Middle and South Carter
3 hours ago
OneWord, Blocks
OneWord is a exercise in brevity. Sixty seconds, one word, go. That word is "blocks."
If she walks fast enough, she thinks, the past will fade from her view, her memory. So she walks at a New York clip, face shielded with a cheap black umbrella picked up from a hawker outside the subway stop. Heels click on cracked pavement, speedy and with purpose, down long avenue blocks. The crowds won’t deny her the purpose. She walks. She needs to walk. The past is there, catching up.
If she walks fast enough, she thinks, the past will fade from her view, her memory. So she walks at a New York clip, face shielded with a cheap black umbrella picked up from a hawker outside the subway stop. Heels click on cracked pavement, speedy and with purpose, down long avenue blocks. The crowds won’t deny her the purpose. She walks. She needs to walk. The past is there, catching up.
A NYC Fiction in 58
Yeah, I got time for a Fiction in 58.
Spare Change
He begs for your change, stooped over, hand out. Says “bless you, sir, bless you ma’am,” even when there’s no money exchanged. He dares to look you in the eye. He smiles, nearly toothless. At the end of the night, pockets bulging, he walks to a parked Mercedes the color of night, toggles the alarm. And smiles again.
Spare Change
He begs for your change, stooped over, hand out. Says “bless you, sir, bless you ma’am,” even when there’s no money exchanged. He dares to look you in the eye. He smiles, nearly toothless. At the end of the night, pockets bulging, he walks to a parked Mercedes the color of night, toggles the alarm. And smiles again.
New York, New York
If you'll notice a drop-off in blog production around The Tension, I'm on vacation.
I'm currently living in a 900 square foot townhouse is Spanish Harlem, New York.
For the next eight days.
The first "real" vacation I've had since 2007.
You'll excuse me if I wander.
I'll be soaking up NYC, looking for interesting story lines.
I will post when I can.
I'm currently living in a 900 square foot townhouse is Spanish Harlem, New York.
For the next eight days.
The first "real" vacation I've had since 2007.
You'll excuse me if I wander.
I'll be soaking up NYC, looking for interesting story lines.
I will post when I can.
Video Friday (Space Ghost)
What do you get when you take a lame Hanna-Barbera cartoon from the 1960s and bring it forward and make it all smarmy and shit?
You get "Space Ghost Coast-to-Coast.
Cartoon Network started airing the talk-show format (Space Ghost is the host, Zorak, his praying mantis nemesis is the band director) in 1994.
While I was working on writing and securing content for the first PepsiWorld website, I secured exclusive rights to air Space Ghost on the site.
Our favorite bit was Brak singing "Don't Touch Me."
But a lot of bands also showed, including Pavement, Modern Lovers frontman Jonathan Richman and The Ramones.
We got a lot of free shit from Cartoon Network.
None of which I currently own.
(Yes, I got fired from that job, the only time I have been fired. But who hasn't been fired in advertising?)
Anyway, Space Ghost Coast-to-Coast relied on surreal comedy. See for yourself, as Space Ghost is your Video Friday:
You get "Space Ghost Coast-to-Coast.
Cartoon Network started airing the talk-show format (Space Ghost is the host, Zorak, his praying mantis nemesis is the band director) in 1994.
While I was working on writing and securing content for the first PepsiWorld website, I secured exclusive rights to air Space Ghost on the site.
Our favorite bit was Brak singing "Don't Touch Me."
But a lot of bands also showed, including Pavement, Modern Lovers frontman Jonathan Richman and The Ramones.
We got a lot of free shit from Cartoon Network.
None of which I currently own.
(Yes, I got fired from that job, the only time I have been fired. But who hasn't been fired in advertising?)
Anyway, Space Ghost Coast-to-Coast relied on surreal comedy. See for yourself, as Space Ghost is your Video Friday:
OneWord, Foam
OneWord is brevity in action. Click, get the word, write. For 60 seconds.
The word? Foam.
He creeps me out, but he creeps everyone out.
If the coffee wasn’t so good, I’d go somewhere else. But there was something about he ancient roaster in the window that transformed gray-green beans into nuggets of joy.
He was know as the Barista From Hell, since he was always making foam art on the lattes. You’d order innocently, and he’d stare into your eyes until you dropped the gaze. With a slight nod, he goes to work and in your cup, a symbol, face, message in foam.
Guy in front of me orders and the dude gets a cup with a hooded character of death.
It’s the main reason I switched to straight espresso, weeks ago.
The word? Foam.
He creeps me out, but he creeps everyone out.
If the coffee wasn’t so good, I’d go somewhere else. But there was something about he ancient roaster in the window that transformed gray-green beans into nuggets of joy.
He was know as the Barista From Hell, since he was always making foam art on the lattes. You’d order innocently, and he’d stare into your eyes until you dropped the gaze. With a slight nod, he goes to work and in your cup, a symbol, face, message in foam.
Guy in front of me orders and the dude gets a cup with a hooded character of death.
It’s the main reason I switched to straight espresso, weeks ago.
Wednesday's 3WW
I am so late with this.
The words over at Three Word Wednesday are ebb, negotiate and random.
Eulogist
She’s going to be a bitch, he can see that immediately.
The realization sinks into his bones, slow and oily. He itches a cloth-covered forearm with nails bitten to the quick, little spots of dried blood marking the latest tensioned wounds.
She looks at him unapprovingly, an unfiltered cigarette stuck between carp lips, painted an ungodly shade of fuchsia. She has her liver-spotted arms crossed at her chest, thankfully blocking his view of her withered breasts in the flimsy, light blue hospital gown.
Her eyes are gray, still surprisingly sharp in the hollow of her sunken sockets. A knit cap – the damn thing looks like its been woven by refugees, imbeciles – covers what he knows is a fine bristle of light fur the chemotherapy has burned off.
“I do not approve of you, not one bit,” she says between a breath that comes out like a wheeze. “You smell of alcohol.”
That he has been summoned here from a three-day bender, he nods happily at both the perception and honesty.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “I reek, the booze is sweating through my pores - profusely - because of the heat in here. But I can assure you that when the end comes, there will be a refrain from all consumables, as well as a thorough detoxifying ritual.”
She digs a thumb in her nose, mining, and blows out a ‘harrumph’ with a thick stream of smoke.
“Not one godamned bit.”
He stands, picks at the crotch of his chinos and bows his head.
“Good day to you then, ma’am.”
There’s an ebb as her stern features go flat, sorrowful. Maybe in this instant, she catches the shadow of death hovering over his left shoulder and the years of ball-busting melts away to this time, this place.
Whatever, he knows the type.
She’s all alone. The cancer munching happily through her pancreas, liver, bile duct.
And it’s time to negotiate.
He does his best work with the near-dead. The hard-cases who have, for no other reason than having alienated their families, just outlived them.
He’s a Eulogist.
He does freelance eulogies.
Random, he knows, but the pay is good and the hours are his own.
And what a racket.
The dying simply have their lawyers slip in the request for his services into the will, then add the fee – including some creative financing for the lawyer - to the burial expense, before any greedy relatives wizened up and started asking difficult questions.
It’s simple.
There’s all the ham salad and iced tea he can handle at the post-funeral luncheon and he’s even gotten laid a few times by mourners who are either turned on by aura of death or are just lonely themselves.
Tips, slipped by handshake, are awarded from relatives who marvel at his deft ability to capture the good against the darkness of the truth.
He meant what he said to the bitty. Once she goes to the mortuary, he goes into detox. He eats a regimen of colorful fruits and vegetables and copious amounts of spring water. No smoking, no drinking. It’s as if his body turns virginal again, cleansed, pure.
That’s not all.
He wears his very best black worsted wool suit, crisp white oxford, a silk tie in gunmetal gray. Black wingtips that are freshly waxed and buffed.
His nails, which he fully admits he attacks with wolfish tenacity, are manicured, a light clear polished applied. His hair is groomed professionally too, including a straight-razor shave and hot mentholated towel treatment.
It’s the price you pay these days.
He’s managed, over the years, to bribe the right charge nurses, orderlies, hospice volunteers and lawyers in town. His services are traded strictly on word-of-mouth, guaranteeing low, low overhead.
He remains – and is unapologetic - expensive.
The best usually are.
He slips a small digital recorder from his jacket pocket, which he realizes is supremely wrinkled. And while contemplating the dry-cleaning bill, he smoothes several wild, oily cowlicks across his skull.
He starts the recorder, sets it on the adjustable table that’s filled with crumpled tissue, cups of melted ice, bottles of nasal spray, lip balm.
“Now Janice, would you be so kind as to start from the beginning, and leave nothing out.”
She’s got another Camel no-filter stuck between those lips and he fishes a silver Zippo from his jacket and lights it for her.
She smiles, and for an instant, there’s color in those gray, lifeless eyes.
The words over at Three Word Wednesday are ebb, negotiate and random.
Eulogist
She’s going to be a bitch, he can see that immediately.
The realization sinks into his bones, slow and oily. He itches a cloth-covered forearm with nails bitten to the quick, little spots of dried blood marking the latest tensioned wounds.
She looks at him unapprovingly, an unfiltered cigarette stuck between carp lips, painted an ungodly shade of fuchsia. She has her liver-spotted arms crossed at her chest, thankfully blocking his view of her withered breasts in the flimsy, light blue hospital gown.
Her eyes are gray, still surprisingly sharp in the hollow of her sunken sockets. A knit cap – the damn thing looks like its been woven by refugees, imbeciles – covers what he knows is a fine bristle of light fur the chemotherapy has burned off.
“I do not approve of you, not one bit,” she says between a breath that comes out like a wheeze. “You smell of alcohol.”
That he has been summoned here from a three-day bender, he nods happily at both the perception and honesty.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “I reek, the booze is sweating through my pores - profusely - because of the heat in here. But I can assure you that when the end comes, there will be a refrain from all consumables, as well as a thorough detoxifying ritual.”
She digs a thumb in her nose, mining, and blows out a ‘harrumph’ with a thick stream of smoke.
“Not one godamned bit.”
He stands, picks at the crotch of his chinos and bows his head.
“Good day to you then, ma’am.”
There’s an ebb as her stern features go flat, sorrowful. Maybe in this instant, she catches the shadow of death hovering over his left shoulder and the years of ball-busting melts away to this time, this place.
Whatever, he knows the type.
She’s all alone. The cancer munching happily through her pancreas, liver, bile duct.
And it’s time to negotiate.
He does his best work with the near-dead. The hard-cases who have, for no other reason than having alienated their families, just outlived them.
He’s a Eulogist.
He does freelance eulogies.
Random, he knows, but the pay is good and the hours are his own.
And what a racket.
The dying simply have their lawyers slip in the request for his services into the will, then add the fee – including some creative financing for the lawyer - to the burial expense, before any greedy relatives wizened up and started asking difficult questions.
It’s simple.
There’s all the ham salad and iced tea he can handle at the post-funeral luncheon and he’s even gotten laid a few times by mourners who are either turned on by aura of death or are just lonely themselves.
Tips, slipped by handshake, are awarded from relatives who marvel at his deft ability to capture the good against the darkness of the truth.
He meant what he said to the bitty. Once she goes to the mortuary, he goes into detox. He eats a regimen of colorful fruits and vegetables and copious amounts of spring water. No smoking, no drinking. It’s as if his body turns virginal again, cleansed, pure.
That’s not all.
He wears his very best black worsted wool suit, crisp white oxford, a silk tie in gunmetal gray. Black wingtips that are freshly waxed and buffed.
His nails, which he fully admits he attacks with wolfish tenacity, are manicured, a light clear polished applied. His hair is groomed professionally too, including a straight-razor shave and hot mentholated towel treatment.
It’s the price you pay these days.
He’s managed, over the years, to bribe the right charge nurses, orderlies, hospice volunteers and lawyers in town. His services are traded strictly on word-of-mouth, guaranteeing low, low overhead.
He remains – and is unapologetic - expensive.
The best usually are.
He slips a small digital recorder from his jacket pocket, which he realizes is supremely wrinkled. And while contemplating the dry-cleaning bill, he smoothes several wild, oily cowlicks across his skull.
He starts the recorder, sets it on the adjustable table that’s filled with crumpled tissue, cups of melted ice, bottles of nasal spray, lip balm.
“Now Janice, would you be so kind as to start from the beginning, and leave nothing out.”
She’s got another Camel no-filter stuck between those lips and he fishes a silver Zippo from his jacket and lights it for her.
She smiles, and for an instant, there’s color in those gray, lifeless eyes.
NaiSaiKu Challenge
It’s Tuesday, time for the NaiSaiKu challenge. It’s poetry. This is for my friend, Q.
eyes open in focus, she smiles,
a squeeze of the hand, reassuring,
it’s not so bad, she’s telling you,
DEATH IS JUST A NEW BEGINNING
it’s not so bad, she’s telling you,
a squeeze of the hand, reassuring,
eyes open in focus, she smiles
eyes open in focus, she smiles,
a squeeze of the hand, reassuring,
it’s not so bad, she’s telling you,
DEATH IS JUST A NEW BEGINNING
it’s not so bad, she’s telling you,
a squeeze of the hand, reassuring,
eyes open in focus, she smiles
Fiction in 58
It’s time for a Fiction in 58.
Sprats
The sharpness of his features were in contrast to her curves; so much so that the differences canceled each other out. At restaurants, he’d order the fish, lightly grilled, and the steamed vegetables. She had entrées full of butter, cream, bacon. After their feasting, he’d have to wheel her home, careful not to pitch her into the gutter.
Sprats
The sharpness of his features were in contrast to her curves; so much so that the differences canceled each other out. At restaurants, he’d order the fish, lightly grilled, and the steamed vegetables. She had entrées full of butter, cream, bacon. After their feasting, he’d have to wheel her home, careful not to pitch her into the gutter.
A Slight Slip of Fiction
Confined
She imagined her friends, mostly in the dark time just before dawn. They’d do all sorts of wonderful things, a mix of shopping, tea parties, facials, manicures. Their talk would be pithy, full of verve. Her friends would fawn over her fine bone structure, the thickness of her hair, the strength and durability of her French-manicured nails. She would watch out the window, the rising sun beginning to pain the darkness in color, and invent another life, free from the one she currently lived.
Her thoughts helped liberate her from the chair, the 24-hour care, the cerebral palsy that trapped a beautifully sharp and witty mind.
She imagined her friends, mostly in the dark time just before dawn. They’d do all sorts of wonderful things, a mix of shopping, tea parties, facials, manicures. Their talk would be pithy, full of verve. Her friends would fawn over her fine bone structure, the thickness of her hair, the strength and durability of her French-manicured nails. She would watch out the window, the rising sun beginning to pain the darkness in color, and invent another life, free from the one she currently lived.
Her thoughts helped liberate her from the chair, the 24-hour care, the cerebral palsy that trapped a beautifully sharp and witty mind.
Video Friday: Cartoon's Greatest Hits
Out of the many, many jeweled CD cases now inhabiting a big, green plastic tote in my pantry, a top favorite is something I picked up on a whim in 1995."Saturday Morning: Cartoons Greatest Hits" is a tribute album to all the great cartoons from the 1960s and 1970s. The project was put together by producer Ralph Sall an featured alternative rock artists of the day.
At the time, I lived in Dallas, and got to see Rev. Horton Heat, Toadies and Tripping Daisy perform their tracks live at the various Deep Ellum music venues. In fact, if I remember correctly, it was after a Toadies show that I went out and got the CD.
I think my favorites are Gotham's Ramones doing the theme from Spiderman and Detroit's Sponge doing the theme from Speed Racer.
But the Rev. Horton Heat rips through Jonny Quest like a madman.
The track listing looks like this:
1. Tra la la Song (One Banana, Two Banana) [The Banana Splits] - Material Issue, Liz Phair
2. Go, Speed Racer, Go! [From Speed Racer] – Sponge
3. Sugar, Sugar [From the Archie Show] - Mary Lou Lord, Semisonic
4. Scooby-Doo, Where Are You? - Matthew Sweet
5. Josie and the Pussycats - Tanya Donelly, Juliana Hatfield
6. Bugaloos - Collective Soul
7. Underdog - Butthole Surfers
8. Gigantor – Helmet
9. Spiderman - The Ramones
10. Johnny Quest/Stop That Pigeon - The Reverend Horton Heat
11. Open Up Your Heart And Let The Sun Shine In - Frente!
12. Eep Opp Ork Ah-Ah (Means I Love You) - Violent Femmes
13. Fat Albert Theme – Dig
14. I'm Popeye The Sailor Man - Face To Face
15. Friends/Sigmund And The Seamonsters - Tripping Daisy
16. Goolie Get-Together – Toadies
17. Hong Kong Phooey – Sublime
18. H.R. Pufnstuf - The Murmurs
19. Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy - Wax
Cartoon classics, your Video Friday:
Thursday's 3WW
A delayed 3WW, on Thursday. I am still missing my groove. And this is a mess.
Saint Nowhere
Behind his back, they called him Saint Nowhere.
Built like a turtle, he scuttled through the office, talking to no one. His cubicle was spartan, no posters or plants or family pictures.
He attended meetings, functions; he arrived late and was the first to leave.
He didn’t bother anyone, and for the most part, people ignored him.
Until the day a young executive took over the floor and began his efforts to shake things up. The brash suit chose Saint Nowhere to pin his aggression.
The kid was merciless, yet Saint Nowhere went about his tasks in his usual, deliberate manner.
This pushed the suit toward outward hostility.
There were dress-downs in full view of the staff, where Saint Nowhere would stand with a downward gaze and take all the abuse the suit hurled. He’d acknowledged the suit’s pointed questions with a nod in the affirmative, and move off to his cubicle.
The abuse escalated and it was the rest of the staff who squirmed in their seats, appalled, yet secretly thankful that Saint Nowhere was there to take the abuse.
Better him and not them, they’d say in small clusters, when the suit wasn’t around.
The quarterlies came out and the division’s productivity was a glaring exception in an otherwise glowing report. The suit took it out on Saint Nowhere, red-faced and screaming, flecks of spittle raining down on Nowhere’s down-turned face.
Yet he took it, absorbed all the abuse, with nods and shakes in the affirmative, tiring the young suit out of his tirade. He was a flame that ran out of oxygen.
Nowhere’s coworkers marveled at the tact at which me maneuvered, whether it was deliberate or not. For some, Saint Nowhere became a folk hero, a guy they talked about the friends at the bar or family around the dinner table.
The abuse of Saint Nowhere continued unabated, the young suit never changing his stale strategies. Yell, point, spit.
Until the day the suit, frustrated with Nowhere’s lack of reaction, drove a two fingers into Nowhere’s chest, and beat it like a drum while exaggerating slowly the syllables of his rant.
Red-faced, Saint Nowhere unfurled to his full stature, sunk a paw into his suit jacket, and fished out a black .45-caliber handgun, the barrel still slick with the protective lubricant from the factory.
He jacked a round into the chamber with a smooth motion and placed the cold steel to the suit’s forehead.
“Kneel,” he said.
The suit dropped to his knees, and an area of wetness spread like a blossom in the crotch of a very expensive pair of trousers.
“Consider this my letter of resignation,” Saint Nowhere said, and spun on a heel and walked toward the elevators.
It’s always the quiet ones, workers said, retelling the legend of Saint Nowhere, office hero.
Saint Nowhere
Behind his back, they called him Saint Nowhere.
Built like a turtle, he scuttled through the office, talking to no one. His cubicle was spartan, no posters or plants or family pictures.
He attended meetings, functions; he arrived late and was the first to leave.
He didn’t bother anyone, and for the most part, people ignored him.
Until the day a young executive took over the floor and began his efforts to shake things up. The brash suit chose Saint Nowhere to pin his aggression.
The kid was merciless, yet Saint Nowhere went about his tasks in his usual, deliberate manner.
This pushed the suit toward outward hostility.
There were dress-downs in full view of the staff, where Saint Nowhere would stand with a downward gaze and take all the abuse the suit hurled. He’d acknowledged the suit’s pointed questions with a nod in the affirmative, and move off to his cubicle.
The abuse escalated and it was the rest of the staff who squirmed in their seats, appalled, yet secretly thankful that Saint Nowhere was there to take the abuse.
Better him and not them, they’d say in small clusters, when the suit wasn’t around.
The quarterlies came out and the division’s productivity was a glaring exception in an otherwise glowing report. The suit took it out on Saint Nowhere, red-faced and screaming, flecks of spittle raining down on Nowhere’s down-turned face.
Yet he took it, absorbed all the abuse, with nods and shakes in the affirmative, tiring the young suit out of his tirade. He was a flame that ran out of oxygen.
Nowhere’s coworkers marveled at the tact at which me maneuvered, whether it was deliberate or not. For some, Saint Nowhere became a folk hero, a guy they talked about the friends at the bar or family around the dinner table.
The abuse of Saint Nowhere continued unabated, the young suit never changing his stale strategies. Yell, point, spit.
Until the day the suit, frustrated with Nowhere’s lack of reaction, drove a two fingers into Nowhere’s chest, and beat it like a drum while exaggerating slowly the syllables of his rant.
Red-faced, Saint Nowhere unfurled to his full stature, sunk a paw into his suit jacket, and fished out a black .45-caliber handgun, the barrel still slick with the protective lubricant from the factory.
He jacked a round into the chamber with a smooth motion and placed the cold steel to the suit’s forehead.
“Kneel,” he said.
The suit dropped to his knees, and an area of wetness spread like a blossom in the crotch of a very expensive pair of trousers.
“Consider this my letter of resignation,” Saint Nowhere said, and spun on a heel and walked toward the elevators.
It’s always the quiet ones, workers said, retelling the legend of Saint Nowhere, office hero.
A Slip of Fiction
Still working up a 3WW.
But there has been another death in my clan, a favorite aunt, who we honored Tuesday during her funeral.
So, a slight slip of nanofiction today:
Overheard
All this talk of death has her mildly aroused.
She’s sitting at the coffee house, pretending to read a thick fashion magazine stuffed with inserts and perfume samples. But really, she’s listening to a couple of teens dressed in black discuss their suicidal thoughts in hushed tones toward the bottom of their recycled-paper cups.
Their angst is her aphrodisiac.
Their pain, her pleasure.
But there has been another death in my clan, a favorite aunt, who we honored Tuesday during her funeral.
So, a slight slip of nanofiction today:
Overheard
All this talk of death has her mildly aroused.
She’s sitting at the coffee house, pretending to read a thick fashion magazine stuffed with inserts and perfume samples. But really, she’s listening to a couple of teens dressed in black discuss their suicidal thoughts in hushed tones toward the bottom of their recycled-paper cups.
Their angst is her aphrodisiac.
Their pain, her pleasure.
Fiction in 58
Yeah, yeah, I know. Two days go by and no updates?
First real warm weekend in the SoDak, with many interesting things happening. I just didn't spend much time inside.
Time for a Fiction in 58.
Aversions
Despite an aversion to everything, he’s convinced her to leave the lights on during lovemaking.
“Shake things up a bit,” he says.
Her clothes come off, the lights stay on. She covers her face with a forearm, listening to varied grunts.
In time, it will be over, and she’ll settle back into the cocoon she’s so carefully crafted.
First real warm weekend in the SoDak, with many interesting things happening. I just didn't spend much time inside.
Time for a Fiction in 58.
Aversions
Despite an aversion to everything, he’s convinced her to leave the lights on during lovemaking.
“Shake things up a bit,” he says.
Her clothes come off, the lights stay on. She covers her face with a forearm, listening to varied grunts.
In time, it will be over, and she’ll settle back into the cocoon she’s so carefully crafted.
Video Friday, The Strokes
Kind of a heady title: "The Band That Brought Rock Out Of Its Doldrums."
But that's what happens when your debut album, "Is This It" is heaped with critical acclaim and NME names it the best album of the decade.
And that's what The Strokes have been dealing with since the garage-band revivalists got together in 1998 in New York.
They've put out three albums - "Is This It," "Room On Fire" and "First Impressions of Earth - and one EP, "The Modern Age."
No wonder the band has been on hiatus since 2006.
But that all changes this year, as the boys - Julian Casablancas, Nick Valensi, Albert Hammond, Jr., Nikolai Fraiture and Fabrizio Moretti - have been reunited and will be headliners at Lollapalooza 2010.
We'll see if they can release the lightning out of the bottle again, or find out if time - and the music consumer - has passed them by.
I'm betting on the boys.
But you be the judge. The Strokes, your Video Friday:
"Last Nite"
"You Only Live Once"
"Juicebox"
"Is This It?"
"Heart in a Cage"
"Reptilia"
But that's what happens when your debut album, "Is This It" is heaped with critical acclaim and NME names it the best album of the decade.
And that's what The Strokes have been dealing with since the garage-band revivalists got together in 1998 in New York.
They've put out three albums - "Is This It," "Room On Fire" and "First Impressions of Earth - and one EP, "The Modern Age."
No wonder the band has been on hiatus since 2006.
But that all changes this year, as the boys - Julian Casablancas, Nick Valensi, Albert Hammond, Jr., Nikolai Fraiture and Fabrizio Moretti - have been reunited and will be headliners at Lollapalooza 2010.
We'll see if they can release the lightning out of the bottle again, or find out if time - and the music consumer - has passed them by.
I'm betting on the boys.
But you be the judge. The Strokes, your Video Friday:
"Last Nite"
"You Only Live Once"
"Juicebox"
"Is This It?"
"Heart in a Cage"
"Reptilia"
OneWord, Fragment
OneWord is a writer’s prompt built on brevity. One word – fragment – and 60 seconds to come up with something.
The scar is five inches from his heart, just above his left nipple. It’s jagged, white. The fragment, however, is offset from the old wound, buried under undamaged flesh. In the shower, he idly pushes at it with his index finger. Sometimes, he wonders what his life would have been like if Cupid would have hit his mark.
The scar is five inches from his heart, just above his left nipple. It’s jagged, white. The fragment, however, is offset from the old wound, buried under undamaged flesh. In the shower, he idly pushes at it with his index finger. Sometimes, he wonders what his life would have been like if Cupid would have hit his mark.
Three Word Wednesday
The words over at Three Word Wednesday are deviate, identify and saturate.
Spring
There’s a soft mewing coming from somewhere beyond the hydrangeas along the back fence; it’s a noise I cannot identify.
I deviate from my chores and split the tangle of branches to investigate. Standing in father’s vegetable garden is a tiny woman in a silken dress the color of fresh sage. Even in this faint breeze, the hemline dances.
She’s more than petite; she’s a person in miniature, a percentage of human, shrunk for convenience.
She’s clutching her fists to her chest and her lips tremble. Strawberry blond hair spills across her shoulders and bounces with each staccato breath she exchanges.
Her bare feet are caked with freshly-turned soil. It’s a shocking warm cocoa color in contrast to the cool paleness of her skin.
I raise a hand to her, ready to protest why she’s in my father’s garden, when she begins to cry.
Fat tears stream down her face, and the sudden wetness brings out freckles too weak to shine on their own. She bends slightly and the tears begin to fall on the turned earth, saturating it.
Where each tear has fallen, a plant emerges, struggling at first to break surface, then wiggling to full stature. Each new stalk opens into a wildflower - blue bonnet, Indian blanket, foxglove, lupine, prairie clover.
She backs slowly down a row father had planned for sweet corn and in her wake a thick carpet of color erupts.
“You there,” I say suddenly. “What’s all this about?”
She lifts her face to me and smiles.
“Spring,” she whispers.
Spring
There’s a soft mewing coming from somewhere beyond the hydrangeas along the back fence; it’s a noise I cannot identify.
I deviate from my chores and split the tangle of branches to investigate. Standing in father’s vegetable garden is a tiny woman in a silken dress the color of fresh sage. Even in this faint breeze, the hemline dances.
She’s more than petite; she’s a person in miniature, a percentage of human, shrunk for convenience.
She’s clutching her fists to her chest and her lips tremble. Strawberry blond hair spills across her shoulders and bounces with each staccato breath she exchanges.
Her bare feet are caked with freshly-turned soil. It’s a shocking warm cocoa color in contrast to the cool paleness of her skin.
I raise a hand to her, ready to protest why she’s in my father’s garden, when she begins to cry.
Fat tears stream down her face, and the sudden wetness brings out freckles too weak to shine on their own. She bends slightly and the tears begin to fall on the turned earth, saturating it.
Where each tear has fallen, a plant emerges, struggling at first to break surface, then wiggling to full stature. Each new stalk opens into a wildflower - blue bonnet, Indian blanket, foxglove, lupine, prairie clover.
She backs slowly down a row father had planned for sweet corn and in her wake a thick carpet of color erupts.
“You there,” I say suddenly. “What’s all this about?”
She lifts her face to me and smiles.
“Spring,” she whispers.
NaiSaiKu Challenge
It's poetry, with a twist. It's the NaiSaiKu Challenge.
rain, like tears, drifts upon windows,
droplets expand streetlight gloom,
cool glass tempers a furrowed brow,
ANOTHER INSOMNIAC NIGHT
cool glass tempers a furrowed brow,
droplets expand streetlight gloom
rain, like tears, drifts upon windows
rain, like tears, drifts upon windows,
droplets expand streetlight gloom,
cool glass tempers a furrowed brow,
ANOTHER INSOMNIAC NIGHT
cool glass tempers a furrowed brow,
droplets expand streetlight gloom
rain, like tears, drifts upon windows
Monday's Fiction in 58
A Fiction in 58.
Steps
He walks a few steps and the waves roll in and erase where he’s been. He can see where he’s come from, but now there’s an unbroken line of surf, traceless.
His pace quickens, but the results are the same. The waters swallow his past.
He sweeps a toe across the sand, it disappears.
The feeling is liberating.
Steps
He walks a few steps and the waves roll in and erase where he’s been. He can see where he’s come from, but now there’s an unbroken line of surf, traceless.
His pace quickens, but the results are the same. The waters swallow his past.
He sweeps a toe across the sand, it disappears.
The feeling is liberating.
A Flash of Fiction
Animals
It’s a sultry night and sleep will not come.
I slip out of bed and out the back door to see if a tromp through the pasture will cool my heels. Despite the hanging humidity, the grass is cool, dewy.
I reach the rise of the hill to peek at the waning moon and come to an abrupt stop. There in the pasture are most of the farm animals, arraigned in a semi-circle around our plow-horse, Romeo.
He’s reading from a battered, leather-bound book.
He stops and all the animals cast their eyes in my direction; in the moonlight, they appear as a greenish, electric-candy glow.
Belle, out boarder collie, trots over slowly and sits at my feet.
“Don’t be alarmed,” she says.
I’m the one rendered speechless.
“Please, join us,” Romeo says, shaking his great chestnut mane.
“Yes, pleaaaase, join us,” say the lambs, in unison.
I take a seat, mindful that I’m in a pasture full of farm animals, next to Belle. I run a hand through her silken fur as Romeo clears his throat and picks up where he left off.
After several minutes, I lean into Belle’s ear and whisper.
“The Bible, seriously?”
“If you’d just think about it, it makes perfect sense, don’t you think?”
It’s a sultry night and sleep will not come.
I slip out of bed and out the back door to see if a tromp through the pasture will cool my heels. Despite the hanging humidity, the grass is cool, dewy.
I reach the rise of the hill to peek at the waning moon and come to an abrupt stop. There in the pasture are most of the farm animals, arraigned in a semi-circle around our plow-horse, Romeo.
He’s reading from a battered, leather-bound book.
He stops and all the animals cast their eyes in my direction; in the moonlight, they appear as a greenish, electric-candy glow.
Belle, out boarder collie, trots over slowly and sits at my feet.
“Don’t be alarmed,” she says.
I’m the one rendered speechless.
“Please, join us,” Romeo says, shaking his great chestnut mane.
“Yes, pleaaaase, join us,” say the lambs, in unison.
I take a seat, mindful that I’m in a pasture full of farm animals, next to Belle. I run a hand through her silken fur as Romeo clears his throat and picks up where he left off.
After several minutes, I lean into Belle’s ear and whisper.
“The Bible, seriously?”
“If you’d just think about it, it makes perfect sense, don’t you think?”
Perspective
I was sitting at the barber’s waiting my turn, listening to the tale of the guy sitting in the chair.
He’s 54 and on the same day he got his first retirement check, his doctor told him he had stage 4 pancreatic cancer.
That was six months ago.
He’s going through chemo, but knows it’s a done deal. So his wife retired Friday and they plan on spending what time he has left doing as much as the couple had planned to do in retirement.
Time will be short. He knows it. But he’s got this attitude of moving forward at all costs.
“It’s going to kill me, I know it, but I’m not dead today,” he said.
And I’m worried about my life.
He’s 54 and on the same day he got his first retirement check, his doctor told him he had stage 4 pancreatic cancer.
That was six months ago.
He’s going through chemo, but knows it’s a done deal. So his wife retired Friday and they plan on spending what time he has left doing as much as the couple had planned to do in retirement.
Time will be short. He knows it. But he’s got this attitude of moving forward at all costs.
“It’s going to kill me, I know it, but I’m not dead today,” he said.
And I’m worried about my life.
Video Friday, The Sweet
With heavy metal looks, The Sweet came onto the music scene in the late 60s.
They morphed into one of the great glam-rock bands of the 70s.
The cool thing about them - the original members included Brian Connolly, Steve Priest, Andy Scott and Mick Tucker - is that they actually wrote some kick-ass songs. A little bubble gum, but hey, it's ear candy that tends to get stuck in your head.
Connolly died in 1997, Tucker in 2002.
The Sweet, your Video Friday:
"Lost Angels"
"Ballroom Blitz"
"Little Willie"
"Love Is Like Oxygen"
"Blockbuster"
"Fox On The Run"
They morphed into one of the great glam-rock bands of the 70s.
The cool thing about them - the original members included Brian Connolly, Steve Priest, Andy Scott and Mick Tucker - is that they actually wrote some kick-ass songs. A little bubble gum, but hey, it's ear candy that tends to get stuck in your head.
Connolly died in 1997, Tucker in 2002.
The Sweet, your Video Friday:
"Lost Angels"
"Ballroom Blitz"
"Little Willie"
"Love Is Like Oxygen"
"Blockbuster"
"Fox On The Run"
OneWord, Hairdo
Ooofha. Hairdo. And 60 seconds to writer about it. It's a OneWord challenge. And this pops out:
Cut
Tired of my station in life, I skipped my barber’s chair and went into a fancy salon and asked for a new hairdo.
The lady studied me intently as I sank into her chair. She puts the points of a pair of scissors to her chin and tips her head. A multitude of piercings jangle through her hair, which is streaked in mauve and spiked like the fins of a Cadillac.
She smiles and I begin to think that this isn’t such a good idea.
But the shampoo and conditioner feels good – who knew conditioning promotes stronger follicles? – and by the time she gets to work, I’m feeling relaxed.
In minutes, she’s done.
My hair looks like it did before I walked in, just shorter.
The bill is $68.
Two weeks later, I’m sitting at my barber’s place, thumbing through a girlie magazine and waiting my turn.
“Why so glum?” he asks, tucking tissue into my collar.
“I cheated on you.”
“I forgive you,” he says, the buzz of clippers drowning out his disappointment.
Cut
Tired of my station in life, I skipped my barber’s chair and went into a fancy salon and asked for a new hairdo.
The lady studied me intently as I sank into her chair. She puts the points of a pair of scissors to her chin and tips her head. A multitude of piercings jangle through her hair, which is streaked in mauve and spiked like the fins of a Cadillac.
She smiles and I begin to think that this isn’t such a good idea.
But the shampoo and conditioner feels good – who knew conditioning promotes stronger follicles? – and by the time she gets to work, I’m feeling relaxed.
In minutes, she’s done.
My hair looks like it did before I walked in, just shorter.
The bill is $68.
Two weeks later, I’m sitting at my barber’s place, thumbing through a girlie magazine and waiting my turn.
“Why so glum?” he asks, tucking tissue into my collar.
“I cheated on you.”
“I forgive you,” he says, the buzz of clippers drowning out his disappointment.
