Friday, April 30, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
On Language
"Fetus-fucker," a term that has been getting ever-more-frequent use of late, is one of those ambivalent constructions that gives linguists and general users alike reason for pause. Is a fetus-fucker someone who has intercourse with fetuses, or is it someone who uses fetuses in the process of intercourse with a third (or second, depending on one's point of view) party?
Maybe the thing to do is to try both and see which act is more appropriately matched to the term.
Or perhaps we should let the disambiguation occur through a preponderance of one use over another. Readers, please send in citations and findings.
--Steve Kilian
Maybe the thing to do is to try both and see which act is more appropriately matched to the term.
Or perhaps we should let the disambiguation occur through a preponderance of one use over another. Readers, please send in citations and findings.
--Steve Kilian
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Confession to Rassilon
These warring incarnations never cease. No wonder then that after each resurrection I am less stable, less coherent. I endured years (centuries?) of schooling in the mental and trans-mental disciplines, and still their voices fragment the fragile vessel of my consciousness.I somehow function, though. Confused, distracted, apparently mad at times, I stagger through the world, through disparate epochs, beset by real or imaginary nemeses, creatures surely born of paranoia. Such things cannot exist in a sane universe.
Time lies at the heart of this insanity. I cannot piece together my past in any way that makes sense. Those companions I take for a few months are vastly more capable of rationalizing the events that transpire around me. I wish that I were one of them, although I know this cannot be.
Knowing full-well that they come from within, I nonetheless feel compelled to externalize and personify my internal weaknesses. And so I am saddled with a changing roster of surely hallucinatory villains.
"The Master."
"Davros."
None of it can be real.
--Steve Kilian
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
State of The National
I just read an article about The National in the Times magazine. As I wrapped it up they came up on NPR as guests on Soundcheck, performing live.Knowing myself, I figured that I would have a negative predisposition toward their music. But I was in a tolerant mood so I figured I'd give it a good listen, perhaps giving some undue significance to the coincidence of their appearing in two media streams at once.
After a few minutes I realized that I was listening quite intently. But not out of interest for this mewling dreck. I was listening for the sound of their skins hitting the stage, their flesh sloughed off by the inhabiting members of Thin Lizzy taking bodily possession of them and erupting out of their chests, seizing their instruments and teaching the audience what rock and roll is for.
FUCK THE NATIONAL.
--Steve Kilian
Monday, April 26, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
Post-"Bitches!"
In my last post I used the word “bitches.” Actually it was “Bitches!” You need that exclamation point to make it a stand-alone exclamation. A second and a half of research involving asking myself what I think reveals that “Bitch!” came from prison culture to the streets and then it hit Chapel’s Show.
Yes, I know it’s “Biach!” or some such permutation but it’s all in the Bitch family (Which is an excellent Americana/Folk harmony group from Tennessee now operating in Williamsburg) What started as an abusive term for a rape victim (a darkness that makes its more innocent permutations more amusing) can now be used on your buddies.
It’s a fun word to say, but it’s spent. Chapel drove “Bitch!” into the ground, and it’s still being abused, even by yours truly.
To atone for my triteness, I’ve decided to come up with some fun semi-abusive terms which we might consider to replace “Bitches!”
Bouncy Boys! Fun to say, has that B sound (doubled!) though it might not be so edgy. Still, no one likes to be called bouncy though there are more chubby boys than prison rape victims, so it might be more universal.
Knob Goblins! Kind of has that homophobic zing that “Bitches!” had, but I see it as pure nonsense, and it’s also is fun to say.
Ass Muchachos! Homophobic (and let me be clear, homophobia sucks, but that’s part of the darkness that makes insults fun amongst friends, though violent amongst strangers) with a bit of a Latino vibe.
Gorditos! Dear Promotions Department at YUM! Industries. This is the kind of Taco Bell influenced insult I can make go mainstream if you make me your paid insult blogger.
Noob Boodlers! That probably already means something, but I was just kind of combining Knob Goblins and Bouncy Boys, and I kind of like it.
Humphreygobs! I started out with my favorite actor, Humphrey Bogart, and came up with a substitute for Bitches! What kind of fan am I? I’m a real humphreygob.
Sasquatches! Sort of sounds like “Bitches!” My spell checker gave me...
Sequatchiens! Some county in Tennessee. Let’s put them on the map. One day it’s a quiet rural community, the next it’s an insult people are throwing around. Suck it up, Sequatchiens!
Which new term will be the new “Bitch!”? You tell me.
--Dan Kilian
The Putt Putt: World’s Best Mini Golf, Holes 1-9
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Flying Blind
He held up a Peanut M&M wrapper and crinkled it. The plastic-leaf rustling echoed off objects in the room. He smelled the fragments of candy shell inside, the burnt smell of the now eaten peanuts. Now he smelled the garbage from the kitchen, the leather of the sofa, and the green earthy scent of houseplants.
He made his way across the room, into the kitchen.
Using his daredevil candy-wrapper skills, he made his way past the refrigerator. The regular, square reflections of M&M wrappernoise demarcated his corridor. There, in that cabinet, he smelled dust and cardboard, and some assorted teas.
He opened it up. Here was where he kept the M&Ms, still scentless inside their waxy packets. Soon he would be even more powerful.
Dear President of Marketing at Mars Incorporated
This is the kind of stirring descriptive writing you can expect from me if you take me on as your new short-fiction writer. I realize you might not have such a position, but the field of advertising is expanding every day, with new niche markets opening up all the time. Dozens of people read this blog every month, and putting me on salary will grant you access to those dozens, and the network of dozens more beyond (I cannot actually vouch that my readers have any friends.)
Think of the awesome power! I just reread my piece and it made me want to eat another bag of peanut M&Ms. I didn't, because I don't want to get sick, but you see how it works?
Sincerely,
Dan Kilian
Product Short-Fiction Writer
Dear Reader,
It's meta-fiction bitches! Am I in the story about the M&M wrapper, or the letter about the story, or am I commenting on it from another layer above? Well the jokes on you, because I'm commenting on the comment from a fourth level! It goes all the way to the top, and you'll never get to the bottom. In my way, I have become a god. I turn to my fellow gods and find that we are all slaves, the lowest of the low. Who enslaves the gods? Why the corporate Masters at Mars Inc, of course, at least that's who would control the gods, if you hire me. That's right! I'm back in the letter! Now I'm back up to level 4! Now I'm looking down on that! Now I crinkle my wrapper and realize that it's really not giving me sonar, I just kind of know my way around the apartment even though I'm blind. Back in the story, only this time in first person bitches!
Sorry about the "bitches" thing. That's trite, but it still sounds good to say. Maybe in my next post I'll come up with a new word to replace "bitches." I know I've gone the meta-fiction angle before too, but here we are, on the 6th level, so I'd be a fool not to point it out. John Barth can bite my ass!
--Dan Kilian
District 9 District 9 District 9 District 9 District 9
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Amok Time
Throwin' soup at the nurseFuckin' seven year curse
My captain I'll cut
For that faithless slut
I may be out of my head
But I swear he was dead
No longer mad, here is joy;
"Thank you, McCoy"
"No thanks need you speak
you pointy-eared freak"
Credits
--Steve Kilian
Monday, April 19, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
Constuputid K Words
Simplicated: When something is both basic and complex. Something that is elemental in nature, but convoluted in its ultimate design. The game Othello is so simplicated its slogan is “A minute to learn, a lifetime to master.” Love should be simple, but it’s simplicated.
Complistupid: When something should be easy, but someone’s mental deficiencies make it problematic. Picking a place to eat should be easy, but you always make it complistupid. It’s not complicated, it’s complistupid.
Constupated: Something that is so stupid it makes you constipated. Conservative Republicans pretending to be some kind of anti-deficit movement after eight years of George Bush are constupated.
Constuputional: Any argument that the founding fathers would abhor any moderate changes in public life. Enough with these constuputional lawsuits challenging the Health Care plan.
Sensibullshit: Something that sounds sensible, but which is actually bullshit. Arguing about our alarming deficits without suggesting cuts to Social Security, Medicare, and The Military, or suggesting additional taxes is sensibullshit.
--Dan Kilian
Complistupid: When something should be easy, but someone’s mental deficiencies make it problematic. Picking a place to eat should be easy, but you always make it complistupid. It’s not complicated, it’s complistupid.
Constupated: Something that is so stupid it makes you constipated. Conservative Republicans pretending to be some kind of anti-deficit movement after eight years of George Bush are constupated.
Constuputional: Any argument that the founding fathers would abhor any moderate changes in public life. Enough with these constuputional lawsuits challenging the Health Care plan.
Sensibullshit: Something that sounds sensible, but which is actually bullshit. Arguing about our alarming deficits without suggesting cuts to Social Security, Medicare, and The Military, or suggesting additional taxes is sensibullshit.
--Dan Kilian
Thursday, April 15, 2010
A Good Put-Down
If you get into a real hostile conversation (This one is a little too harsh for just joshing around with your buddies) you could try out this joke. It putatively depends on the other guy (and is is a guy, this isn't a chick conversation. It's for real macho jerks in a macho jerk off) giving you an "I give up" or a "what" but you can just cut him off from whatever crap he's trying to come up with by maliciously spitting out the punch line, unbidden.
You: Hey that reminds me of a joke. Why did the douche-bag have sex with the asshole?
Him: You're a big...
You: Because go fuck yourself.
Use it wisely. You heard it here first, but only extremely tasteful people would be able to call you on it.
You're welcome.
--Dan Kilian
You: Hey that reminds me of a joke. Why did the douche-bag have sex with the asshole?
Him: You're a big...
You: Because go fuck yourself.
Use it wisely. You heard it here first, but only extremely tasteful people would be able to call you on it.
You're welcome.
--Dan Kilian
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Ice Cream
Roger walked into the Chinatown Ice Cream Factory looking for something exotic. He was a bit disappointed by the expected offerings of green tea and lychee sorbet. Mango and coconut seemed more Caribbean than anything else. Red bean and black sesame piqued his interest, but still he wanted more.
"Do you have anything special today?" he asked.
The teenage girl behind the counter flipped her bangs and tongued her lip-piercing, striking a food-court pose, and walked to the back end of the counter. "Grampa!" she yelled, "White guy wants special."
An old Chinese man wearing some sort of fez appeared from behind a curtain at the back of the store. The old man looked at Roger over a set of filthy reading glasses and beckoned with his hand.
"Good special," he said, laughing and nodding, and disappeared behind the curtain. Roger followed.
The back room was mostly filled with cardboard cartons of napkins and waffle cones, with a softcore pinup calendar showing Asian beauties. A grimy chest freezer rumbled away on the far wall underneath a window that had been filled in with glass block. What looked like tubers and rhizomes floated in murky liquid in a series of jars set on the windowsill. The old man opened the freezer and scooped out a yellowish ball of ice cream from a cardboard cylinder.
"Scorpion venom. Make strong!"
Roger took the spoon from the old man and tasted. His lips went numb and he detected a familiar flavor. He shook his head at the ruse and said, "This is Szechuan peppercorn ice cream. I want something special."
The old man nodded in grudging appreciation. Shooing Roger back a few paces, he reached to the floor and pulled up a trap door.
"Follow me," he said, and disappeared down a steep set of wooden stairs, the treads scalloped from long use. Roger went down the stairs backward, holding onto the sides to steady himself.
The cellar was low, with rubble walls and a concrete floor. More cartons of waffle cones were stacked here and there amidst a sea of Tasty Banana glue-traps covered in hair and silverfish. Hundreds of empty ice cream canisters were crushed into one corner. In the middle of one wall was a huge sliding fire-door, covered in battered tin. A stack of concrete disks acted as a counterweight, suspended on a chain that rattled as the old man pulled the door open.
"After you," he said, gesturing into a darkened room.
Roger walked to the edge of the pool of light spilling through the door. The room stank of some sort of animal. "Are there any lights?" he asked, just as the old man flicked a switch. A fluorescent fixture reluctantly flickered overhead, strobing and pulsing. A cow was tethered to the far wall by a rope tied off to a rusty steel ring set into the mortar. It barely looked up from the bale of hay it was patiently eating.
"Fresh cream!" cried the old man, clapping his hands softly, walking over to another chest freezer.
This freezer made the one upstairs look positively futuristic. Where the other rumbled this one wheezed, periodically emitting a puff of refrigerant from an exposed manifold of pipes. A compressor chugged along, exposed belts frayed and slack. A thin rivulet of water ran from under the freezer in an algae-slick trough to a rusted drain in the middle of the room. A hasp with a padlock had been screwed to the freezer door. The old man quickly dialed the combination and opened the door. Fog spilled up and out of the compartment, startling a low moan from the cow.
"What flavor is it?" asked Roger.
The old man shook his head and said, "No name." He produced a long-handled ivory spoon from his sleeve and scooped.
The ice cream was stark white, so much that the spoon looked yolky and foul by contrast. The walls, the freezer, the concrete floor, the mold-spotted wooden joists of the floor overhead – everything took on a sheen of grime, or rather were revealed to be somehow essentially grubby in the presence of such purity.
The old man slipped the spoon into his mouth, the perfect ice cream disappearing behind nicotine-stained teeth and cracked, bristly lips. He closed his eyes in appreciation, letting slip a small noise of pleasure in his transcendent moment.
Finally his eyes opened and he asked, "You like to try?"
Roger had already left the room, sprinting for home. He would have to wash for days to scrub the grime from his skin. He wondered if he would ever be ready.
"Do you have anything special today?" he asked.
The teenage girl behind the counter flipped her bangs and tongued her lip-piercing, striking a food-court pose, and walked to the back end of the counter. "Grampa!" she yelled, "White guy wants special."
An old Chinese man wearing some sort of fez appeared from behind a curtain at the back of the store. The old man looked at Roger over a set of filthy reading glasses and beckoned with his hand.
"Good special," he said, laughing and nodding, and disappeared behind the curtain. Roger followed.
The back room was mostly filled with cardboard cartons of napkins and waffle cones, with a softcore pinup calendar showing Asian beauties. A grimy chest freezer rumbled away on the far wall underneath a window that had been filled in with glass block. What looked like tubers and rhizomes floated in murky liquid in a series of jars set on the windowsill. The old man opened the freezer and scooped out a yellowish ball of ice cream from a cardboard cylinder.
"Scorpion venom. Make strong!"
Roger took the spoon from the old man and tasted. His lips went numb and he detected a familiar flavor. He shook his head at the ruse and said, "This is Szechuan peppercorn ice cream. I want something special."
The old man nodded in grudging appreciation. Shooing Roger back a few paces, he reached to the floor and pulled up a trap door.
"Follow me," he said, and disappeared down a steep set of wooden stairs, the treads scalloped from long use. Roger went down the stairs backward, holding onto the sides to steady himself.
The cellar was low, with rubble walls and a concrete floor. More cartons of waffle cones were stacked here and there amidst a sea of Tasty Banana glue-traps covered in hair and silverfish. Hundreds of empty ice cream canisters were crushed into one corner. In the middle of one wall was a huge sliding fire-door, covered in battered tin. A stack of concrete disks acted as a counterweight, suspended on a chain that rattled as the old man pulled the door open.
"After you," he said, gesturing into a darkened room.
Roger walked to the edge of the pool of light spilling through the door. The room stank of some sort of animal. "Are there any lights?" he asked, just as the old man flicked a switch. A fluorescent fixture reluctantly flickered overhead, strobing and pulsing. A cow was tethered to the far wall by a rope tied off to a rusty steel ring set into the mortar. It barely looked up from the bale of hay it was patiently eating.
"Fresh cream!" cried the old man, clapping his hands softly, walking over to another chest freezer.
This freezer made the one upstairs look positively futuristic. Where the other rumbled this one wheezed, periodically emitting a puff of refrigerant from an exposed manifold of pipes. A compressor chugged along, exposed belts frayed and slack. A thin rivulet of water ran from under the freezer in an algae-slick trough to a rusted drain in the middle of the room. A hasp with a padlock had been screwed to the freezer door. The old man quickly dialed the combination and opened the door. Fog spilled up and out of the compartment, startling a low moan from the cow.
"What flavor is it?" asked Roger.
The old man shook his head and said, "No name." He produced a long-handled ivory spoon from his sleeve and scooped.
The ice cream was stark white, so much that the spoon looked yolky and foul by contrast. The walls, the freezer, the concrete floor, the mold-spotted wooden joists of the floor overhead – everything took on a sheen of grime, or rather were revealed to be somehow essentially grubby in the presence of such purity.
The old man slipped the spoon into his mouth, the perfect ice cream disappearing behind nicotine-stained teeth and cracked, bristly lips. He closed his eyes in appreciation, letting slip a small noise of pleasure in his transcendent moment.
Finally his eyes opened and he asked, "You like to try?"
Roger had already left the room, sprinting for home. He would have to wash for days to scrub the grime from his skin. He wondered if he would ever be ready.
--Steve Kilian
Trippy and Groovy: 8 Song Playlist
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Rapunzel
Rapunzel Rapunzel
*
Rapunzel Rapunzel
*
Rapunzel Rapunzel
Rapunzel Rapunzel
*
Rapunzel
*
Rapunzel
*
Rapunzel Rapunzel
Rapunzel Rapunzel
--Dan Kilian
*
Rapunzel Rapunzel
*
Rapunzel Rapunzel
Rapunzel Rapunzel
*
Rapunzel
*
Rapunzel
*
Rapunzel Rapunzel
Rapunzel Rapunzel
--Dan Kilian
The State of The Art in Horror
The Ks at Bar Matchless
Sigh, for some reason the photo won't upload. I'll try again later. Until then, we'll let this frustration stand as a post.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Bring Matches
This the the program from last night's show, which featured Will Pilot, The Ks, The Neutron Drivers, and Jupiter Deluxe. The show was a benefit for Bar Matchless, where audience members were encouraged to bring matches. The title really has nothing to do with this bunch of words following.
The Neutron Drivers swung their brooms in wide fast swoops as the particles spat past. The Will Pilot focused on keeping the spinning subatomics on course. Magnets whirred and the supercollider hummed with its mission.
Electrons found their twins in different parts of the universe. One day this would lead to a form of human transportation, but not today. One neutron brothered with one a mere quarter of a globe away, five feet underground in a basement in Queens.
“We need new angles!” said the captain of the Neutron Drivers.
“Very well” said the Will Pilot, and siphoned the particles down a new corridor.
Opening windows in the fabric of space (but not time! It’s not as easy as all that!) they fired their pellets along the length of the great K, a might axis of tunnels beneath most of the continent. At the nexus of the leg and the arm the neutrons collided, exploding.
In Queens a tiny black hole opened, it’s mouth wide like a hungry chick.
Meanwhile, further out in the solar system, Jupiter yawned and swirled. New colors emerged from its rusty stripes, and then the gas giant glowed and expanded.
Driving home from a speaking engagement, Roger Waters looked into his rear-view mirror. “Two suns in the sunset…” he mused, “…could it be the human race has won?”
I apologize to everyone involved. None of the other bands were consulted about this classic-rock fetishistic nerd bomb.
--Dan Kilian
The Neutron Drivers swung their brooms in wide fast swoops as the particles spat past. The Will Pilot focused on keeping the spinning subatomics on course. Magnets whirred and the supercollider hummed with its mission.
Electrons found their twins in different parts of the universe. One day this would lead to a form of human transportation, but not today. One neutron brothered with one a mere quarter of a globe away, five feet underground in a basement in Queens.
“We need new angles!” said the captain of the Neutron Drivers.
“Very well” said the Will Pilot, and siphoned the particles down a new corridor.
Opening windows in the fabric of space (but not time! It’s not as easy as all that!) they fired their pellets along the length of the great K, a might axis of tunnels beneath most of the continent. At the nexus of the leg and the arm the neutrons collided, exploding.
In Queens a tiny black hole opened, it’s mouth wide like a hungry chick.
Meanwhile, further out in the solar system, Jupiter yawned and swirled. New colors emerged from its rusty stripes, and then the gas giant glowed and expanded.
Driving home from a speaking engagement, Roger Waters looked into his rear-view mirror. “Two suns in the sunset…” he mused, “…could it be the human race has won?”
I apologize to everyone involved. None of the other bands were consulted about this classic-rock fetishistic nerd bomb.
--Dan Kilian
End of Conflict II: The Squid & Whale Tattoo
Intro to Last Night's Show
It takes one match to light the inferno. Tonight that match will be struck by...The Ks!
--Steve Kilian
--Steve Kilian
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
The Sentient Slab
So I'm working at my tool-bench and I hear this voice say, "You need more Phillips head screws."I check and sure enough, I was short on Philips screws.
The next month, it happened again. "You're out of turpentine."
I couldn't explain it. I figured I might have a ghost. So I brought in a paranormal expert.
"You don't have a ghost." he concluded after some tests. "It's your workbench."
"My workbench?"
"Somehow a random series of nicks and abrasions from your repairs has triggered an intelligence, one that is able to monitor its immediate vicinity and communicate."
"That makes no sense."
"I realize it's counter-intuitive."
--Dan Kilian
Mark Twain, Karl Marx, and Socrates: At It Again
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Who is JASON D? K-Riddle
Editor's note: Yes, we're on a riddle kick!JASON D says with a laugh,
"What you do in a year I can do in a half!
I'm named after numbers, I'm named after emperors
I start out quite hot and I end up much colder
I start out with explosions and end in champagne
Can you tell me why I have this name?"
A loony one is he
So who, or what, is JASON D?
--Dan Kilian
Buzz Aldrin's Immortal Words
Monday, April 5, 2010
Nother K-Riddle (Easy One For a Monday)
Some seize me
Some rue me
Some sleep right through me
Sometimes dark
Sometimes lazy
Every dog has me
--Dan Kilian
Some rue me
Some sleep right through me
Sometimes dark
Sometimes lazy
Every dog has me
--Dan Kilian
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Musical Pronouncements
You know who sang a lot of good songs? Elvis.
You know who else had a lot of good songs? Simon and Garfunkle. Paul Simon has a ton of good songs too.
--Dan Kilian
You know who else had a lot of good songs? Simon and Garfunkle. Paul Simon has a ton of good songs too.
--Dan Kilian
The Video: Last Trip To The Well
The Fascinating Then Curious Then Fairly Blah Case of Benjamin Button
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
