08.18.2017 § Leave a comment
Karin’s father steps into the large carpeted closet where the family servants live. They beg him, as they always do when he comes by, to use his magical talisman to transform more of their belongings into priceless versions of themselves. To this day he has only ever used it on their behalf once, and the resultant precious porcelain bowl is enshrined prominently on top of one of the closet’s built-in dressers. “Farmers don’t get nice things!” he responds to their pleas as he adds insult to injury by picking up some of the things strewn across the floor and putting away and organizing them for them, before heading out the door.
In the doorway, the lights fall off. In pitch darkness, I am Karin’s father, and a hand squeezes my hand, a hand which had already been clasping my hand without my being aware.
08.14.2017 § Leave a comment
Marvel Studios, what you just said is one of the most insanely idiotic things I have ever heard. At no point in your rambling, incoherent response, were you even close to anything that could be considered a rational thought. Everyone in this room is now dumber for having listened to it. I award you no points, and may God have mercy on your soul.
This film was an insult to my 12-year intelligence.
(I watched this film on a plane in preparation for an upcoming Rick & Morty episode)
08.07.2017 § Leave a comment
Me, Karin, and a young Trent Reznor are barreling down the carpeted, walled-in loose spiral staircase toward the kitchen. I’m blasting Aphex Twin’s Powerpill Pac-Man on an iPad, slightly concerned that we’ll wake Karin’s parents.
It’s my job to chop veggies for the soup; meanwhile I’m popping a ton of those tiny extremely tart and sweet candies that are shaped like a cross between cylinder and sphere. I don’t wash the bean sprouts well before chopping them up, making the prospect of ever getting around to cleaning them unlikely. The carrots are going fine, but the green onions (shaped like hollow cones) I’m actually slicing fatter and fatter as I get toward the base rather than skinnier to result in the same approximate size of resultant piece, even worse because the walls get thicker and whiter toward the bottom, too. I at least halve some of the worst of the bigger pieces.
I’m explaining Sean Bean’s “better than 20/20” line from the Acuvue commercials to anyone other than my brother as I approach the Coke office on foot from a different direction within its industrial park than usual resulting in overshooting it.
07.31.2017 § Leave a comment
I’m staying with a Hispanic family. In the morning I get up and notice that I’ve left my big blue-with-a-translucent-windowed bag of chocolate chip cookies open overnight, on the floor between the fridge and trash bin. It’s a mixed bag of chocolate chocolate chip and plain chocolate chip, but most of the plain ones are already gone. I take one of the couple remaining plains. These are the big, grocery store bakery quality, very thin, greasy disk type. I don’t notice that ants have gotten into the bag until I’m already a couple bites in. Fortunately there aren’t too many ants – just a few visible crawling on the baseboard, and one on my cookie itself.
I’m at the movies with Karin, Aralisis, and Aralisis’s doggie. Aralisis gets up to go to the bathroom, leaving me closest to her doggie. I startle it, causing it to bark, which causes the two smaller doggies in the front rows to bark and start jumping over seats to get closer to Aralisis’s doggie. Now I’m embarrassed.
At the train station, like a fool I rip my pant pockets inside out, tossing frayed papers and Cocoa Krispies everywhere. I can see over the railing the train pulling up to the platform below. The engine of the train detaches, bringing along the first car (the special one), driving up onto the platform, doing a wide turn radius 180 degree turn in order to dock into a squarish pod. At this point the gates open so we can come down the escalators to buy tickets and get on the train. But by the time Karin and I are done getting our tickets, the train has left. Why would they time it so no one has time to both get their tickets and get on the train? Or why not let us get tickets before hand? Now we have to do a whole other step of waiting down here on the platform.
When it’s time for me to get off at my stop, I miss it because I’m distracted by something on my smartphone. Now I’m getting off at the same stop as my coworker Rocky, prolonging our awkward silent copresence. We say “bye” in the middle of a giant empty hilly unmarked industrial intersection outside the station. But then Rocky says “wait” and underneath the freeway entrance he jogs up to meet me and tells me something for work.
Karin and I get home and our upper floor is on fire. As we attempt to figure out the source, the fire goes out of its own accord and ceases to have ever happened in the first place, leaving no trace of damage. Well, that was close!
07.21.2017 § Leave a comment
Karin and I are studying the hard arts – she doesn’t think the facial filled the third performer’s eye sockets enough.
There’s a gas leak in my red camping sack of bombs – very dangerous. Even now that it’s been made into chocolate, the slightest disturbance could cause it to blow, sort of like in the movie Sorcerer. Hey, Sorcerer, that’s a great name for something – except no one can really spell it, hell, I myself always want to spell it with an -or. The line at the grocery store is really long and I’m not sure how much longer I can not blow this bomb bag chocolate up, besides, someone has made off with Karin’s puffy jacket.
07.14.2017 § Leave a comment
It’s a film about Brontis when he was younger. He’s played by a young Michael Keaton. The scene is:
A museum board is winding down their final meeting of the workday, but they’re notified that they have a visitor. One of the board members vouches for this guy, having worked with him before, and knows that he’s looking to make a film about the museum’s history. The board is interested and contentedly settles back in their seats.
Brontis/Keaton enters the room, instantly owning it with his silence and lack of eye contact, pacing himself toward the blackboard. When he does begin to speak, it is without any introduction or explanation. He simply begins recounting the museum’s most important historical moments, beginning with its founding, each historical fact preceded by a statement of the year, date, day, and time.
As is natural when covering a history, events more distant in time are spaced further apart: time has eroded more importance of detail. So it is no surprise that Brontis’s chronological resolution is gradually increasing. However, eyebrows begin to raise at another gradually changing property of his statements: their relevance to the museum. With increasing apparentness, Brontis is veering off into telling a story not about the museum, but about himself. It begins innocently enough, with the occasional personal anecdote to ground the story, but grows weirder and creepier and more confusing by the minute.
Finally, Brontis’s intention is revealed: he mentions his purchasing of a ticket for doomed Flight 670, which everyone knows crashed into the museum 50 years ago, leaving no survivors – a blight on the museum’s history, the primary event which the board strives for any historicalization to avoid addressing. Brontis is quickly booed and shoved out of the room, and the board member who vouched for him apologizes profusely.
I’m rolling down the red-carpeted highway, against traffic. The highway is shaped like a spiral, built into a massive quarry. It decreases in elevation in an inversely exponential way, dropping quickly toward the top, and neighboring rings closer to the middle being closer in elevation to each other. Also, this dropping of height is just a general trend; the ribbon of road does occasionally rise temporarily, only to then slope downward steeper than the local average in order to “catch up”, but one constraint is that the current ribbon can never be higher than the point on the next ribbon outside was at (though it can meet it). Thus it is not a straight-forward trip down; sometimes I have to provide my own rolling thrust, and sometimes if I’m not looking carefully I can get confused about which path to take when two ribbons level out together and I’m going really fast (it seems like it would be simple, but remember my eyes are spinning in circles). You can’t roll off the road because the highway is not elevated on stilts but is built into rock with stone panels on the sheer faces.
At the very bottom and center of the spiral highway, Brontis awaits my arrival with two cheezy snacks: Big Cheez-Its, and another brand which I can’t recall the name of, but which I’ve had many times, and is much bigger than even Big Cheez-Its and much thinner, more like cheesy tortilla chips, and I had never realized how similar they both were before.