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.