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January 03, 2005


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of related interest: http://www.3nov.com/

How sweet of you to share the link. I'm touched.

Thought it would be "up your alley", Candidia.

Up yours, Klaus. If you want to clean up the environment why don't you take your carcass off that heating grate and get yourself into a rehab center?

My neighborhood is a rehab center, Candidia, comprised of aged hippies, industrial retirees, college students, college professors, slumming yuppies, and working class residents of various states of ambition, high and low.

Last night, as I made way along its crooked sidewalks towards my local convenience store, I noted an indistinct figure on a bench muttering to himself. Not unusual. Continuing on, I arrived at the port of convenience, and I was pleased to discover the presence of a "regular", a local celebrity of the schizophrenic cable access variety, sitting in his regular booth (our convenience store has booths for consumers of boiled hot dogs and coffee). He was, as usual, obsessively bent over the most recent full-color issue of the National Enquirer, scanning it as if held the clues to the machinations of the greater universe - with his guitar by his side, encased in gig bag, as if it were the dark keyhole to his dream of an alternate celebrity universe without degraded stores of convenience.

I made a convenient purchase, and, returning along the crooked sides towards my artist's garrett, the indistinct muttering old man who had been sitting on the bench earlier came towards me from the opposite direction, and mistakenly called out a cheery "HELLO YOUNG MAN!".

I responded in kind to the senile wanderer, as if he were a harbinger of my own futurererer.

I mean, that's how it usually goes, right?

Funny as can be, Klaus. "Consumers of hotdogs in stores of convenience...." Yes, I can read my own future in that scene, Young Man. We both need to get out more. They say things are going well in Iraq. Why are we so glum?

Glum? I don't know. Shit like that is what keeps me going.

Gallows humor?

6 days left for freedom [mp3]

(Oddly enough I found this post by searching on 'guitar'. Shit like that is what keeps me going...)

A.D. 2015 - The work-at-home desk of a sub-contracted Security Monitor, his beat a three-block CCTV grid of West LA - bored shitless now that the profile/removal efficacy's taken most of the really dangerous unpredictables off the streets and out of the social mix - he scans a muttering street denizen - male, white, 30-ish 40-ish 50-ish who knows, filthy camo shorts and mismatched sandals, a grimy food-stained white t-shirt that says "Rice" over the number 80 in red numerals - watches through the Full-City CCTV feed as he stops by an empty bus bench and begins to harangue the middle-distance evening traffic, narrows the audio focus and listens:
It's an argument, of necessity one-sided, monolog, heated, intense, boiling with profane accusations, the wounded tones of frustrated victimhood.
Pretty typical unmedicated schizo-noise really, only interesting because of the massive boredom the job's become lately.
But hey it's a job, pays for the apartment.
Around midnight he clocks out and goes to bed.
Next day he gets a transfer, though what that means in meatspace is he's still sitting at home in the same cheap office chair, with three machines running, two HD screens, only now he's scanning the streets of a five-block grid in downtown Trenton, N.J.
Out of the same boredom, in what may start to become a hobby - thinking about snipping the most striking and audible bits and running a sampler track under them - he narrows in on another angry monologist, this one stomping along the sidewalk there on the muggy East Coast. What used to be called a bag-lady, ratty, tatty, overweight and dirty, too many clothes on, mouth grimacing around angry sputtering speech. He kicks the audio focus up, for something to do.
Typical profane response to the Invisible Tormentor, mundane crazy talk - something about the rhythm of it though. A name spat out like phlegm, you bastard, then something about leaving the dog all day alone without water, a missed birthday, a car wreck.
Back to the guy in West LA.
Pulls the audio out of the three-day cache.
Dog, water, birthday, wreck - not my fault, bitch.
Runs both scans in parallel.
It dovetails perfectly, rhythm and response.
The time/date lines up note for note, second for second, EDT/PDT.
They're in sync, a couple, shouting over each other's raging sentences, but clearly back and forthing at each other on the same topic.

Yeah, ok, I believe in compromise -- but that's it. I was just thinking, that if their pedigree pet was kidnpapped by feral puppies or kitties fed no name food and forced to breed with litter, would they 'go native' right after it, sniffing the trail into the bitterest primitive digs with no hesitation?

Negotiation could be quite dicey with these kind of dogs. One would not approach the table with 'let's be human', would one? Perhaps one would hazard a bark?

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