Dipole, in A

My understanding was increasing as far as I could tell, but I still wanted to have a foot race against the good doctor… to escape. He looked healthy and fast though, not the usual type of person I would spring against, especially not in these wooden clogs that I had been fitted with (for electrical insulation purposes). I’m no electronics expert. The equipment sound makes me want to run, as I’m sure you understand. It puts me on edge when I know the noise is to be used on me and not some inanimate pile of fertilizer, as was the usual for me. In a different sort of world, the fertilizer might feel the same apprehension as I feel.

Dr. Taylor presented his information on multiple levels simultaneously, much more efficient than my short-circuited presentation about my theory of what “freestyle” actually is. Is it just the ability to improvise? No. Let me begin and end by saying that freestyle holds a number of complicated meanings; meanings that are deeply rooted in a dualistic and detailed type universe with many different things that are complex and highly intricated. I’ll save that for later too… somebody should be writing these things down. Philosophical defense is quite arduous by my own understanding, and can utilize nearly one’s entire mental energy reservoir. For that reason my philosophies lack body and when they’re presented they have the same effect on the mental palette as does my special meatball sandwich served on my own homemade rye bread on the taste palette. Nonetheless, my philosophies have to find an exit from my equipment box, but that’s neither here nor there in this narrative. Right now I would like to use my reserved right to freestyle my explanation mode by being ambiguous and disconnected (displaying the lack of palatability)… with the use of only one freestyle example:

“I’m afraid that attempt will be stifled.” Taylor said as he looked at me in the mirror. Seeing as to the fact that no sounds were made by me alluding to my thoughts, I had to pretend he didn’t say anything. “Jerry, your expression speaks volumes; volumes that we can’t have spoken at this time, silently or otherwise. Please index them and organize them on manufactured plastic shelving. I’m sure you were innocently evaluating your own theories and such, most likely the nature of freestyle. I once sent my son to your “freestyle tire camp” over the summer. He tossed well, and invented several new procedures and rules. If I remember correctly the camp was eventually turned against you in a moment of law exchange. The new rule was that you had to act as the tire ringer and were only allowed to make happy comments. Don’t worry, your community service attempt didn’t go unnoticed, but it did contribute, in my opinion, to your ultimate brain convolution. At first only a simple, cute diagram, it soon ran out of control and then you lost your job. I’m guessing that at least. You look sullen, the way one looks when they’ve lost their income and life. “

Wow, top notch insight. I then remembered that I’ve been trying to impress Taylor with my freestyle theory for a number of years, always getting bits and pieces out when I see him at the super market or shooting hoops in the park. “Sorry.” I said with a tear in my eye and a knot in my throat. I was ashamed and felt dirty. I turned away so it wouldn’t get worse. He didn’t’ help the circumstance by lifting up my shirt and lightly stroking my abdomen. I wanted to take a shower to wash the smeared lipstick off my face. I will explain more on freestyle later. I think it might have a rightful place in this story, but it’s too early to tell, and my theory was pre-pubescent. It would do no justice at this time.

“I’m afraid there might not ever be time for that set of postulates again.” He told me. Not after today my friend, not after today. “Well, shall we? “ Taylor then motioned to the back room again, this time with a flashlight and a neon streamer. He pointed up at the ceiling ferociously and repeatedly, giving the signals as if they were memorized. I heard no noise changes and sensed nothing except the clamps holding my wrists down. I had not noticed the cold steel before, but I didn’t appreciate them doing their unyielding work. They showed no emotion, as expected. Torque punched in some numbers on his wall-mounted number control panel and giggled with delight. Then he swore and gave the cut sign to the mirror. Three knocks on the glass proceeded with the same frequency, and Torque inspected a wall graph showing child ear infections vs. motherly love.

My mind wandered off for what I believed to be the last time. I thought about my new job and my potential new ability to figure out the past day’s events. I had plenty of days left, but dwindling resources and a clogged pipe that sent them. This would unclog the pipe, increasing the resources as required. My new resources could be used to find newer better ones and so on and such. I pondered my uncle’s plan and remembered that I didn’t listen to much of it. I sure hoped he could get off his feet with his various endeavors. I think I was supposed to play a role in that, but I couldn’t be sure. He had suggested that I see Myron at the Booth, so maybe I was to go back to him after that. Then again, he mentioned that Melcko was monitoring his water usage or something of that nature, which wouldn’t be too hard to believe for me at this point. And that’s where the plans and the day’s destruction show unity, which is what leads me to believe that I shouldn’t have listened more intently. But then again when the shit hits the fan like this, you know, with losing your job, part of your face, attempted abduction, and multiple slight of hand your mind starts to play tricks on you. I have to wonder if everything is real nearly all the time, and continually check my pocket for items that may have wandered in there at some point. Once I found a Gideon’s Bible and a pack of Big League Chew in there and sat for days alone, wondering how it could be.

Killing Machine (Just Downright Mean)

A good post on Penny Arcade today (it's the second post after the link jump, and really the first part of the post is a good read for other reasons, namely, lamenting the loss of the last local arcade and also the shittiness of Sonic games for the past 5-10 years).

The story that they're referring to is an interesting one. The type of story that will allow you to really visualize Milwaukee.

... and that's why they used to call him Hot Sauce

Hot Sauce always believed he could punch his way out of any situation. He'd laugh, cock his arm back and Whammo! Actually, he'd say, "Wham!" because he would become ultra agressive after a good thorough listening to Fantastic!. He was lanky and mean, and had two fingers gone on one hand and a melty, sour, sore on his other. Hot Sauce was a talented do-gooder, especially when it came to producing offspring, kicking over watermelon stands and forcing his way into packed elevators and saunas. Later he revealed the truth to his online subscribers - he was a real insecure, isolated cry baby with a penchant for hot soup, granola snacks, distant hugs, and great big window views of nature. He didn't even have an arm built for punching, he would claim in a later revelation. His nickname was thus thrown like a frisbee into the wind by his posse.


So, these type of people do exist... lord jesus do they ever. Now, this was a completely irrelevant segway into this, but when I started it all, it had something to do with the two tickets to paradise and my mismanaged brain signaling system. So, grab your cats and hold onto the nearest towel rack, it's gonna be a tilted psychological chess match pitting you against every object in your immediate environment that's vibrating uncontrollably, risking its existence on the mere chance that it may succeed in destroying you.

The time I almost got killed by this one guy.

Heart rate 55. Doorbell rang in subzero darkness. Heart rate 75. Not yet asleep, I glanced to my right at my nearly-dead bedside clock, whose battery I'd not yet changed due to ignorance of its location. Eleven o'clock... great. The first tentative, lonely notes of the 'Metroid' title-screen theme echoed in the back of my mind & body, living in the fear-filled, uncertain future.

"Hmmm, that's weird. Be right back, sweetie." Heart rate 90.

Downstairs into the unlit living room. Peeking through the front door's upper-arched window, I saw the tall Caucasian freezing in anticipation. I, the jury: 'Trustworthy.' I unlocked the door and opened it a crack, stepping out into the cold with just a robe covering my boxers. "Gotta watch out for the cats," I said, heart rate inexplicably 60.

"Yeah, hi...". Southern accent. Glasses. Nondescript face, but late 30's. Dark close-cropped hair. Long dark winter coat, not quite a parka though. "I was just trying to get on the light rail over there," gestures westward, "And they kicked me off cuz I didn't have the fare, but I need to get the airport to catch a flight back home to Alabama... Birmingham... and I can't get a taxi..." and further convoluted nonsense.

"Sorry, yeah, um... I don't have anything to help you. You know, you should try that bar over there..." Skeptical of his story, but not skeptical of him too much.

"I tried that but they sent me away at the door."

"Well, yeah, so, good night. You know, be careful, it's a dangerous neighborhood."

"Yeah, that's what they told me at the bar." Closed door. Watched him go down our dead-end street, wandering up to a house with its lights on, then wandering back. Back to the bar area. Lost in the crowd.

Heart rate 120.

What the hell did I do that for? Should I call 911? What would they even be able to do?

Quickly debriefed the wife. Not pleased. Fair enough.

Back downstairs to peek through all windows again. Nothing.

Back to bed. Heart rate 80. Restless sleep.

2 mornings later: groggy, went out to my car, parked on the street, at 6:45 to warm it up. Freezing, I fumbled for my keys in my jacket and blindly sought out the remote opener as I approached the driver's side door. Heart rate 40. The driver's window -- MY window -- smashed to safety-glass quartz pieces. Heart rate 100. "Fuck!"

Back into house. "Shit!!!"
"What?"
"My car got broken into!"

I went back outside to check the damage. Opening the door, the last bits of glass from the window fell out, triggering the horn-alarm. "Oh, yeah, NOW you go off!" The inside passenger door plastic was smashed in by the rock that was apparently hurled into the cockpit by "Alabama Joe." All he took was my ancient iPod -- not even a color screen, sucker! -- and my sense of personal safety.

The glass installation guy arrived later in the day, working a small miracle. Heart rate 60. By evening, we realized that the flower pot on our front stoop had an indentation in the soil where a rock had been. We took the rock recovered from my car and placed it in the indentation. Like Indiana Jones might do. Perfect fit. Yes. Alabama Joe -- or someone -- took that rock from our front stoop's flower pot and broke into my car with it.

Could've just as easily taken that rock and broken the window on our front door, reached in, and unlocked it. I've had nightmares to that effect since childhood, and here it was, after all.

Police report filed -- "You know, you never should have opened the door that night." Wow, thanks for the great tip. That one should get published in "1,001 Secret Crime Fighting Techniques That Work." It's a pamphlet though, not a book, because really it's just 6 things. The "secret" is that they can't tell you the other ones.

So, ANYWAY... I was talking to the neighbors the next night and found out that the 9th-grade kid next door let this guy in the night after I did. The kid gave the guy -- who told a similar B.S. story -- $1.50.

When I told the kid my safety tips, sharing the worldly wisdom that I had purchased for a high price, he told me that he grabbed a heavy statue from his living room before he opened the door. He, in fact, demonstrated this to me: grab ugly rod-shaped sculpture; put sculpture behind back; position body carefully, not revealing hidden weapon behind back when talking to guy at door. Give guy some money from kitchen.

Thus, I was schooled yet again.

What should we do?-- become complete tools, as we contemplate our navels with visions of a city with no crime? In the days after the incident, we considered "security" services for our home, even calling some guy to come over for an estimate. This would involve various levels of measures that would do very little to deter crime, but would deter our cats. I voted for bars over the basement window, and maybe something for the front door. No follow-up has yet occured, as the event fades a bit in our memories and our heart rates normalize.

The lesson: when you hear the title screen music for a videogame that involves an interplanetary bounty hunter who engages in the solitary and anxiety-inducing pursuit of deadly lab-created aliens -- you better listen to it.

All the information you requested...

The full story on Will Sandstrom - well, not really, but it's an interview featuring his picture and some excellent examples of his story style. Please, for the love of God, take your time to read all of the responses; you'll see that it was well worth your time.

Will "the Finnish Fighting Sandman" Sandstrom

Wind Parted Hair

What happened? Have people self-destructed? Strangely, only now that I begin to garner no repsonses to my posts (the only real reason for me to post is to get much needed attention) do international visistors begin to filter in. They refuse to comment on anything though, so I throw dirt and glass their way just the same. Well, I'm not here (in the electro-world) to waste my time or yours (unless you consider reading this very sentence a waste of time....... ..... or following my line of periods). So here's the feature of the week:


Rush - Middletown Dreams Lyrics


The office door closed early

The hidden bottle came out

The salesman turned to close the blinds

A little slow now, a little stout

But he's still heading down those tracks

Any day now for sure

Another day as drab as today

Is more than a man can endure



[Chorus:]

Dreams flow across the heartland

Feeding on the fires

Dreams transport desires

Drive you when you're down

Dreams transport the ones who need to get out of town



The boy walks with his best friend

Through the fields of early May

They walk awhile in silence

One close, one far away

But he'd be climbing on that bus

Just him and his guitar

To blaze across the heavens

Like a brilliant shooting star



The middle aged Madonna

Calls her neighbor on the phone

Day by day the seasons pass

And leave her life alone

But she'll go walking out that door

On some bright afternoon

To go and paint big cities



From a lonely attic room



It's understood

By every single person

Who'd be elsewhere if they could

So far so good

And life's not unpleasant

In their little neighborhood

[Chorus]

They dream in Middletown


Just another awesome example of Rush encouraging the youthful dreamer to stray away from the gray, brainwashed suburbs of the Canadian metro areas. But, idiots, the real message is that it doesn't matter where you are, it isn't as bad as Neil Peart might have you believe, because all those hopeless dreamers, rebels, and artists end up having their electricity shut off which leads them to eating dry processed food in the dark, which eventually either leads them to prostitution or moving back into the places formerly considered by Rush to be "mindless human waste devices." The latter interpretation is Geddy's of course, who decided on this album that he would take no more of Neil's shit liberal banter about trees, subdivisions, red barchetta's and 2112's. Just check this out if you don't believe me. It proves all this without a doubt.