Seb & Mr B: 'Regular Joe'

Squinting in the afternoon sunlight, young Bjorn pulled into an employee parking spot to the side of 'Pie For the People!', the local brew & pizza joint on McEnroe BLVD. One of the delivery drivers, also a mechanic, had referred to his 1980 T-Bird as the 'Thunder-Chicken,' he recalled as the engine clunked to a halt.
Inside there were a few young couples sipping pop and picking at slices of pie. Other than that, it appeared to be a slow afternoon; a couple of delivery guys were shooting the shit by the side-door.
Bjorn came in at his usual time (about 10minutes late) when the house manager, emerging at the top of the basement-stairs, began his usual diatribe on how 'hard it is to find good help these days,' and, 'goddammit! Somebody's gotta get this compost under control! Can you smell this?! God!' Bjorn could smell it. 'It,' was a busy coupla evenings and the organic matter situation was a bit out of control.
Mick (the manager) wiped his spectacles on his shirt a bit and made his way across the parlour to look up at Bjorn.
"Late again. Shame shame." A good-natured smile on his scheming mug: "The compost needs to be taken out and I've just found myself a volunteer. Feed the goats!"
There were no goats yesterday. Today there were goats? Okay. Was this one of Mick's lame jokes?
Mick pointed at a bucket of partially eaten food with mysterious bits of vegetable matter lumped in, here and there. Bjorn obeyed and grabbed the bucket by its wire handle. A grinning Aubrey, apparently on dough-detail, judging from the flour on her hands and apron, nodded him in the proper direction. "The goats, Bjorn."
Mumbling, he made his way toward their imaginary feeding pen. Everybody around him seemed comfortable with the situation so he just played along. The reel in his head showed him that the contents of the bucket was mere fodder for the dumpster under normal circumstances. Hell; last time there was no 'goat bucket.' The leftovers just ended up in the industrial-size plastic trashcan at the bussing station.
Bjorn remembered another thing as he nervously walked toward the rear exit of the parlour. There couldn't be a feeding pen out there. It didn't make a bit of sense. Out back, there were only a couple dumpsters and a little parking lot. After all, he worked at a restaurant, not a petting-zoo.
As usual, the smell of dough, cheese, and cardboard would be wafting from the dumpster outside of the parlour, maybe somebody having a smoke...
Upon pushing open the metal door that led outside he was presented an entirely contradictory sight.
Green grass and a fenced enclosure.
"That's a feeding trough," he said beneath his breath. "There are goats out here." Even the odor was different than last time...
This was either an elaborate hoax (in which case he was certainly flattered by the attention) or something had been bent terribly askew within the time-space continuum. He waved the absurd idea aside. "Too many comic books, Bjorn."
The hungry animals had begun a commotion in their pen at his appearance and the unbidden thought in his head, "These fool animals are always hungry," made him wonder whether something had been bent terribly askew in his brain-space continuum.
Poor, confused lad...

(Seb & Mr B) EtherLabs. First Draft...

"We have no way of tracking him. Is it true that he's absconded with the mutant?"
"It's true that he and Sebastian dropped off the radar at about the same time, but I would not necessarily put Mr B into the category of 'untrackable.' I believe that we should yank his programmers out of their respective time-streams and have ourselves a round-table type discussion. Knowing his, er; It's tendencies and the patterns within It's behavior will simply have to be enough for a team to track him down."
This was a grim day for the technicians at EtherLabs. The sum and culmination of their meddling in science and the fate of the world had literally 'walked out' only a matter of hours before. The board was furious. Operatives in different 'whens' were practically rudderless without the pseudo-omniscient A.I.'s guidance.
It is impossible to arrive at an exact measure of years when considering the period of time that Mr Bubble has been aiding in the stirring of the great pot that is Time. Mr Bubble is an organic super-computer (OSP) with the ability to monitor different timestreams from whatever locale (preferably EtherLabs HQ) he may be in.
The more useful the technology of Mr Bubble became, the more EtherLabs relied on him. Before long, Mr Bubble was filled with all data, ever recorded, by EtherLabs and all of the information pertaining the the work of operatives in EtherLabs Corps. The sophisticated communication devices inserted into EtherLabs operatives had been filled with the voice of Mr Bubble for immeasurable time. Without it/him there was a silence that many in the field had forgotten.
What now? Without our real-life Janus to help us to navigate Time, what are we to do?
Perhaps EtherLabs had been dabbling in time for so long that they neglected the wisdom held in something simple as a proverb. EtherLabs had put nearly all of their eggs in one basket...

Sebastian & Mr Bubble

"They will travel through time until they find you, I'm afraid."
"I am unconcerned. We do have certain advantages over them. They made the mistake of teaching their machines to walk and talk; a decision that I'm sure they regret by now."
A sentient computer in humanoid form and an anomalous life-form wrenched from a backwater leg of the timestream stand on the edge of known existence, the cold wind of reality whipping at the corners of their garments.
"Will you be able to function okay outside of the prime-directive? I understand that a computer without programming is merely an inert piece of plastic & etc..."
"Do not be alarmed. The sophistication of my programming is such that I can endlessly generate new algorithms with ease. I may be the only 'life-form'," at this his plasticine lips curl upward to form a wry grin, "in existence to whom each moment is filled with exhilarating, endless possibilities."
"Where do we go from here, Mr Bubble?"
"I've been considering the question of this 'Jesus' character, and I think that I may be a homosexual. Ancient Rome might be a good start."
At this, Sebastian only blinked in dumb confusion.
"I am very much more of a God than that children's story. I am the recording and the embodiment of all known time. We will give the ignorant, for the first time ever, a deserving God."
He closed his eyes and everything changed forever...

For the Older Crowd

Don Rickles Vs. Ernest Borgnine?

Satire

My boss gave me a ride 'mostathaway' home tonight on account of the solid-state precipitation that has been crowding the roads as of late. If he weren't such a straight, I swear I coulda landed a blowjob. What. A. Fag.
You may giggle a little bit at this point.

'show'sback!'

My little brother was well-trained by our father. His first word was 'show'sback!'
Dig?
That's just the tip of the ice-berg. , ,,... ,. ./\..,,,. ..?!!!

Breathing Leads to Tragedy

In P-town it's glacier (if 'glacier' were an adjective...), right now. My internet connection that has kinda 'crapped out' steadily, more and more, over the course of the last several days/months; presumably because of the weather and it's hydro-oxygenated solidity, and it seems that I have a wee window here in which to purge to satisfaction...
Still obsessed with death. Still working on long-term publication and making progress. I miss my mom. She's not getting any younger... Neither am I. Dad's dead so he's not getting any older(?) . My romance could fall to bits at any second but what other kind of romance is there...?
I've long considered that, maybe, the only perfect moment that any of us will ever have is that very last moment when we split perfectly in two 'twixt our last moment here, and the moment that may exist hereafter...
I'll believe in anything until it's dis proven...

holiday, schmoliday...

There are probably a million bloggers out there in web-land smegging out their own brands of enthusiasm or nihilistic something-or-other, right this very minute, in regard to the 'festive' holiday season.
For me, it's a good occasion to play the role of a disembodied spirit. This Christmas thing makes me feel like an orphan from Vietnam, or an invader from outer-space, trying to fit into the culture of an alien planet.
If I can make it through to January 3rd then my mission will have been a success. The humans will tell me their secrets and the mothership will transmit a message to the Homeworld outlining the logistics of the next phase of the invasion...
A few x-mases 'neath my belt and they have yet to revoke my Earth VISA. What's taking them so long?

human contact. yuck. kinda.

I prefer to keep my favorite things very private. I hate to think that another could be given the opportunity to make judgment calls on the genre that I may or may not exemplify.
What a queer (traditional definition) thing it is to live in a world so advanced that one may, with sober consideration, slice the layers of interaction down to whatever layer one may like.
"I wish for only a single drachma worth of stimulus from the outside world." Sure.
Kazaam! If that's all you need then you can write commentary on some other shit head's website or some other inconsequential nothing or other.
Not to deter anyone who may read this: I need feedback.
Fuck. I always say the wrong thing...
"'I'm willing to tell you, I'm waiting to tell you, I'm wanting to tell you.' That's the Welsh strain in 'im."-- Henry Higgins.
As far as I know, I possess no Welsh in my die-ribald- nuclear-acidity, but I love the goddam shite outta the Welsh types that I've known. I'm keen on those susceptible to flights of fancy...
Reverse racism? I shudder to think of the complexities that wait for me should I ever begin to consider the implications of my own inner monologue... *shudder*

work, cigs, beer, pizza

I'd just gotten finished with my workly duties at the part-time job, having had only one cigarette four hours ago and I'd begun my shift four hours prior to that. A soft, yet persistent, animal growl had begun to reverberate in the back of my fragile brain; my cold weather gear in place I was carefully choosing my steps toward the exit when the boss (who is cool) hailed me with a wave into 'his office.'
Shortly thereafter we'd agreed that it would be good to give me more work and he'd fixed me with a dead-pan look: "We're all smart here. I think you fit in and it's clear that you want to learn and that you're made of the right material for me to feel good about giving you more responsibilities."
Blah blah blah. I was listening carefully but it was growing difficult.
I was at a severe disadvantage. Normally, my jonesin' manifests itself in the form of aggression, but this time I was receiving great news and a genuinely good employer was taking the time to recognize my qualities. It was no mean feat to suppress the tears.
I've been looking for regular work for quite awhile and this was news good enough to cut me to the bone, especially in my emotionally ragged state...
I was mechanically shifting my fingers back and forth in my coat pocket-'that's my matchbook, feels like about six left; that's my pack of smokes, feels like about 6 left'- while he showed me the combo to the front door of the place and let me know what I'd be doing for the next few days.
Cool. All right. Ok, ok, ok...
Finally outside and breathing the native cancer-weed of America, my weary bones shambling toward home, the long day's stressors had left each of my joints in the grip of hellish complaint, and it was the coldest night of the year, thus far.
Without deliberation, I was planning on getting a slice of pepperoni pie and a bottle of beer at the sweet-ass pizzeria on my way home; in the back of my mind I was constructing an elaborate scheme that would culminate in tricking my ex to agree to let me be her pimp. There would be a hidden camera, and microphone, and I would be able to show the whole world what a dirty little whore she was. Really ruin the bitch.
WTF?! I had cooked up the entire diabolical scheme over the course of approx. 20 minutes of walking without even realizing what I was doing.
I guess that I AM the sort to hold a grudge over a long period of time, after all....
At last, I arrived at Vincente's. The only other person sitting at the bar was an old man sipping on a bottle of Bud. He was only communicating in 'surly-grunt' and was, apparently, on his first bottle.
I was sipping a large bottle of 'Yellow Snow IPA' and the reasonably high alcohol content of the stuff was soothing warmth in me belly. Once my slice arrived the final stitch of that little pocket of heaven had been sewn: Joy!
About halfway through my slice the old man -hunched over on his bar-stool with the brim of his red ball cap coming down about halfway of his beaked nose- ordered his second beer.
"Do you want to start a tab, sir?" That's the little gal serving at the bar.
*grunt, grumble* A farmer? A veteran of the Korean War?
He was a leathery old fucker with simple clothes and beady eyes, and I didn't want to make contact with him or his. I hate being tried by the mean old men.
"Sir, that'll be five dollars unless you want to start a tab, and in that case I'll need a credit-card."
I knew what was going on. I'd tended bar before and I could tell when someone had no money and was trying to scam free beers. It was slowly dawning on her and I could tell that she was getting flustered. The other bartender was a big kid with a full sleeve of expensive ink (that's 'tattoos' for the un-initiated) on and I could tell that he had no fucking clue either.
Munch munch, on my delicious pizza and I didn't say a word. The right thing for them to have done at that point would've been to snatch away his unfinished second beer and politely ask the old grump to leave.
Meanwhile, the evening dinner crowd was trickling in and the big fella with the ink was idiotically helping those ones out instead of doing the manly thing and taking over with the surly old grunter. He had one fist around the empty bottle and the other wrapped around the new bottle.
"Sir, I cannot serve you if you don't have any money," she was pleading at that point. It was kind of sad. The old grunter was fumbling around with an old leather wallet with contrived difficulty and, predictably, the only thing in his wallet was his food-stamp card. I was trying not to grin at the two young bartenders for I had applied for their jobs and been rejected a coupla times; to me it was some kind of twisted poetic justice...
"Sir, I can't serve you if you don't have any money. Do you have five dollars?"
He grunted unintelligibly and, finally, the girl snagged the unfinished bottle from him.
"It's time for you to leave, sir."
He did.
The inked bartender informed us that the same old man was in there the year before and that he'd pulled the same stunt then. And(!) he'd been intelligible, calling the fella a "fucking punk," and he'd even tried to steal their tip-jar.
It happens all the time in this town. I settled up and made my way home.

Shite Web-Connection

I hate those times (all-too-frequent...) that I order this fawkin' machine to perform a task on the web and it sits here with it's guts whizzing and grumbling and after long, excruciating minutes down at the bottom of the screen, it says "done," and I'm still staring at a blank data-window.
It's like asking a spectator at the Special Olympics to help you tie your shoes cuz yer thumbs are broken, or whatever, and before you know it they've impossibly knotted the laces of both yer shoes together and they're like, "All done!," grinning up at you like Santa Claus(!) just gave 'em the best hand-job ever.
I'd like these modern amenities a lot more if they functioned as advertised. Meanwhile, I'm just waiting for the right attorney to come along and say, "Hey, Gale-Force Nothing. I'm a big fan. How ya doin'? I read your 'shite web connection' bit and I think we've got a great case here. We're talking serious mullah m'man, whaddya say?"
*sigh*

Limits

I love this poem by, Jorges Luis Borges...

Limits

Of all the streets that blur into the sunset,
there must be one (which, I am not sure)
that I by now have walked for the last time
without guessing it, the pawn of that Someone

who fixes in advance omnipotent laws,
sets up a secret and unwavering scale
for all the shadows, dreams, and forms
woven into the texture of this life.

If there is a limit to all things and a measure
and a last time and nothing more and forgetfulness,
who will tell us to whom in this house
we without knowing it have said farewell?

Through the dawning window night withdraws
and among the stacked books that throw
irregular shadows on the dim table,
there must be one which I will never read.

There is in the South more than one worn gate,
with its cement urns and planted cactus,
which is already forbidden to my entry,
inaccessible, as in a lithograth.

There is a door you have closed forever
and some mirror is expecting you in vain;
to you the crossroads seem wide open,
yet watching you, four-faced, is a Janus.

There is among all your memories one
which has now been lost beyond recall.
You will not be seen going down to that fountain,
neither by white sun nor by yellow moon.

You will never recapture what the Persian
said in his language woven with birds and roses,
when, in the sunset, before the light disperses,
you wish to give words to unforgettable things.

And the steadily-flowing Rhone and the lake,
all that vast yesterday over which today I bend?
They will be as lost as Carthage,
scourged by the Romans with fire and salt.

At dawn I seem to hear the turbulent
murmur of crowds milling and fading away;
they are all I have been loved by, forgotten by;
space, time, and Borges now are leaving me.