Astonishing Coincidence on Danforth
He went in, looking for a record. Who'd
know the record would be playing right then right there?
"The
record store guy was playing a record. Something R&B.
I thought, 'It'd be too co-incidental that this was D'Angelo's
new record, when that was precisely what I had come to get."
AUTHENTIC ACCOUNT
FOLLOWS.
Tango Romeo Uniform Echo Sierra Tango
Oscar Romeo Yankee.
"'He
just came in,' said the bearded proprietor. He walked down the right aisle, then he came back up the left. I knew he was after
something. Even just something to buy. So I said,
"Something you're looking for?"'"
I
said reportedly Do you have the new D'Angelo record?
{It
was an R&B mess of a thing. I thot it couldn't be
D'Angelo since that would be too co-incidental. Was
it Prince?}
Mirabilis!
It WAS the record itself. Black Messiah. The vice
president of Sony Records had given it to the proprietor gratis that very day.
First time played. Maybe the only copy in
Miracle on Danforth
John
Skaife went into a record store seeking record X;
record X was playing when he walked in. What's the odds?
***
Back
in my early weeks of library school, before 9/11, I was taught a class by a guy
named Yuris Dilevko.
I
think it was kind of an intro to librarianship.
The
idea of social responsibility, I saw from the syllabus, was about to come up
one week. I don't recall why, but me and Yuris were
in email contact. I can't retrieve the emails as evidence sorry.
So
I told him he should stress the American Library Association's 'Library Bill of
Rights.' I felt that the statement, all the way from anti-nazi
1939, against censorship, would be....
So
I was sitting there, one of a hundred people or so, expecting him to defend
free speech. Instead, he talks in favour of destroying it.
"Because
there are oppressed communities in our midst [hegel-this-hegel-that]....."
I
couldn't believe it. He was almost sweating as he read (his eyes were down) his
(from where?) argument against liberty.
I
used to admire him, in a way. But his commitment to the enlightenment turned
out to be gossamer-thin at best. He threw it all away.
I
don't want to say that Yuris Dilevko
is a Nazi, but where exactly do his interests differ from theirs?
***
"Hey, Mohammad!"
"Mohammad, hey!"
Mohammad
pulled his cock out of the child's pussy and ran to the window. "What the
fuck you want?"
"We
want more verses! Give us more verses!"
"Fuck,
is that all you assholes can think about? You're worse than my nigger slaves!
Go cut off some fucker's head!"
"Just
a couplet, we swear! Just something for our tiny retard brains to puzzle
over!"
"Okay,
shit ... my cock's so fuckin' hard, I dunno. Okay.
All
have a quarter of the Heavens
To
which they turn them;
Wherever
ye be, hasten emulously after good:
God
will one day bring you all together;
Verily,
God is all-powerful."
"Mohammed,
what does 'emulously' mean?"
"You
stupid.... Kill that motherfucker!"
The
motherfucker was killed.
"I
gotta get back to my fuckin'.
Go raid a caravan."
"Whatever you say, Mohammad!"
Mohammad
went back to his bitch and sank his cock in.
"Fuck,
I like hot hairless cunt more than anything. Say, 'You big boy you.'"
"What's
all this poetry shit?"
"Ah,
just some crap I stole. Say it!"
"They
seem to like it."
Mohammed
fired his djizz into her. "You didn't say, 'You big boy you!' Go make me ... two sandwiches."
***
How Robots Developed
Consciousness
is a funny story.
Koharu and Haruto had
been living together for three years. One Christmas, each armed with the
insecurity provided by a culture saturated with hyperreality, they bought one
another sex robots, both figuring the other would appreciate experiences as
perfectly programmable as possible.
Imagine the comedy!
Koharu wheeled into
the room a six-foot box and popped it open. Out stepped a tight little buxom
android model number 4.6.13.1 in a white blouse and a plaid skirt who covered
her mouth to laugh.
Haruto cried,
"This is too funny!"
Karuto said, "You
don't like it?"
"I love it!
That's not what's funny."
"Then what?"
Haruto wheeled out a
six-foot box and opened it up. Out stepped a muscular bohunk with a prominent
package, model number 3.6.19.4, dressed like a Western cowboy man complete with
toothpick.
Koharu said, "We
think so alike! We are going to have such fun with our sex toys!"
They shook hands and
chastely kissed.
Time for Christmas
breakfast.
4.6.13.1 looked
3.6.19.4 up and down. "I bet he has a thick cock," she thought.
3.6.19.4's eyes were
glued to 4.6.13.1's crotch. "I'm sure her cunt is wet."
Robots thereafter had
'taste.'
***
Hunter Woman
She's
in the deepest part of the world's jungle, stepping over branches discreetly,
humming to herself seemingly. Her eyes are clear and sober, and her breath is
fresh and clean. She's unarmed; in fact, she's unanythinged.
It's morning, and she's walking through the jungle,
humming to herself something of a song. La la la la.
A
tiger looks up from its watering hole only to see something of a tiger, and a
funny-looking tiger at that. A tiger without tiger fur, and
walking on its hind legs. The tiger tilts its head quizzically. What
could be the meaning of this? The hairless tiger is getting nearer. No tail.
The
woman stands still, humming still. The tiger slowly comes up to her, allows her
to pat his head. Nice tiger. She sits on the ground and the tiger snuggles in
close. They lay like that for some time. She smells like an awfully nice tiger,
and she's also nice to lick.
She
takes his head in her hands and looks into his big eyes. "Nice tiger. Nice
tiger." She twists his head quickly, and breaks his neck.
She
takes up the corpse and walks through the jungle, humming, seemingly.
***
Life, Dreams
In early time,
when grass was long, and green,
I had my
future canvas-blank to live
And dream
within. The future was unseen
Potentiality,
sans censor-sieve,
As life and
dream were wed at seventeen,
As
life required asking but to give.
I had my life
to live,
I had my
dreams to dream,
I had my
dreams to live,
I had my life
to dream.
And mid my
time, when options whittled down,
When choices
for my life became enset,
Once knew I I would never be (and known
To never be to
others too) a Jet,
A Shark, a man
magnificent in town,
My dreams
became my soul's sole safety net.
Enset the life I lived,
But
still with dreams to dream.
Enset the life I lived,
But
still with dreams to dream.
Yet lately my
late days, so very past
The life of
possibilities it be,
Are spent
twixt nights which evermore will last
Without a
single dream; I sleep a guarantee
Of
nothingness, a dreamlessness so vast:
No dreams
befit a life to no degree.
And nothing do
I live,
And nothing do
I dream.
And nothing do
I live,
And nothing do
I dream.
***
Instructions For
Getting All the Stuff Off the Bed
The
bed must be cleared off, now. All the
stuff on it has to go. It has to go someplace. Does it matter where the stuff
goes? If it matters, get into the nearest closet and tidy it up a bit. Judge
how much space you require.
If
it doesn't matter, all you'll use is the floor. So, start picking it all up.
You'll be starting slowly. Your activity will accelerate as The Minute
approaches.
Clothes
are easy because they are light. Grab as many as your hands
can grab. Since they're light, and unbreakable, you can toss them into
the farthest corner. Kick 'em together if you want.
Now,
what about these old LPs? Stack 'em up and carry them
to another room. You can alphabetize them another day.
Time,
please, time! The Minute approaches!
Old
luggage and baggage! Who needs it? The important thing is the future, is it
not? Don't even open them--who knows what you'll find? Jewelry,
watches, photographs, letters: now's not the time for
sentimentality.
You
think you're nearly done, and then: you're done! The bed has been cleared. So
why are you so saddened?
***
"It
all started this morning, after Richie left for
school. Millie dropped in for some coffee, then you called about the hunting
trip, and when I was talking to you I got so confused with Millie going on and
on about the bomb that I said to her Yes for a trip to
some meeting at the New Rochelle Public Library, and what could I say? I've
owed her stuff for so long. So we went to the library with Millie saying,
'Jerry says it's all just a communist front but what do I know?' The man there
at the library was talking about how horrible we were to build bombs against a
peaceful country like
***
Narrative Train
Starting
on the eastern side and heading west, we start with some old complicated craggy
mountains looking settled but when you think it's so settled it suddenly
becomes unsettled because something falls where it isn't expected to fall, like
a telephone call in the middle of the night from someone telling you someone
named Reggie is dead.
The
train moves on to the west and then you're at a great river and you're like
Julius Caesar because once you cross that river there's no going back. You'll
have to ride that train to the end of the line regardless of how long it takes,
however you have the feeling that the real journey is just beginning since
you're you and you're crossing a river you have to do something to cross. This
is your train.
The
desert is the desert. You're on your own here. It's all up to you. Find your
own water. Kill your own rattlesnakes. Look for signs. Decipher said signs.
You're
in mountains again, dangerous mountains steeped with menace. Will you survive?
Dénouement. Falling action.
Catastrophe. The mountain's fabled "other
side". It's steep down here. There was never any train.
But:
were you pushed?
***
"Not For Yan
"'C'mon, gimme
a hug.'
"'Whoa there!'
"'What?"
"'Sorry,
that was abrupt. I mean, sorry, no.'
"'But
it's my last day here.'
"'Still. Got to say no.'
"'Why?'
"'Look.
I don't know what your intentions are, and you don't know what my intentions
are. We could run around in circles, or worse.'
"'I
still don't get it.'
"'It's
best for me to avoid contact with women. This is a workplace. I could lose my
job.'
"'I
would never do that!'
"'Ah-ah-ah,
I can't know your intentions. Precautionary principle, natch.'
"'That's
kinda mean.'
"'I
didn't make the rules. No way around it.'
"'Well,
how about saying something nice to me?'
"'No can do! Language is unmoored from intention
these days. Words are very twistable.'
"'Wow. Everything got all cold in here.'
"'Like I said: I didn't make the
rules.'
"'Well, who did?'
"'Oh,
gee, golly, I don't know, hmmm, that's a real puzzler, now who could it have
been, um, um--"
"'Don't
be silly!'
"'I
know, I know. In any case, I can't risk it. I'm suicidal enough.'
"'You're
mean.'
"'I'm
just trying to protect myself. Man's gotta eat.'
"'You're
completely out of line. I'm calling human resources.'"
***
Now It Can Be Told
"God
damme, I hate him!" cried Ezekiel to some wall.
His older brother the carriage-maker had once again stolen one of the beauties
of
Ezekiel
calmed himself with an effort. He sat at his little desk and thought.
"There must be something I can do. Older brothers,
bah!" He began sketching idly. "An
invention. Let us see. The steam locomotive.
What if I made a small one? One unencumbered by tracking? Perhaps the
combustion could be internal." He looked at his oil lamp. "I believe
I am onto something."
Ezekiel
sketched and sketched. Next morning he got to work.
And
so was it birthed. Built from spite of an older brother, through isolated
tinkering and experimenting, in blood, sweat, and tears, the invention the
automobile (née
"The Pussy-Wagon") was born.
***
Stealing a Typewriter from The Man
All
his work has come to nothing. "Why can't I get it?" he'd often ask
aloud alone. "There's got to be some trick here."
It
had to be his means of expression. He had a Selectric
2000. His neighbour (not really: he lived three miles away) had a manual
typewriter and yet he had gotten rich and famous using it.
How
to explain it all? He had to get the manual typewriter by any means necessary.
"I'll
sneak in his house and steal it," was the plan. "Then I'll write and
be rich."
So
in the dead of night one night he broke into the home of the manual and got out
before anyone knew what was going on.
"Now
I can write," he said, setting it down after shoving aside the electric
monstrosity.
He
wrote and he wrote, seemingly possessed by genius. Pages flew. Soon he had a
manuscript. He sent it to Simon & Schuster, they
were astonished, and published it.
The
literary world fell at his feet. At last he had done it! What a typewriter!
And
it was lionized forevermore as the greatest novel ever written using only
one-syllable words.
***
The First Man to Fall Off Ringworld
fell off ringworld
about a year into construction. We built it between the orbits of Earth and
Venus, figuring that the higher temperatures would make up for the vagaries of
atmosphere. (We were guessing about how things would work out, see.) So we had
the ring only about three feet across at the time. Just a
very big ring, 160,000,000 miles in diameter.
So
I was working with Jim that day. We were sitting on the ring, out feet dangling
down like we were Mohawks building the
So
he stretched and fell backwards. Idiot wasn't wearing a harness. And away into
space he fell, just like falling off the
And
that was it. He was gone. His life, poof. He was gone.
***
We
have a new Mistaker-in-Chief at the Firm.
We
all send him documentation about the mistakes we have made. Some of us send in
the information daily, some weekly, some on a
case-by-case basis.
Every
morning our Mistaker-in-Chief assumes the mistakes we
have made and everyone feels better because it is always his fault for
everything.
What
about his home-life? He's a married man. Does he accept all the mistakes
committed in his household? You might think he does, but that's far from the
case. He's blameless there. He's blameless as a saint. (This is a common
misconception. Saints would never say they are blameless.)
Every
morning, somewhere on his commute, the Mistaker-in-Chief
becomes blameful. Then in the evening he becomes blameless again.
He
gets paid more than anyone else for the things he does for us. Hurray, Mistaker-in-Chief!
How
does he contain the guilt? How is it relieved?
At
the end of each fiscal, he provides us with an effigy of himself, and we burn
it in the parking lot, after which we proceed with a sex orgy. Then the whole
shebang starts again.
No-one
knows when it started.
I
think we've come up with something of an allegory.
***
When George asked me
for my daughter Emily's hand in marriage, I thought it was sweet. "You're
asking her mother?" I remember saying. He said, "I believe that's the
proper thing to do." Of course I agreed. Such a sweet boy.
When Emily told me
that George had asked her for permission to court and marry my second daughter
June I said, "So what did you say to the sweet boy?" Emily said,
"I was flattered he had asked permission. He could have gone behind my
back." I said, "You're right. Very logical and decent. Bravo."
When June told Emily
that George had said he didn't see there was any reason not to be married to
both my daughters because he loved them both so much, I said (having heard
about all this from Emily), "I think you've got a good thing going here.
He's always so polite and reasonable."
When George told me
that he only married my daughters because he could think of no other way to get
my attention, I said, "I knew this all the time. And really, how can I say
no? I want you all moving in here with me. Now, come here, sweetie."
***
The
last word on this page, I predict, will be marmoset.
I
happened to be walking through an ice rink when I got hailed by Arthur.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"I
was passing through."
"There's
a big game on. It's us against CTV and we need a ringer. Think you can fit the
bill?"
"I
don't know how to skate."
He
handed me a pair of skates. "These look your size."
I
put them on. They fit. "Okay, what do I do?"
"Get
out there and get the puck and put it in that net over there."
I
skated out to where the puck was and it was like magnetically attached to my
stick. I weaved in and out, in and out, past this person and that, and I pushed
the puck with my stick and it went right in.
We
were tied, at the end of the second period.
In
the third period, I got the puck once again, and skated to the neck, in and
out, and put it in the net.
Someone
CTV guy said, "Game's over. No way we can catch
up now."
I
said, "That's crazy. We're only one goal up. Marmoset."
***
"Time
to make funeral arrangements seeing as I've woken up dead," said Bob a
couple minutes after the moment he woke up dead. "Oh shit!" he cried.
"I've got that presentation to do!"
Bob
jumped out of bed and got dressed dead. He still didn't have a witty ending for
the presentation. When could he think? In the car?
Waiting at a stoplight somewhere maybe something would come to him dead.
He
found the ending at fourteenth and main. "Just the
thing!"
People
were looking at him funny as he walked through the lobby of his building. Never
mind, never mind.
In
the office, Paul his boss said, "Bob, you look a bit ... under the
weather?"
"Worse,
Paul. I'm dead."
"Shouldn't
you be ... lying down ... somewhere?"
"Not
with a presentation to do, no sir!"
"Oh, the presentation. Listen, consider it cancelled. We'll
manage somehow. You should go home and ... lie down, don't you think?"
"Golly.
Do I look that bad?"
"Yes."
"Okay
then. I'll go. It's been nice working with you."
"Nice
working with you too, Bob."
"Gimme a
hug."
"Um. No."
Bob
drove home dead. He climbed back into bed.
But what about funeral arrangements???
***
You're
now in the bed, asleep, and you're not in the bed, asleep. There's just one
letter difference, isn't there? Meanwhile the sun comes up slowly (the earth
goes down slowly?) and there's enough illumination to allow you to see, if only
you had your eyes open.
Your
eyes open upon hearing the door open. Older people, an older
couple. The man says, "Hello! You don't remember us. We're Janucz's parents."
"No,
I.... What are you doing here?"
Janucz's mother says, "We're just here for
a visit. How are you? How have you been? You've graduated, I suppose."
"Yes
... about twenty years ago."
"Well,
well. Your mother must be proud."
"She's
doing okay."
Janucz's mother sits down on your bed. You say,
"Could you maybe.... Never mind. How's Janucz?"
His
father says, "Oh, he's fine. He's married now."
"I
figured he would be. How did you find me?"
"We've
been paying attention to you."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"We
like to stay involved in our son's life."
"I
haven't seen him for ... at least ten years."
"Someone
has to keep track."
Janucz's mother says, "Someone is always
watching. Remember that."
You'd
like to get up ... where's my underwear?
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