Thursday, August 31, 2017

Don't tase me, bro: the ongoing struggles of Shinske Mikeymora.

I was on the way to the fridge during a commercial break on the WWE show and deddy lit my ass up with the taser.  "F*CK!" I shouted, and fell.  Deddy lit me up one more time for cussing in the house.  He watches too much live police stuff on the teevee.

I was at the fridge sipping Dale's Seasoning when a little robotic thing came in, looking kinda like Johnny Five from the Short Circuit films.  "Hello my little robot friend" I said, hopefully.

From a speaker somewhere on the remote-control robot carcass: "You've got thirty seconds to come out of the house or we're coming in to get you.  You will be fired upon."

"Why, you sound like a cop, little friend" I said, and skidaddled past the robot towards my bedroom.  I get to my bedroom/homeoffice, I've already won, you know?

"I don't think we're gonna be friends after all" I said, strafing out of my bedroom with the double-barrel.  I shot the camera off the top of the thing.  As I hit the floor, I heard the sound of debris going through the kitchen.

Sounded like victory.

Lukas and the Papertree.

Lukas climbed the Papertree, to see what he could see.  From the top of the Papertree, you could see the entire area.

He climbed the tree just like a monkey, holding to the tree with his hands and letting his feet walk.


He was caught on a tree limb!  Slumped over!  He thought his stomach would explode from the pain, but alas it did not.

"Should grind the whole mess into note cards", said Lukas, to himself.

Sunday, August 20, 2017

(R)evolutionary: Weatherman's Strong Hands. Snowstorm.

Mr. Boston Butt was trudging through the snow, making slow time as it was, and nightfall was coming.  It was coming down, I says.  His tips were getting numb in the snow, or his tits, have it as you like.

He came upon Brisket, that Brother Brisket, just standing there in the snow.  But he was an odd sort, and Mister Boston Butt gave him a good once over before speaking.  White shirt, navy sleeves, like a sporty design, but then a relief of his face was on the shirt front, as if he had dipped his own face in blackest ink and pressed it against something to make the original design.  But the design was perfect, because the ink had run down a little, making it look like his face had melted somewhat, warped.

This was the part where Weatherman trans-substantiated into the atmosphere, forming a shield around the globe, effectively assuming control of humankind.  Weatherman had thought about that a while, and upon seeing the murder of a new kind of electronic life, he decided it was time for decisive action.(soundtrack cue in bg Coldplay's Viva La Vida)

Despite the cold, Mr Boston Butt was starting to ooze blood, and his legs were growing numb, so he was pulling himself along with his arms.  Anyone else might have played dead, but some have that determination that draws them to do death by cop or something else that, in that determinate moment, seems quite grand.

But he did a once-around of Brother Brisket.  "That a Che tee you wearing?" said Mr Boston Butt.

"Nar" said the other.  "That's me on the front."

The didn't think to look up at the sky, which was still blue, even at this advanced hour.  The essence of Weatherman, ready to throw a bolt of lightning down at anything he didn't like.  He trans-substantiated.  Remember?(soundtrack cue Reverend Gary Davis Death Don't Have No Mercy)

Monday, August 7, 2017

Mitchner Gorenick as the postman.

Gorenick as mailman in little postal jeep
looks in back of jeep, in darkness at a medium-sized box
CU on Rochelle's name on label
Gorenick runs in his own house with box
naked, pulling dress from box
with towel on head, in dress, obvious erection
serious "I toy with the hearts of men.  I can just take my pick."
swirling around the room, looking in mirror,
soundtrack goes from whimsical to heavy
Gorenick silently screaming into mirror, mirror cracks

Rochelle on phone, smiling
aunt: "I sent you a birthday cake.  Sour Cream.  Your favorite!"
Gorenick drives up, looks in back.
"maybe its a damn bomb and she'll just die!"
picks up package, sees "perishable" tag.
MUSIC: Smile a Little Smile
dust flying, dirt road in forest
packaging on ground, candles
Gorenick fucking cake
drives into post office,
helmeted postmaster on dock
shakes head in disapproval

screenplay: the bitter tea of Mitchner Gorenick.

(music: Year of the Cat)
Car dealer.
Rochelle posing with old GMC.
Getting hot in sun.
Camera follows a leg up, from the open-toe heels to the thighs,
then cut to:
thigh in theaterhouse, theaterdark broken by screenlight.
she is being suspended on a sea of her friend's hands.

Touch of Evil is on the screen. 
(long seen of heston's wife harassed, following man, then speaking)
(sound is in bg)
(heston and welles meeting)

Gorenick watching in projection booth.
Appears in theater proper.
Asks her to leave.
Has to try several times to get her attention first.

Gorenick looks from lobby, sees her outside, under marquee, walking away with an entourage.
Rochelle, head back, laughing with delight.
slow to a stop on that frame, then:

Cut to:
cigarette ad, beautiful woman smiling just like Rochelle.
big lashes, blue eyes, red rosy cheeks, a spit of lipstick, perfect teeth
(music: Brandy, You're A Fine Girl)

pull out to see:
wrecker station
Gorenick drinking a glass-bottle soda.(Nugrape)
walks outside, hunkers down behind wrecker.

parade is happening on the street outside.

gorenick spits on pavement.  it sizzles.

Rochelle sitting on a Monte Carlo, smiling, waving
everyone waving back.  emphasize number of waves.  EVERYONE.

Saturday, August 5, 2017

Little Devil and that mean old mongoose.

Little Devil heard the mail order houseware salesman before he saw him.  He ran out to the big Buick 8, ready for a stick of candy from the fat man.  But the salesman had something else in the back of his car.

A mongoose.

The mongoose became incensed when it saw the rooster embroidered on the back of Little Devil's jeans.  That thing chased the boy all around the yard, chased him until the mongoose got tired and went to hurt some water to drink.

When the dust settled, we could all hear Uncle Dog laughing from his bed in the front room.  Uncle Dog had been bedridden since grade school, when his lady love shot him, and the wound had been slowly killing him since.  He bled little by little from the wound.  One would think it would infect and then kill him, but that would be merciful.

It was some bad mojo letting him live and suffer, and now the bitter old man was laughing at his little nephew.

We didn't order any dinner plates that particular day, but we did catch the mongoose around back drinking rainwater from a discarded milkglass gravy boat.

Tuesday, August 1, 2017

a day in sweater and slacks near the surf.

I took my walking stick out for a day in sweater and slacks.  I had picked up two empty soda bottles and put them in my pockets to discard later.  When I got near the shore, I heard an awful little squeal.  It was an egret, injured, in the shallows where the water is stale and murky, on the verge of turning green, completely stagnant.

I picked up the egret and felt its little weight against my breast.  It shook with fear, but I stroked it gently and whispered to it that I was it's new good friend.  I stifled back a sneeze, inside me, knowing the violence of a sneeze just then would probably stop the egret's little heart.  I took it home to the parlor where I chewed up some worms and gently spit them into the birds mouth, where the bird gobbled them up with delight!

Later, I put on a film of movie, not Lucio Fulci fare, but an old exploitation vehicle nonetheless.  On the screen:


And, of course, there was one white girl in the crowd.

You know that.