Nilesblog

2010-01-26T23:32:00.009-06:00

David Bowie
#81
The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars (1972)

#80
Hunky Dory (1971)

I'm clearing these two off the docket at the same time. My avoidance of them is a small partial reason for my long hiatus. I can say nothing objective about them, because they are sonically engraved into my brain tissue like super-spy microfilm.

Each time I listen to them I find something new, a different encoded message from a planet full of beautiful, freaky people who all want to have sex with me. These albums are a part of how I define myself as a human being, so, there you go.

You may or may not experience a similar reaction to these albums. I don't know anyone who doesn't like Bowie, though. I only know people who are either unfamiliar with his music or who love a different style of Bowie than me. Which is fine. I prefer the psychosexual starman. If you actively dislike Bowie, please, let me know. I am highly curious as to how someone with no love for music experiences life.

David Bowie is perhaps my favorite artist of all time, and I say "maybe" only because the Beatles exist. The clincher though is that I can't pretend to be "The Beatles", a group of four men. When I walk down the street, I can pretend to be David Bowie. I can pretend that my penis is ambidextrous, talks with a dry British accent, and we go on space adventures together. The Beatles at their best only make me remember to value those I love. Tie goes to space penis. And Ziggy is my favorite space penis album. Hunky Dory has my favorite songs.

I exhort you with all my will: listen to these albums twice, as soon as humanly possible. If you gave them a try in college, listen to them twice again. If you have heard them a good number of times and don't care for them, give them two more tries each. If you just got done listening to each album twice in a row in a marathon session unrelated to this blog post, pick up the record sleeve, slide out the album, put the vinyl back on the turntable, find the outside edge of side one, then gently put the hammer down. Everyone listen to them twice for me, then go about your business.

I will very rarely be this superlative in the future. If you already love these albums, I'm sorry for yelling at you, but sometimes you all need to be reminded where the real power is.

MIXPIX:
I gave up on linking to every single great one. Just go find the album you guys.

Ziggy:

One of the most indelible moments of my life thus far was putting on this song on headphones for the first time. I was 17 and on the millionth floor of an Osaka hotel. I felt like I was in Blade Runner.

Freak Out. Far Out. In Out.

Let all the children boogie.

Great video.

Hunky Dory:

Great video which I can't imbed. One of my all time favorite songs.

That's it. I give up. There are too many and blogger doesn't make this easy for me. Peace.

Next:
#79
Randy Newman
Sail Away (1972)

He's just singing about what he sees.

2009-08-17T00:24:00.005-05:00

#82

George Harrison

All Things Must Pass (1970)

"Apple scruffs and some stuff about candy, and pigs and other obvious allegory because I am pretty inconsistent. Also resentment and Hindu is a good religion." -- George Harrison

I have a complicated system for deciding the best tracks to discuss for an album. When I hear a good song I put five stars in iTunes next to it.
Then I revisit these 5 star songs while I write the post. I know it is a bit wonky, but try to stay with me.

I want to bad mouth this album for a variety of reasons, but then I look at my iTunes and see the number of five star songs and am wholly chastened.

This is a good album. But I swear it gets more boring as I revisit it. But I keep revisiting it. I suppose you could call it death through familiarity. I really didn't want to do this review.
It feels like I am forcing myself to eat a bucket of oatmeal without sugar. I like oatmeal, but c'mon. A whole bucket?

This is a long fucking album. It was a triple album. Poor Georgie had labored under the crippling yoke and attendant international superstardom of the Lennon/McCartney team for nearly a decade, and Harrison had a terminal case of creative blue balls. But this bucket of an album has many chunks of undercooked oatmeal in it.

Make no mistake. I am a zealous Beatles apologist. I have that poster of the boys in headshot profile in black and white, and I use it as a holy blessing over the entryway of wherever I am living (except here in Koreasburg). But this album can at times be either a big, jangly, lifeless mess or a soulful outpouring of genuine expression of the human condition. It depends on the song and on my mood.

But I am overly familiar with this album for a reason. Oatmeal is good for you, and John Tesh says there is nothing better you can eat for breakfast, every single day. If you aren't familiar with this album, become so. Then you can let it sit in your brain banks like a bellyful of hot carbs on a cold day. You will be a better person for having it in your psyche.

MYKS:
There are enough good singles on this album to make your own, regular length mix of George Harrison,
but I am just gonna give you my faves. You should know most of these songs already.

Unintentional plagiarism of "He's So Fine" or not, this song gets me in a churchy feeling. In the good, holy way, not the dressing in semi-casual, fighting sleep in the pews, xenophobic, science hating way.

This one does the same thing. The guy knew how to be really unpretentious, inviting, and personal with his religion. He's a personal guidepost for me in that respect. What, a brother can't be sincere?

I just like this one. It's fun, jumpy, and good jangly instead of distracting jangly.

While his guitar gently shreds. The man could really play guitar. Unless Clapton is playing on this one. I'm not going to check. I don't care. This song just rocks socks.

Next:
#81
David Bowie
The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust & The Spiders from Mars (1972)

There won't have to be much listening done on my part for this one. Personal Top 5 all time. I think I could actually sing the whole album to you, in sequence.

2009-08-12T20:48:00.004-05:00

#83

Iggy and The Stooges

Raw Power (1973)

"NSFW" -- Iggy Pop, half naked on some shitty stage somewhere

Nobody does it better. Rock 'n Roll, I mean. Iggy hit the first heavy motherlode of elemental Rock, was the first to tap into the main vein of Roll ley lines. His sillhouette on the cover of this album is the epitome of rock sillhouettes. A writhing androgynous space shaman wracked with the, excuse me, Raw Power of the cosmos juice he had discovered.

A truly undersung explorer. For Christgau'ssakes, When Raw Power came out in 1973, Iggy and the Stooges had already released Fun House in 1970 and Iggy had a raging heroin addiction. 1970! I love the Stones but Jagger is Edison to Iggy's Nikola Tesla.

Of course, I never really got into him until Guitar Hero came out and I played "Search and Destroy" over and over and over again.

I was aware of Iggy, sure. Pop culture references sprinkled about my development. "Lust for Life". Some still photo from some tv show sometime. After Guitar Hero though, I sat down and really listened to Iggy and Stooges.

And I still could never really get all that into them, not in a personal way. I still can't.

It is really hard for me to sit down, strap on my headphones, and jam out to "Fun House" or "Death Trip" or "Penetration" or any of the other more grimey Stooges tracks without feeling like the biggest goddamned poseur. It's messy. Really messy. Another world messy. I am not outside far enough to appreciate this. I do not have enough problems with myself to fully understand the world espoused by Iggy and the Stooges.

I think of myself as a scientist, so I observe that world with curiousity and fascination, but I do not venture to Iggy's world often. It is a world spoken of in hushed tones and with deference amongst my team as we sit around the messroom table of the Stephen Dylan, my transdimensional cultural exploration ship, telling stories and planning our next escapade.

"So where did the Garciaphant finally send Dr. Profit when his commodification lazer backfired on him?" I ask, laughing at the rememberance of a recent adventure in the dark heart of the 60's.

My first mate, Brendan Granite, swordfighter extraordinaire, drops his smile. His eyepatch droops as his brow furrows.

"Calculations show he was transported ta th' Iggy Zone," he says somberly, in a thick Irish brogue. "To th' Iggy Zone."

A hush falls across the crew.

"Then there is no hope for him," I say. "He'll be devoured alive by street walking cheetahs, or at the very least incinerated by nuclear A-bowms."

Little Billy Infinite, ever the optimist, looks up at us hopefully with his immortal, childlike features.

"Maybe he caught a break and one of the little strangers made him their dog."

None of the team speak. A moment of silence punctuated only by a series of mournful beeps and clicks from Jehosaphat, who can't find a sarcastic quip in all his memory banks.

"Maybe he did Billy. Maybe he did."

And scene.

Summary: I love what Iggy represents, and I thus I love this music, but it is a very situational music. Every party into which you inject the Stooges suddenly seems waaaaay more apocalyptic than you would have intended. Dirty ashtrays and lives lost to heroin even though you don't know anyone who has ever done any heroin. Listen for science and for pleasure, but entirely a personal pleasure. I respect but keep my distance.

BUT! Here are some songs! You bet they are good!

MIX IT UP

This is the song from Guitar Hero. Put it on a mix? I dunno if I like your friends. Oh, ok, of course I like your friends, but it going to be hard to talk to or dance with them with this thing going on.

Actually, this one will probably be better for a mix. I have done it. But maybe only for Halloween.

I was all bummed at a party one time and this song came on and suddenly I thought we were all about to die horribly. I almost but not quite wrote a short story about it.

Great dirty rocking sex machines!

#82

George Harrison
All Things Must Pass (1970)

No video, but My Sweet Lord is good and I am not looking forward to reviewing this. This is such a long album, one with which I am quite familiar, yet not overly fond of. Oh well. Tomorrow!

Gonna give this another shot

2009-08-12T20:28:00.003-05:00

Here I come again. I stopped because they blocked blogger at work and then my Ipod got erased and I couldn't listen to any of my music until I got a power adapter and knew I wouldn't fry my external harddrive on these infernal Korean outlets.

Now I have a power adapter for a little while and I moved my music onto the Windows side of my MacBook. Also, I'm gonna stop making excuses for not writing these things and just do it on Google Docs and copy/paste. Yes I know about proxies but they have proven unreliable.

OK! So! A lot of time has passed. I am a more fully-developed and austere human being than I was in February, but I think we shall find that the pop records on which I focus have not changed a single note in the intervening time.

BOOSH! The warm impermanence of personality coupled with the ironically permanent nature of cold digital media! Set to music! Yeah I did! Let's DO this!

2009-02-15T20:59:00.005-06:00

#84

Harry Nilsson

Nilsson Schmilsson (1971)

Harry Nilsson got to party with the Beatles. John Lennon loved him. When asked which American songwriters they admired, John and Paul said Harry Nilsson. It is easy to see the connection on Nilsson Schmilsson. You cannot manufacture a finer pop machine than this album.

The only negative thing I can say about this album is it's lack of personality. "Without You" gives you a sense of Nilsson as an individual artist rather than just a man with a fine voice, but the rest feels like a sunny afternoon in 1971. Apart from "Without You", I do not get moved by the songs here. There are really catchy, really great songs on this album that may move others, but listening to this album is like eating your favorite candy bar. Delicious and emotionally reaffirming, but not substantially nourishing.

I love the album cover though. "What's up guys? Just smoking a pipe. Oh, who's that? That's motherfucking John Lennon asleep on my couch."

A treasure trove of situational songs on this album. This album does wonders for filling out the back end when you are out of ideas. Got like 10 minutes left at the end? "Jump Into The Fire". Goofy interlude between two somewhat heavy songs? "Coconut". Resonant emotional core of the entire mix? "Without You". Despite my lite critique about lack of personality above, there isn't a song I don't like on Nilsson Schmilsson. It is brilliant.

MIX

"Without You"

The suicide scene in Rules of Attraction has tainted this song a bit culturally, but the song still makes my heart hurt. Damn, Gina.

"Early In The Morning"

Bop along while you do your chores. This is inoffensive, perfect music. A glass of ice cold water, and it is sunny, and it is Sunday, and you just finished the only thing you had to do today.

"Coconut"

Welcome to your Mom's night out with her friends. Welcome to what your parents used to listen to at the bar before you were born. When was the last Pina Colada you had? Never?

Iggy and The Stooges

Raw Power (1973)

No one beats Iggy and The Stooges on the quality/quantity rock ratio. My rock and roll fantasies are based on Iggy and David Bowie.

2009-02-03T21:01:00.004-06:00

#85

Wire

154 (1979)

Wire represents a period of minor upheaval in my musical tastes. They are not responsible for all of it, but they are indicative of music that urged me beyond melodic pop and rock concerns and into less listener-friendly music.

This is not to say that Wire is not listener-friendly a great deal of the time. Their periodic brain-fucking rockouts I would rank high amongst my favorites. Their album Pink Flag (which is much higher on the Pitchfork countdown) is probably the most recent addition to my personal Top Ten Albums: lifetime achievement category. It kicked out, oh, let's say Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. I don't know, I don't actually have this list created.

I never got into 154 though, because it didn't immediately grab me upon first listening like Pink Flag and Chairs Missing did. Upon diving fully into it, I find that 154 blends the continual expectations bucking of Chairs Missing with the pure punk rock industro-buzzsaw of Pink Flag while matching neither in terms of quality.

The noisy sections don't gel into anything meaningful, while the pop-oriented parts don't manage to subvert the style as much as the Wire likely wished them to. It doesn't mean the poplike songs are bad by any means, but they don't quite accomplish the intended effect. "Map Ref. 41 Degrees N 93 Degrees W" is a great song, but just look at that title. Wire, man, you guys are trying to hard. You wrote a great pop song, deal with it.

Super-solid album, would listen again, but not for quite some time. The singles here will make appearances though. "Map Ref etc." has been on my heavy rotation for months.

MXYZPTLYK

"Should Have Known Better"

This song is not on the goddamn internet. It is awesome. Find it. Fuck you internet.

"The 15th"

There is a hypnotizing arrogance and fuck it all quality to Wire. I think it is because of Punk. If the music of Wire was represented as an object in reality, they would be a monolith that you see waaaay out in a field and when you hike over to look at it, it spits on you.

"Map Ref. 41 Degrees N 93 Degrees W"

I talked about this one above, and posted it in the Joni Mitchell entry previously. Here it is again, being awesome as shit.

Harry Nilsson

Schmilsson (1971)

This is one of those old classics that stands the test of time. Listen to this song again, for the first time.

2009-01-29T20:37:00.002-06:00

#86

Joni Mitchell

Blue (1971)

Wow, hey, hello internet. Not going to make excuses: I am an unpaid, undirected aspiring writer with a job and a life.

I choose to blame indifference towards this album for my long absence. Yeah. That's it. Nothing to do with anything else.

So, Joni Mitchell, what's up? Pretty girl, nerdy art chick, brilliant songwriter. Quiet places and songs that seem to be alive, extracted surgically without anesthesia from the flesh of Mid-Century America, and placed in formaldehyde in a bottle marked Baby Boomers (young adulthood). There is a similarly marked bottle right next to it full of Neil Young songs.

Post-2008, it feels almost quaint to reminisce about the 60s and 70s: the calcifying Cold War, the moon landing, Woodstock, Vietnam, all stuck in the minds of my generation as montages from war movies, period dramas about families falling apart, nostalgic orgasms about HOW AMAZING it all was. The opening credits of Quantum Leap do a pretty good job of summing it up.

This is how I decide an influential album: whether it makes me think of the opening credits

of Quantum Leap or not.

But there is a lingering whiff of idealism and naiveté, despite the quality of the songs, that makes

this album a snoozer at times. For all of this album's charms, Joni doesn't say much

other than slice o' life stuff, which wouldn't be a problem except for the patina of self-righteousness

that comes out in the lifestyle she espouses in her lyrics. Part of this is being twentysomething,

I would imagine, but combine this with the knowledge of future Baby Boomer selflove in the 80s

and 90s, and I just can't care.

My twentysomething, ideallovesearching self is madly in love with 1971 Joni Mitchell though.

As an album, yawn and slightly yick, but out of context the singles are fantastic. I want to say to

clarify, I love this music, but my brain doesn't love Baby Boomers, so until now I haven't really

listened to it since I was 19.

MIX SINGLES

California

This is what I'm talking about. There is maybe no more tightly dense summation of how I view the world of my parents

youth than this song. Plus it is fun and catchy.

Carey

Back when I first began to listen to this album at 19ish, my roommate said this song was the best on the album, and I was like "Nuhuh". I have come

to agree with him though. It is about going out with an awesome person and has no politics or dated culture lying all over it like clean white linen and

fancy french cologne.

#85

Wire

154 (1979)

This is sweet because I love this band but haven't listened much to this album. Sweet. Don't suck, 154. This song doesn't suck at all. Chorus!

2008-11-13T23:03:00.005-06:00

#87

Roxy Music

For Your Pleasure (1973)

There is a certain point at which you can no longer think about Brian Eno and the music he has made. I took a drink at the water fountain for dead drug addict musicians that they built at that point on my way down this list.

Pitchfork loves Brian Eno, and as I trudge through the back half of these 100 albums, roughly every other one is Eno or Eno-Inspired.

This probably a function of an ineffective voting system at the Pitchfork offices. Maybe everyone had their favorite Eno-related album and the vote split rather than producing a clear favorite.

This is Brian Eno in his producer/sound guy/keyboardist/whatever mode, but pre-solo work. It is glam rock sass and psychosexual adolescent experimenting, parent-shocking stuff. My god isn't sexuality subversive! If you have never found a musical outlet for those emotions before, then by god jump on this album. However, the person who fits this description doesn't exist.

To be fair, ambiguous sexuality was once subversive, though it boggles my mind that Bowie and Eno found enough depth in it to make music about it for a decade. If I had found For Your Pleasure in high school, I would have read The Stand to it and felt really cool about it and myself. However, having the infinite knowledge of the future, and thus an awareness of other Eno and Bowie albums, I am bored by Roxy Music.

We have the benefit of not having to live through Eno's career chronologically. Listen to Here Come the Warm Jets instead, or just listen to David Bowie.

As always, there are some good tracks, though.

MIXEN:

Strictly Confidential

Eerie and haunting, like how you feel after reading a good short horror story. I think this Eno guy might have a future in atmospheric music. Goin' out on a limb. Boo, I can't find a link.

In Every Dream a Heartache

Apparently this song is about a blow-up doll. Whatever. The ol' build-up/payoff here is effective. Phil Manzanera is the guitarist for Roxy Music, and when I get ahold of them again, I am going to do a piece on his now almost completely forgotten solo albums, which I adore. This song showcases his guitaring ability nicely. Eno is the guy in this video who looks like a Skexis from The Dark Crystal.

Editions of You

This video is wildly entertaining. So is the song. Boyee-yoyoy.

#86

Joni Mitchell

Blue (1971)

(every girl I have ever known well has drunkenly put this album on at least once)

2008-11-06T23:57:00.003-06:00

#88

Giorgio Moroder

From Here to Eternity (1977)

Look at this picture. Yes, this artifact truly exists. Yes, you want to listen to it.

Your own desire is reflected back at you from Giorgio's sunglasses, which he calls his "sex mirrors".

"Because I wear them when I am about to have sex," Giorgio said.

"I never take them off."

Do you think you can dance to it? You don't deserve to dance to it. Mick Jagger looked up from his three-way bj long enough to see you coming down the dock and he signaled to the yacht captain to set sail before you could get there. Giorgio laughed and threw some cocaine in the air like confetti.

Seriously, this album defines transportive. Giorgio takes Kraftwerk and adds a spinning disco ball. If that sounds appealing, and it should, you will enjoy this.

Mix Tracks:

(right click and open in new window for the song)

From Here to Eternity:

If you don't like this song, don't bother with the rest of the tracks. If you do like this song, get this album and just put it on when you want to dance, have really ironic sex, or want to celebrate because your agent just got you a three episode recurring guest spot on Dallas.

#87

Roxy Music

For Your Pleasure (1973)

(wait for this song to get going, it is worth it.)

(...but you blew my mind)

Days of Past Future

2008-11-03T01:39:00.002-06:00

I posted the new album review, but it was written on an old post so it showed up posted in the past. The link be here.

Oof

2008-10-27T00:19:00.003-05:00

I have been so busy for the last two weeks, I have barely thought about this blog, I'm not going to lie. My previous teach-free afternoons have disappeared except for Monday and Friday, and all I have wanted to do is veg. Couple that with the amount of election news I feel pathologically obligated to follow daily, and you have a recipe for procrastination. I'm going to procrastinate again today in the aftermath of a long, long weekend of teaching and hiking and drinking. Things appear to be on the downslope, however, so I hope to hop back on the wagon soon.

the moon is cool

2008-10-13T10:32:00.003-05:00

Only the full moon

Flattened spectral nightclouds

astral cauliflower

a tunnel with a bone white mouth

A grin and a glare at once

at the end

Only the FULL MOON

a cataract eye

in the face of god

horrible, blind

and

like the duck becomes the rabbit

one form replaces another

in perception

Space, in the Star Trek way, fills it all in from behind.

Only the FULL MOON

a cataract eye

in the face of god

horrible, blind.

2008-10-13T00:55:00.005-05:00

#89

Devo

Q: Are We Not Men? A: We Are Devo! (1978)

With my cred on the geek street as high as it is, I am mildly ashamed to have been unfamiliar with Devo until I listened to this album. But, thanks to my month-long hiatus and numerous aborted attempts to write this post, I have become very familiar with this album.

I was always turned off by the weird-for-weird's-sake vibe that Devo put off. I'm all for pretense, but as the band responsible for "Whip It", I thought they seemed a little too proud of themselves.

Ok, come to think of it, I probably avoided Devo entirely because of "Whip It".

I am only partially converted with Are We Not Men. There are some great moments in this album, but they are the ones where they stop couching their very obvious talents in self-conscious weirdness and social criticism about as deep as egging your principal's house. Though that is pretty punk.

This is a very dated album in atmosphere, aesthetics, lyrical content and influences. The late 70s early 80s is a fun time to visit, though. Some of the songs can be isolated and dissected for purposes of empiric asskickification.

Mix Songs:

(the song names have links in them, and those links go to the song in question.)

Mongoloid

First pretend it is 1985. Then let me say that this song is bad.

Gut Feeling

Epitomizes what I'm talking about above regarding Devo's talent being limited by insecurity. This song is transportive, and has a REM vibe that predates REM substantially. If Mark Mothersbaugh had gotten laid in high school, who knows what might have happened?

Uncontrollable Urge

This song is perfect if you are making a low-budget comedy in the early- to mid-1990s and want to quickly establish how quirky/irrepressible/"not like the other kids" your female character or ragtag group of outcasts is without actually writing any dialogue. The female character should do a wacky dance at an inappropriate time to it, or the group of outcasts should complete some sort of endearingly outrageous project to it. You are welcome, the past.

Shrivel Up

At first I disliked this song as derivative, but upon repeat listening it really started to creep my shit out. It is particularly effective after listening to the whole album. Deceptively catchy.

Next (hopefully soon, since I've already listened the shit out of it):

Giorgio Moroder

From Here to Eternity (1977)

(yes this album is exactly as good as this video makes it look. Disco glitter spacefucking.)

2008-10-05T21:36:00.009-05:00

#90

Fela Kuti and Afrika 70

Zombie (1977)

I have gone through periods where I listen to jazz on a regular basis, but they don't happen often. Since I have developed a taste for krautrock and electronic music, I visit jazz less and less often, with my background groove and color needs being served elsewhere.

I wish it didn't, but a lot of times jazz bores me where Neu! and Dan Deacon do not.

I could assume it is a matter of relevance, with electronic influenced music representative of the 21st-century and jazz the 20th, but, god, I got bored just typing that sentence. The obviousness of it is heavy like walking into a sauna by mistake.

Zombie and Fela Kuti aren't jazz, but they did spring fully-formed from it. I don't know what is different, but Zombie rocks my socks. I like a little repetition and funk I guess. This is good stuff that I come back to quite often.

I don't have anything else to say about this album. I wish I did. It is great and everyone should give it a listen, but I am not super-inspired by it, so I am moving on.

Mix Tracks:

Not too many here, considering there are only four 12 minutes+ songs here. Pick "Mister Follow Follow" if you want to separate them out. But you shouldn't really do that. If you are in the mood for Afrobeat, then you should just go for the whole album. I've posted "Zombie"because couldn't find a whole copy of "Mister Follow Follow".

#89

Devo

Q: Are We Not Men? A: We Are Devo! (1978)

Goin' to Seoul

2008-10-01T23:08:00.003-05:00

I'll be gone til Monday, also known as "Sunday" for those of you on the other side of the international date line. I don't have any classes on Monday, either, so I might even post two reviews. You bitches like that shit, dontcha? You like it.

In the meantime, please enjoy a horrifically English breakdown of our current financial crisis with a click of "Afternoon Interlude" to the right under "Shared Items".

PEESE!

quick inventory

2008-09-30T01:48:00.003-05:00

So it looks like I managed ten reviews this month. I imagine I'll either get faster or slower as the process moves along, but I hope to be at least to #80 by this time next month. The list I'm working off of is here if you want to look around for the music and listen ahead for some reason. You know what, I'ma just gonna link to it permanently in the bar over to your right there. --->

2008-09-30T00:29:00.011-05:00

#91

Throbbing Gristle

20 Jazz Funk Greats (1979)

Some people never get over the thrill of adolescent rebellion. Some people, for whatever reasons, mistrust anything that isn't deeply, deeply cynical. Some people like industrial avant-garde music, which is what 20 Jazz Funk Greats is, despite its idyllic album cover (the back of the album is the exact same image, but with a naked male corpse on the ground in front of the band.) I think people who like industrial music are usually born in very large cities, or Europe.

I love stickin' it to the man. I love adolescent rebellion and practice it with regularity. I can definitely see the appeal of self-righteousness and being avant-garde because life is just so boring and you get so mad at all the sheeple baa baa baaing their lives away, happily being torn to blood and guts by the gears of capitalism let's do some coke

You are supposed to get over this though. You are not supposed to base your whole life around smoking in the boys room and William S. Burroughs.

If there is one thing that I do not enjoy, it is antagonism for its own sake. Go ahead and make me think, I love it. I love that whole thing, where my conceptions of things are challenged. But if you have to invoke graphic depictions of violence or sex to "comment on the human condition" you are faking it. You are faking it so hard.

The human condition is built to respond to these things at a base instinctual level. Flee violence or potential violence, and sex is the thing you want. When you mix them up, when you call on those instincts in the name of "art" all you are doing is pulling the fire alarm in the school hallway of everyone's psyche because your mom forgot your birthday and you can't think of any other way to get attention.

Tim Buckley's Starsailor comes up at #50, and it is challenging, maddening and noisy, but beautiful and haunting, not fucking juvenile, like 20 Jazz Funk Greats is.

There are a few tracks that are pretty good, though. If your kid swallowed an earring and the doctor told you just to wait it out, waiting for these two songs on this album is like when you have to get that earring back.

MIX TRACKS:

(if you right-click and open the links in new tabs, you go to youtube and then you can listen to what I am writing about without navigating away.)

Walkabout

Please believe me when I say that the rest of this album is not like this song. The rest of the album is pretty much the opposite of this song. This song is good atmosphere. I can see myself doing a lot of things to this music and being happy and saying to myself "I still cannot believe this song is off that god-awful album" as I dice garlic for dinner sometime in the future.

Hot On The Heels Of Love

Kate Bush basically stole the second half of Hounds of Love from this song. You could dance in a European club all night long to this song and not feel stupid about it.

#90

Fela Anikulapo Kuti & Africa '70

Zombie (1977)

2008-09-29T00:41:00.008-05:00

#92

Kraftwerk

The Man-Machine (1978)

I have an ill-defined but immeasurably large number of things to say about krautrock. Let's say then, for the sake of clarity, that I totally have one bajillion things to say about krautrock.

Fortunately, Pitchfork likes krautrock as much as I do, so I get to plow this fertile ground over and over again, digging deep new furrows with the glistening edge of my mindplow, and nurturing the growth of fresh thought with mounds of steaming bullshit.

The Kraftwerk guys circa 1978 would probably like it if I included a bit more bullshit. It is kind of their bag.

Out of the formless cloud of dust and gas and ideas that krautrock inspires in me, The Man-Machine is a good album for talking about the experiential nature of electronic music. What I mean is the sense of being transported to the front cover of an old sci-fi paperback. Of getting a taste of what a fictional 'elsewhere' might feel like, even if just for seven or eight minutes.

(Disclaimer: This might only work if you are a sci-fi nerd.)

The great thing about krautrock, as opposed to say techno (blerg) or even more recent electronic music like dubstep, is the quaintness of the technology and concepts involved. The analog of it. The picture of alienation and the future that it paints is now a retro one: a green cathode-ray monitor, giant board of blinking lights, Doctor Who*, CGI-free, pre-internet, Cold War-obsessed future.

Hell, the first side of The Man-Machine has songs called "The Robots" and "Spacelab" for chrissakes. It isn't relevant as modern commentary any more, but it is still relevant as a direct line into previous social paranoia. "They who forget the past..." and all that.

This is a great album. It isn't Trans-Europe Express, but it doesn't have to be. It is transportive sci-fi paranoia in its own way, just not as fully as TEE. If you have never gotten into Kraftwerk (and I understand if you haven't, given the goofy public image the group has picked up over the years) start with Man-Machine or TEE.

You probably won't be disappointed, unless you played sports in high school.

MISCHUNGSLIEDE:

(right-click auf der Verbindung und öffnen Sie sie in einem neuen Vorsprung, um zu hören und zu lesen.)

The Robots

The first time I heard this was in Edinburgh, Scotland. A man all in silver was dancing to it as a robot. It was novel at the time: "Crazy Europe!" I said to myself. I have since discovered that there are people who dress all in silver and dance like robots in touristy areas all over the world. The song is nice, though.

Spacelab

I don't think you could spend an afternoon playing videogames to a finer song than this.

Metropolis

This is the song I am referring to above when I talk about getting transported to sci-fi heaven. TEE does it better on the whole, but it couldn't do it better than this song.

ZUNÄCHST:

#91

Throbbing Gristle

20 Jazz Funk Greats (1979)

(time to take my medicine, blarg)

*a fun(?) aside, take a look at some of the Doctor Who theme song and title cards mashups on youtube for a perfect progression of sci-fi aesthetics through the years. The leap from the early 90s to the contemporary one is really jarring. Once we started living in the future, our concept of the future changed!

2008-09-25T00:48:00.005-05:00

#93

Jimi Hendrix

Band of Gypsys (1970)

A virtually unknown album from an under-appreciated artist, the sad story of a real talent drowned out by the chaotic hustle and shuffle of the '60s music scene.

If you have love for classic rock and roll guitar, you should pick up this album. The lead guitarist, Mr. Hendrix, is a black man. Quite the novelty!

MIX SINGLES:

Each of the songs on this album is usable in a variety of mix circumstances. It truly is shocking that there isn't more literature out there about this man.

I promise not to sarcastically cop out all the time, but I can't step far enough back from Hendrix to give any kind of analysis worth having. The Hendrix Best Of album I got when I was 14 pretty much defines my musical taste to this day. I can't even listen to him now, my mind slips right off of it.

I'll talk about the sixties later when it isn't Hendrix. I want to move on to other albums while I formulate my grand unified theory of Baby Boomerism which I will drop when it is ready. Hendrix isn't right for it, because I respect him too much to filter my frustration, admiration, and criticism through him. (CCR is coming up later, which seems a good fit).

If you really, really need a place to start with this album, "Changes" shreds like cabbage for cole slaw. "Machine Gun" is rightfully legendary.

#92

Kraftwerk

The Man-Machine (1978)

2008-09-23T00:21:00.005-05:00

#94

King Crimson

Starless and Bible Black (1974)

Odds are good that you already know whether you would like an album one could describe as "British jazz/rock fusion". Each of those words, particularly the compound one, is heavy with musical meaning.

Like a lot of fusion, this album manages to be simultaneously difficult and easy to listen to. If you actively engage it and listen intently to everything that is going on, you are rewarded with novelty and groove. If you just want to throw your headphones on while you read, you are rewarded by comforting, structured noise punctuated by some stunning moments of musical release.

My favorite thing about King Crimson is their ability to marry the "difficult build-up taking its time to reach an awesome payoff" tendency inherent to most instrumental/experimental/electronic music with a respectable pop sensibility. No band I can think of off the top of my head accomplishes this as well as King Crimson.

My favorite King Crimson album is In the Court of the Crimson King which is waaaaay geekier (as in Tolkien geekier) than their later stuff, but which I enjoy more because it leans more toward the rock than the jazz. I also prefer Red, but that one is coming up later.

If this is what you are into, you cannot go wrong with King Crimson, and this album is no exception. As solid, dark and classy as a mahogany desk, if you could make a mahogany desk out of difficult time signatures, dissonance, and ball-rocking break downs. It even manages some removable singles.

MIX SINGLES:

(please to click into new tab or window so for better listen and read?)

The Great Deceiver

Sounds like a jazz band caught in a garbage disposal that somehow manages to both hold on to and play their instruments. High speed destruction. Put it on the mix that you were going to make for when you tear out that wall between your kitchen and living room with nothing but a sledgehammer and crowbar.

The Night Watch

A haunting melody and not too much noise to cloud it, good for just about anything you will be listening to mostly by yourself.

Trio (sorry can't find it anywheres)

Delicate, sad and instrumental. Use it anytime you need something that fits any of those criteria, if you happen to download the album from somewhere.

Jimi Hendrix

Band of Gypsys (1970)

Update

2008-09-23T00:07:00.002-05:00

I'm working on another chapter for "The New Magic", but I want it semi-passable as literature, rather than just scribbling and posting. I should have a post for Starless and Bible Black up today, if not tomorrow.

IN THE MEANTIME please ENJOY THIS SONG IN ITS ENTIRETY. then listen to it again

2008-09-18T23:38:00.004-05:00

#95

Led Zeppelin

Physical Graffiti (1975)

Led Zeppelin, canonic Zeppelin anyway, has always been able to find the little metal plates that link and make my soul, and bang away at them with exquisite little hammers til I'm vibrating like tuning fork. A tuning fork of pure rock 'n roll.

It doesn't work all the time. Somedays I am not in a Zeppelin mood. Somedays it goes in one ear and out the other like so much of the music I'm intimately familiar with does.

Oh, but there times when it doesn't. There are times, sweet mercy, when people on the bus get a little show of a guy rocking with reckless abandon, even though I've heard "In My Time Of Dying" an immeasurable number of times. Times when, I realize that the only thing I've ever really wanted to be in my life is Robert Plant from 1968 - 1980. This is fucking ZEP to me, and I don't think I'm alone. Everyone's got their bands, and Zep is one of mine.

That out of the way, Physical Graffiti has too many songs on it. If this was the single album that is obviously in here, rather than the double that it is, this would be even more revered than it is already. All of Side 4, in my opinion is non-essential.

But god, the ones that are essential?

Mix Tracks:

(ctrl of left click into a new tab or window so that you can listen and read!)

In My Time Of Dying

This song comes up on random, I don't really notice what's going on and keep doing whatever the thing is I was doing, vaguely aware of some rocking. "O its zep" my subconscious says. 11 minutes later, I wake up, and my hair is everywhere, I can smell blood and smoke, and hear the screams of village children. My favorite Zep song by the smallest of margins, but itis the winner nonetheless. Perfect end song to any mix, especially ones that you put on as background entertainment to a non-dancing main event. I've used it at least five times for exactly this purpose.

Houses of the Holy, Trampled Under Foot, Kashmir

All Classic Rock Radio staples. Your radio station is not worth shit if you don't hear at least one of these songs on it, even if they do play Stairway. If you are shy a few minutes and short on the rock, why not try a proven winner?

In the Light, Ten Years Gone

Both songs have great build-up and release. Look, simply put, if the song is 5 minutes plus and it is by Led Zeppelin, it will be ok to put it on anything you want. It will rock. You will be happy. Strangers in the room will be happy. Zep is a universal solvent.

#94

King Crimson

Starless and Bible Black (1974)

(in which I get to talk about prog and jazz experimentation like I wanted to with Robert Wyatt.)

2008-09-17T23:27:00.010-05:00

#96

Iggy Pop

The Idiot (1977)

This album is a great album, in ways that just don't make me excited at all. I listen to it: I can hear that it is good, and why it is good, but I do not enjoy it.

This album is for some people, and for them, they will get all the way behind it. The guy from Joy Division liked it so much that it was the last thing he listened to before he decided to quit being alive.

But I don't care about this album at all. It is fueled on self-satisfied sarcasm and too-clever-by-half self-deprecation. Rock conventions have always been ripe for skewering, and Bowie (who is responsible for a great deal of the content here) has always aimed for the least subtle place to stick a skewer, which is part of his charm. But this album doesn't work for me. I am not transported to the universe Pop and Bowie are trying to create.

Maybe I am just tired this week, but I have tried a lot of times to get down with this sound, and have failed.

This isn't to say that I wouldn't drop everything to go be a ne'er-do-well euro-trash trendsetter in 1977. Holy fuck, except for the massive drug abuse, dead-at-27 friends, and soulless existence, this is the first place I'd go in my time machine. Those guys -- Bowie, Eno, Kraftwerk, Can, the whole scene of Germany in the 70s -- did better stuff than this though, despite the fact that this album is partially responsible for creating that image in the first place.

Sorry, The Idiot, I hope you have a great life in heavy rotation in someone else's music collection.

Mix Tracks:

(ctrl or left click the song title into a new window)

Not much hear I plan on continuing to listen to at this point. But, I do quite like

China Girl

Yes, I am aware that Bowie had a bit of a hit with this in the 80's, but I prefer this one. This song does manage to transport me to another place. Good driving music, good headphones music, good music period.

#95

Led Zeppelin

Physical Graffiti (1975)

(yay!)

Slight delay

2008-09-16T00:41:00.003-05:00

Holiday weekend messed up my internal schedule, I hope to have something on Iggy Pop by either tomorrow afternoon or thursday. It doesn't help that I am pretty indifferent to the album, but I will have something.

This will make you happy for at least five minutes...

2008-09-11T08:42:00.002-05:00

if you were within 3 years plus or minus of 12 years old when this came out, and as long as you power through and watch and listen to the whole thing. You guys it is a fucking good song.

(Ignore the obvious furry fap material.)

2008-09-10T21:59:00.014-05:00

#97

Jimmy Cliff (and various)

The Harder They Come (1972)

The past is the past, and I don't want to divulge anything here that a future employer might misunderstand, but let me say that while at college I was at a place in my life where I had the opportunity to really, really get into reggae. The opportunity presented itself at least once, usually twice a day. But I never did. I never got down on that Kingston sound.

There are a few Bob Marley songs I really enjoy, (like anyone can really dislike "Redemption Song" or "Three Little Birds", cliche or not) but the vast, vast majority of reggae I have heard bores the ever-loving shit out of me. I just don't feel it, and though I have tried on numerous occasions to challenge this notion, I have never been persuaded. The most I can get out of an attempt is maybe one or two tracks that transcend the formula. On the whole, however, it is a formula that does nothing for me.

Aside that, as my latest attempt, The Harder They Come brought me as closer than I have come before to bringing reggae to my main file (outside of a Marley and the Wailers greatest hits album I had in high school). These are great, great pop tracks. Sparkling. The sentiment is wonderful, the emotions real, and Cliff's biography and the story of the album is intriguing. If you like reggae, you will go bonkers over this album. But outside one or two situational tracks and one track that, for some reason, transcends all time and space for me, I probably won't be listening to this again anytime soon.

That being said, you probably want to know what track transcends all time and space.

Mix Singles:

(hey dummy left or ctrl+click the song name into a new tab/window)

Pressure Drop

There is something transcendent to this song that upon truly hearing for the first time a few months ago, it shot up to the top five of my favorite songs of all time. No exaggeration. Somewhere my psyche matches up cosmically with Toots' when he made this song, and the song just makes me ache. Maybe this will change someday, later, when I am a hundred personal iterations away from where I am now. As for right now the tortured vocals, the sentiment, and something inherent in the phrase "pressure drop" (combining the sense of falling and being crushed at the same time) all work to tap into the core of every moment in my life in which I have tried to quash self-pity, and failed. Believe me when I say that this is a rich goddamned vein to tap. This song fucking kills. Kills.

(Send me an email or drop a comment and I will explain more about how the fact that I worship this song doesn't undermine my above comments regarding my apathy towards reggae. Seriously, some aesthetic things go beyond personal taste.)

also good though I am too drunk and indifferent to want to comment in depth before posting: "The Harder They Come", "You Can Get It If You Really Want", "Johnny Too Bad". These are good songs, fully suitable for well-intentioned jamming, but I seriously don't care enough personally to write about them individually. If you have reggae affinity, you will recognize the solid quality, pick them up, and love them.

Also, this ain't no passin' craze.

#96

Iggy Pop

The Idiot (1977)

The New Magic

2008-09-09T02:26:00.003-05:00

An American does not experience terror in the daily execution of his mundane necessities.

He does not fear, for example, retribution beyond levels of human tolerance should he leave payment of his electric bill for another day. Nor are there runes of violent consequence inscribed in the grease at the bottom of the pizza box he purchased in lieu of a healthier alternative.

No, in general, the punishments he accrues as a cost for careless living are not ones that would threaten to slash the cords that bind his reality, and unspool his sanity and gory bits of personality onto the ground like hot intestine from a butchered pig. Not generally.

But despite all appearances to the contrary, the universe does keep a record, and it is a only a matter of billing cycles and due dates that no one has yet been around to collect.

---

America is a place in which a majority of its people are adopted inhabitants, mere fifth or sixth generation descendants, lacking an abiding connection with the land and a co-evolution of culture and space that allows the folklore and mysticism necessary to explain those things we find in life that cause our rationality to fail.

There are no fae creatures in America. There are no things with strange names that come for children at night. There is only the unexplained. Strange noises casually and falsely attributed to the innumerable technologies of modern life. Dark corners where buildings meet outside the pools of harsh arc sodium light. The black gape of an old doorway glimpsed from the highway at night through a stand of trees and it freezes our guts because we know that should a tire blow, there would be no old magic to protect us.

We know that should something or somethings come to close our tab, we would have nothing to do but to pay.

This is the story of what happens afterward, because even the old magics had to start somewhere.

2008-09-07T23:23:00.015-05:00

#98

Robert Wyatt

Rock Bottom (1974)

About a year and a half ago, just after obtaining (legal) access to the daunting mass of relatively obscure music this feature is devoted to, Rock Bottom was one of the first albums I started listening to on a regular basis. Probably because it was so close to the "beginning" of the list, and seemed like the obscure, avant-garde music I'd always been intrigued by, but with no context an no place to start.

Given the thumbs up by the faceless taste gods at Pitchfork, I jumped right into this album, dissonance, jazz time signatures and apparent nonsense and all, and loved it. According to the Pitchfork blurb, Wyatt completed this album while convalescing after a drunken fall from a fourth-story window left him paralyzed from the waist down. This knowledge allowed me to instill the music with raw loss and confused, subdued rage. I turned to it for sad, meditative moments when I wanted to stoke the emotion rather than shoo it away.

Thing is, while researching for this post, I found out Wyatt had completed most of the music for Rock Bottom prior to his injury, completely removing the factual emotional underpinnings for my enjoyment of this album. So, thanks, Wikipedia, for the bitter truth juice, and as for Pitchfork, I just...*sigh*...I mean, c'mon I fact-checked it in two seconds on Wikipedia. Goddamnit.

Anyway, this information has forced me to completely reconsider my reasons for enjoying this album in the first place, and the conclusion I've come to is that I really can't separate it out. I created an entire character and a distinct emotional experience over the course of familiarizing myself with this album, one that was very powerful.

The power of any story comes from the clarity with which it reflects reality. While Wyatt may not have actually intended any of that emotion to be there, the character of Wyatt I created out of misinformation did, and he is more real to me than the actual Robert Wyatt will ever be. From now on when I listen to Rock Bottom, I will pretend Wyatt was just finishing up a concept album about a convalescing paraplegic prog rock drummer mere months before he actually became one.

God damn it.

I had intended to write about the appeal of art rock/avant-garde music until these new facts pulled me away. There is plenty more of that shit coming, so it can definitely wait for another day.

Mix Singles:

Not too many songs here I would want to listen to with other people around, or out of context. This is just not a record you can really drink beers and bullshit to, unless that bullshit usually happens to be about jazz time signatures. If you put a synthesizer to my head I would say Sea Song would be your best bet, but man, you throw some weird ass parties.

Jimmy Cliff (and various artists)

The Harder They Come (1972)

2008-09-04T19:15:00.014-05:00

#99

Neil Young

After the Gold Rush (1970)

After Live Rust, this is my favorite Neil Young album. (Which isn't a fair comparison because Live Rust has most of the essential songs from After the Gold Rush on it.) If you enjoy popular music, you are probably familiar with this album already, whether you are a fan of it or not.

The thing is, I can't write about this fully iconic album, and, really, I can't write about not being able to write about it, since both angles -- the iconic album write up and the I-can't-write an-iconic-album-write-up write up -- have become so trite they have mutated into a kind of super-competitive trite organism that will soon become the dominant predator in the region, forcing the indigenous predators to adapt or die.

So:

1. This is the last meta-comment I will make on the difficulty about writing about that which is overly familiar, so when, say, Thriller shows up, it will probably be a short analysis, and

2. If you are unfamiliar with this album and are interested in a full understanding of what pop music is, congratulations, you have a new assignment.

Short version: This is a famous album whose merits are well-known and documented.

I was just going to list the tracks that I don't care for, as that would be shorter list, but then remembered that I have hours and hours to kill at school today.

Mix Singles:

Tell Me Why

A song that describes perfectly how it feels to be young with no direction and lots of ambition. Perfect music for looking out the window of public transportation as rain falls on the city. (emoticon representing a single, genuine tear)

After the Gold Rush

I saw Radiohead cover this in St. Louis. Hell yeah. Fuck yeah.

Only Love Can Break Your Heart

There is a playful happiness to the arrangement that contrasts the content of the lyrics like the taste of cream cheese with frosted animal crackers. In theory, a questionable judgment call; in reality, delicious.

Southern Man

I mention this song because the guitar still shreds so vicious, but don't put it on a mix, Captain Classic Rock Radio.

Don't Let It Bring You Down

This song always feels to me like the soundtrack to a montage late in a film, just before the last act when every plot line gets resolved. "Here are all our characters, and boy they are really, really sad and isolated from one another because of all the shitty but emotionally resonant things that have happened to them so far. I hope their lives all get redeemed!"

In the film that uses this song, some of them will be redeemed, but most of them will probably die.

#98

Robert Wyatt

Rock Bottom (1974)

2008-08-31T23:26:00.012-05:00

The 1970's

#100

Brian Eno

Before and After Science (1977)

I'm not going to come at these albums as discrete objects, because music is not, um, objective. This is also the final sentence in which I will mention the individuality of personal experience. There. That wasn't so bad.

What I will be doing is giving each album a series of thorough heavy petting sessions, telling you what it felt like, and then listing what songs might go good on a mix, if you are into that sort of thing.

Brian Eno is an artist I came to via David Bowie, and only began listening to him because the holy musical taste arbiter declared him a patron saint. And I like him. I do. But does anyone truly love Brian Eno?

That was a just a test. I love Brian Eno, and if you don't, that means your tastes differ from mine in ways that are probably trivial. Yes, I love him, but I love him in a way like I love air conditioning, or shooting around a tightly banked curve at 45 mph on an interstate exit and knowing I will not die. I love all these things, and it is hard to imagine a pleasant existence without them, but when someone asks me what I enjoy, I don't say "competent civic engineering."

And that is basically Eno's bag, developing the very infrastructure of what we understand pop music to be. I don't need to defend this assertion, because I am right.

(OK, so, sometimes these posts are going to give someone a blow job.)

The thing is, though, I really can't get too excited about this album for exactly this reason. I'm sure back in '77, people who were paying attention to this kind of thing were like "Man, Post-it notes! These are convenient as shit, thanks Mr. Eno!" but it isn't anything he hasn't done before, and with greater impact. Listening to it in our crazy futuristic future, I can't help but think that it sounds like a Brian Eno album, nice and peppy and Britishly absurd at parts (side A), and then ambient and evocative at others (side B).

As a whole package it's worth a listen or two, but the music that Eno has inspired and informed is the music I go back to over and over again. Good work though! Keep 'em coming, late 70's Brian Eno!

Mix Singles

(I will get some listenable copies of the songs going here, as soon as I figure out how.)

Here He Comes

Perfect for driving by yourself, or sitting around playing video games. Puts you in a nice groove without forcing you to pay too much attention.

Backwater

Great for that British Absurdity mix you are making along with early Pink Floyd, 10cc, and any Beatles songs that had an animal or food in the title.

King's Lead Hat

An anagram for Talking Heads that effectively mimics their style circa 1977, sassing along at fun-thousand beats per minute.

#99 - Neil Young

After the Gold Rush

Hey! Uh, sorry about all that "not touching this thing in years" stuff...

2008-08-27T01:12:00.008-05:00

Soooo, now I live in Korea, teach English, and plan to finish this story once I figure out exactly what it is. I've never forgotten these characters, I just lost their thread and got distracted by, well, two years worth of stuff. I've got nothing but time and internet access for the next year, so I am shooting for a solid finish by the end of the year. Fireworks!

On another note, actually the main note, I am going to use this blog to talk about other things that are important to me: music specifically and other things to a smaller degree. I'm not going to lock myself into a formula, but I will at least slog through Pitchfork's top 100 albums from the 70's, 80's, and 90's, and give them a proper write up, since the site's analysis often assumes a level of familiarity with the source work that is unlikely outside of the Pitchfork offices or LCD Soundsystem. Plus, a whoooole bunch of it is trite, hagiographic crap. Pitchfork is not a be-all-end-all music oracle or anything for me, but these lists are a wonderful, concise place to kick off talking about music, and these albums are a resource I happen to have access to.

I have legally obtained copies of each of these 300 albums and intend to learn how to provide streaming examples of the music I am discussing. I will listen to each album until I feel I am familiar enough with it to discuss it, and hopefully provide you some background research on the artists themselves. I'll do the albums in order, starting with Brian Eno's Before and After Science likely sometime this week, and ending with Radiohead's OK Computer, likely sometime during BHO's second term. Some of these albums, like OK Computer, I am already intimately familiar with, so their posts will arrive faster than others, like Before and After Science, with which I am unfamiliar. I could write a post about OK Computer right now, but I like the arbitrary constraints. They make things more interesting, and give me a direction to head.

In between the entries in this major personal musical enterprise and finishing the story of Ed and Alice, I want to get in the habit of posting thoughts on movies I've seen, political events, and etc. etc. etc. but I promise to only post semi-complete thoughts, and only if I feel I am adding something new to the vast ephemera. In no way will I start parroting conventional wisdom, or linking to every goddamn article or video that peaks my interest, just because I have a blog and time to kill. GOD DAMNIT, this is the internet, not show and tell. I'm sure I will post some shit about Korea too, but it won't be a Korea blog. The only person who would find that interesting would be my mom. "Here is another picture of food that you can't eat, but that I did eat! Doesn't it look weird? Look at that! A picture of me and something enormous/foreign/situationally hilarious! Hilarious!" Oh my god please tell me if this blog turns into that. Anyway, enough talking myself out of it.

Here I go, personal motivation and work ethic, don't fails me now!

Revisionist history

2006-04-13T16:24:00.000-05:00

Ed Cavendish slept, and it was not restful.

Dreams rushed at him like very large amounts of water falling from a very high place. Just when he thought he had his head up, his consciousness was beaten down again by a confusing mix of images and sensations, full of obvious metaphor and tortured imagery.

His subconscious was being pulled and twisted as the world around him clamored for his attention. He fell into plot holes, got strangled by loose ends, and spent the better part of an hour arranging guns on mantelpieces.

At one point during this troubled evening, Ed was dining with Benjamin Franklin and Sigmund Freud on the fairway of a golf course. They were eating tea and little cakes off the back of a naked Albert Einstein. Benjamin Franklin was talking about rock and roll while Sigmund Freud knitted a sweater. Einstein was playing thoughtfully with a dandelion, kicking his legs playfully.

"But Ben," he said, "Ze White Album, it is just too long, ya? Abbey Road iz more coherent, a more pleasurable experience, I think."

What Ben Franklin might have retorted to this, Ed did not get to find out. Sigmund Freud suddenly jabbed the knitting needles he was using into his head, so they stuck out like antennae.

He turned to look at Ed. Blood ran down the sides of his head, and his features began to contort, changing.

His voice was feminine and rimmed with years of cigarettes.

"Sometimes a knitting needle is just a knitting needle, Ricky."

The not-Freud began to float a few feet off the ground, legs in the lotus position. Ben Franklin became transparent and began to glow inwardly. The glow grew slowly and softly.

He nodded at Ed, touching the brim of an invisible three-cornered hat. "Ed, I believe I'm about to explode. It was sure nice to meet you."

Benjamin Franklin shattered into multitudinous shards which began to swirl and glow around the non-Freud. Albert Einstein stood up, the tiny cakes and tea set sliding off his back with a clatter. He took off down the fairway, skipping and throwing dandelions.

He turned and yelled back at Ed. "Don't take any wooden nickels, ya? Reality is quite a bit softer than I imagined!"

Albert Einstein then made a standing jump and dove into a sand trap with a splash.

The fairway and all of visible reality disappeared with a plorp, leaving Ed in a black void with a floating, meditating Sigmund Freud who had two knitting needles sticking out of his head, surrounded by the glowing shards of Ben Franklin. The creature spun in slow circles contrariwise to the shards. It grinned an impossibly large grin. It seemed to be a hungry one.

Ed patience with having his reality messed with was very short at this point. He folded his arms and looked up at the shiny, terrifying legend of psychoanalysis. His tone was curt.

"God damn it. What the hell people."

The thing did not answer, and continued to spin slowly, grinning. The features of the thing that wasn't Sigmund Freud changed with every rotation, becoming clearly feminine. The exploded bits of Ben Franklin looked less and less like shards of the clothes of a late 18th century intellectual. The blood running down the sides of the creatures head had dyed the hair, which was now in a bun, a shocking red. The knitting needles stuck out from the bun, keeping it in place. The creature was dressed in a kimono, was now definitely a woman, definitely a 50's TV legend, and the shards had very clearly become diamonds.

Lucille Ball spoke to Ed, and her voice was kind.

"Ricky, there's a lot of explaining to do."

Ed sighed and sat down in the void, ready to listen.

----------------------------------------------------

Ed felt like a kindergartener at a very progressive school, seated Indian-style five feet below a floating Lucille Ball. The swirling crystals didn't help, and neither did the inky void that they somehow managed to stay suspended in.

"Waaaaah," said Ed.

"Oh, don't be so melodramatic, Ricky. You should accept by now that strange things are going to happen, and on a regular basis. In fact, you should be suspicious if anything normal happens from this point on. "

Ed pouted as hard as he could up at the floating television icon. He stuck out his tongue.

Lucy smiled down at him. The diamonds swirled and shone as she spoke, responding to inflection in her voice and the gestures of her hands. It was elegant and graceful in the way that only a dream can be. Ed decided to listen.

"Things are never going to be same for you again, Ricky, even if you manage to make it back to Earth. Do you think you can go back to overlit computer monitors when you've ridden on the back of a giant talking caterpillar and copped a feel off Alice in Wonderland?"

Ed pondered this. It was a pretty cool thing to touch a fictional breast.

"You are living the dream of every lonely, disaffected person who ever wanted to have a magical adventure. Believe me, that is a lot of people."

She smiled down as benevolently and lovingly as it is possible for a being to smile.

"Try to make the most of it, you old sourpuss."

These thoughts had not actually occurred to Ed. They made him feel special and good, in that place in the stomach where the butterflies live.

It also made him feel afraid and alone.

The butterflies of fear live next door to the butterflies of joy, and they are not cool with parties.

"This is true, Miss Ball..."

"Please, call me Lucy, or Mrs. Ricardo, if you prefer."

"Mrs. Ricardo...Lucy...jesus."

Ed ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

"I agree that I have seen things today that, really, no one should have to. I have had my sanity groped by the greasy hands of reality, when all I wanted was to carve out a comfortable corner of being. I never asked for a grand adventure in my life."

Lucy smiled.

"Then what do you want, child? What's your motivation?"

Ed pondered, biting on a cuticle. He looked down at his fingers and remembered that he was in a dream. In a dream and biting his fingernails. Would his nails be ragged when he woke up? Would they attacked by maurauding manicurists and be forced to visit a land of hangnails?

Ed was tired of this.

"I want to go home."

Lucy beamed so brightly that the diamonds seemed jealous.

"That's my Ricky! You are going to have yourself one hell of a time in this story. Fun, danger, self-discovery. Oh boy, you aren't even going to know what to do with yourself."

She paused, as if hearing something far off.

"Listen, Ricky. You're about to wake up and start your journey. Chances are good that we will speak again. Oracles make wonderful plot devices."

She gave Ed a conspiritorial wink and continued.

"But until then, you need to remember a few important points in your time here. These are your rules of engagement, as much as I can give you right now. Too much information can be more of a hindrance than a help."

"One: You can do pretty much whatever you want, as long as you can rationalize it, make it fit into the plot. Your very presence in this world has already put in motion a dozen different story lines that you have total control over, should you decide to exercise it."

"Two: Exercise this control at your own risk. As an Author, control is your right, and we would not exist but for your kind. But remember, this is not your world, and while we are born of the minds of humanity, here we live our own lives. As you would not wish to be forced into slavery or to commit acts against your will, so too do we feel about plots. Those of this world hate narrative as much as your kind hate these other concepts. Force has its uses, but beware."

"Three: Readers love a martyr as much as they love a hero. Do not think yourself safe from harm. If you put yourself into a situation against overwhelming odds, or with difficult personal decisions, you can and probably will die. Sequalia Amalgamated has at their disposal monsters and weapons as well as lawyers and money. If they discover that there is an Author loose in our world, they will spare nothing to kill you. Nothing. There is no plot in the world that would let you survive an onslaught of zombies, vampires, cowboys, librarians, dragons, gods, and vicious men. All arrayed for your destruction, with no backstory to protect you. Keep yourself on the Q.T. until you can give the reader a reason to care whether you live or die."

Ed gulped.

Lucy smiled kindly and floated down close to Ed. They were face to shining face.

"Mostly, have fun, kiddo."

She kissed him on the cheek, and plucked a diamond from her aura. She pressed it to his palm.

"Take this and keep it safe. I am not really a part of this world, but I still have power. I am a kind of god, a god of...connections. Potential. Things not under the sun. I did not exist until you came here, but I have always existed in both worlds."

Ed had no idea what the shiny woman was talking about, but he trusted her.

Ed looked at the diamond in his hand. He clenched it tightly and put it into his, well...His dream pants.

There were voices, as though heard from another room.

"We must part here, for now." She began to rise faster and faster, higher and higher into the void. Her voice became like that little balloon man, far and wee.

"Remember! Have fuuuuuuuun!"

Lucy disappeared into the sky, diamonds and all. She disappeared with a bright, far-off twinkle of white light. The light looked like it was laughing.

The light continued to shimmer, growing larger and larger, erasing the void.

Ed had never felt such awesome peace in his life. There was laughter, deep and booming, filling his mind. He felt a warmth spread throughout his body.

The light separated, and he was in the Forest Primeval.

Ed was face to face with Alice, who was holding his hand in a warm glass of water.

Pill's laughter echoed throughout the forest, deep and booming.

A lengthy absence and an explanation...and hope for the future!

2006-04-12T23:57:00.000-05:00

I haven't posted to the story of Ed for quite some time, largely because I have been disatisfied with my forays into the next chapter of the story. Act 2 is coming up, and I am not sure which way to go with it.

I did make one attempt at the next scene one early morning after a long night of drinking and coming away from the experience decidedly unsatisfied. I removed it the next morning, finding my work incoherent, cloyingly sentimental, and riddled with spelling and punctuation errors.

I have been reading about Writing recently, and have found myself refreshed and ready to tackle Ed's story again. Unfortunately, I am still unsure as to where to start on the next scene, because it is so pivotal to the whole of the story. I know what Ed's motivations are, but putting them into palatable chunks while staying true to the tone of the story is a task that is escaping me at the moment.

Sooooo, for the interim, I am revisiting and revising the earlier posts in the story, in the hopes that I will better discern exactly what Ed's motivations are beyond just "golly!".

*a flourish of the cape, a bow, and exeunt*

BLACKOUT

INSTANTANEOUS UPDATE: Upon reflection, I blew my proverbial and literary load with Diamond Lucy too early. Previous posts are going to undergo substantial revision so that I can use her to explain not only the world, but Ed's motivations as well. The story will now progress as such:

1. Ed falls off the caterpillar, get hizzelf a concussion.

2. Comes-to in the campsite, argues with Alice about sausages and incontinence.

3. Falls half-asleep and wakes up to the sounds of zombie holocaust.

4. Pretty much the same scene plays out, cuz really, we don't need Lucy to tell Ed that it is OK to kill zombies.

5. Flower fight happens pretty much the same way, except making way more sense because Ed is all like "I still don't know what is going on and I want your body, so I am frustrated" and Alice is all like "I am afraid of you and totally under your narrative control and want your body, so I am frustrated".

6. The caterpillar does that thing he does, where he is surprisingly awesome. (I was totally going to kill him and probably still will, but is he likable or what.)

7. Ed goes all the way asleep and here comes Lucy Diamonds, all full of "I will help you figure out what the hell you want Ed, and, oh, by the way, here is a thorough and in no way expository explanation of how things work for you here."

8. I get, like, a bazillion awards for achievements in awesome writing.

Thoughts? Comments? Let's make this a fun game where you read my stuff and tell me what you think of it. I'll post not only additions to the story, but also periodic treatises on the process of writing the story itself.

Transparency in literature; full disclosure.

We will be on the cover of TIME, if only you join me now.

Me smiling and looking clever and devil-may-care. Not to mention handsome.

"Nilesblog: The reason America stopped being afraid"

"Also inside: Is America ready for a blogger president?"

In the article itself is a sidebar on how I broke the sex barrier in my sexplane and WHY IT MATTERS

thoughts. comments.

Revelations in the Forest Primeval!

2006-03-11T22:15:00.000-06:00

Trudging through the forest, in a section of the woods beset with so many beautiful flowers that it appeared as though something large that vomited flowers had done just that, trailing a limping caterpillar that had just severed a few of its own limbs, Ed wondered exactly what Lucy had meant when she told him to have fun.

He hadn't even been able to kill any zombies.

Ed pouted as he skirted around a blob of black caterpillar blood. Ed swung this spiky tree branch petulantly, taking over-zealous swipes at any forest vegetation that had the nerve to appear chipper.

He decapitated a particularly smarmy looking daffodil with a swooping backhand. It exploded into a shower of well-meaning petals, and they fluttered to the ground around the travelers.

Alice was tired, lightly wounded, and had met some very nice flowers in her day.

She stopped in her tracks and turned to face Ed, fists clenched.

"Would you please cut that out!"

Ed was faux-shocked. His eyes went wide with mock apology.

"Whatever do you mean, Alice dear?"

He hefted the stick with both hands, took a deep swing, and sent an unassuming daisy sailing into the deep of the forest. He turned to Alice, eyebrows raised in sassy challenge.

Alice gritted her teeth and stalked over to Ed. She poked him in the chest, emphasizing every word.

"Stop. Hitting. The flowers."

The last poke sent Ed stumbling backwards a step. He regained his composure and put his maceballbat down with a plomp on a shy little iris. He lifted the bat up and plomped it down again and again, growing with intensity with each plomp, until the shy little iris was an outraged blue splotch on the forest floor.

"No. No. NO. NO. NO! Naaaa-!"

Alice had tackled him, and they began to roll around amongst the flowers, biting and scratching like offended house cats.

Ed pulled Alice's hair and she screeched in shocked indignation.

Alice quite humorously kneed Ed in the groin, which led to a hilarious look on Ed's face and one of smug satisfaction on Alice's.

At one point Ed's hands even managed to both accidentally end up on Alice's breasts, which led to much chasing and ducking of furious blows.

The caterpillar decided that he had had enough and bellowed as only a giant caterpillar can.

"eeeeeeeeeNOUGH!"

Some unseen birds took flight in the canopy.

Ed and Alice stopped mid-tussle and looked at the caterpillar, abashed.

The caterpillar continued.

"If you two are quite finished with this humorous interlude, I feel that we are far enough from the unfortunate zombies to strike camp. I find myself exhausted, both physically and in patience."

Ed and Alice both opened their mouths to speak, but the caterpillar cut them off sharply.

"Please shut up, the both of you. I am tired and hungry, and you are two of the most irritating people I have had the displeasure to trample flowers with. Please prepare the fire while I tend to my BLEEDING STUMPS."

A few birds in the canopy that had stuck around decided that now was a good time to take off.

Ed did not think it was possible to become more abashed than he already was, but somehow managed to find a stray bit of humility down at the bottom of his conscience, stuck between the cracks of his ego.

He scurried off to collect firewood while Alice began unpacking the cookware and medical supplies. No one said a word.

******************************************

Later, sitting around the fire, full from a meal of dried sausage and somewhat-edible flowers, Ed finally broke the silence.

"Where are we going?"

When he was relaxed, the caterpillar was very relaxed. The caterpillar blew out a few smoke rings.

"Whaaaaat do you meeeeean, 'Where are we gooooooing?'"

Ed continued.

"I meeeean, what is at the other end of this forest? A village? Some sort of bunker where Jesus and Batman draw up plans to fight the Corporation?"

Alice gasped and cupped her hand over Ed's mouth.

"Don't say that name!"

"What, Jesus?"

"No, the other one. The bad one,"

She whispered the next part, terrified.

"The super one."

Ed continued, clearly not impressed.

"Whatever. Once again, I am not going to ask for more information about this. Though it certainly seems interesting, I am going to postpone finding out about why you can't say the names of superheroes until a later time. All I really care about right now is the immediate future."

The caterpillar continued blowing smoke rings, make intricate patterns that, while beautiful, didn't seem to have any bearing on what he was saying. He produced a billowing carrot with arms and legs that appeared to dance.

Ed was clearly impressed.

"Is it doing the running man?"

The caterpillar nodded as the smoke-carrot boogied into the woods. He continued.

"Ed, we are going wherever you want us to. Any motivations that we had prior to meeting you have been overwhelmed by your power of Author. We still retain a degree of autonomy--"

Here the caterpillar reached out a leg to smack Ed in the back of the head.

"Ow!"

"--but we can take no action to leave you until you decide that it is time for us to go. Nor can we guide you anywhere that you are unaware of."

"Then why haven't you told me where we are going?"

"You haven't asked, you insufferable dullard."

"Since when did you become a British librarian?"

"Since you apparently find that the situation warrants it."

"Wait, so, if I don't ask you where we're going, then we're just going to keep wandering these woods!? I though you knew where you were going!"

The caterpillar sighed deeply, exhaling an exact smoke-replica of the Spirit of St. Louis, which puttered around for a bit before dissipating.

"We do know where we are going, but we can't get there until we know why you are going there."

Ed harrumphed. Then he paused. He crossed his arms. He harrumphed again.

"Can I at least know where we are going, even if I don't know why I need to go there?"

The caterpillar exhaled a cloud of quite normal blue-grey smoke which danced only in the way that smoke will dance on a still evening.

"We're going on to the next act, whatever that may mean to you. Please come to some sort of decision so we can get a decent meal and a shower."

The caterpillar stubbed his cigarette out on a kindly marigold.

"Unless you like this place. If I never see another stamen, it would be too soon."

The caterpillar rolled over onto his sleeping bag.

"And I eat leaves."

Soon giant caterpillar snores filled the campsite, which was actually more pleasant than you might expect.

Alice and Ed both stared at the campfire awhile before speaking.

"I'm sorry I broke all those flowers, Alice."

She stood up and looked at Ed from over the campfire.

"Go to hell, Ed."

She walked over to her bedroll and curled in angrily.

Ed stared at the fire a little longer before heading to his bedroll and going to sleep.

He cried himself softly to sleep, awash with self-pity and confusion.

He dreamed.

Zombie Fights!

2006-02-17T23:19:00.000-06:00

The zombies closed within striking distance. Their teeth were bared and mouths snarling, either in animal rage, or just because the flesh had rotted from their faces so much that they had no choice. The thick black veins covering their faces seemed to be leaking a viscous fluid. The first zombie approached, arms outstretched as if to embrace Ed in the most violent way possible.

This situation called for a one liner. Ed gave a wild little laugh. He couldn't help himself.

"Batter up!"

Ed dropped back and swung at the lead zombie's head with as much force as he could muster.

Alice screamed.

"Ed! No! Don't hurt them!"

Startled by this unexpected sympathy, Ed's swing went wild, barely missing the zombie and throwing himself wildly off balance. The momentum carried him out of harm's way, but only for a second. The zombies were making alot of noise, grunting and snarling in a distinctly zombie fashion, the fashion that death is torment, and torment should be as loud as possible. Ed started to run backwards, fending the zombies off while yelling over his shoulder at Alice.

"Don't hurt them!? Zombies!? Look at the caterpillar!"

The caterpillar was not in good shape, his wounds were numerous and severe.

Ed dodged as one of the undead tried to grab hold of the sleeve of his coat.

Alice yelled back across the clearing.

"Ed! They don't know what they're doing! They were just drawn by the fire and found food!"

"Erf!...well, so what? We're just...oof!..going to let them make us...OW!..food?"

"No! But, Ed, they're human! If you kill them, you're going to drive someone back on Earth insane!"

Ed stopped, stunned. One the zombies lunged with a growl and Ed came to his senses just in time to dance out of the way.

"What!?"

"There's no time to explain! We have to get out of here!"

"How can we do that with Pill? He's two tons of unconscious!"

The zombies were becoming more aggressive, seeing that Ed wasn't taking lethal swings with his club. The zombie which seemed to be in charge got his arms in an undead bear-hug around Ed. Ed pulled free and smashed him him in the knee. The zombie hit the ground.

"Ed! These are people's souls!"

"I am not going to pretend to understand what that sentence means, but I can't keep this up much longer and keep it non-fatal!"

Ed wondered interiorly if non-fatal was applicable to zombies. He took a swing at at one that connected hard in the side. The zombie stumbled and stiffly crashed into a tree trunk. Soon it was back in slow pursuit.

Ed yelled again.

"This would certainly be a good time for the mortally wounded friend to miraculously be able to move under his own power, don't you think?"

"Don't be ridiculous! He bleeding from a dozen different...Pill!"

The caterpillar moaned and rose to an impressive height, silhouetted in the campfire light.

Giant caterpillars are very tall.

The zombies stopped their pursuit to take in this new, enormous presence.

The caterpillar slumped back down, clearly debilitated, but he seemed able to support his own weight. He leaned what weight he safely could against Alice. He hefted a spear as high as he could.

"Don't count this maggot out yet, you living impaired sons-of-bitches."

The zombies paused, confused by the new threat. Ed dashed over to Alice and the caterpillar.

"Alice, we've got to do something now. Its either possibly-insane people somewhere else, or dead us here."

Alice sobbed as she wiped Pill's blood from her hands onto her dress.

"They're just hungry, all they want is..."

Understanding flashed amongst the three of them.

They all spoke together.

"Flesh."

Pill looked down at himself.

"I do seem to be composed of quite alot of it."

He waved a few of his many legs around. He sighed and took Alice's knife.

"These things grow back in a week, anyway."

The scene which followed was grim, and need not be described here in any explicit detail. Rest assured that there was insect blood, a forlorn Alice comforting a determined and impossibly injured Pill, and a bewildered Ed runninng around distracting the zombies. He kept his attention on the zombies, partly out of fear for his life, but mostly because giant caterpillars dismembering themselves is actually less appealing than a rotting, walking corpse.

Alice signaled that Pill was finished and called Ed over from his game of "barely avoid being ripped to shreds".

Holding his separated appendages in a little pile, Pill groaned weakly and smiled.

"These are all the legs I can stand to lose."

Alice and Ed groaned strongly.

The caterpillar tossed the assembled limbs at the group of onrushing undead, who tore into them ravenously.

Pill began to limp away from the campsite, into the woods.

"Come. This will buy us enough of a head start to escape these poor creatures."

Ed and Alice followed in silence, and they slipped between the trees.

There is only one way to kill a zombie.

2006-02-11T16:37:00.000-06:00

Ed awoke feeling much better about his head, but it might have had something to do with adrenaline. Being awoken by screams tends to clear the cobwebs pretty quickly.

It was very dark, and the only light came from the guttering campfire a dozen yards away. Alice was by the fire, attempting to cradle the enormous bulk of the caterpillar. The caterpillar's body was limp as Alice tried to heft his body, to shake him awake. Even in the dim, uneven light of the fire, Ed could see the caterpillar had somehow suffered massive injury. The creature's blood was glistening and black as it ran from a dozen different wounds.

Then Ed saw the figures dressed in black, hovering around the perimeter of the campfire. One of their number was sprawled on the ground in front of Alice, clearly dead. She had done some damage, and was keeping them at bay, stabbing wildly at the darkness with her knife, but she could not hold them back much longer. Her eyes were huge and watery, mad with grief. Her stabs were desperate, and the shadowy figures we becoming more aggressive. They moved and reacted like animals, darting forward and back, hunched over, but they were clearly human.

One moved into the firelight, and Ed gasped, correcting himself. They looked human.

The creature's skin was pale and bluish, snaked with huge black veins that glistened in the firelight. One side of its jaw hung unhinged, dangling shreds of skin and flopping obscenely as the monster scurried around the huddled forms of Alice and the caterpillar. It was wearing a tattered business suit.

Ed stalled in his terror, but just for a moment.

He knew a zombie when he saw one, and his course of action was clear:

Massive head trauma.

What he needed was a shotgun, but the chances of finding a shotgun in the woods at such an opportune time in such an unexpected situation was beyond even the most offensive of plot holes. He'd have to find some sort of blunt object.

Luckily, nestled amongst the underbrush of a nearby tree was a length of branch, weathered from time into the approximate length and sturdiness of a baseball bat.

There were even vicious little bits of hardended wood sticking out of the heavy end, doing a very good job of simulating nails.

Ed hefted it, testing its weight, being careful to avoid the little spikes. He took a few practice swipes. The club made a heavy swOOOsh as it cut through the air. Ed felt like he might be able to swing it for a year, should it come to that.

From the direction of the campfire, Ed heard Alice scream again. The zombies appeared to be closing in.

Ed grasped the club tightly with both hands and burst out of the trees. The startled creatures turned to look at this new development. Tatters of business suits, power ties and various appendages swayed loosely as they turned. Ed made the club go swOOOsh.

One of the zombies gave a snarl and all four of the creatures came at Ed, as fast as they could shamble.

Ed stood his ground, and squatted into a batter's stance. He grinned a dark grin.

He'd always wanted to fight a zombie.

Journal Accidenty

2006-02-10T18:55:00.000-06:00

This post has been *PROCESSED*. As part of the natural flow of the writerly process, I have edited this post and moved it to a different location in the story. Because the flow of the story hit a narrative beaver dam, I moved this section to immediately following Ed and Alice's fight in the forest. It now serves more to the purpose I had intended it, namely, providing Ed with movtivation and information, as well as a sort of Cheshire Cat character. Ed also gets to have more fun with Lucy and ask better questions since he has already fought the zombies.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ed felt like a kindergartener at a very progressive school, seated Indian-style five feet below a floating Lucille Ball.

The swirling crystals didn't help, and neither did the inky void that they somehow managed to stay suspended in.

"Waaaaah," said Ed.

"Oh, don't be so melodramatic, Ricky. You should accept by now that strange things are going to happen, and on a regular basis. In fact, you should be suspicious if anything normal happens from this point on. "

Ed pouted as hard as he could up at the floating television icon. He stuck out his tongue.

Lucy smiled down at him. The diamonds swirled and shone as she spoke, responding to the inflections of her voice and the gestures of her hands. It was quite beautiful.

"Things are never going to be same for you again, Ricky, even if you manage to make it back to Earth. Do you think you can go back to overlit computer monitors when you've ridden on the back of a giant talking caterpillar and copped a feel off Alice in Wonderland? You are living the dream of every lonely, disaffected person who ever wanted to have a magical adventure, and believe me, that is alot of people. Try to make the most of it, you old sourpuss."

She paused, clearly waiting for Ed to speak.

"This is true, Miss Ball..."

"Please, call me Lucy, or Mrs. Ricardo, if you prefer."

"Mrs. Ricardo...Lucy...I agree that I have seen things today that, really, no one should have to. I have had my sanity groped by the greasy hands of reality, when all I wanted was to carve out a comfortable corner of being. I never wanted a grand adventure."

Lucy of the Diamonds smiled, waiting. Ed begrudgingly continued. He felt eight years old.

"At most, I wanted a woman I could love, who would love me in return. That was as far as my fancy flew, until today."

The speed of the swirling gems increased as they formed intricate, shifting patterns. They zoomed away from her body simultaneously, then zoomed back at once and resumed their dance. She blew Ed a kiss.

"You are such a doll!"

She beamed at Ed.

"You are going to have yourself one hell of a time in this story. Fun, danger, self-discovery. Oh boy, you aren't even going to know what to do with yourself."

She paused, as if hearing something far off.

"Listen, Ricky. You're about to wake up and start your journey. Chances are good that we will speak again, oracles make wonderful plot devices, but until then, you need to remember a few important points."

Ricky...er, Ed, was all ears.

"One: You can do pretty much whatever you want, as long as you can rationalize it, make it fit into the plot. Your very presence in this world has already put in motion a dozen different story lines that you have total control over, should you decide to exercise it."

"Two: Exercise this control at your own risk. As an Author, control is your right, and we would not exist but for your kind. But remember, this is not your world, and while we are born of the minds of humanity, here we live our own lives. As you would not wish to be forced into slavery or to commit acts against your will, so too do we feel about plots. Those of this world hate narrative as much as your kind hate these other concepts. Force has its uses, but beware."

"Three: Readers love a martyr as much as they love a hero. Do not think yourself safe from harm. If you put yourself into a situation against overwhelming odds, or with difficult personal decisions, you can and probably will die. Sequalia has minions, bureaucrats, weapons, and money at their disposal. If they discover that there is an Author loose in our world, they will spare nothing to kill you. Nothing.
There is no plot in the world that would let you survive an onslaught of zombies, vampires, cowboys, librarians, dragons, gods, and vicious men. All arrayed for your destruction, with no backstory to protect you. Keep yourself on the Q.T. until you can build yourself a backstory, a sufficient reason for you not to get torn limb to limb for a cause."

Ed gulped. Hard.

Lucy smiled kindly and floated down close to Ed. They were face to shining face.

"Mostly, have fun, kiddo."

She kissed him on the cheek, and plucked a diamond from her aura. She pressed it to his palm.

"Take this and keep it safe. I am not really a part of this world, but I still have power. I am a kind of god of...connections. Potential. Things not under the sun. I did not exist until you came here, but I have always existed in both worlds."

Ed had no idea what the shiny woman was talking about, but he trusted her. There were voices, as though heard from another room.

"We must part here, for now."

She began to rise, higher and higher into the void. Her voice became like that little balloon man, far and wee.

"Remember! Have fuuuuuuuun!"

Lucy disappeared into the sky, diamonds and all. She disappeared with a bright, far-off twinkle, which looked exactly like a laugh sounds.

Ed looked at the diamond in his hand. He clenched it tightly and put it into, well, into his dream-pants.

He awoke to the sound of Alice screaming.

Regarding things under the sun, and how totally not new they tend to be

2006-01-23T23:56:00.000-06:00

I started reading American Gods by Neil Gaiman yesterday, and its very, very good. The only problem I have with it is that it appears that many original ideas that I thought I had have already been explored by the dude that wrote Sandman. SANDMAN for god's sakes.

I was reading it, enjoying it, realizing that he was treading ground similar to what I'd like to do with this story about Ed but not caring, because, well, its intrinsically different in tone and characterization of human imagination. Then I get to this scene where the main character is drifting off to sleep, watching tv, when Lucille Ball comes on and says that they need to talk.

Goddamn it. I mean, seriously, goddamn it.

There are differences, but, of all people, LUCILLE BALL. It's this kind of crap that makes a dude think the world revolves around him, and that it revolves around him just to piss him off.

This, I know, is not true, but the coincidences in life that just pile up around people...MAN.

For example, why am I reading this book now as opposed to when I got it, which was about two years ago? It's been sitting in my room, completely unnoticed until I started reading a Terry Pratchett book, and remembered that he and Gaiman had written a book together.

I thought that American Gods was the book that Gaiman and Pratchett had written together, so I picked it up, discovered I was wrong, and started reading it anyway. I am reading this book by mistake, and it is still eerily appropriate for my time, place, state of mind, and current writing project.

Come on people. Don't tell me there's not a God, he's got his little fingers all up in my shit everyday.

(please read the previous post and the first third of American Gods to understand why I might be irritated. For the literophobe, you could just walk up to me and be all like, "damn! Niles, what up?")

With the cleaning power of OXYGEN, Accidental Journey tackles even the TOUGHEST stains!

2006-01-10T21:10:00.000-06:00

Hey, you got your accident in my journey!

2006-01-08T16:04:00.000-06:00

Alice was the first to speak.

"The rest of the posse will return once they see we did not flee down the road. We haven't much time."

Ed and Alice climbed back aboard the big caterpillar, who moved off the ledge, scuttling down what was left of the mountain. He took a wide berth around the pile of rocks and identical ten-gallon hats scattered on the valley floor. Pill trundled out of the valley, and headed across a meadow toward an expanse of forest in the distance.

No one spoke as they dashed from one stand of trees to another, weaving amongst the hills to stay out of sight.

It was a little awkward.

What does one say to a person who has the power of a god? What does a god say to those who don't have that power? What does one say to a giant caterpillar that smokes and carries weapons? No one had answers to these questions, so they trundled in silence.

A few miles down the road, Ed was appreciating the pleasant perfume that Alice was wearing and thought to himself that if he had to be sucked into a strange world and question his own sanity while riding on a giant caterpillar, at least he had pleasant company. Well, except for the threats on his life.

A few miles later, Ed finally realized that he had his arms around Alice from Alice in Wonderland.

He tried really, really hard not to faint. He really did. For one thing, it would be the third time that day. For another, he was riding on the back of a caterpillar going 30 miles per hour, and a faint could be disastrous. And finally, he was afraid he might pee his pants again in front of Alice.

The thought that he might pee his pants in front of Alice from Alice in Wonderland caused Ed to faint, pee his pants, and fall mightily from the giant caterpillar, cartwheeling end over end.

. . . . .

When Ed came to, he was surrounded by trees and the sounds of nature: running water somewhere close by, birds, insects. Ed had been camping before, but this, this was different. These woods seemed...alive. Each tree was majestic in a different, indescribable way. He was forced to look at each one individually and appreciate its beauty. He could not see the forest for the trees, they simply would not let him.

This is the most beautiful place I've ever seen. What is going on? Ed thought to himself.

He touched his face and found a bandage around his head.

My face hurts too much for me to be going crazy...

He touched the front of his pants.

and I seem to have peed myself again.

He wiped his hands on the grass in disgust.

I should have packed my "Mindblown" brand diapers this morning.

Ed closed his eyes again.

I, Ed Cavendish, solemnly swear that I will not pee my pants again.

He opened his eyes. Alice was standing over him, the tops of the beautiful trees framing her face. She was wearing a denim jacket and a white scarf now over her black ops clothes.

"Welcome to The Forest Primeval, author. Would you like some sausage, biscuits or chewed-up leaves? I would offer to give you something to drink, but it appears that you can't be trusted."

The caterpillar chuckled at this over by a tiny campfire a few yards away.

Ed had had enough jokes about peeing one's pants. He struggled to sit up so he could look at her.

"Oh, that's very funny, Alice, very funny. Why don't you just pretend like I'm one of your cookies and eat me?"

Alice gasped.

"I do not care for the taste of cowardice and urine!"

She stomped over to the campfire and plomped down next to the caterpillar, the picture of righteous indignation. She called out to Ed.

"You do not get any sausages!"

Ed sat up quickly to retort, and promptly fell back down, woozy with minor head injury. He called out from the ground.

"I don't want your stupid magic sausages anyway! I'll probably grow a horn or something!"

Ed crawled back into his bedroll and curtly pulled the covers up over his head.

Alice mangled some sausages in the frying pan with a little spatula. She yelled over to Ed again.

"Even if you are a deity, you're still a jerk!"

Ed said nothing and sulked in his sleeping bag, stomach growling. He drifted off into a sleep induced by minor head wounds and exhaustion.

His last thoughts before succumbing to sleep could be summed up as "Deity?!"

Remembering MST3K

2005-12-31T16:23:00.000-06:00

I think you do. For me, Mystery Science Theater represents alot of things. When I was younger, my hometown had very little in the way of cable television. We didn't have MTV or Comedy Central available on any package. When I would go to Omaha for Thanksgiving or Christmas, I would spend as much time as possible glued to their television, taking in the forbidden fruit that were Beavis and Butthead and MST3K. The greatest thing was, on holidays both stations would run marathons of their respective shows. I would spend the hours leading up to Grandpa's turkey trying to understand the more esoteric references. What was I missing? I was missing something, and it bothered the hell out of my 11 year-old mind.

Eventually we got satellite tv at home, but by then Mystery Science Theater was winding up its run and was not the comedy goldmine that it was when I wanted it most. Also, an hour and a half is a very long time to watch an awful movie, whether you are making fun of it or not.

I bring up MST3K because my roomate recently let me borrow an awfully large number of episodes he happened to have, and it has sent me into a nostalgic epilespy.

(I am 23 and I have nostalgic epilepsy. Our generation's cultural attention span is immeasurably short.)

But there is something quaint about the show, looking at it from our lofty position here in the future. A show based entirely on humorously attacking obscure cultural artifacts? The internet now accomplishes this 24 hours a day, and you don't have to sit through an absolutely unwatchable film to do it.

I love you MST3K. You shone briefly and brilliantly in my life. I will never forget you.

But you are so mid-90's.

Anax ih dehnt algernee

2005-12-30T16:54:00.000-06:00

Ed and Alice ran through hallway after hallway, through door after door. She seemed almost gleeful in their escape. Ed thought he heard her laugh a couple of times. The caterpillar was a good distance ahead, having more legs to move with, and he was beating a path for them to sprint through.

Eventually, the caterpillar stopped at a door much like the others they had ran through, but there was an important difference. This door led to the outside. The Caterpillar held it open. Sunlight poured into the hallway. There was the sound of birds and nature, and a smell unlike anything Ed had ever experienced, in the best way possible. It made him remember every dream he had ever had for himself. He wept.

"Quickly, we have to get somewhere safe. In the open you can both ride on my back."

"Oh Pill, I'm sorry, I know how much you hate this."

"Just get on. I'll nurse my pride when we don't have to worry about being lynched."

Alice jumped on, Ed wiped his eyes and climbed on behind her.

What in god's name was going on? He was weeping at smells and riding on a caterpillar. He wrapped his arms around Alice and sighed deeply. The caterpillar trundled out the door and into the sunlight.

They burst through the doors at full speed, barrelling down a long winding path. Ed looked back at where they had come. It was a massive cave, set into the side of a mountain.

"Jesus." Ed said.

"We will see him back at headquarters, Mr. Cavendish."

The echoing sound of hooves and gunfire rattled from somewhere deep inside. A "Yee-haw!" was clearly audible amongst the noise.

"Get us to shelter, Pill."

Pill scrambled up the sheer rock on the left side of the path. Within moments they were hundreds of feet above the path, hiding on top of a small outcropping.

The Cowboys burst from the cave with the same speed as the caterpillar had. To Ed they seemed to have been fired from it, like a posse-bullet. Fifteen cowboys and their horses, hootin' and hollerin' to beat the band, sailing through the air and skidding to a stop some fifty feet beyond the cave's entrance. They reared their horses up and fired wildly in the air. One waved his hat around in the air.

"Let's get 'em boys! Them polecats ain't got the sassafrass to outrun the Cowboy clan!"

"YEEEEEE-HAAAAAW!" replied the rest of them. More firearms were discharged into the air.

Ed peered over the edge of the cliff at the strange group below. Everything about the Cowboys, from their shining spurs to their ten-gallon hats, was exactly the same. Even their horses, down to the last dapple, were identical. They all wore vests, stitched with a symbol on the back. It looked like a snake eating its own tail.

"What the fuh--"

Alice placed a hand over his mouth. She whispered in his ear.

"Be silent. They may look like a joke, but they are amongst the most dangerous forces that the Corporation commands."

The cowboys below began to settle down, their horses stamping the ground impatiently. There seemed to be some dissent as to which course of action to pursue. The one who had waved his hat pointed down the path, and a section of the posse broke off and started full speed down the path. The remainder stayed right where they were. They began to dismount.

"God, they're going to camp out here, to make sure we can't escape back into the factory," Alice whispered.

"Why would we want to go back in there?" Ed was distracted by the scenery.

"We could hide out in those hallways in relative safety if they didn't have a trail to follow. Now we're stuck here until they decide to leave."

Alice propped her head on her hands.

"We're gonna be here a while. That one's getting out a cook stove."

Ed was finding it hard to be concerned about the whole situation for some reason. Something about the high mountain trail, the way sun played off the trees.

Cowboys? Who cared? He felt intoxicated. Maybe is was because his near-death experience level for the day was several, whereas his initial prediction for the day had been none. He had had enough insanity for one day, and did not like the idea of sleeping on a rock 200 feet in the air.

"We should just start a landslide or something and wipe them out. That's what Clint Eastwood would do."

The caterpillar was exasperated.

"We can get one cooked up for you real quick. I'll just poke at the solid rock with my spear. "

The caterpillar punctuated his sarcasm by doing just that.

Tink! Tink! Tonk.

Cracks spiderwebbed out from where the caterpillar had struck the stone, and ran up toward the top of the mountain. It expanded outward until there was a terrible screeching sound, like the sound of a thousand ice cubes cracking in a thousand glasses of warm water. The top of the mountain crumbled and started to roll down toward the valley, just to the left of the outcropping on which our adventurers hid. It rolled by them like a parade of destruction, safely contained in an avenue of stone, and hit the startled cowboys like, well, an unexpected avalanche.

It was over almost as soon as it had begun, and at the base of the mountain where a moment before had been a posse out for murder, there was now a pile of rock with little bits of murderer sticking out of it.

The three stood at the edge of the precipice and stared down at the carnage. The caterpillar and Alice looked over at Ed.

"I...um. Hm." said Ed.

For those of you just tuning in:

2005-12-30T16:32:00.000-06:00

the story begins at the post entitled "A man takes an accidental journey".

Tanned lacy rice, Oju.

2005-12-27T17:23:00.000-06:00

Ed awoke and realized one thing:

"I need to stop peeing my pants. Once is ok, but twice? I am lame."

Then he realized a second thing:

There was alot of ass-kicking going on.

There were now two phalluses in the room. There was the first one, the mean green pseudopod. It had dislodged itself from the ceiling and was scurrying around the room on goopy spider legs, just out of the reach of the second, which was much larger.

The second phallus was a caterpillar the size of a buffalo and it was wearing a red bandana. It had reared back on its hind-section and was brandishing a dozen different weapons in its many legs. It fended off the office supply monster with a spear, while dodging the barrage of pens, pencils, and scissors issuing at high speed from the other monster's mouth.

The caterpillar turned its head and looked at Ed. It turned back to its battle, then looked back at Ed quickly. It bellowed something, but Ed didn't catch it over the noise of the fracas.

"What!?" Ed yelled.

A hand grabbed his shoulder and whipped him around. He was face to face with a beautiful young blonde woman in black-ops clothes. She also wore a red bandana.

"He said, 'Whoooooo are yooooou'."

She slipped a knife under his throat.

"I would ask you the same question."

Despite the knife, Ed still managed to notice the inert form of Miss Books lying jumbled in the corner behind the blonde.

From behind Ed there was a squeal and a pop. Ed turned around long enough to see the caterpillar prising his spear from the deflated body of the phallus. Shredded paper was spewing from the wound like a geyser and began to float around the room. The blonde commando spun him back around. She poked the knife into his neck and drew blood.

"You didn't answer my question. Who are you? What mythos do you hail from? I had better like the answer."

The caterpillar scurried over to her with surprising speed.

"Tiiiiime is ofthe essssssssence. We mussssst take him wiiiith us."

The caterpillar lit a cigarette and proceeded to blow smoke rings.

"Come with us stranger. If you try to escape I will stab you someplace vital."

Ed looked back at Miss Books. She was bleeding and she was not moving. Ed decided to follow the sexy black-ops lady.

The woman and the caterpillar led Ed through a maze of halls and doorways. The building was larger on the inside than it was on the outside. After two or three miles, he realized with a start that he could not find his way back even if he could get away from the other two.

I should probably stop following strange, sexy ladies. Ed thought to himself.

"Yes, but where would be the fun in that?" he said aloud.

The woman stopped short and turned to look at him.

"You talk to yourself when you life is in peril? You must be a strong character indeed. Pill, stop here. We are safe for the time being. This must be done now."

The caterpillar stopped and lit another cigarette. He watched the two with interest.

"Who are you and what are you doing in a Factory? You are certainly no Stereotypical that I have ever seen, and you are clearly no phallic monstrosity. What is your mythos?"

Ed had no words to answer these questions. Words he might have understood were put into strange places and contexts, and he was five miles deep into a bottomless office building.

"I don't know what any of that means." He looked at the armed giant caterpillar. "I don't even know what is going on here."

He looked at the caterpillar again.

"Can I bum a smoke?"

The caterpillar handed one to him by passing it from one leg to another down the length of his body. Ed took it.

"Uh, thanks."

The girl lit it, but she was all business. There was no comraderie in the flame.

"Let us start with the basics. What is your name."

"Ed Cavendish."

"Where are you from?"

Given the situation, Ed thought he would be a little more general.

"America."

"Americana?"

"America."

The caterpillar dropped seven or eight weapons.

"Hooooooollllleeeeeee shit." He said.

The girl grabbed him by the the shoulders. She looked a little shaken.

"America. The United States. The World. You come from humanity?"

"I like to think so."

The caterpillar became visably panicked. A panicked giant caterpillar is an unpleasant sight.

"Jesus Christ, Alice, why do you think we're in the middle of this hallway, yakking away when we've probably got twenty Cowboys on our tail? He wanted information and we are giving it to him, not the other way around. He's an AUTHOR!"

The caterpillar bolted down the hallway. Somewhere close was the sound of horses and gunfire. Ed thought he heard a "Yee-haw!".

Alice did not seem shaken. She holstered her knife and looked Ed up and down.

"Curiouser and curiouser."

She grabbed Ed's arm and they sprinted down the hall after the big larva.

Intentional stalling...

2005-12-26T17:16:00.000-06:00

"Mr. Cavendish, as you are no doubt aware, Sequalia Amalgamated is not a part of how you have come to perceive reality."

Miss Books stood with her hands folded behind her back. Ed could not help imagining a riding crop poking out from her clenched fists.

"This is because we are not actually a part of your reality."

Ed could dig this. The green phallus made it easy to dig this.

Miss Books continued.

"Well, we are in a sense a part of your reality. We are the result of human imagination."

Miss Books glanced at the phallic machinery. She smiled affectionately.

"I am anyway. Tony here is a result of my imagination."

Ed thought about that for a moment.

"Ew," said Ed.

"You would do well to not make light of things which you do not understand. Please shut up."

She did something quite spectacular with her inkstamp that was both menacing and a clear display of her skill.

Ed shut up. Miss Books continued.

"Matter is neither created nor destroyed, Mr. Cavendish. This is, perhaps, the most fundamental law of the universes."

She approached the chair where Ed sat. She sat down on his lap and pulled out a handkerchief. She wet one end of this with her spit and began to gently remove the IDIOT from his forehead.

"Where do your thoughts go when they are over?"

She paused to re-moisten the handkerchief.

"One of your scientists would say that they are dispersed as radiation or something, blah blah blah. This is not true."

She finished cleaning his forehead and put the handkerchief away, but she did not stand up.

"Your imagination goes to another plane of existence. This place is called by many names: Narnia, Middle Earth, Americana, Asgard, Olympus, you name it. It is the World of the Manifestation of Human Imagination, or Wotmohi to its residents.

Miss Books stroked Ed's hair gently.

"Tony and I just call it 'home', because Wotmohi is a horrible, horrible name."

She nestled into his lap a bit, like a contented cat.

"We who live in Wotmohi are the manifestations of how humans view themselves, and how they view other people. We are the representations of human imagination. We are also your dreams and fantasies."

Ed shifted uncomfortably. Fantasies? Representations of Imagination? What the hell did she mean?

"Tom Sawyer lives in Wotmohi, Ed. He is a senator from Americana, a region in our land. I am of the Stereotypical, the Librarian clan. Do you begin to see? Have you read enough fantasy to put this together?"

Something clicked in Ed's brain. The green phallus roared with unmistakable victory, spraying the far wall with sharpened pencils. Miss Books grinned.

"Yes, he does see. It is about time."

Miss Books pulled Ed's hair back sharply and placed her inkstamp at his throat. She brought her face very, very close to his.

"Do you remember earlier, when I said we did not want to kill you?"

Ed whimpered in pain. Miss Books pulled his hair farther back and raised the inkstamp above her head.

She whispered in his ear.

"I lied, Ed."

She flipped around with impossible speed and straddled him, pinning his arms to the chair. Rearing back, she held the inkstamp above her head with both hands, finally ready to make omelets.

Miss Books paused. Her eyes were bright and bulging with fury, her mouth twisted.

She spit on his face.

"You MADE me lie."

Ed, confused and terrified, blacked out.

He also peed in his pants a little.

I am going to plan a trip to Europe. Here is the plan.

2005-12-24T18:37:00.000-06:00

In a sense much like the one that sent me to Japan, my brain put together the fact that

A. I make a lot of money now, and

B. I am going to graduate soon, also
1. I want to take a trip to Europe

Putting these facts together resulted in a frenzy of research during the first few hours of work this Christmas Eve.

I would like to spend 1 week in London, 2 weeks going via rail pass from France-Switzerland-Germany-Austria-Hungary, 1 week in Moscow. From Moscow I will return to London and then home, because this is actually cheaper than flying from Moscow to Omaha.

There is a 2 day train ride from Budapest to Moscow. (This is sweet.)

I can fund my travel to and in Europe for approximately 2400 dollars. This is shockingly inexpensive. In my brain before the research, this trip cost 2 bajillion dollars.

I am going to shoot for 2000-3000 dollars extra for other sundry things like room and board and getting busy.

I have found that I can potentially save up to 600 dollars a month. This includes the not-too-distant future where I have to pay off student loans and cry about it every night.

This, for those of you who are bad at basic math, puts me at target in 9 months, or September. (this is best case scenario).

This means, that unless I want to visit Moscow when it is cold (I do not), I would be shooting for spring or summer of 2007. This gives me a few months to save for moving the hell out of Lincoln. A little bonus there, considering I am not sure if I can keep my job and go to Europe.

The concept of saving money for any reason is foreign and exciting to me. It is awesome to me, also, that I can do this for such a romantic/cliche reason.

I will start growing and maintaining a healthy goatee and shop for the best backpacks. I will look into maybe taking up philosophy again. I will continue to smoke cigarettes.

I will have a tangible reason to come to work/finish school.

Europe wins!

Accidourny.

2005-12-20T17:27:00.000-06:00

"Hee hee hee."

The tittering giggle brought Ed back to consciousness.

Miss Books was sitting primly atop Ed's chest, staring down at him. He could see her eyes now.

"Sorry about that Eddie. We do like to have our fun. I'm sure you'd like an explanation now, yes?"

Behind Miss Books the green pseudopod continued to plop out various personalized office supplies. It produced a white mug that said "ED". The giant green phallus seemed to be stifling a laugh. Ed did not feel like laughing.

"I would like to leave, please."

"Oh Eddie, you can't leave."

The giant green phallus let out a hearty chuckle. It hawked out a box of Sequalia Amalgamated stationary.

Ed wanted to scream.

"Eddie, before you pass out again, you may want to consider something. If we had wanted to kill you, we really really could have by now. I could have smashed your brains in with my inkstamp here while you were unconsious like a little girl."

She brandished the inkstamp with a series of quick, brutul motions. There appeared to be an ancient martial art associated with the inkstamp that Ed had been unaware of. She stamped him hard, but not too hard, on his forehead. It left a brand of IDIOT.

"Yes sir, could've smashed your brains like runny omelette."

Miss Books stood and smoothed her sensible dress.

"So, because you're still alive, you may safely assume that we want you that way. Please stand up and change your pants."

The giant green phallus spat out a pair of slacks of the same style that Ed had peed in. It then produced a frisbee emblazoned with the Sequalia Amalgamated logo. Miss Books handed the slacks to Ed.

Ed took them and began to put them on. He was quite noticably shaking all over.

"Oh, little one, there is nothing to be afraid of. I don't know why I let him talk me into these things. He takes such pride in his monstrosity. He likes to show it off. He's just a dick."

The big green dick chuckled.

"Look," said Miss Books. "The only way we'll kill you is if you try to leave the building. I have a feeling that once you hear about our establishment, you are not going to want to leave anyway."

She pointed to a rather comfortable-looking chair in the corner.

"Please have a seat."

Ed hesitated.

Then he looked at his new pants. They looked very nice on him.

He thought about his microwaved hotdogs, his purple carpet and his dark brown couch.

He thought about the industrial phallus.

He thought about the girl who wouldn't cross town for him.

He thought about the flower pot on top of the newspaper.

Ed sat down in the chair and he comfortably crossed his legs, ready for whatever Miss Books might say.

Ed still had IDIOT stamped on his forehead.

Judd Apatow is awesome...BUT

2005-12-20T16:28:00.000-06:00

Judd Apatow has created some of my favorite works in the last ten years. Freaks and Geeks might be the greatest tv show made by human hands, and I think that 40 Year-old Virgin is my favorite movie of 2005.

With strong reservations and pain in my heart, I must say that Undeclared kind of sucks.

I have laughed out loud at many gags! Do not misunderstand me!

However, the characterization is weak, and the continuity might as well not even exist. I understand the limitations of having a TV show at Fox. But, man, this show might as well have not been made. Undeclared is must certainly be placed amongst Judd Apatow's minor works.

For further exposition on my feelings about the underwhelming nature of Undeclared, please approach me at my house while I am drunk and feeling expansive.

Journeys of an accidental nomenclature

2005-12-19T19:57:00.000-06:00

The girl who came around the corner was a librarian. There was nothing else she could be. Her hair was bound behind her head in a tight bun, and long chains hung from her glasses and met in the back of her head. She was holding a large leatherbound book in the crook of her right arm, and a large, gruesome-looking inkstamp in her left hand. She wore sensible, comfortable looking shoes.

"How did you know my name?" Ed asked.

"It's on your briefcase."

"Well, yeah, but I'm like thirty feet away from you."

The librarian gave a coy smile.

"Mr. Cavendish, we at Sequalia Amalgamated thank you for your interest the position. You may call me...Miss Books. I will be your liaison through the interview process."

Miss Books gestured toward a long, well-lit corridor. Fluorescent light glared off her glasses, hiding her eyes.

"Would you like a tour of the facilities?"

Ed knew better, he really did.

1. Creepy mind-reading and/or future predicting?

It is possible and less insane that she did somehow mange to read the briefcase from across the room.

2. A librarian named Miss Books who seems to be hiding something?

Well, I don't know if she even is a librarian. She sure as hell looks like one though. What would a murderous librarian be doing in an apparently-abandoned-but-not-really factory anyway?

3. Free T-shirt?

Yes, please.

Ed and Miss Books walked side-by-side down the corridor. Her sensible shoes went clopclop-clopclop as she gestured to and spoke about the various rooms that they walked past. She gestured with her inkstamp in her hand.

Ed began to grow more relaxed. Everything seemed to be of the normal state of affairs for an office building. Accounting Department. Mail Room. Paperwork Regurgitation.

Ed stopped short a moment.

"I'm sorry, did you say 'Paperwork Regurgitation'?"

Miss Books stopped. She turned and walked back to where Ed was standing. He could not see her eyes again, and she was clutching her inkstamp like a mace. She was standing very close to Ed. Her skin was perfect, and it would have taken very little effort to lean down and kiss her forehead. He probably wouldn't have, even if he hadn't been about to pee himself out of fear of her. She handed him her inkstamp and turned toward the door labeled Paper Regurgitation. She pulled out a massive ring of keys, which jangled as she tried them in the lock.

"Yes. Our PR department is one of the most efficient in the business." Miss Books opened the door.

Ed saw what was in the room. He hugged briefcase tightly to his chest.

Ed peed in his pants a little bit.

A giant green pseudopod dangled from the ceiling of what was otherwise a very normal office. The bottom end rested over a conveyor belt, and it was producing various small objects: documents, letterheads, pens and pencils. At the moment it was producing a white object that looked suspiciously like a t-shirt. Miss Books walked over to the conveyor belt and picked it up.

Ed gathered himself and moved his briefcase from his chest to cover the stains on his pants.

"What exactly is your business, Miss Books?"

Miss Books unfurled the T-Shirt and held it out for Ed to read.

I GOT MY MIND BLOWN

AT SEQUALIA AMALGAMATED

The green pseudopod lifted its end over Miss Books' shoulder. The circle of its mouth (?) was lined with what looked like very sharp, very dangerous teeth. Ed could not see Miss Books' eyes. The dripping green tooth-maw curved into what was could not be mistaken for anything but a smile.

It spoke with a voice that dripped with slime, choked with moisture. It was deep and commanding just the same.

"Why...Mr. Cavendisssssh." it slurped.

"We are...in the busssinessss of...(slurp, chlok)...fantassssy."

The pseudopod slipped off Miss Books' shoulder and resumed its production.

Miss Books walked forward and tossed Ed his free t-shirt.

Ed, quite naturally, fainted.

Accidental...Journey?

2005-12-14T23:11:00.000-06:00

Ed dressed himself in his nicest suit, despite the fact that he had no idea as to what the job might actually entail. Sequalia Amalgamated wanted him, so he would look his best.

Ed took the bus to 2700 Circle Square, and walked the rest of the way to the interview. It was an abandoned, industrial part of town. There was almost no street traffic, and weeds sprouted from cracks in the concrete with an aparent knowledge that they were the only signs of life around, and thought that they should put on a good show. A single sunflower poked its head above a chainlink fence protecting an abandonded parking lot. Somewhere nearby a hidden piece of ancient industrial machinery turned and squeaked in the wind. A dog barked in the distance, very far away. Ed shivered in his suit and wondered how much he really wanted a free t-shirt.

2727 Circle Square, headquarters of Sequalia Amalgamated, appeared upon the turn of a corner, sitting at the far end of a massive expanse of concrete and lightposts. There was a dilapidated radial tire leaning against one of the posts. Bits of paper and loose trash rattled across the expanse, driven by the wind. Ed made his way towards the building, and he was very afraid.

"What in the name of god am I doing? I am almost certainly going to be murdered here."

Ed continued along.

He kicked an empty can of a soda that hadn't been sold in a decade. The bouncing can sent rattling echoes across the vasty parking lot.

"I will be murdered, and my body will be lain to rest amongst abandoned, creepily industrial-looking objects."

Ed arrived at the front doors of Sequalia Amalgamated, a massive, brown brick edifice with four giant smokestacks standing at attention behind the building. He tried the front door, which opened easily.

"No one knows where I am, because I foolishly believed that a corporation wouldn't try to kill me."

"Hello?"

Ed's voiced echoed down hallways and corridors, bouncing off of file cabinets, desks, and other, less normal things.

A woman appeared from around the corner.

"Welcome to Sequalia Amalgamated, Mr. Cavendish."

A man comes a bit closer to taking an accidental journey.

2005-12-13T22:09:00.000-06:00

Ed looked at the newspaper. The newspaper looked at Ed. Today's date glared at him from the front page.

Ed leaned over the rail and peered along the length of the alley behind his building. Whatever he was looking for, he didn't find it. Ed took the paper and went into the apartment.

He flopped the newspaper on the coffee table and turned the television on. Ed flopped himself onto the couch and pondered how a newspaper he didn't subscribe to ended up on his balcony. The newsman on TV droned on.

"A freight mail plane accidentally released its cargo of newspapers late last night..."

"That's a strange coincidence," Ed said aloud to himself.

"I wonder how it ended up under the flower pot though."

Plot hole, He thought to himself.

"What an odd thing to think."

Ed's dark purple rug neither agreed nor disagreed.

Ed turned off the news, put on some music, and made himself a cup of coffee. He sat back down on the couch and picked up the paper. Ed had been meaning to start his job search in earnest this week anyway. What better reason to start than a freak accident? He opened to the classified section.

Ed perused the options available to him and took a sip of coffee. He didn't want to be a desk jockey again, but it appeared that his options were limited. Sighing, Ed set his coffee down atop the open page, but with a little too much force. Hot coffee sloshed over the edges and down the sides of the mug.

"Oh shoot. My magic paper."

Ed shook the coffee from his hand and set the mug aside. In the middle of the ring left by the spill there was this:

SEQUALIA AMALGAMATED

WANTS

YOU

2727 Circle Square

(free t-shirt!)

"I am not to keen on the fact that I have no idea what the job is, but I am also not a man that turns down a free t-shirt," Ed said to the coffee stain.

The coffee stain coyly refused to answer.

A man takes an accidental journey.

2005-12-11T17:51:00.000-06:00

Ed Cavendish had few aspirations. He was a non-descript man living in a non-descript city. Interstates overpassed old throughfares lined with struggling businesses, leading to areas with bland and familiar food in bland and familiar concrete expanses, all alight with the bland glow of safety and common good. Beauty was inconsequential to both Ed and his city.

Ed was a young man, out of school, hovering somewhere around thirty. He was not happy, and he was not sad. He occupied his time with the distractions of modern living, taking an interest in things like fine dining and interior decoration. Much like his life, the decor of his one bedroom development apartment could be described as modern, inoffensive, and lacking cohesion.

One night a week Ed prepared a meal based on a recipe he gathered from a website devoted to such things. Sometimes these meals were exotic, sometimes simple but time consuming. His friends from school who still lived in the area would come bearing beers and dvds, and they would share the meal. Every other night of the week, Ed ate two microwaved hot dogs and half a can of Green Giant yellow corn on his dark brown sofa which did not quite match his dark purple rug. Some nights, Ed would fall asleep on the couch during Conan O'Brien and wake up with a stiff neck. His couch was dark brown, but it was not very comfortable.

Ed worked a series of jobs that required him to sit in slightly uncomfortable chairs under the stale glow of flourescent lighting and computer monitors. He had a passing aquaintance with a few of his fellow employees. He dated a nice girl from accounting for a while, but it didn't work out because it was too long of a drive from her development apartment across town.

Ed had cried the night the nice girl from accounting had decided to end their relationship. He microwaved his hot dogs in furious silence, his eyes feeling puffy and pinched, watching the hot dogs spin as they desiccated and split lengthwise, mangled. Ed did not sleep well that night, tossing and turning, half-awake, legs tangled in sheets, interstate cars droning in distant and aimless pursuit, hot dogs congealing uneaten in the darkened kitchen. He awoke with a stiff neck.

Ed went to work that day and quit his job.

One warm morning a few weeks later, Ed went out to the small balcony to have a cigarette. He had stopped smoking after college, but since quitting his job he had found revisiting the habit to be occasionally irresistable. The interstate just over the hill roared with lunchhour traffic as he enjoyed his view of the dumpster behind his building, pulling deep and coughing. He was pondering what to do with his spent butt when he noticed something odd.

Today's newspaper was sitting folded beneath a flower pot on his balcony. This was odd because Ed lived on the fourth floor, and he did not have a subscription to the newspaper.

"I, um...hm." Ed said to himself.

Ed bent over and stubbed his cigarette out in the flower pot. He lifted the pot, slid the paper out and shook off the dirt. He stood up and held the paper out before him like it was a child with a dirty diaper. Somewhere over the hill, in the afternoon sun, the lunchhour traffic droned like a billion bees.

I watched two movies over the last two days.

2005-12-11T00:01:00.000-06:00

On Thursday I stayed up too late watching Nausicaa of Wind Valley, recieved from that most wonderful of services, Netflix. I have loved some of Miyazaki's creations in the past, namely Spirited Away, but this one was absolutely the best of his that I have seen. The landscapes in this film convey a touching loneliness, where you can feel that humanity is no longer close, that it is no longer in control of the planet. It is a little unnerving to constantly see Nausicaa's ass though. You see a glimpse of her preteen bum everytime there's a strong wind at the right angle, and, well it is called Wind Valley. One has to wonder how Miyazaki rationalized the buttcrack shots througout the production process.

"It is a story of mankind, and how we bear within us the seeds of our own destruction."
"Yes, Mr. Miyazaki, but why am I animating this young girl's buttocks?"
"It is a metaphor for her vulnerability and femininity. Also, there is no underwear in the future. Can you make the skirt go up a little higher here? Yes, like that, the curve of the ass, please."

Last night I watched Serendipity, starring the irrepressible John Cusak and Kate Beckinsale. I am a hardcore sucker for this stuff, I love following a formula all the way to its natural conclusion. I realized as I watched this utterly predictable but delicious nonsense that, as a genre, the romantic comedy is really an untapped resource. We've got Annie Hall and I guess When Harry Met Sally and such as ...Say Anything. But, I think this is it pretty much.

A straight up romantic comedy with wacky best friends and unfortunate misunderstandings, a great romantic story that isn't too hackneyed, makes you want to bone your date, but leaves you feeling like, that was a good movie and I don't feel guilty about liking the cheese. I would also like to put in scifi or fantasy aspects here. Time travel could make for a wonderfully convoluted farce, wacky misunderstandings device.

Uh oh, how did the dog end up in the wedding cake!? And then later it turns out that the sass-talking best friend's love interest is actually the dog's highly evolved form from the future?

I am only half-joking here. I think the romantic comedy is vastly underrated as a genre, and damn you all I will prove it.

Ah, work!

2005-12-10T22:26:00.000-06:00

It is possible that working full-time may be the thing that motivates me beyond my traditional "be self motivated for a week and then crash out" lifestyle. The nature of my job dictates that late in my shift I will be forced to have absolutely nothing to do. Case-in-point, I am blogging here.

I find that I get so bored that I can not describe it properly. This is not just at work, but in my day-to-day activities. A boredom that threatens to rend the fabric of time and space. I am stuck in a null state where I can no longer fall back on the immature distractions which kept me from actually considering my place in the world and my future in general. The problem is, I am still in the same circumstances and atmosphere as I had when I was substantially more self-destructive. To put it another way, I am living a life that I was only able to bear through the use of mind altering substances without the aid of those substances. It makes for a rather uncomfortable existence, one in which I have difficulty describing even to myself my difficulties. I do not have a mental language for the way that I feel, so I cannot share, and I cannot vent.

My current disconnection seems to only be a symptom of my mental immune system, a sort of temporal scab as I determine what it is I want out of life. As I write now, it seems like this process is a wonderful way of getting rid of that scab. I might be able to write instead of smoke weed, thank god. My mind is probably expanded enough, thank you.

If we are merely the sum of our actions, then right now I am maybe some poop and some blobs of data on the World of Warcraft server. Maybe wisps of cigarette smoke on the cold Nebraska wind (woo ooo). This state of affairs might be part of my problem with determining exactly who I am. I think that by applying myself to writing, as theraputic as this feels right now, I may be able to figure out what I gots goin on. This is, I must say, hell of a relief.

I think, with this blog as a willing vessel for my thoughts on myself and on writing and on the latest music and film releases, I may be able to turn "slog" into..."Blog!!!"

Realizing these things does not make the mundane chafe my ass any less.

I would sure like to do some travelling right now.

I have a new job where I have time to post on a blog now.

2005-12-10T00:17:00.000-06:00

I have a new job where I have time to post on a blog now. I re-read some of my previous posts, and I clearly have a tendency to be very angry and/or self-deprecating. I think that when I wrote previously, I though I was being "real", when what I am really being is bitter or uneccesarily sarcastic. I was very upset at that time, and, well, while I still tend to be upset, I am not quite so upset.

I got a job full-time at a telecommunications company doing customer service. It is a different kind of stressful than HB, and it pays better. I am also a full-time student, which has compounded my stress level. I'm discovering the levels of stress I can tolerate are much higher than I orginally imagined. It is hard, but I am GROWING. It is just kind of lonely to slog determinedly. I am trying to not think of it as slogging, but, man, when it is cold out, and the snow is wet and melty, it is hard not to think of life in terms of "slog". I hope my next post is sooner than six months from now. Work, fortunately, will probably force me to blog.
I get boooooored.

O Life! and its myriad irony! You try to be sincere! I Dare you!

2005-07-12T02:10:00.000-05:00

Today, somehow through sheer weight of mediocrity managed to set itself apart from normal days. Last night, due to marijuana intoxication, i was entirely unable to sleep. Paranoia had set in to such a ridiculous degree that panic attacks shocked me awake everytime i drifted off to any degree. I continued into the next day with a minimum amount of sleep (I managed three or four hours) and went to the first day of class for this session. Somehow, my mind did not connect the facts of last summers class and the facts of this one. Only getting out of the car in the parking garage did I realize that "Sci-Fi, Horror, and Film Noir 239: Dixon" might be anything similar to the class I took at the same time last summer whose content was: sci-fi, horror, and film noir, taught by none other than the Great Winston Wheeler Dixon, in a course with an entirely different name. At least my sister is in the class, and there are a number of films involved in the class that weren't shown last year. LAST YEAR. That class only happened 12 months ago. Sigh, he typed. I will receive credit for two classes that are functionally the same. The syllabus he handed out today even had the same snyde references to Scary Movie 2 and, for some reason Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. I LIKE Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure.

Anyway, continuing in that vein, at work to-day a man threatened that if I called his home again, and I quote verbatim, to "find where I live and rip [my] head off and shit down [my] neck". For SOME reason I found this threat to lack teeth. ONE: Ripping a person's head off with one's bare hands is almost certainly more difficult than it seems. TWO: Removing one's pants and positioning and manipulating my decapitated corpse so as to crap down my neck-hole seems immensly complicated and uneccesary after I've already been miraculously dismembered by your grizzly Floridian paws. I get it, I'm dead. You want to be removed from the list. I wanted to tell you what Florida NOW was up to lately, but you want me dead. I guess the inconvenience of the much-less-dangerous-than-expected !!!HURRICANE DENNIS!!! (emphasis added) gives you the right to threaten the physical well-being of a complete stranger. Hell YES I deserved it. Florida-living-in prick.

Teach you to dogpaddle with cinderblock bracelets

2005-06-20T14:48:00.000-05:00

Well, I finally made it to the Rec after five weeks of putting it off using my tried and true method of rationalization. Weights and swimming, though, of course, not simulataneously. I've started and subsequently failed a regular work-out routine so many times that my enthusiasm is tempered, but it *fingers crossed* feels right this time. I'm not going to let lowered expectations stop me, not this time. I felt so good about it that I finally went out and saw Batman Begins. Yes the movie is totally fucking sweet, and I probably don't have to tell you that. Also, I am not the most unbiased source of info on things concerning the Dark Knight. But, regardless, life dropped me a little note to tell me I was doing O.K. today, a little pat on the back and a "Keep it up, kiddo". I went in to sit down, and right there in the little nook where the arm comes down was a small purple lighter. The kind the fits perfectly in the lighter-holder that I emptied for some guy or lady who needed to "light their stove" at 3:30 in the morning. It's even more than halfway full. I know it was great that I went to the rec anyway, but life popping its head in for a sec, even forgiving my less-than-desirable habit, even if just for right now, makes a guy feel pretty fucking sweet.

Merely a transcription of events that occured

2005-06-15T21:40:00.000-05:00

Went out to a lake last night, blue something, shoot or stem or tree or something with people from HB where I work. I phone people and ask them if they wouldn't like to please give me money for a good cause. Or, what we say are good causes. Feh. I don't really think about it much, except for the fact that I have to get yelled at every day by people. Even if you can stand that on a regular basis, which I can (I just consider them the asshole), there is something about it that really grinds on you after a while. I think the job has made me like people a lot less than I might, and it's really not in my nature to be hating people. But. Cream get the money. Dolla Dolla Bills, ya'll. Anyways, yes, I went out to a lake and chillaxed with the HB crew til about 3am. It was fun, but I've got to get myself a pair of shoes for real, and not just these blisteratin sandals I'm working right now. Dewy grass in the pale moonlight, as pretty as it might be, gets your feet hell of wet in sandals, and for an utter pussy like myself, cold feet can make a run at ruining an otherwise pleasant evening. Oh, and I started a blog a few days ago.

Imagine

2005-06-14T04:28:00.000-05:00

Ok, imagine, first, that I can in any way code HTML. K? k. Then, imagine that this stock template offered me by blog looks like I would want it to, with the whole thing being black and white except for the page title, which would, of course, be red and in all-lowercase. IMAGINE IT. Cuz, as simple as that might seem, its a whole fucking nother age of humanity away from what I am capable of doing right now. Also, I Robot was not that bad of a film. Flawed, yes. But not that bad of a flim. Er, film. I wish there was a key that allowed you to crroect mistaresk. LOLZ!

Mm, yeah, INTERNET.

2005-06-14T03:13:00.000-05:00

A drunken conversation with B on my porch steps the other evening convinced me that I needed, for my own edification, to start a blog. I get little thoughts all day (and I'm probably the only one) and since I don't really put them anywhere but that vast but poorly lit and unorganized warehouse inside of my head, things tend to get lost or water-damaged. This should be a fine way to house my mental scrapings, like talking about movies that I watch, or books I read, or things I do. Things no one really wants to hear from you in day to day conversation. You know, BLOG shit. Plus, uh, blog groupies? Is that a thing? Yeah, I'll get blog groupies, and then I'll get blogonorreah. Thank you internet.

Nilesblog

Gonna give this another shot

Days of Past Future

Oof

the moon is cool

Goin' to Seoul

quick inventory

Update

Slight delay

This will make you happy for at least five minutes...

The New Magic

Hey! Uh, sorry about all that "not touching this thing in years" stuff...

Revisionist history

A lengthy absence and an explanation...and hope for the future!

Revelations in the Forest Primeval!

Zombie Fights!

There is only one way to kill a zombie.

Journal Accidenty

Regarding things under the sun, and how totally not new they tend to be

With the cleaning power of OXYGEN, Accidental Journey tackles even the TOUGHEST stains!

Hey, you got your accident in my journey!

Remembering MST3K

Anax ih dehnt algernee

For those of you just tuning in:

Tanned lacy rice, Oju.

Intentional stalling...

I am going to plan a trip to Europe. Here is the plan.

Accidourny.

Judd Apatow is awesome...BUT

Journeys of an accidental nomenclature

Accidental...Journey?

A man comes a bit closer to taking an accidental journey.

A man takes an accidental journey.

I watched two movies over the last two days.

Ah, work!

I have a new job where I have time to post on a blog now.

O Life! and its myriad irony! You try to be sincere! I Dare you!

Teach you to dogpaddle with cinderblock bracelets

Merely a transcription of events that occured

***Imagine***

Mm, yeah, INTERNET.

Imagine