Mixed Emotion about Area Gaseous Man's Departure
HYDE PARK, USA (AP)--When an area man told people that he was packing up and moving to rolling hills of San Francisco, one guy at the laundrymat expressed mixed feelings.
"Really happy for that dude named Eman. I mean, he is going out to San Fran to study the Magna Carte and such--that is pretty cool," said a 20-something guy who wants to be known only as "Viper."
As "Viper" watched his collection of late 90s heavy metal concert tee-shirts tumble in the adjacent dryer, he added: "but the dude named Eman has a gas problem."
Although Viper only met and talked with "the dude named Eman" for seven minutes as both waited for the spin cycle to reach climax on aisle three of the 45 Street Washeteria, Viper initimated that you learn a lot about a man when he is washing clothes.
"Hey man, it is Sunday evening, and I want be watching Survivor down at the trailer with Tixie, but man my gear was getting kind of ripe in the back of the Escort. So, I gathered some quarters I been hiding in a White Snake shirt...anyway, the dude named Eman--he needed to talk about things."
Viper paused in a thoughtful moment that was rare for him. "I hate to say it, but some people they wear out their welcome--well, the dude named Eman, he...man this harsh...he farted away his welcome."
Apparently, the dude named Eman scorched several couches, one lazyboy, and one monkey suit in his long gaseous history. Things got especially bad when he ate primarily an organic vegetable diet comprised of sprouts and beans and hummus--leading to what Viper called "the literary explosive mixture" that produced flames reaching 30 feet.
Editor's Note: We are going to miss you, Eman and Brenna--save a pallet for us in SF.
A Blue Moon Party
Felix carrying a mushroom stool
On the road to Meca's
With Koenig Lane's wide deep browns pointing the way
For the attorney adorned in his patented burgundy button-down
And the two silly Ptons in toothy anticipation of
Entering the secret garden at the end of a street that
Only a few know about, brushing against the bordering
Crape Myrtle blossoms when Feeling became king
Like a Leo lion feeling king returning from a long
July air-conditioned trip through a jungle of introspection
Through the blossoms into the garden
We had arrived at Meca's
Where her name is really Meca, all poetic metaphor aside,
She the gracious host of this mid-summer night's dream
Complete with wood nymphs and freaks and dudes named Bob
And all was right in the electro-chemical realm as the
Zen-like Sufi master danced in the permagrin moment
At peace, at one, at one peace, deep
At the bottomless Live Oak root
With a splash of Lone Star for good measure
Out of the corner of this new found perception
A delicious sight in a flowing ethereal form
To which I floated past the grilled sausages to say
My name is the Knave and me lady what name such beauty?
Bathed in blue moon light her voice tingled the Knavery core
When my heels could feel the grass through my sandals
And my head hair bristled the electric sky
When for a delightful evening Fear of the Day did not predominate
Only thoughts of Siddhartha riding with the ferryman
And listening to the eternal cicada-filled summer evening
________________
Footnotes:
- Felix, who at that point wasn't Felix Ruiz but just Felix, really found a mushroom-shaped stool on the way to the party.
- My attorney, who advises me in all matters, is really partial to burgundy button-downs
- Meca is really her name, honest. And she throws great parties
- Live Oak is the name of a tree that thrives in Central Texas and also the name of an Austin beer
- 31 July 04 really was a blue moon
- Felix really wore a Who Farted? tee-shirt
KUT: Stop Playing the Ira Glass Promo
If the Knave hears the Ira Glass promo on KUT one more time--just one more time--he is going to do something drastic.
One of the huge reasons I listen to Public Radio: no annoying, repetitive ads with jizmatic voices exhorting you to "...come on DOWN to the MOTOR mile." Although, recently, the Ira fucking Glass promo airs 60 times a day on KUT. It has the Knave screaming from a fitful sleep with a nightmarish narrator saying "Hi this is Ira Glass..."
OK, I realize that not everyone listens to KUT 24/7 like me, or knows who Ira Glass is. KUT is the best public radio station in the nation: it's on my car radio, my home radio, and my main streaming station on the web. And Ira Glass hosts an incredibly innovative and highly entertaining show that airs on Sunday mornings at 9 am called "This American Life," with quirky stories about, guess what, living in America. Great show, but the host has a fucking annoying voice. Ira has an irritating New Yorker voice, sorta a Woody Allen whine with a tinge of William F. Buckley elitism.
Recently, KUT has been bombarding this ad: "Hi, this is Ira Glass from This American Life. And I want to tell you about a show with one of the worst names ever..." Even writing his words makes me cringe--anyway its a promo about a show that airs at 6 am Sunday morning. Yeah, I love public radio, but I ain't leaving the cool side of the Sunday morning pillow to listen to some radio show. So, Ira Glass, shut the fuck up talking about this show.
Toob-N-Ation, Part III
SPRING BRANCH, TX -- After the sight of Vernon the Sufi toobmaster and the sign-song of the well-wishers on the bank drifted away, the first stretch of the Guadalupe flowed placidly. Like the quiet before the storm.
We were seemingly alone on a river in middle of the Texas countryside--which would normally pour fear into our hearts with images of shotgun-toting, Redman-chewing cityboy hunters who can recite whole chunks of Deliverance. Instead, we quietly observed the lack of sound.
The Seer broke the silence with "Dude, the cookie monster cometh," as he suddenly realized he'd been transported to a pleasant land where the operative word is "Dude." When a large bird landed on a cypress branch, the Seer reflected on his tumultuous collegian years.
In college, the Seer gained wide acclaim in certain campus circles for his uncanny ability to mimic the call of a castrated turkey, called a hokie. At first, his new found gift seemed like a dream--as a freshman, his castrated turkey calls gave him unprecedented access to all the big bashes and even a ticket to the Chancellor's ball. As result, he started dating a senior hottie majoring in animal husbandry. People he didn't know bought him beer. And his pictures often graced the pages of the Daily Hokian with the caption Best Hokie Caller Ever.
But the novelty simply didn't wear off, and the Seer soon found the high-spirited and incessant requests for him to constantly perform quite bothersome. And the pressure became unnerving. On his walk to class or in the dark recesses of the library, everywhere he turned he was confronted with yells of "Come on, boy, let me hear the turkey." Or "Hokie caller, come on, give me one."
And then in November, a head cold shattered The Seer's fame. As thousands gathered in front of the steps of Founders Hall on the day of a football game, the Seer's excess mucus filled his upper sinus cavity. Rendered unable to hit the high notes, the Seer's rendition that day in front of the thronged thousands before the colonnades of Founders Hall sounded like a pig with a bad case of gastritis.
Now a pariah, Mary Rae Sue broke up with him and the Daily Hokian ran his picture with the caption Worst Traitor Ever.
But the Seer took this all in good stride--the right attitude as his tube floated on the river.
Toob-N-Ation, Part II
SPRING BRANCH, TX --A perfect day to float down a cold river: temps in the mid 90s with the occasional smattering of merciful clouds and a lilt of a breeze carried on the wings of dragon flies.
When Vernon handed us the toobs, the left corner of his mouth curled as he said "ya'll already weathered the storm this morning...now the good journey will begin." As a toobmaster Sufi and erstwhile cul-de-sacian, Vernon had witnessed how the river affected others. He could look into our eyes and see the river. As he spoke in an untraceable accent, his plain words carried a certain oracular weight as if to tell us that we were embarking on a mystical journey. Just as a precaution, the toobmaster Sufi made us sign the at-your-risk disclosure.
On the path to the river, Felix Ruiz (who still at this point was just Felix) pointed the way through the live oaks as the Seer and the Knave carried the cooler toob full of an assortment of canned Tecate, Lone Star, bottled water, and a plastic liter of Ruiz's wine, but he hadn't tipped the cheap wine yet so it was only Felix's wine, at that point. A processional of carrying contained liquids to the river--a peace offering, a homage to the mighty one.
At the end of the ramp, well-wishers--like trailer-park Penelope and Telemachus--sat on the limestone banks as we pushed off from terra firma. They had all-knowing smiles, you know the kind, like hucksters amid a hard sell or wait staff serving the table of fleeting love. We heard: "Pleasant trip, dudes" (with inaudible mutters of "city folk idiots").
And then we begin to float past the basking, foot-soaking cypress and the ancient stone worn by the babble. Ah, the river.
In stark contrast to this idyllic setting of the flowing Guadalupe, I should first describe what we were fleeing: cube walls that acoustically serve only to amplify the grating cackles emanating from sector G-3... Days and weeks of rushing from one place to another; cruising at 80mph on the freeway before approaching a clusterfuck/slowdown/on/the/flyover...Vanishing days and weeks of starting/stopping but mostly waiting; waiting for others to respond, waiting at red lights, waiting for the check-writer in the grocery line, waiting for the next moment of outrage and bewilderment--mostly waiting between sighs.
Ahhh, but on the river, (it is worth repeating), but on the river, life runs its own course. As Huck and Jim discovered seemingly eons ago, the answer to all modernity's consternation is just to float on the river. Head back, shades on, feet splashing, spinning and floating, ass vulnerable to the knife-encrusted rocks--life as it truely is.
------------------
In the next installment: adventures on the river, the birth of TurboToob2000, moments of chaos, moments of collectiveness.
Toob-N-Ation, Part I
SPRING BRANCH, TX -- By the time the cookies kicked in, the three friends started hashing out the details for the complete empire, including what shade of purple to adorn the TurboToob2000.
Only three hours prior, the relentless rain made them crestfallen as the Infiniti and Beyond motored through the Texas hill country and the windshield wipers cried "this sucks, this sucks." Hope seemed lost as they peered at the clouds for any slight indications of the sun. "Oh, oh, is that...no its headlights."
At several points, the Seer, Felix Ruiz (who at that point in the day was just Felix), and the Knave discussed turning back and cutting their losses. "Yeah, we'll rent some trippy movie and grill some steaks in the backyard." You see, the rain was testing their will and their moral wherewithal to weather the voices of complacence. In a defining moment that will undoubtible change the course of humanity, their collective faith enabled the three unwisemen to gut out the rain for three hours while securely butted in the leather seats of a luxury auto. Without such sacrifice--like the men braving the beaches of Normandy--the world would be cold, unimaginative place because the concept of Toob-N-Ation would have ended up like sperm swimming in vain on a wet dream bed sheet.
Now connoisseurs of the tubing adventure -- with countless trips down the Comal, the San Marcos, and several sections of the Guadalupe -- the three toobers are well-versed in the essentials: how to properly secure the cooler in the cooler tube and how to throw and catch cold cans of beer. (By the way, our periodical, "Toob-N-Ation Weekly" will have in-depth articles on many informative topics, including "Proper Beer Can Hurlage" an "Peeing in Public with Impunity.")
For this toobing trip on Memorial Day weekend -- which will go down in Toob-N-Ation lore as the seminal moment for the founding toob fathers -- the toobers decided to explore the upper Guadalupe at Spring Branch. This stretch of waterway is lined by enormous cypresses that, like creased corpulent men dangling their tremendous leg roots in the water, are sort of scary if your brain is really fried.
Yet, I digress: before the first rapids impaled the three toobers on the switch-blade infested limestone, the fathers drafted the mission statement: "Toob-N-Ation is not just a life style, it is a way of life."
In the next installment: the TurboToob2000 and tenuously dangling lynched tree.
Notes from Midnight
Apologies for the lapse. Where are the days in which the only complication involved debating whether to use the urinal before or after pouring another cup of coffee? Calculating the price per ounce difference between the generic Hill Country Fare cheese and Kraft? Wondering if Rumsfeld is human?
Instead of these eternal questions, it's a scrapple for the apple where I have fallen into the slippery slope of verbified marketing hell. Man, it is sad, but when writing content to convince people to buy stuff, I think of the beautifully crafted dialog of Milton's Satan in Paradise Lost, the ultimate marketing collateral. Imagine the next Superbowl ad:
"Eve, you fine looking babe, you know that apple is some good shit. Sweet, a tad tangy, crisp, and oh, so refreshing. Just what a nude, supple hottie needs when gallivanting around paradise."
Voice over in rapid-fire disclaimer mode: "Eating apples from the tree of knowledge may impair judgment, reduce your life expectancy by 900 years, cause an irreparable relationship with God, and severely piss off your mate even although he is also 'apple curious.' "
