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{Monday, October 31, 2005}

boys and ghouls

by Fred 12:50 PM

{Friday, October 28, 2005}


by Fred 11:35 AM

{Thursday, October 27, 2005}

If he had just one wish, it would be
"don't steal the fish."
It's for a special dish, the rich fish-knish.
Though they don't often mix,
the knish and the fish,
it's real foody bliss, says his girlfriend, Trish.
Yes, Trish says all this.
She says it's delish.
This Trish is a wit.
She says the fishless knish
would just make her sick,
would make her sick with a spit that's as thick as a brick.
But she says there's a trick
to this special dish
that one could miss
if one isn't quick.
The trick to fish and the knish, says Trish, is just this:
for the rich fishy knish,
you need a fish.

by Fred 6:35 PM

As he approached the house, he noticed something odd. The door was open a bit.

“Did I forget to close and lock the door?” he thought.

No. He always did that. It was automatic. And as he drew closer, he knew that he had. But the door was opened by force. Someone had kicked their way in! He had been, or was in the process of being, robbed. He dropped the groceries. Fuck the eggs. He ran into the foyer and noticed immediately the sorry state his home was now in. It looked like a small tornado had been through. Cushions were everywhere; furniture turned upside down, books strewn across the floor after having been flung from overturned shelves.

“The fuck?!?!?” He screamed, “Why me?!?!?”

This was just the living room. He wondered what had become of his den. He ran down the hall toward the room. The door was barely hanging on its hinges. He held his breath as he walked in and turned the corner. Absolute chaos. He was stunned. The trophies were all gone. All except one. He sighed with relief as he spotted the huge bass he’d landed just last summer still hanging on its mounting plaque just above the computer. He could replace everything else. The fish was there. And he didn’t have to be disappointed.

by ArchHallJr 12:53 PM

He'd be disappointed if they stole the fish.

by Fred 11:47 AM

{Wednesday, October 26, 2005}

Half the time travellers in the joint are gone by the time Josey gets there, like it's pre-arranged or something, which of course it is. Not that you need a quantum computer or a temporal widget or any of that shit to know what Josey's going to do. Damn, you can read that girl like a book. A time portal just gives you someplace to go that the rest of us nobodies can't manage. Saves you the embarrasment of maybe guessing wrong by half a second, just long enough for her to maybe spot you out of the corner of her eye before you duck out of the place. A pre-scheduled rip in time sure as hell beats trying to sneak out the back door, only to have her goons corral you out of the alley behind the joint and back inside. If Josey never knew you were there, she can't ever be mad at you for trying to leave. And trust me, there's nobody wanted to stick around for the pleasure of Josey's company. She's boring in ways they don't have words for in socialite magazines, and the things she'll have her goons do if she sees your attention start to waver...well, the less said, the better. Best just get your time-traveller shoes on and kick it.

by Fred 11:59 PM

I spend half the time looking at pictures, the other half reading the captions. It’s a wild prospect; all these people from different walks of life writing funny lines. Some of them have many things in common, most of them very little. But one thing that unites all is the thrill of knowing someone is laughing at what you wrote. Not everyone will but you do know that like yourself, as you read through the many captions, someone will come across yours and either chuckle, guffaw or downright pee their pants. It is the beauty that transcends the political and social difference among us. I would venture a guess to say that 95% of all people who ever lived at any time during humanities reign in this planet like to laugh. Perhaps that’s the eternal optimist in me; perhaps it’s just wishful thinking. But I want to believe it, even if it isn’t true to all. It is true to me. And I am all the happier for it. All people are funny; some just don’t know how to express their humor. So half the time I am wondering who is in touch with their inner clown, the other half I am busy recognizing who actually is. One thing is for sure . . . when I’m capping, I don’t have to wonder.

by ArchHallJr 11:59 PM

half the time

by Fred 9:28 AM

{Tuesday, October 25, 2005}

pharmaceutical grade

by ArchHallJr 12:00 PM

{Monday, October 24, 2005}

Tougher than leather, hide hard as nails,
In any dark weather, sharp steel for its scales
Eyes shot with fire, breath hot with flame
The skies like a pyre when it's in the game
The world is its oyster, charred, broken and black
Go hide in your cloister and don't you ever come back
It'll eat you up raw and singe your poor flesh
Once you meet with its maw...well, I'm sure you can guess
Its steely dark stare will stop you quite dead
It'll scorch the whole air til the blood all burns red
You'll be turned to ash 'neath its withering gaze
And with sharp teeth it'll gnash your bones for a ways

by Fred 7:21 PM

tougher than leather

by ArchHallJr 12:29 PM

{Friday, October 21, 2005}

I don't know how significnat the socks were, per se. I know that Robert definitely thought they were, and that was enough for Rosalind, who refused to buy another pair, and who toyed with rhe idea of staging a nationwide protest and boycott until Robert told her it wouldn't make any difference. They didn't make the socks anymore, Robert told us; the company had apparently gone bankrupt. This was, he didn't know, maybe five years earlier, years before he'd even stumbled upon his own pair in the bargain bin at the nearby mall. There was nothing to protest. There was no one to boycott. It had been a small company to begin with, and, unlike some larger, couldn't stagger back from a bankruptcy. If it had been the socks in question that led to that bankruptcy, Robert could not say, but Rosalind certainly believed it. She had only to point at their weird unfinished ends, sigh at the holes where on other socks there would be toes, to feel that her point had been proven, that a protest would have been justified if circumstances were different. Robert could certainly credit the socks with the frostbite he had suffered that winter, but -- and this was something I would never have suggested to him, much less to Rosalind -- he could also credit his own stupidity at having bought and worn the damn things in the first place.

by Fred 7:31 PM

significant socks

by Fred 9:06 AM

{Thursday, October 20, 2005}

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by ArchHallJr 11:59 PM

full of money

by John W. 8:01 AM

{Wednesday, October 19, 2005}

When comparing these two unlikely breeds of humanity, one must consider that perhaps they are not an unalike as one might suppose. They both are frontiersmen in a way that no one who preceded them was. While the caveman did not need an environment suit to explore his world, he did have to survive considerable danger from predators and harsh environments. While the astronaut does not have to live a cave, he does have to spend many hours in extremely cramped quarters, cursed with immobility all the while. The caveman may not have understood the necessity of sanitary toilet habits (he must have at some point or we wouldn’t be here) but at least he had the freedom to relieve himself whenever and wherever he needed and/or wanted to. The poor astronaut was relegated to defecating, urinating and expelling flatulence in his clothes. Astronauts drank Tang and ate food from a toothpaste tube. Caveman drank fresh spring water and ate raw steak. I’m beginning to see a pattern here. However, with all the cool things that cavemen had in life, most not mentioned here, nothing they had could compare with the spectacle of watching the earth from geosynchronous orbit.
Astronaut wins.

by ArchHallJr 11:59 PM

"Get over here, Ogg!" screamed Armstrong in frustration, but Ogg just kept circling. The stench of gazelle skin was overpowering; meat and grass and who knew what all else, and all that over Ogg's sweat. You would think, thought Armstrong, that with that scent you'ld be encouraged to invent curing. Or take a bath at the very.. Christ! Barely dodged that jawbone. Who knew he had a jawbone? What moron carried a jawbone?


Ogg grinned stupidly at him. It infuruated Armstrong, Ogg standing there smirking and sniggering like he knew something special, like he was the smart one, and he charged Ogg, dodging low and reaching behind to put Ogg in a hammer lock and coming up short on Ogg's knee to the groin. Goddamn it, if only he hadn't lost his blaster; Ogg wouldn't stand a chance then. But he didn't know how to fight, did Ogg; he kept biting. Who bit? Damn savages, that's who.

Armstrong's suit absorbed much of the hit; they might make him look like the Michelin Man, but they did that at least and rendered a good bit of Ogg's dirty fighting more of a psychological, rather than physical threat. He took advantage of Ogg's over-confidence, turned his hammerlock mid-stream into a quarter-nelson wristlock. Ogg howled in pain and anger, but the more he struggled, the worse off he was. The pain, Armstrong could see, was excrutiating. Cords stood out on Ogg's neck, sweat beaded in his temples and in the corners of his eyes. "Wararrgh," Ogg protested. "Grararrgh!"

"In English!" Armstrong insisted. Damn him if he was going to give an inch. Not now. Not at this point.

"Grargh!" sputtered Ogg. "Mrph!" he continued. And finally, concentration and the wristlock twisting his features, "Uncle!"

Armstrong immediately let go and took three quick paces back, narrowly missing another diner who had been staring, slack-jawed, at the sudden eruption of violence.

"Yeah?" said Armstrong.

"Yeah," gasped Ogg between breaths, he said, and started digging in his pockets for his rabbit-skin wallet Armstrong reminded himself: he had to win graciously. But he allowed a small bit of himself to celebrate silently. Armstrong really had come a very long way indeed. Finally, for the first time since they had known each other, Ogg was finally picking up the check.

by John W. 9:00 PM

astronauts versus cavemen

by Fred 10:23 AM

{Tuesday, October 18, 2005}

I couldn't stop
the words from coming out all
wrong, or
not at all; I tried
but couldn't think of anything to say or
of anything that wouldn't sound ridiculous,
like something
other people say.
I couldn't stop
to say hello, or if
I did, to say
anything else than that:
a nod, a smile, you
would have missed it even if you hadn't stopped to blink.
I couldn't stop
from wanting to say more, to think of
to say, like
...but that's just it. What could I
What excuse for saying
I'm aware that people,
other people,
don't make excuses, or
find them easily, or
of them like that,
think of them, if at all, as
just words.
I couldn't stop
for conversation. I couldn't
stop for words.
Put me on the spot and all
to say is I'd like to
Forced to
talk, and I
that I want to talk, would you like to talk?
What's there to talk about?
Words are
treacherous things,
and I couldn't stop.

by Fred 11:59 PM

It became like breathing. An overwhelming urge to continue down a dark path that would surely engulf me in a cloud of controversy if what I was doing became public knowledge. That’s how it is when you are a public figure. But that is what made it all the more exhilarating. The thought of being caught whilst engaging in an act so . . . socially unacceptable . . . certainly had its appeal. Like no other act I had ever attempted before. And would not likely ever again. It wasn’t really a question of if, it was a matter of when. How would I be viewed? Victim? Sinner? Hero? Saint? Probably all those and many more. The sheer desire. The passion to complete. All intended to mislead those who would keep me from doing what it was that I needed to do. The water. A facsimile for a life unlived. It could not be otherwise. Why? Why couldn’t I stop when it started? Now, I have no choice but to wait for the end of it all. All. The chances man takes when obsessed with consuming zeal boggles the mind. Especially when the chances absorb every shred of awareness of the sublime. It doesn’t matter. It must be done.

by ArchHallJr 11:59 PM

I couldn't stop.

by Fred 10:56 AM

{Monday, October 17, 2005}

It isn’t what you think. Forget all you know about what you read in the ads of Boy’s Life. These are the real deal. You may want to meditate before putting them on. You will see everything behind the flesh. Skeletons will be among you. And it may be a bit disconcerting. Voyeurs should avoid this product at all costs for you will not see what you think you will see. Unless, of course, what you want to see is bone. Or fibers. Or subatomic particles when used in conjunction with a microscope.
You really want to see something? Use the specs with an electron microscope. You will see God in all His glory. I have discovered the secret of the Trinity. Neutron, proton, electron. He truly is in everything we see around us. And it is with my invention that you can see Him, too.
This changes everything. You cannot begin to fathom the depths of True Knowledge until you have seen the Divine Presence that resides within all of everything. And the beauty of it is . . . you won’t need the specs after you use it long enough. It was only a week of prolonged usage that I began to see the universe as it really is at its core. I looked within and saw it all staring back at me.
It isn’t what you think.

by ArchHallJr 11:59 PM

My xray specs arrived (four to six weeks) and I
wore them down to the corner store. They just
look like shades after all. They worked.

I could count the peanuts in the goo-goo clusters.
I could see what toy would drop next from the quarter machine.
I could see the girlie mags on the rack behind the plastic,
Naked women stacked on top of each other so I could not tell one from another.

I could see the ladies underwear, the hooks and wires and clasps.
I could see the engines working in the cars. I could see through walls,
And what people were doing inside. It was not as exciting as I had hoped.
I could see Mr. Harmon's new hip, and I could have done without that.

I could not see any more deeply than that. No meanings of life, no
visions of God, no evil that men do, no secret codes abandoned by alien masters.

And I'll I really wanted, anyway, was
to see through Wendy's shirt. And I did.
But I could see through Wendy, too, which is not the same.

So I keep them in my dresser. You can have them if you like,
You can buy really good candy bars with them, with lots of nuts.

by John W. 11:59 AM

X-ray specs

by ArchHallJr 11:22 AM

{Friday, October 14, 2005}

The funny thing was that I didn’t know I had violated any custom at all at the time. Yet they kept on going like I knew the rules and would soon admit the error of my ways. I think they wanted to punish me from the outset. Just for being an outsider. I should have seen their xenophobia for what it was but the explorer in me was much too interested in making contact with this primitive people.
They staked me out on the ground, spread eagled. Leather thongs securely fastened me to bamboo pegs sunk deep into the earth with heavy wooden mallets. It wasn’t until the chief came forward with the stone knife that I knew that I was really in trouble. I thought that this was some ritual I was going through to be accepted as a friend to the tribe. I prayed that it still might be. The chief held aloft his instrument and screamed a chant that curdled my blood.
I thought to myself, “How could I have been so stupid to come this far into the jungle without knowing all of the languages spoken?”
I am back in the states now and every time I look at the unique scar on my chest, I am reminded of the customs and social mores that weave together our society. And then I think about the Mjani’s society. How strange. The symbol that was carved into my chest represented a word that has no clear translation into English. The closest thing was:
One who does not look upon women with leering eyes.

by ArchHallJr 11:59 PM

custom engraving

by ArchHallJr 12:17 PM

{Thursday, October 13, 2005}

She whispers

It’s alright.

My comfort in the death of life.

I cannot breathe, yet

When I try

I know I must

It happens as it always has

As she has always been

Before I knew her

She was there for me

Loving me

Caring for me

And I for her

I could never have known it would have been her

But I did

My life in a snapshot

Includes no one but her

And her disdain for my discomfort

I do not know why this is

I only know it is

I move on and on without knowing why

Yet I know if I stop

Death will surely follow

All depends upon the feeling of security

The goings and the comings

The slippings and fallings

The perseverance

To know that this life is not mine alone

She whispers

We are mine.

by ArchHallJr 11:59 PM


Hope brings a smile

Charity tastes real sweet

At least for a while

Grace can leave you breathless

And feeling like a child

Prudence often absent

When found is quite beguiled

Faith can move mountains

(At least that’s what I hear)

But blue-eyed Sorrow

Creeps in the backdoor

And whispers in your ear

by mews 7:56 PM

she whispers

by Fred 12:45 PM

{Wednesday, October 12, 2005}

As the scarecrow slid off his post, he began too wonder if his decision to leave was a good thing. After many years as the farmer’s faithful servant, he grew tired of being called upon to do nothing but hang on a nail, day in and day out as a warning to birds that what had happened to him, might happen to them. At least that’s what he thought his purpose was. He wasn’t sure. He had witnessed the farmer enter the cornfield to shoo off birds when they seemed to be ignoring the scarecrow and not once did he hang one up on a post like himself. ‘Too much rain’, thought the scarecrow. Sure, he was bored out of his mind doing his thankless job without a vacation or even a vacation. Sure, he wanted to broaden his horizons. Sure, he wanted to see the world. But most of all he wanted to stop diminishing physically. Every time it rained, he lost a little bit of himself. Literally. The farmer never bothered to put more stuffing back inside him. He never understood this. So he was leaving. For good. He wasn’t sure what he would find, but he was positive his life would change. For better or for worse remained to be seen.
As he walked down the road, he noticed a slight breeze blow through his body. He felt free yet, a bit distressed. What would he do now that he was on his own? His new life lay before him with endless possibilities . . .

He shook awake as he felt shit on his shoulder. ‘Damn birds ought to respect a scarecrow that’s sleeping on the job.’ he thought.

It began to rain.

by ArchHallJr 11:59 PM

too much rain

by Fred 12:05 PM

{Tuesday, October 11, 2005}

The debate has raged for years. Was it my fault? Was it Mark’s fault? Personally, I think it was Mark’s but I’ll let you be the judge.
It was July 4th, 1989. The place was Davenport beach, just north of Santa Cruz along Highway 1. We sat on the sand with a nice bonfire going, watching the fireworks launch into the night. Earlier, we had had our own fireworks confiscated by overzealous law enforcement who thought we may just burn down the Pacific Ocean.
We were drinking rather heavily. I had polished off a bottle of peppermint schnapps and was using it to spit tobacco juice in.
Everyone has a friend that shouldn’t drink. Mark was that friend. A very nice and intelligent guy while sober, Mark turned into dumb guy the moment alcohol hit his bloodstream. As I sat with the schnapps bottle full of ‘baccy spit watching the various rockets explode in the sky, Mark approached me. He grabbed the bottle to get a hit off of it. I yelled:


at the top of my lungs! Mark apparently thought I was bogarting the rest of the bottle to myself because he turned the bottle upside down and began to chug. I never saw a face change from glee to horror ever in my life before or after that moment. He then proceeded to do what anyone would do after drinking someone else’s saliva mixed with chaw sap. He barfed all over the blanket.

“Why didn’t you tell me?!?!?” he wailed after recovering, “Jesus, God . . . why didn’t you say something?!?”

“Mark”, I began, “I thought that the simple screaming of the word ‘no’ would be enough.”

“Dude, how about ‘chew juice!’ or ‘don’t drink the spit!’?” he retorted.

“I am just as drunk as you are, or were rather, and I wasn’t thinking anything but ‘no!’. You would think that would be enough!" I defended myself, "Sorry, my desire to see you drink my ‘baccy juice just wasn’t motivating me.”

To this day I am known as the guy who let his friend drink chaw spit. Unfairly, I might add.

What do you think?

by ArchHallJr 11:16 PM

There's never any warning,
even when there is,
even when it's
just a question of time.
There's never any question
that you're going to be prepared:
you're not,
you won't know what to do,
or say, or think about what's happened.
You'll be caught up in the current.
You'll be forced into the moment.
You'll know that it's coming
You won't know what to feel
until you feel it (or you don't),
until you're numb with grief
or shivering with anger
or suddenly lightened with a sense of
from your fear
that you wouldn't know how to react when it happened,
when the moment was finally there.

My grandmother died last night,
or early this morning.
She hadn't been well all year,
but there was,
these past few months,
a steady decline,
a fading-away
as she was replaced slowly
(not so slowly)
by discomforts and pains
and oxygen tanks to help her breathe.
She'd been in a nursing home for almost a year.
We knew it was coming.
Last Sunday, when my father and I visited,
when we came up to her room,
there was not
a hint
of recognition,
which is not to say she didn't know us,
but to say that I don't know
if she knew anything at all.
She slept almost the entire time.

This is the sort of death
that people will call a blessing,
a relief,
for those of us who saw it coming,
who staved it off as long as we could.
For at least the six months since
my grandfather died
we knew,
that she did not have many years left.
And yet,
there was no warning.

I don't feel numb with grief,
no shivers or lightened heart.
I'm glad to know,
or think,
she didn't suffer,
she's in a better place.
There's none of the shock of my grandfather's death,
which came unexpected
in the span of less than a night.
I don't know what it is that I feel.
I haven't had any warning.

by Fred 6:32 PM

"It's not like I didn't warn you."

by Fred 10:50 AM

{Monday, October 10, 2005}

There was a time when changing languages was normal. It was what you did when you moved from one place to another where the languages were different. Sure, it was expected. Why wouldn’t it be? People like to be understood and in turn understand. I say fuck ‘em if they can’t understand you. I moved from the west coast to the south. They speak a whole different language down here. People are always looking at me funny when I talk. And I tell them to speak fucking English when they try to tell me things. Just the other day . . .

“I would like to know if you dudes would like to go to lunch?”

This is what I asked of a few of my co-workers gathered around a copy machine.

“Jim, ya’hear ut that boy said?”

“”Yeppers. Don’t rightly know what he meant by it.”

So, I’m like: “Speak fucking English you yokels!”

They all just stared at me. I think the only word they understood was ‘fucking’.

“Y’all, I think ole Bobby here is gittin’ a might excited.”

“Huh? Dammit, it's Bob! Dear God, I can’t make out anything anyone is saying.”

“Yasee? He got one them thar big ole veins a stickin’ out his forehead.”

“Huh? What?”

“Aspose he’s a thinkin’ folks ‘round these parts cain’t unnerstand him.”

“Yep. Asposo.”


I’ve had enough. I’m moving to Canada.

by ArchHallJr 10:52 PM

She changes languages the way most people change their clothes.
Her original port of call, it's safe to say nobody knows.
She calls nowhere home; it's everywhere she goes.
Some call her femme fatale; some say it's just a pose.

She changes languages the way some people change their mind:
pretending it was never different, the past on quick rewind,
a contradictory nature to which they're forever blind.
Her mother tongue's been vanished, and never will you find.

She changes languages the way most people change the world:
which is to say not all, across their life as it's unfurled.
For all that she's in transit, she's a stationary girl,
each new language the same mask kept on for another twirl.

by Fred 6:21 PM

changing languages

by Fred 9:21 AM

{Friday, October 07, 2005}

The time machine was a real piece of work. If Louis thought to ask how the thing had been build, much less how so quickly, he kept his questions to himself. His skepticism was evident just by the way he eyed the machine, glancing time and again back at the tally of invoices the research team had charged against their accounts, the pile of which he's carried with him as he and Dr. Helprin toured the facility. Louis felt he shouldn't have to question the science to disbelieve it. Asking for explanations would only insult everyone's intelligence by exposing what so clearly was a fraud. Helprin and his team be held accountable for each charge, but there was little cause to force the man through the pretense of explaining the damn thing.

But Helprin seemed determined to do just that.

"Mathematically," he said, "it's astounding. The work that Rathore and Beery have done... we couldn't have gotten this far off the ground so soon if it wasn't for them."

Soon, thought Louis. Yes, it had definitely been that. Just three weeks. Four-point-five million dollars in three weeks. It was astounding.

"Of course," said Helprin, "there's some evidence to suggest they used the machine to go back and tell themselves how. Their future selves did, is what I mean. Rathore and Beery deny this, of course, but Dr. Cylde swears he saw two Beery's exiting the lab shortly before they unveiled the work they'd done on the equations."

Louis said nothing.

"Of ocurse, Dr. Cylde also swears he first met Beery in 1958," added Helprin," and the man's clearly only in his late twenties. Roger suggests this may be yet another future Beery, but there's been no proof offered as yet. Why, just the other day --"

by Fred 5:32 PM

just the other day

by Fred 9:45 AM

{Thursday, October 06, 2005}

“Well of course we are, if we’re to know what it is you think you see,” agreed the captain.

The video display choked off, ran a bit of interference and then the clear pictures began to run again.

“There!” I said, “Do you see that?”

“See what?” inquired Rolo.

“You can clearly see a line of demarcation beginning here and ending here where it does not belong at all. Natural propagation should throughput here and here.” I pointed to the quite obvious location on the image, which showed the offending areas of focus. It shouldn’t have been there, yet it was. There had to have been some rational reason for the output to show in this configuration but all the actions preceding would never have pointed to this, not now, not ever. It was just physically impossible. For our technology.

“What you suggest is impossible.” The captain echoed the first half of my thought.

“Yes, it is if we are thinking on our terms and technology.” I countered, “But if we are to presume that we are the end all, be all when it comes to knowledge in this universe than I suggest that we may all be mad.”

“You can leave your condemnations of the human race to yourself, Doctor.” The captain directed his annoyance at me, “What are we to do if this is in fact what you say it is?”

“I do not condemn us, sir. It appears an alien intelligence of superior intellect has already done so. The unnatural wobble over the millions of years of observation of the M31 confirms its expansion is artificial and is designed to wipe us out entirely.”

by ArchHallJr 11:26 PM

If we're going to figure out where we're going,
we're going to need to watch that again,
because the boat shows no sign that it's slowing,
and we're headed right round the bend.
As of now there's no way of knowing
where it will land, on whom, or just when.
We could keep on blindly rowing
and hope we reach shore before nine or ten,
but the river that's beneath us now flowing
has killed its fair share or women and men,
and the strength of its current's been growing,
and it's getting tougher to hold onto my pen.

by Fred 6:15 PM

"We're going to need to watch that again."

by Fred 12:37 PM

{Wednesday, October 05, 2005}


Freddy the Magic Flute Died Oct 3, 2005

Actor and musician Freddy the Magic Flute died today of undisclosed causes. Mr. Flute came to prominence as part of the Sid and Marty Krofft offering, H.R. Pufnstuf. He was involved in a notorious scandal when he left the show after his costar and love interest, Mayor Pufnstuf ended their long term relationship in order to pursue a romance with the younger and larger Sigmund Sea Monster. Mr. Flute was pegged to host the Krofft Supershow. Shortly after the announcement of the variety hour, Mr. Sea Monster died under mysterious circumstances. Although rumors swirled around Freddy the Magic Flute, he was never charged. After the rumors rocked the Studio, Freddy the Magic Flute’s contract was canceled, and the hosting duties fell to the Baycity Rollers. Freddy the magic Flute left acting and embarked upon a successful music career. He toured and recorded with Jethro Tull. It was Freddy the Flute’s magic touches that Ian Anderson credits for the stunning Grammy win for the band in 1988.

by mews 11:59 PM

Don't bury me where the puppets go to die,
where there isn't any sky
'cause that's where they hide their strings.
Please don't leave me with those things,
with all their lifeless eyes
and death-like widened grins.
Please don't put me in that ground,
where there isn't any sound
'cept the occasional puppet sigh;
even the worms are marionettes,
teeth of felt, the ideal pets,
but it's not a place to die.
The heart of puppet town
has no heart,
just bits of fluff where the heart should be.

by Fred 5:37 PM

Please don't bury me on the puppet island.

by Fred 10:59 AM

{Tuesday, October 04, 2005}

Science be damned. Sometimes one has to think outside, inside, around, through and into the fifth dimension of the box. Fantasy is where it’s at. Life is nothing like it should be. Why not physics? I mean, remember when fat people used to stuff their asses into spandex? Where was science then? I’ll tell you. Breaking the limits of common decency, that’s where. And sure, fantasy definitely played a rather obvious part.
What about ESP? Is that science? Most people seem to think so whether they’ll admit it or not. All you have to do is take a drive in moderate to heavy traffic anywhere. You’ll see what I mean. Didn’t science invent the turn signal? Or did it necessitate it’s invention? Or did the lack of ESP in most individuals do that? Difficult to say. Now we’re getting into behavioral science.
Which brings me back to fantasy finding it’s way into science. People in general are under the most incorrect assumption that just because they perceive something to be a certain way that that is the way it is for all. Life is fantasy imitating science. People don’t need facts; they need to feel they are right. Up until their ass goes right through the windshield.

by ArchHallJr 10:37 PM

We used to live in the future, but that got old pretty fast. I don't know, Debbie says it's all pretty relative anyway.

"You were born when?" she says. "1982? And you first went through the portal maybe seventeen years later?"

Debbie still insists on calling the thing we went through a portal.

"So yeah, from your frame of reference everything twenty-first century and after is the future. Everything before that's the past. But somebody living in 2386 or something would think of where we were living as the distant past. They'd think it was quaint."

She has a point, but my problem with where we were living was that I found it quaint. There wasn't a whole lot I found futuristic about the time where we'd landed.

There'd been some kind of mass repudiation of technology and science maybe half a century earlier, and civilization has gone pretty much dark. I was still new to the whole time-travel thing when we first got there, and I don't know if I was expecting flying cars, ray guns or trips to the moon, but when Debbie offered to take me forward to see where she'd been born and meet her folks, I guess I wasn't expecting some kind of post-apocalyptic Luddite paradise.

Debbie wasn't even supposed to have the time machine, really. Apparently it and its kind had been at the heart of society's whole techno-revolt, and it was only chance she found the thing buried in one of her father's fields and got it activated.

by Fred 5:28 PM

What about science?

by Fred 11:06 AM

{Monday, October 03, 2005}

My eyes watered as I read about my childhood hero. He could do no wrong for most of his life. He could do nothing right, it seemed, the last few years he was alive. The man was essentially an overgrown child who trusted everyone as a child is inclined to do. But his safety net was ripped out from under him and like a cruel joke, the pressures of real life became all too apparent. Gone were the humor, the adoring fans, and seemingly the assurance of the sun rising in the east and setting in the west. Our hearts all had hairline fractures from that day forward. Some of them were completely broken, never to mend. He knew nothing of our pain yet if we had known his, we would not have cried for ourselves but for the man who gave us everything he was. When the end finally came, he was not surrounded by his friends, as he should have been. Oh, they did show up on that last day. Them not being there all together as his last breath was drawn was mostly his fault for allowing old wounds to fester and separate love from those who truly felt it for the man-child. But his old friends did get to say goodbye one last time. They spoke of decades of making people laugh, love and think. They spoke of the friendships that were newly repaired at the last moment. It wasn’t the time to speak of differences and hurt. It was the time to cherish all that had been and all that wouldn’t be.

by ArchHallJr 10:53 PM

What it came down to, thought Lionel, was preferential permutations. In the end, when you examined the evidence and the trends spelled out by the time machine's logs, it was hard to reach any other conclusion. Some futures got better treatment than others, it was just that simple. Some alternate timelines were protected and nurtured, while others were left to wither and die. The station commander of course denied this, and official departmental policy all but forbade the practice, but the records showed a different story. It was quite clear to Lionel that some timelines, whether because they offered limited resources or because they did not conform to someone's priorities of what the future should be, were being allowed to simply wink out of existence.

He'd interviewed several of the station personnel who spoke of friends or family who no longer -- or, rather, now never -- were: husbands or wives they'd met on missions that they now remembered only because the logs told them they'd occurred, children who had been excised from the timeline before being born.

And yet the commander's decisions almost always proved right and the station had prospered.

by Fred 6:23 PM

This isn't the time.

by Fred 10:20 AM


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