Stallis Screams for Vengeance

You know what they say in Stallis: if you can't keep it fucking weird, then go somewhere else. They seek to keep it weird, and real. They maintain quite a farmer's market, and have done so for almost 100 years. This will having meaning as you read on. They're always down there waiting for that moment of nostalgia to become reality. They wait at the bus stop for hours in the winter. Standing and staring blankly at mounds of dirty, salty snow. The diesel fumes always stick in their hair. Their hair looks and reeks of 1978. The summer brings walking weather and long hours of sunlight. They walk by expansive, crusty fields. Large brick smokestacks, naked, cast dark shadows, both literally and figuratively. Kurt Vonnegut once said that if you can't write clearly, then you probably don't think as clearly as you think you do. Nothing describes Stallis better than this. They are the opposite of this. Stallis has been broken, and they can't fix it this time. It happened many year ago, and to top that statement, they don't want to fix it. They want to destroy the technology that destroyed them. They oppose it on legitimate moral grounds. They are advanced beyond what we can understand. Us living in a purely technological fairy tale. They got crushed. A crushing brings realization. It's painful, but invaluable. Thus, a lesson has been burned into their psyches. They will, at all costs, dodge the bullet of so called advancement until advancement catches up to them. Then they will not open internet cafes, they will not buy into silicone chips of any sort. They don't believe in green energy. If they buy into it, they stand (again) to lose big. They won't let that happen again, they're too advanced. Even they don't know how far they've come. Until the day comes when its known, they will continue to wear their "I heart Stallis t-shirts," and speak in monotone voices about the Allis Chalmers days. In solidarity, I will wear my "I heart Stallis t-shirts" too.

Swimming in September Wine

If I'm right, we all lose. I and I think I am, so watch yourself. I bought this April Wine album for cheap at a badly smelling and massive used bookstore in downtown Milwaukee. The corridors are quiet with only a few cats wandering here and there on the multiple levels. All rooms feature plaster falling from the ceiling and dangerously supported and over-stacked book shelves. One room features a sunken floor, which would probably warrant a condemned status. Anyway, I love the place, and shouldn't be running my mouth.

The story here is about April Wine. I enjoy the song, "Sign of the Gypsy Queen." It gives me an all around okay feeling. I didn't know they even performed the song, "Just Between You and Me." I thought that was Christopher Cross or something, due to it being a relatively terrible song. Anyway, "Sign of the Gypsy Queen" is a delightful song of terror, written just right. That's why it only makes sense that it was the only song not written by April Wine, but by Lorence Hud, who studied at the University of Saskatchewan. I suppose I'd like to think he's like Gordon Lightfoot, but charges less for show admittance. But I don't know that. April Wine made VERY little effort to modify Hud's version of this song. That's good I guess. And thus, I don't feel as depressed about today's music (and movie) scene. The Canadians started it, now the Americans will do them one better and finish it. As a note, April Wine is strongly Canadian, which proves that at one time they were turning their swords on each other. Those days are long boys and girls, long gone.

Captain Conquest's Forest Lair

Speaking of the big-box business plan, am I the only one who no longer shops at Menard's? John Menard is the richest man in Wisconsin, and even richer than old man Macy in terms of 2010 dollars, whatever that means. I don't know what it means because I made it up just now, the part about old man Macy. It just sounded right I guess. Either way, John Menard is filthy rich, and built his empire of hardware/lumber/cheap shit stores on a greasy, gear-grinding machine built cruelly on the backs of millions of people. Quoting himself, "It's a game, and I'm winning." He's sued former employees for all sorts of shit, mostly because they've violated contractual obligations that inflict pain and conflict with all aspects of real life and nearly bind people to death after Menards. To note, it's not a publicly traded company, which is the number one reason he's filthy fucking rich.

This story alone is a lame duck in the blogosphere. I often times misuse phrases. Sometimes they just sound right. Then I have to explain: these stories will be hot issues (a la Justin Bieber) for quite a long time, but they're becoming so common that they have little effect on my emotions. I've become desensitized. The only interesting part remaining is the dialogue that results from any media source printing lists of "richest individuals." The dialogue is almost always centered politically, and is decisively partisan. "He's a greedy bastard and the scourge of mankind." Or, on the other hand, "He should be commended for starting from nothing and building his empire." Some truth lies in both perhaps. I urge everyone to think about this: would we be better or worse off if the John Menards were not born? Some people say better, due to the tired claim about the jobs and the wealth that he's created. His tax bill, by some accounts, is the largest of any one individual. I should think we're worse off though, without any questions asked. John Menard produced jobs, no doubt, but is it wrong to assume that if Menards didn't exist, then other people would sell the same yard knick-knacks and ointment that Menards always seems to have at the checkout counters? A novel idea indeed. Maybe we'd even assume that some guy named Hot Sauce would open his own smaller store and employ a dozen or so people (in a more personal environment even, that might (oh no) empower people). Then we could assume that since people (generally) would purchase the same number of items regardless of whether or not Menards exists, that more Hot Sauce's would open up business, and soon an equivalent number of employees that now work at Menards would hold similar, perhaps better jobs? Alas, this is perfectly plausible, and was the market that was present prior to the big-box era. Then, instead of having one man with $5.2, we might have 600 people with $500,000. 5.2 billion divided by 600 is not 500,000, as you might note. That's right motherfuckers, I'm suggesting a redistribution of wealth. If they wouldn't have called you pink for saying, or even thinking it, you might not be shaking your head. Boy, if I weren't such a commie the government wouldn't be monitoring my blog. Thanks government, and John Menard*, you egotistical bastard. You're my only two readers. By the way, I didn't even suggest banning the church or building concrete gray housing units.

*John Menard was notorious for paranoid monitoring of his employees, firing many based on baseless theories that they were somehow stealing from stores. I've stolen nothing from you, so please leave me alone. Also, once we bought a Christmas tree and some leaden decorations. Thank you.

Spellbound in Indiana

An obligation to post, also called a mild obsessive compulsive necessity, has been haunting me for about 15 minutes. That's not bad. Fifteen minutes I mean. It appears that, at best, my posting comes in spurts of about 3 a week, then none for a long time. It's only my compulsion that creates a new post. In my mind, my family will pay a dear price if I do not post. This is torture at best. Posting things to a mostly blind readership in an infinite internet world of bullshit is nearly meaningless, but it feels right. I do things that feel right. Sometimes, at best. There is nothing real to discuss here today. Nothing at all. The fortune of man rests in his morals. His wealth is not his until it's no longer another man's debt. That's what Craig Ferguson said on his late night show, in a bad dream that I had last night. It makes sense I guess. I have two cats now, one of them black. Sometimes people do creepy shit to black cats around Halloween. We won't be letting ours out of the house.

The Echo Street Morph

The only reason I'm writing this is because I guaranteed a good friend that I would. Mostly because he was there with me as a witness that day, across the street from my house at a Sheboygan high school commons area. Without him as a witness, you'll understand that this narrative would simply not be possible. I admit, before I lose your attention, that I know most events that occur around here are simply not worth mentioning, and are certainly not worth writing about. Read the Sheboygan Press for example. However, this information that I have seems to be a bit different, and may have social and political implications that reach far beyond the scope of anything that I'm about to discuss.

First and foremost, this was a Sunday morning in July proceeding some heavy rains in the previous week. Not many people are mingling about in Sheboygan on Sunday morning. In fact, there may exist some law about this. People in Sheboygan maintain their fear of God's wrath if rest is not adhered to as the primary Sunday principle. This is not my fear though as a common heathen, but I sometimes wonder if I was somehow punished for this.

My mission was simple enough - assess some areas of high water and investigate drainage patterns. This was my own self-assigned mission and had no impact on actual drainage policy. I go on missions like this often. They're low pressure, low-risk, and provide a means to survive mentally in Sheboygan. The mission started with a quick inspection of a shallow concrete drainage channel, then I decided to cross the street onto the school grounds to check out where water levels had been in some other drainage areas.

I walked through a chain link fence gate and into a concrete courtyard. I looked up only instinctively and ordinarily to view what I thought was low-flying plane. I looked up though and the sound of noisy propellers was not present, and my ear caught only an electronic buzz as looked up. Now my senses did not match my library of truths, which, as you know, always causes slight personal alarm. I saw the cylindrical thing hovering there, no more than 300 feet off the ground. With my current frame of reference, the thing looked like it was about the length of a mid-sized car, and had two 52 gallon barrel sized appendages on it. It looked phallic. It hovered momentarily at that point, giving off the hum and a whisper which suggested a low-power phase. At that point, it saw me, and jetted across the near sky, accelerating to what appeared to be maximum velocity in well under a second with no increase in noise level. It made high-powered maneuvers, not in agreement with the natural terrestrial laws of physics we see in action each day. A car hitting its brakes or accelerating with the pedal to the floor - we can relate to the sounds and sights associated with that. This thing though, it moved with such aggression, with such precise changes in its path. It was striking awe in me. Simultaneously, it was giving me the pants-shitting feeling of fear that only a multinational defense contractor under the protection of the US government can give you. Cold war fear. I had been here before, a different place but the same scenery, this same machine. But that time I had no witness. At the time people would accuse me of a bad bout of psychedelic drug use, a time of over-stress, or a schizophrenic episode, all of which were legitimate causes of false imagery given my history. Before I was able to process all of my thoughts the thing was upon me, swooping down nose first to within inches of my left arm. It circled me and seemed to inspect me through a fine metallic mesh with a prismatic quality. I inspected it. I did not move. I lay still as if a hornet were crawling near my carotid artery. I did not flinch in my fear. At this moment, lucky as I was, my loyal witness and friend showed up across the courtyard in the gate. We looked at each other. He looked at it. It didn't appear to notice him, but it's likely that it did because at that moment it began to digitize to invisibility. It then morphed into a black human figure. The black figure consisted of elliptical shapes connected by rotational joints. The kind of figure you might draw educationally as you hone your artistry skills. It was a solid black. It broke into a jog and a chain materialized in its left hand. My heart palpitated and my breathing became shallow as it ran directly at my friend. I knew then that we'd be disintegrated, obliterated by a light show, or at least mind-fucked so that we wouldn't remember. But, as time slowed, and the moment of truth came as the figure reached the gate, the entire figure morphed into a curled up, sleeping black dog. A perfect and real dog, with all of the typical dog attributes. We left without saying a word.

As we walked back to my house, our minds clouded in a shocked haze, I ranted about the military capitalist system's creation of such monstrosities. The thing clearly wasn't alien, as if that was an option. It was more like a machine running at around 80% efficiency, making mistakes that only a prototype man-made device could make. They hadn't developed the true human morph apparently, but the dog they had mastered. I made some comments that would have no impact or make little sense if not in the current context: "The same capitalist society, with the elites at the top that claim that its workers have all the adequate benefits, creates a money incentive to innovate shit like this. We use all our resources on dog morphing. And for what?" We went on like this for a couple of hours. Blah, blah, blah, a lot of anti-establishment political talk with no real ideas as to how I might change this if I were in charge. I owe much of this banter to the trauma of the situation. I might as well have been high. As usual in small town America political banter, nothing is solved, but after you've talked you feel like you've just taken a shit after eating at a Chinese buffet - slightly satisfied, but knowing that the MSG is building up in your system. So the same goes for small town America political banter - the participants might as well start purchasing some really high-powered weed or for that matter eating at the Pagoda House (Weekend - All that have). The outcomes are the same, at least you have an excuse.

But anyway, the political and social implications, as I said, are beyond the scope of this, so there's no need to waste any more space. I write this because I promised myself I would. It can make no real point. I'm not an academic. For now, let's keep it for the record. If at a later time we wish to cash it in for something better, we'll talk.

Rick's Dirty Secret

Hank and Alan Nowatski had been hustling the streets of Milwaukee for over 30 years. None of the lessons, in recent years, say ten or so, were new. As Hank imagined, the days felt very much like a stagnant layer of dust might feel on grandma's knick-knack pile: cracking and dry, gray, and smelling of grandma. Relentlessly trapped. Today smelled of grandma, and as far back as their intellect allowed them to recall, so did the previous days. Today they would head down to 30th and Burleigh, right in front of a large 2 story white-wash looking brick building with the windows boarded up. Times were rough down there. Wealthy whites living in the outer rims of the metro area said the lack of invigoration was commonly blamed on self-defeatists. They had never been there nor had they ever intended on actually investigating the problem. Hank and Alan, oblivious to the writing on the wall, used to run a twist hustle in that area until the violence was turned up to an unbearable and downright dangerous level. Teenagers using canes for legit protection had given way to roller skating punks driven insane by the lack of job opportunities. These cretins moved with their weapons of choice: usually brandishing high powered machetes and ball peen hammers sharpened to points. The more fierce breed carried crudely constructed hand grenades loaded with glass shards and bottle caps. They ignorantly used their weapons for pleasure.

Hank and Alan, sitting right ways on the rotting porch before heading out, watching a team of wreckless roaches chewing away the lean, slimy meat of a sewer rat, were considered their plan for the day. Neither of them applied the potential lessons of the rat being devoured to their own lives. The wind blew another acrid note through Alan's already damaged nasal passage onto his desensitized mucus membrane. His lip was cracked with dried blood, his face was unshaven, and his eye currently was covered with 2 day old gauze, dampened by the fluid from his most recent eye injury. This injury would last much longer, everyone knew that, because it was caused by a wound inflicted by the neighborhood cat, Regicules. The cat claimed to be magical and wanted badly to be called, "Regicules the great magical cat." Alan knew he was a damn bum cat, not much higher on the evolutionary totem than a rotten pole cat. And since he refused to acknowledge the cat's abilities, he paid a hefty price of a cornea scratch and the subsequent cat scratch fever set of symptoms and injuries: hot vomiting in the night. Alan vowed to kick the god damned thing across Center Street if he ever turned up again. Alan had a habit of undigested anger. And so it goes, he lived with brother Hank, whom he trusted with certain informations. "Goodnight Hank," Alan would say every night, feeling a little too comfortable. Hank, being in generally better shape both physically and mentally, but not spiritually, would sell Alan down the river in no less than one coked up heartbeat. He identified himself as a fatalist. He subconsciously felt like Alan was anchoring him at the bottom of the Milwaukee harbor in filthy and warm water, but his natural fatalism generally prevented him from breaking loose.

Well, these trivial details aside, they loped down to Burleigh eventually, after the rat feast was viewed. For them it was a pretty good show. They viewed, incorrectly in some absolute or ethical sense, as entertainment in a universe otherwise lacking entertainment value. They walked south down Teutonia and past several Walgreen stores. Hank wouldn't let Alan buy any 2 liter soda like he wished to do, and wouldn't let him stop to shit either, which caused quite a pressure in Alan's bowel. Once past Capital, there was no other opportunities for relief, and only a giant cemetery was available for viewing. The stretch of street paralleling the length of the cemetery, if not for the thread of undead molestation, was the safest path to walk down in this area. There was no real relief from dangers in these times and in these places. But the alternatives were even more grim. One couldn't walk to the western suburbs. The area was inhospitable in its own ways. The streets lacked sidewalks as part of the plan, specifically dreamed up to keep the likes of Hank and Alan out. That, of course, seemed like more of a secondary safety measure, considering the distances in those areas, the expansiveness that could cause an overwhelming sense of isolation, and the usual scrutiny from cops and motorists as you walked down the narrow shoulder of roads was generally unbearable. Anybody seen walking without a golf hat and stroller (and soft, supple, reflective skin) was considered an outsider, and treated suspiciously and cruelly as such. Not that Hank and/or Alan wanted to go out there at all anyway. For starters, the journey was seemingly never-ending, even by way of motor. Secondly, they had no interest to go to a community where not even the residents liked to leave their homes and stir things up (positively or negatively) amongst each other. The deathlike feel of the area reached deep down into any soul and pummeled it to a familiar state, as required by law. This knowledge was subconsciously locked into Hank and Alan's minds and was added to their knowledge base about the city. Contrary to liberal promises, the city still lacked real mixed diversity. All clans had remotely developed and isolated themselves from one another. The only hope, as Alan and Hank knew nothing about, lie in those that had no means to relocate themselves into appropriate locales. As the shifting and subsequent segregation was taking place, fools (as viewed from the eyes of the segregator) such as these were unable to put the pieces together.

Hash man.