brother is reading the poetry and smiling.

Things take an ugly turn back at the cabin during a game of Scrabble.  There is no dictionary to check the words.  They could look the words up on the phones, online, but the phones are off, recharging.

Before you know it, they've fought all over the house, with the husband getting the gun out of the nightstand and threatening her with it.

Meanwhile, on the tv:  Bonanza.  A horse bucks Little Joe, takes his gun and wallet, hits him over the head with the butt of the gun.  Joe stays dazed the remainder of the hour, even as he tries to cook Hot Pockets in Hop Sing's wok.  In fact, during the cooking the dazed Little Joe almost falls onto the gas flame on the stove.

The husband has the wife cornered.  He puts down the gun, so he can yell and flail his hands at the same time.

You don't understand me, and such, he says.  I feign the anger here, but trust that he was mighty cheesed, and the wife plenty afraid for her own safety.

Wife fires gun at husband's head.

His head recoils!  He's hit!

He grabs at his ear.  His left ear lobe is severed.  He has black-colored powder burns on his face.

The ear lobe has fallen in a basket of dusty potpourri which has long since outlived its usefullness.

Thursday, July 6, 2017

mytovocal transmiklism: a voenide for the health of the masses.

The drums slammed.  The walking bass thump thump thumped.  The young, dumb girls swayed, entranced.  Mikl ran onto the stage, from stage left, and began....

"PDDDDDDDDDDD  ah-summertime!"  There were murmurs from the crowd.  He had gotten their attention.

"Your daddy is rich" he sang.  "And your momma is good looking.  So hush, little baby, don't you cry."

In Mikl's mind, the snowbird slowly danced.  Crystalline eyes sleepy.

"One of these days, you're gonna rise up singing" sang Mikl.

The audience could contain themselves no longer; they all came forward at once and took a handful of Mikl, devouring the entertainer.  In the last seconds of his life, he knew he was truly fortunate to be broadcast in such a dull and final way, like an open-air fart dispersing into the atmosphere.

Mikl joined Janis Joplin in the spacial ether.

Saturday, July 1, 2017

the alternate 9/11. call it a GTE for "gran turismo enduro-spec"

I don't think they wanted the buildings to fall.  The plan was to severely damage the buildings, leaving the works in such a condition that the buildings would be condemned for occupancy.  These would eventually be demolished and the Freedom Tower would be erected in its spot.

But the operation when tits up when the first building fell.  Building seven?  Moot.  People for years thought building seven was wired with explosives, just waiting for Larry Silverstein to give the order: "pull it".  In the afternoon, the building returned to the dust.

Just a thought.

Maybe they shot down flight 93.  You ever think about that?  But instead we have a hero in the cell phone guy.  "Let's roll."  He's a hero either way, confronting the hijackers bravely.