Klog

KLOG has MOVED!

2009-08-28T12:48:00.003-04:00

Sweet Boroughs

2009-08-26T12:19:00.007-04:00

O sweet boroughs of intoxication!

A kid drops his first blunt, passing out and gently shitting himself in the Bronx

Irishman welcomed ashore with Ketamine in Queens – later he'll be fighting

The weed of Brooklyn, the kegs of light backyard beer across Staten Island, all wanting

That vomiting girl, eighteen? nineteen? drunk on well vodka

Fouling a chaise and her skirt on the Lower East Side, O Manhattan

O New York!

--Steve Kilian
Gilligan's Island Poem
Impaled

The Putt Putt: World's Best Mini Golf, Holes 1-9

2009-08-26T09:58:00.012-04:00

Hole 1

“Scotland Green”

Handicap: 2 strokes

A long narrow single green with two small hills as obstacles. On the second hill a young woman sits weeping, a potential distraction to the player.

Hole 2

“The Windmill”

Handicap: 4 strokes

A large model of a windmill block the entryway from the first green to the second, with it’s spinning sails. The windmill pumps water from the greens into the adjacent pools. There is a hole in the dike, which the player must plug with his or her finger while putting and attacking the windmill with his or her club. When the windmill is dismantled, both greens will begin to flood, hampering the player’s accuracy.

Hole 3

The Membrane

Handicap: 6 strokes

The first green is submerged in one foot of corn syrup. Biologically engineered goldfish swim through the corn syrup creating slow currents that move the player’s balls along on their course. There are a number of openings in the aquarium where the corn syrup flows into a solid wall of tree sap at the base of a miniature.

The players either hit the ball into the sap or atop it, where it sinks in. Both ways the ball is submerged. After millions of years the sap hardens into amber, and the amber from the ball is cut from the block, polished, and mailed to an independent evaluator, who prices the amber golf ball, and sends it back The Putt Putt. The ball is delivered via a Rube Goldbergian system of wire tunnels and transportational devices, onto the third green of this hole, a conventional circle of Astroturf with the flag-hole and one small hill as an obstacle.

Note: Place this one close to the refreshment area.

Hole 4

The Temptation

Handicap: 3 strokes

A long single green with traps of sand and water on each side. A rich figure dressed as Satan offers the player one thousand dollars to write down six strokes and move on to the next hole. This offer should be refused and the hole can be easily completed in two or three putts.

Note: Some cynical players might view the one thousand dollar temptation as too enticing, and may be willing to throw the hole for the sake of the money. It is a depressing indicator of a society in decline. Those wicked souls that do should be paid in gift certificates to the Putt Putt, which will take them an onerous number of visits to fully redeem and, of course, subject them to “The Temptation” countless times. .

Hole 5

“The Labyrinth”

Handicap: 3 strokes

A row of holes leads to a system of tubes that deliver the player’s ball to the second green. Inside the tunnels is a tiny robot Minotaur. There are large spoons of yellow thread, which a player can wind around his or her ball in case it gets stuck in the Labyrinth, in which case they can be pulled back out. After the ball comes out onto the second green, it is scooped up in a basket attached to a system of pulleys by fine crafted wax wings. The pulleys lift towards a large incandescent light bulb suspended over the second green. As the wax wings melt, the baskets spill the ball onto the green, where another putt or two should complete the hole.

Hole 6

“Iraq and Afghanistan”

Handicap: 6 strokes

Sounds of recorded applause play when you exit the first green into the second, a series of sand traps and rock obstacles.

Note: Players may loose a number of balls, and they may purchase new ones for a small fee. The Player may have to start over in the first green and in fact his or her ball may never have left, only been forgotten. This hole may drag on and on with no end in sight. Place close to the refreshment area.

Hole 7

“The HealthCare System”

Handicap 1 Stroke

Players who have purchased all day passes may play this hole, others will have to take the detour to the emergency hole, the price of which will be deducted from the all day pass holder’s credit cards. Non-pass holders may play this hole, but will be billed until they have no money left, and must foreclose on their homes. There is a wave shape in the first green, which must be navigated to get to the second green, which has a small hill for an obstacle. There is also a hospital.

Hole 8

“Jack and the Beanstalk”

Handicap: 5 strokes

There is a spinning green beanstalk in the center of the first green, with broad leaves spiraling up the stalk into the cloud layer, which contains the second green. A player climbs a spiral staircase to the cloud layer, while a leaf scoops up the ball. On the second green the player is threatened by giants who sing infantile poems and try to eat the player. There is also a robot cow on the first green, creating obstacles with its metal hoofs. Puffy cloud shapes function as hills.

Hole 9

“The Masked Ball”

Handicap: 6 strokes

Everyone is disguised. The playe must guess who the player’s allies are, and who are the player’s enemies, but the ball attendees keep changing faces. The player can trust no one completely. And what is the answer to “The Second Riddle of The Second Sphinx?” The Ball is transported by envoys through back channels finessed by black-market bribes. As the player climbs the unspoken chain of command, the net tightens around the player in a suffocating game of layered deceits. There are two hills, one large, one small, and a water trap.

--Dan Kilian

The Ghost of Ford Talks to Obama

The Billion Dollar Omelet

The Atomic Adventures of Jack Keruac

2009-08-20T17:29:00.003-04:00

--Jack Feldstein

The Adventures of J.D. and The Rye Guy

James Bond's Bad Day

BLAAAHH!!!! Blaah blaaah blaaaaHHH!!!

2009-08-20T16:35:00.010-04:00

The Public Option doesn't go far enough. There should be 100% coverage for all citizens and residents under a tax-funded socialized medical system. Health care is like water treatment, childhood education, police protection, and fire departments: one of the responsibilities of a civilized society. More: it is a human right.

But what about all the inefficiencies and paperwork of a government-run bureaucracy? Another good point -- I've got to fill out three forms every time I turn on the tap. Oh, wait a second -- I don't have to do that at all, because it's a government service paid for by taxes. I also don't have to present my fire insurance card before the firemen get to work on the building burning down around me. Health-care related paperwork is largely an artifact of the insurance companies, who would be out of the picture in a socialized system.

In fairness I'll give the republican town-hall-crashers a chance to rebut: "BLAAAHH!!!! Blaah blaaah blaaaaHHH!!!" This is such a depressing commentary on the state of political discourse in this country, and reflects how far the party of Lincoln has fallen. It is now quite clear that the GOP is a cadre of corporate stooges, cynical to the core and disdainful of their constituents. The rural poor get screwed repeatedly and then wave a flag and vote for the guy who did the deed*. Baffling.

Here's how health care in America should work: I cut off my hand by accident. I put the hand in the fridge, call 911, and pass out. I wake up as paramedics scan my implant and check the on-board medical history with the file they download from the secure government server. It's a match, and now they know that I'm allergic to aspirin and Fentanyl, have borderline high blood pressure, have a standing DNR and organ-donation request in the event of persistent vegetative state, and that my next of kin is reachable by mobile phone. Not present is my insurance ID number, because I don't need one.

The dispatcher calls Nancy while the field tech gets the hand from the fridge. Unfortunately he doesn't realize that the concord grape sorbet was only in the fridge to soften up a bit, so it's completely melted when I get back from the hospital.

They load me up with a type-matched transfusion (they know my blood type from the chip) on the way to the hospital. The monitors in the ambulance are synched real-time with a case file that has been opened at the hospital, and an operating room is waiting when we pull in to the emergency bay.

The anesthesiologist has been monitoring my vitals remotely during the ride, and she's ready with appropriate dosages of all the fun stuff. I chuckle the whole way down and wake up after what seems like only a few seconds. It's tomorrow, and my hand is reattached.

After a few days in the hospital we have a consultation to see how much longer I should stay. There have been regular MRIs to check the healing process. The doctor thinks I should stay for another week and do PT in the hospital. Nancy and I want to get out of there as soon as possible to avoid the possibility of infection. Our appointed Patient Advocate understands both points of view, and we collectively agree on three more days, with daily visits from the physical therapist at home for the next three weeks, and weekly for six months thereafter. I'll have checkups at an outpatient clinic near my apartment every three days, scheduled around my workday. Any numbness, redness, sudden swelling, or anything that seems off -- call 911 and the reattachment specialists will be automatically contacted once I give my name or my chip is scanned.

Three days later I go through the discharge process: I go to central processing, put my implant against the plate, and my updated history is downloaded to the chip. A sheet is printed out with a description of the meds I need to take and the contact info for the various follow-up doctors, nurses, and adjunct care professionals. Then three plastic bottles of pills drop into the slot, sort of like a soda machine. My first month of prescriptions have been filled, and the next month's order will be automatically processed and sent in the mail three weeks later.

After 18 long months of recovery I have regained about 75% of the function of the hand -- better than nothing, and they think it will continue to improve over the next few years. Then I get a bill from the hospital. I open it with dread, thinking about that long stay immediately after reattachment. Sure enough, there it is: the charges for the pay-per-view movies.

Thirty bucks. Damn.

--Steve Kilian

*I know this is a crass generalization, and that there are plenty of principled people who vote for republicans for a variety of reasons, but I'm all worked up and furious. Probably weakens my argument, but I know I'm not going to change anyone's mind anyway.

Let's Get Sick

Myths of Health Care Turned Into Lies

The Pink FLame vs. The Green Whore-Net

2009-08-20T16:27:00.003-04:00

--Dan Kilian

End of Conflict

Firemen II

Maureen Dowd Guest Column

2009-08-20T14:58:00.005-04:00

Klog is proud to have brought on Maureen Dowd as a regular columnist. She’ll still be writing her columns for the New York Times, but she’ll be posting them here first. It’s a big feather in our caps. Thanks Maureen!

With the dog days of August upon us, it seems that Barack Obama’s in the dog house with the voters. His numbers are sinking, and he’s got to jettison the public option to keep his Health Care plan afloat. I wonder if he wishes sometimes that Hillary had won. I know Hillary’s got to think she could do this better. Hillary’s got to be pissed off all the time. God I hate her.

So, what else is going on? Mad Men had its season debut the other day. I’d try to tie that in to politics, but Frank Rich already devoted a huge column to it.

What else have I TIVOed? Hey, it’s the 30 Rock with the guy from Mad Men. Liz Lemon tries to show him what life is like if you’re not beautiful. I bet Hillary would love to show Obama what it’s like to not be beautiful. There’s something she could understand. Stupid Hillary.

Let’s see, what else is on? What’s on TV now? News, news, naw.

Ooh! It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia has a new season! Oh, that was just a commercial.

Sometimes I just like to watch the What’s On Channel and watch the channels scroll by. It’s very relaxing. Maybe someone should show Hillary the What’s On channel so she could relax. She’s so uptight!

Hmm….let me check my word count. Nope, it’s not a column yet.

Yankees are winning. Looks like they’ve got it together. Derek Jeter is like Obama, A-Rod is like Hillary. Steroid using cheater!

Oh look, the Shamwow guy is selling something else!

Flip. Flip. Let me check my word count again…

Did it! Another prize-worthy political humor column!

--sent to Dan Kilian by Maureen Dowd

Maureen Dowd: Lust American Style

Bono Op-Ed

Let’s Get Sick

2009-08-19T11:58:00.006-04:00

Yesterday I proposed that young healthy people boycott health care if there is no public plan to keep costs from spiraling out of control. The reasoning is sound: Seniors and Insurance companies can’t expect the young to pay into an unfeasible system if they’re not willing to make some sacrifices as well. The method is the problem. The government will no doubt take your money from your wages before you even see it, just as is done today through most business health care plans. Or they’ll take it out of our metro-card or something. They’re sneaky.

So a boycott won’t work. Here is what I propose, should a health care package pass without a public plan, essentially kicking the can down the road until some co-op plan proves to be unequal competition for Insurance companies: Young healthy people should get sick.

For this health-care plan to pay off for those mandated to join, you’ve got to develop some pre-existing conditions. Start smoking. Eat lots of greasy food. Booze had a two-fold benefit: it’s unhealthy and it makes it easier to get into injurious fights.

Unprotected sex is another great way to get sick. I envision orgy conventions where people wear name badges that advertise their disease. Want herpes? Pile on over here. Crabs? Room 214. And of course there’s AIDS for the hardcore.

Get sick America. It’s the only way to make this Health Care system pay off!

--Dan Kilian

The New Town Hall

Rationing The Death Panels

Youth Revolt

2009-08-18T15:09:00.002-04:00

A message to the young and healthy:

They’re going to make us all get health insurance, but there’s not going to be a public option. That died because senior citizens want a system that pays for everything for free. Of course, that’s the problem with our rising costs to begin with, but fixing rising costs is too scary for seniors. Well maybe paying for the eternal life and well being of the old is a little scary for the young, and maybe there’s something you can do about it.

Why should they have to pony into a system that’s not serious about containing costs? I get the moral argument that people’s lives shouldn’t be ruined by sickness, and they shouldn’t be getting sick because they’re poor. But why start paying into an unsustainable system just because our politicians are corrupt? Especially when you’ll have to pay all the taxes on these deficits? That’s making you pay twice.

Insurance companies will have a windfall, without having to face the public option.
I don’t really get what co-op is, other than a term that appeals to old people who own apartments. I suspect most in government don’t know what it is either, but I have a healthy guess that it will be struggling to compete with insurance companies as opposed to insurance companies struggling to compete with the government. If it doesn’t work, it will take years and more political battles for a new entrenched institution to finally admit it.

I say if there’s no public plan, then young people should boycott the plan. At least make a lot of noise like you will. Something needs to scare the Democrats besides crazy old ladies. Get scary, kids.

--Dan Kilian

Death To Everyone

Cosmonauts Go Crazy

District 9 District 9 District 9 District 9 District 9

2009-08-17T12:45:00.005-04:00

District 9 is the latest in a series from the burgeoning Science Fiction movie industry of South Africa. This is the most sophisticated installment of the series, and the first to be screened in the United States. It’s a shame we haven’t been privy to the first eight District movies, because this one is quite excellent, and surely some of the back story wouldn’t hurt. Actual smart science fiction with tons of action, sterling special effects, and decent looking aliens. Not only does it leave you crackling with energy, it imparts a message: People would care about displaced Africans if they were aliens.

That is why I’m starting a new charity: Antennae for Africa. We shall affix antennae and other alien prostheses to hungry Sudanese children. Donate money or the rabbit ears from your old digitally incompatible television sets. We’re also accepting lobster remains, but please do clean them first. This will give them an exotic aura that will pay off when it comes time to give to charity, or to write your congressmen about the ongoing annual atrocities in Sudan.

In the movie a white man with a bad mustache is spattered with alien rocket fuel which turns him into an alien. Sure that doesn’t make any damn sense, but this is alien stuff! Who knows what it would do. He turns alien hand first. Now this is a crucial failure in realism. There should have been a montage of him, curled up in an alien shanty jerking off with that alien hand for hours on end. No man could resist. If this was my picture, it would be all alien hand masturbation for the rest of the movie, and it would have been a great movie. I would have called it “District Alien Hand-Jerk 9.” While it’s a tragedy that this wasn’t the movie that was made, the movie they did make was pretty good.

Eventually our hero goes through a torturous ordeal, and grows enough beard that we don’t care about his mustache. No sappy speeches are made, and a lot of baddies get blown into splashes of blood. Screw G.I. Joe. This is the movie of the summer.

Until the foundation for Antennae for Africa can be established, you can donate to help regular human hungry Sudanese kids here.

--Dan Kilian

Bruno, Harry Potter, Orphan

Benjamin Button

The Disproportionate Orgy

2009-08-14T10:02:00.006-04:00

I’d been on the road at pagan festivals for the last few weeks, and like a demon possession from a séance gone bad, I brought a hippie chick back with me to the big rusty apple. She was the kind of spun-out gypsy who, when asked “where do you live” would earnestly respond “in what lifetime?” and proceed to talk chakras till dawn. I’d met her after arriving at Starwood, the all-but-self-proclaimed pagan Mecca of Sherman New York, and was quickly introduced to her other boyfriend. He was a drummer too, only he was getting paid to be there. Something felt real good about snaking his girl, since being a drummer at one of these festivals is a badge of insignificance. Everyone does it; they’re a dime a dozen, but only those with some sort of credentials get to make the big bucks. I met this guy as his girlfriend, who I guess I should introduce as Annabella, brought me to his trailer to steal some blankets.

Here was the conversation as it actually happened:

“Oh, so you play drums.”
“Yeah . . . you too?”
“Uh-huh, this is my big paycheck, I lead the band.”
“Cool, man. Dig it.”

And here’s the conversation that wasn’t happening:

“So you’re here to steal MY blankets to sleep with MY girl?”
“Sounds about right.”
“And this doesn’t bother you?”
“Nah man, a girl like this you can’t control, she’s like the wind.”

Well, I sure got a taste of my own medicine when I tried to let Annabella’s crazy antics fly in the secular world of Washington Heights. My band was playing a show, and just as our singer spit the words “I don’t need another lover to complicate the situation,” Annabella was outside rounding up people for an orgy.

This wasn’t her first attempt, either. Previously she’d tried to swing a three-way between me and her other boyfriend while her pops watched. Needless to say I did my best to bow out of that one, but this time she caught me all sorts of fucked up and ready for anything. Problem was, by the time we got to leaving the bar, there were only 2 girls in the group and about 7 or 8 guys. Annabella wasn’t setting us up for an orgy; she was shooting for a gang bang.

As the second half of the crew drove off to meet us at the apartment, it was Anabella, our friend Stacy, Conrad, Harold and myself who walked down through the Bronx that evening to Washington Heights; the girls stripping down to their panties and screaming the whole way. Crowds were forming around them as they urinated down city steps and fingered each other. It wasn’t long before they were totally naked and walking past the 50th precinct. Harold and I were in a total panic, but the cops just smiled and waved.

When we got to Stacy’s place we were stopped by an off-duty Bx7 line. “HEY YOU GUYS, COME HERE, I WANNA TAKE A PICTURE” the driver shouted. He looked as though he’d had a few to drink himself. He invited us on the bus and quickly explained that he had a camera somewhere and that we’d have to wait for it. In the meantime he offered to drive us around.

This was good enough for the rest of the crew, who hopped into the back, got naked, and began to fuck, but Harold was skeptical – for one thing, we didn’t need to go anywhere, we were already at our apartment, and for another, where was this guy’s camera?

Finally, after the fifth or sixth loop around the block, Harold noticed the driver starting to slip out of his pants. He grabbed us by the hair shouting “THIS IS OUR STOP” and flipped the door switch out of the driver’s hand. As we bolted out into the street, the driver came to a halt and stood at the side of the road glaring at us. For the rest of the evening, each time I’d walk to the bodega to get more beer, he’d be right there in his bus demanding I come over to take care of some “unfinished business.”

Back in the apartment, everyone who’d been admiring Annabella all evening hopped on her like a 25-cent grocery store ride with me in the corner getting drunk. I got into the fray for a little while and even tried shit with Stacy, but it just wasn’t the same. Seven guys to two girls just isn’t right.

Other guys in the room sensed this too and asked if I was really down with them balling my girl. The response every time would be one which, just a week before, I’d been pretty fond of: “a girl like this you can’t control, she’s like the wind.”

As the evening wound down I found myself sitting with a couple of the benchwarmers downing the rest of the 40s. The conversation between them went as follows:

“I think everyone in here thinks you’re gay.”
“Nuh-uh, everyone in here thinks YOU’RE gay.”

My sole contribution:

“You’re both gay, now shut up so I can get some sleep!”

The next morning insecurities were still riding high. The first thing I saw was Annabella in the middle of a mass of naked bodies vaguely resembling the pantheon. I had a Clash sort of “should-I-stay-or-should-I-go” moment and eventually decided that she was happy and that was good enough for me. She was shipping out to another festival that night though and I couldn’t figure out if I wanted to say goodbye. I grabbed every coin in the room and flipped them for an answer. Each concluded that I should go, but I didn’t like that answer. I sat on the corner of the bed with my pants and shoes on for a minute when out of nowhere, Annabella throws everyone to the floor and tackles me. “What are you doing,” she says, “jealousy isn’t a good look for you.”

We spent the rest of the day together in the apartment fucking – she’d apparently only been with really lazy hippie lovers and needed a good old fashioned Jersey railing to spice up her life – when she started spouting stuff about love. Not the hippie sort of “I love everybody” routine either, but things like “I know saying you’re the love of my life is clichéd, but you make me LOVE my life and I love you more than anything.” Shit was starting to smell of monogamy, and since we really didn’t have anything else in common, that was all she’d talk about. Every other sentence was about how she could see us together for ever and she would die for me. Every sentence besides that was about the moon being in Aquarius and the spirits mingling with the goddess for some kind of celestial kegger. Needless to say, I was getting a headache.

I took her to a Harlem pickup game and she couldn’t grasp it. She’d honestly never seen basketball before. She told me that these “natives” with their “ritualistic chakra cleansings” were just what she needed to “ease her spirit” before it was forcibly “removed from her body” by the “evil force.” I looked down at my hand and caught that it was tightly wound in a fist. I’d never been this frustrated with anyone before.

“Do you ever listen to yourself speak, or do you just black whenever your lips start flapping?!” I demanded.

She just looked at me and smiled. “I know, I know, I’d be thinking the same thing if someone started spouting this bullshit at me. I’m surprised you’ve even put up with it for so long.”

So needless to say, I’m through with hippie chicks. Somebody get me a nice businesswoman in pants suits.

--Ilan Moskowitz

Deadbeats and Deloreans

Michael J. Fox's Bad Day

The New Town Hall

2009-08-13T11:08:00.002-04:00

Senator Specter sighed. He’d tried joking around, he’d tried standing up to them, but still they came with their questions about losing the America they knew, breaking down crying, and the shouting.

HEAR OUR VOICE! HEAR OUR VOICE!

“I hear you. Can you hear me?” They couldn’t.

HEAR OUR VOICE! HEAR OUR VOICE!

All right, he thought, here goes. “Well, you've left me no other choice. Ladies and gentlemen, I present COCAINE AND ABEL!”

The curtains parted behind him to reveal a five piece band of straggly, unshaven youths fronted by a bearish looking man with an orange beard dresses in a poor man’s suit. The feedback curved the air like a meniscus of sonic doom. Then the barrage, a slow sludge of sound, guitars, keyboards and drums indistinguishable. Less a wall of sound than the whole building, crashing down, the clouds of smoke rolling over the town hall in a furious rumble. The man in the suit fell to his knees and howled as if genuinely in pain, then began ranting, sounding like a man with a mouth filled with angry sandwiches.

Behind them a large screen displayed text. One of Specter’s aides had rigged up a program that scoured the internet for discussion of health care. Statistics about people losing their jobs and their doctors, death panels, preexisting conditions, all of it faded up and down, and the conversation became big screen virtual with a dark loud throbbing soundtrack.

The nuts tried to keep chanting but the noise drowned them out, so they just looked like angry goldfish. Specter’s staff passed out earplugs, and he put on soundproof earphones, so he didn’t have to hear that horrible rock music. He sat down and watched the show, the vibrations from the band rippling his waddled skin. Yes, he was going to take a political hit for the whole “cocaine” thing, and these guys had a pentagram sticker on the drum set, so yeah, there was a Satanist charge to contend with, and God knows what the grizzly bear lead singer was screaming, but Specter smiled nonetheless. He was in the moment, and he’d stopped the lunatic fringe from hijacking his town hall. This was the band his niece recommended, and he hadn't had time to vet it.

What’s a little drugs and Satanism going to do to his career? I’m a Democrat now, he thought, time to enjoy it.

--Dan Kilian

Rationing the Death Panels

The C Word Warning! Uses the C word!

Rough Night

2009-08-12T11:38:00.006-04:00

Woke up covered in gore, again. I was wearing some kind of organ on my arm like a sleeve. Could have been human, could have been goat. No big deal either way.

So I washed up a bit in the mop sink, hosing myself down in cold water and scraping off the worst chunks with the back edge of a straight razor I found behind the toilet. Took a couple shots of Yukon Jack warm and then a big pull of cold gin to get the taste out of my mouth, and then had a pickle. People, it was a good pickle. Anyhow, I jerked my cock till it spat and then decided to shave my nuts and ass. Didn't get around to it, though, since I must have taken a nap in the kitchen – at least that's where I woke up the second time.

Did four lines of blow that were laying around and tried to wake up the dame that had puked all over herself and my new leather couch. She wasn't moving much and was sort of blue around the gills, but I didn't have time to mess around with that. I had a busy day ahead of me. Sprayed on some perfume – don’t let 'em tell you it's "cologne"; it's just perfume for men – and then I felt respectable. Went out and started up the El Camino and tore out of there. Didn't get too far before I realized I had a U-Haul trailer hitched up to it and it was running on one flat tire and the rim.

I unhitched the trailer and was about to go when I heard something knocking around inside. I snapped the lock off the door and opened it up. There was a skinny white girl in there and I can tell you she would have looked good if she hadn't shit up the place so bad. As it was she was still a looker so I climbed in and shut the door behind me.

She struggled a bit but I knocked her over and got her from the back and after a while she sort of gave in. I was a bit rough on her on account of I'd already spat, but the whole scenario was pretty damn erotic so it didn’t take too long before I'd shot it again. I pushed her off and I could hear she was crying. That upset me or something because the next thing you know I'm snapping her neck. Her chin just went around like a doll's -- it was that easy. "Aw shit," I said, and went to the back of the truck for some gasoline. I splashed the trailer down good and lit it up and took off.

I'd gotten some gas on my hands so I jerked it again, working my middle finger up my ass pretty good. It stung a bit and I almost ran into the back of a postal Jeep but I recovered and things worked out OK. I pulled into a Dairy Queen and drank a few pulls off a gallon of milk and then put it back in the cooler. The guy at the counter started yelling in some language or other and I gave him the finger and grabbed a pack of Newport 100s and a Slim Jim and left.

I lit up two smokes and drove out to the beach so I could clear my head. I ate the meat product and felt like I was gonna puke, but I didn’t. I pulled into the beach lot and bought a round of ice cream cones for the kids. I like kids.

I got naked and waded out into the surf. A ray tried to take a bite out of me so I stomped it and tore it in half. The water was cold so there weren't many people in it, but one kid came up and said, "Hey, mister. Why are you naked?"

"Forgot my suit," I said, and walked out to where it was deeper. The water felt so good I could have swum to England. The kid's mom was yelling for him to get away from me, which was probably a good idea. I dove down and swam for deeper water.

I probably got a hundred feet or so before my lungs gave out. I sucked in that salt water and it burned something awful. What was nice is I didn't have to fight to keep down. I just sank to the bottom. I bit the legs off a crab and my eyes went dark.

I woke up in a clinic with a tube in my throat. I pulled that out and the IVs in the back of my hand and went looking for the pharmacy. I was buck-ass naked but clean, except for an iodine stain around the scar on my side. They must have pulled something out of me. I got to the pharmacy and there was a little woman doctor in there. I just said, "You're something sweet" and she didn't even struggle. She was combing my snot out of her hair and I was grinding the Percocets between my thumb and forefinger when her boss came in.

He made a lot of noise so I grabbed a handful of syringes and put them in his neck. He took off gurgling and I held a handful of Percocet out to my number one girl. She snorted it up like a horse taking an apple and then I took a boost myself. There was still some powder in my hand so I put it up her skirt and she was ready for another go-round.

I had things to do, though, so I grabbed a couple vials of morphine and took off. My car wasn't in the lot so I put my fist through some doctor's window and drove off in a slightly damaged BMW. I got to a park and tilted the seat back and put my feet on the ceiling. I snapped the top off one of the vials and poured the morphine into my ass. I spread my cheeks and let it settle in nice and it hit me like a ton of bricks.

I must have dozed off like that because I woke up to a boy in blue pointing a gun in my face. I got out of the car like he said and he told me to put my hands over my head. I wasn't about to go to jail – I had a busy day ahead of me – so I slugged him and damn near took his jaw off. His partner shot me through the shoulder and missed three times before I got to him. He got the worst of it.

I got into the cruiser, hit the lights, and started barreling into town. There was a 12-gauge propped in the front, which I unlimbered and pointed out the passenger side. I pulled up next to an Abdow's Big Boy and blew the statue off its pedestal. Then I went past the firehouse and blew out their windows for good measure.

Some cops started tailing me so I cracked the top on the second vial of morphine and rammed it up my nose. I tipped my head back to let it run in and slammed into the back of a station wagon.

I got out and went to check that they weren't hurt. It was a damn shame, innocent bystanders and all, but a kid in the front seat had hit the windshield and left a clump of hair on it. His mom must have bounced off the steering wheel and cut her upper lip clean off. I pulled off the rear view mirror and showed her what she looked like and asked if she wanted me to finish her off. She was crying and her kid was starting to stir so I put my thumb two knuckles deep in her eyesocket before the kid woke up. Nobody should see their mother die.

The cops shot me three times in the abdomen and once in the back of the head. I went down – I'm not afraid to admit it. I was bleeding out of my mouth and my ass and all I could think of was that pickle. Damn it was good.

I lurched back up and they tased me three or four times. One of the jolts made me come pretty hard, and I smiled at the lady cop. She hit me with her baton and one of the tough guys pistol whipped me until I passed out.

I must have died or something because I never woke up after that.

--Steve Kilian

Hard Case

Good vs. Evil

Rationing the Death Panels

2009-08-11T11:04:00.006-04:00

As August becomes make or break time for Health Reform, disinformation is flying fast and loose. As a public service, Klog is here to clear up some of the myths flying around about the various plans to reform the nation’s health care plan. Here are some theories being floated, and we'll let you know what's myth and what's true.

Death Panels will be appointed to decide whether the elderly or mentally retarded babies have a high enough “level of productivity in society” to live.

This is ridiculous. Interests representing special needs children and the AARP would never allow their constituents be singled out for execution. The Death Panels would select citizens at random, without preexisting conditions. The lottery winners (or losers, in this case) would be notified by mail and given three days to put their affairs in order and report to the carousel of death for execution. No groups would be singled out.

The current health care system is inexpensive.

This is another myth. The current health care system is free! Other than your co-pay, do you ever pay a bill for health care? No! Whatever obligation you have to your health plan is taken out of your paycheck before you’re ever even paid, so it was never your money to begin with. Also, people who don’t have health care go to the ER when they’re really sick or injured, and ER is free too. Those tax and spend liberals in Washington are trying to get us all to pay for a free ride!

The Government doesn’t know how to run a health care plan.

The Government already runs two plans, Medicare and Medicaid which are very popular and efficient compared to Private insurance, which has higher overhead to pay for advertising and lobbyists. That greater efficiency is why Obama is pushing a hybrid system that includes the insurance companies, rather than a single payer plan that would be much cheaper for American taxpayers.

Health Care would be rationed under the new plan.

In fact this is true. As opposed to the current system, wherein any medical process available will be implemented in your service for free, limits would be imposed under Obamacare. This would supposedly save money but if you need the powder from a rhinoceros horn to fix your sexual dysfunction, and you need x-rays of that rhinoceros to make sure it’s not just a hippo with a prosthetic, then you have the right to that medical care, whatever it might cost.

Government Bureaucrats would get between you and your doctor.

In fact, with the new plans in play, government bureaucrats would get in between you and your insurance agent. When it comes to red tape and rationed care, do you want some corrupt official doing it or someone who does this for a living?

Thor will administer your health care using the magic powers of his hammer Mjöllnir the same way he took care of Loki after the death of Baldar.

That's just a myth.

Don’t just take our word for it. Do your own research. A lot of good information is being disseminated on politician’s Facebook pages and at town hall meetings. Whatever you do, however, don’t examine the health care plans of any other developed nations. A lot of horror stories come from those plans, as opposed to in the U.S. where no one ever dies because they didn’t have access to preventative care, and no one is ever ruined financially because they got sick. Stay healthy! That’s the best plan.

--Dan Kilian

The C Word Warning! Uses the C word!

Freddy vs. Wishmaster

His Retirement.

2009-08-08T17:03:00.004-04:00

On the first day off work he went to visit his wife’s grave and then went shopping. Came home with some Mexican take out food, a few bottles of win, and an easel and a pre-stretched canvas. He vowed to learn to stretch them himself, but was impatient to begin. He prepped his canvas with Gesso, and stimulated by the gooey texture, masturbated in the shower. He masturbated again and went to sleep.

His still life became an abstract expression. He smeared black paint on his penis and went to the shower.

On the third day of his retirement it hit upon him to use semen and wine stains as his medium since he had so much of it at the ready.

“I shall build on the work of Ruscha!”

And cigarette holes, now that he was smoking again.

The vomit canvases really began to smell and they had go. The same with the excrement canvases. Most of the blood canvasas had puke or shit on them too, so they went. He kept a couple of the blood canvases that escaped soiling. He was making progress.

He put flowers on his wife’s grave, bought more wine and cigarettes and ordered another crate of canvases delivered.

He woke up on the fifth day, passed out on a canvas, his pants around his ankles a meager drip dangling off the tip of his raw red and flaccid penis. He was out of semen and out of wine. He went into town.

He came home with a whore, passed out and the whore took his wallet and what money was lying around, his computer and the booze. She left him half a bottle to get him through the next morning.

On the seventh day they found him, without identification, passed out on his wife’s grave, his pants around his ankles, with a bottle in one hand and his penis in the other. He couldn’t remember his name. They let him out on the street. They didn’t connect the grave to his family, who never saw him again.

If he’d ever remembered where he’s lived, he would have found his son’s family living there. He never did. He just ambled on, incoherently hustling booze money from strangers and clutching at his shrunken useless cock.

--Dan Kilian

The Critic Masturbates

Godzilla's Ghost

The Adventures of J.D. and The Rye Guy

2009-08-07T13:09:00.005-04:00

Klog is pleased to present this Neon Film by Jack Feldstein. Thanks Jack!

--Jack Feldstein

Sweet Nothings

Definitely Probably Possibly

Have a Great Weekend

2009-08-07T12:58:00.002-04:00

With rare exceptions this blog has posted one at least one piece of artistic endeavor a day since the beginning of the year. That's just crazy. We're mainly two writers, and we're not just spitting links and diary entries, but actual writing. I'm very proud of a lot of it. To keep quality high and sanity levels acceptable, we're taking weekends off henceforth. You should go out and play on weekends, and come back to your computer on Monday.

Submissions are accepted.

Have a great weekend!

Thanks,

Dan

Lost Sequel in Action Format: Episode One--The Mystery Bullet

2009-08-06T12:51:00.003-04:00

--Dan Kilian
End of Conflict: The Most Important Work of Art of This Century and The Last

End of Conflict: The Story Continues...

Nasty Brutish and Short

2009-08-05T16:17:00.007-04:00

Apparently some guy shot up an aerobics class in Pittsburgh

last night:

From his on-line diary:

“I actually look good,” Mr. Sodini wrote. “I dress good, am clean-shaven, bathe, touch of cologne — yet 30 million women rejected me — over an 18 or 25-year period. That is how I see it. Thirty million is my rough guesstimate of how many desirable single women there are.

I wondered what was wrong with this guy until they started giving reports from the survivors:

One woman, Stacey Falk, 26, told The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette that the gunman appeared clean-shaven and short…

Ah-ha!

So this guy must have had a way with a razor. And, if the one other thing you remember about a guy who comes into a gym with guns a-blazin' on a murder spree is that he's short, well I guess he must have been really, really short. Poor bastard.

Here's a conjectural thought-bubble from a woman fleeing the scene:

"Oh my God he's killing everyone! I've got to get out of here. There, the emergency exit. Run! Did he get Jamie? Run! Oh my God is this my blood? Wow he really was a short little guy. It'd be almost cute if he were just a few inches – whatever, I've got to get out of here!"

--Steve Kilian

The Writer's Life

The Future of Cars

Hard Case

2009-08-05T09:56:00.007-04:00

Momma tried to do me in before she was even showing. She smoked like a chimney and drank like a sailor and was probably huffing spray-paint for good measure. It just made me madder than hell and by the third trimester I was taking it out on her something fierce: I'd punch her in the bladder first thing in the morning and in the kidneys all night long.

She must have hit a scratch card or turned a trick or something because she got up enough money to bring in a professional. They knocked her out good, which must have taken a lot, and I was a bit woozy but still feeling pretty mean, and then they came in trying to cut me. I grabbed the curette and pushed it into Momma and came up the shaft like I was climbing rope. I punched the doc in the nose and just started running. I made it about three feet when I was caught up by my belly cord. I'd already had my teeth for two weeks (and a full head of hair, ladies), so I just bit through it, gave the doc the finger, and winked at the prettier of the two nurses before high-tailing it out of there.

I slipped down a laundry chute and then made my way to the clinic's boiler room. Sure enough there was an old coal-chute that they'd only seen fit to cover with some light gauge galvanized sheet. I crawled up the chute and before I'd even bloodied my knuckles too bad I was through that sheet metal and out on the street. Of course I was naked and covered in coal dust, so I wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. I also wasn't smelling too much like roses – Momma's hole wasn't the cleanest address around.

Fortunately I saw a garbage truck rumbling by, so I ran out between two parked cars – an El Dorado and a Hyundai, go figure – and jumped up into the undercarriage and held on for the ride back to the municipal pound. Sure enough we got there in an hour or two and they ran that thing over with power washers and ammonia. A nice shower after a relaxing ride through the country. I jumped down, went into the locker room, and stole three wallets, two packs of smokes, and a handkerchief that I could use as a pants and a t-shirt after I'd gnawed a few holes in it.

It was time for a drink. I rolled down to the Olde Horseshoe tavern, stepping on the bouncer's foot on the way in. I hopped up on the bar and walked down to where the bartender was yapping away on the house phone. I flipped a quarter to one of the broads that was nursing a Seven and 7 and told her to play something nice on the jukebox – something that would get her in the mood. Then I put my foot down on the phone hook and gave the bartender my order: "Warm gin and butter, in a bottle." He started to say something but caught the look in my eye and thought better of it.

The barkeep must have thought he was funny because he poured in a shot and made to hand it over. "I'm a growing boy, here," I said. "Make it a triple." I turned to the ladies and asked them if they had a light. The one at the jukebox looked over her shoulder and gave me a kissy-face while the brunette at the bar just reached into her purse for a Zippo. I could see she packed a .38 along with three shades of lipstick.

It was gonna be a long night.

--Steve Kilian

Violent Dream

Top Trek A Pan Fiction

The Friends of Greta

2009-08-04T13:12:00.008-04:00

Social networks start as a way to keep in touch with friends, then they become bogged down with peripheral people and advertisements. You need an application just to sort through all the noise. So we move on to the next networking site, leaving the last one still chattering away on autopilot as we eat through the internet like bacteria through the agar.
*

I now know of a new social network that probably has less than a thousand members, and it’s shrouded in mystery. I overheard two women talking about it in a restaurant. The couple I heard talking about it referred to “the friends of Greta.” The one woman seemed very excited about the network, saying it was the last network she’d ever want to be on. She was going to explain to her friend how to join when she caught me eavesdropping and sent me a look of hot death, and stopped talking about it.

“The friends of Greta.” seems to be a red herring. I went to thefriendsofgreta.com and friendsofgreta.com and all the other domain suffixes and it says “server not found.” Only according to this conversation, “server not found” is the page for every members home page! There’s some trick, an answered riddle, some elaborate password that gets you from “server not found” to the actual member’s page. Still, exhaustive clicking indicates that the particular non pages I found are genuinely not pages. Or are they?

http://www.greta.com/ is a curiouser case. It takes me to a tourism site for Granite Falls, Minnesota. Why greta.com? Is the clue to The Friends of Greta somewhere on this page? Something seems not right here, but I haven’t been able to put it together. There’s got to be another piece to the puzzle.

A google search reveals a smattering of allusions to “The Friends of Greta,” but it’s all very cryptic stuff, with no straightforward explanations. All the pages about Greta Garbo seem legit, but maybe there’s a clue from her life story I’m missing. I keep coming back to the simplicity and the strangeness of greta.com, but I’m stumped.

As Groucho said, “I would never join any club that would have me as a member.” Well here’s a club that doesn’t want me for a member, and I want in! If anyone reading this is a member or knows anything about The Friends of Greta, please let me in on the mystery! I’ve got to know the secret! I promise I won’t spill the beans!

Or have I already said too much?

--Dan Kilian

Mysterious Magician's Affliction

Taj Majal

Trippy and Groovy: 8 Song Playlist

2009-08-02T18:05:00.007-04:00

Adele "Cold Shoulder"

Adele has been described as retro-retro; her modern soul reminds people of Amy Whinehouse’s modern soul. Adele doesn’t get smashed out of her mind looking for her incarcerated bloke in her neighbors’ houses. You’d think you wouldn’t need that, but this is music, however sterling the production and heartbroken the singing, that’s never going to break into your house drunk. There’s a cool Beatlesy breakdown and it’s a pretty decent song. Just not indecent.

Ian Hunter "Cleveland Rocks"

Evidently they play this song every Friday at 6:00 on one Cleveland radio station, and as a victory song for Cleveland sports teams. So I guess if you live in Cleveland, you probably hate this song. If you’re not overly familiar with it, however, it rocks.

RZA "Bobby Did It (Spanish Fly)"

Bunch of rapping over some harp strum and a beat.

Andrew Bird "Cataracts"

It took a long time for me to warm up to Andrew Bird. Some wunderkind stringing together nonsense words and whistling. He does mostly down-tempo ballads full of shimmering beauty. It’s all a little too perfect. But damn if the guy doesn’t build some beautiful melodies, and damn if the whistling doesn’t always work.

More Andrew Bird…

No, not that...

Les Savy Fav "The Year Before The Year 2000"

LSF rock against the apocalypse and party like it’s 1999 with a clanky verse and a furious chorus. Punk lives. This band occasionally missteps with an awkward lyric such as “Please do check your frontal hemisphere.” Nonetheless, you should own this song.

RZA "Love Jones"

Angel Cake (Singer, not porn star, presumably) coos the chorus, and it’s a romantic rap not unlike “You Got Me” that Roots song with Erykah Badu, good but not as good.

Steve Miller Band "Serenade"

There’s more to Steve Miller than “The Joker.” He created some warm psychedelia that’s both trippy and groovy. Great layered vocals fly like a seagull on a zephyr of acoustic guitars while the bass and drums gently kick a beachball back and forth.

The Moody Blues "Go Now"

Denny Laine laid down the best thing the Moody Blues ever did before leaving the band and ending up in Wings.

--Dan Kilian

5 1/2 Songs

7 Songs

The C Word

2009-08-02T14:31:00.005-04:00

With the August recess upon Congress and no Health Care legislation passed, president Obama must limp from town hall meeting to town hall meeting with sinking poll numbers and an imperiled agenda. Behind closed doors the big players in the administration are using the C word: Compromise. As in “We’ve got to compromise on health care or those blue dog democrat cunts are going to kill us." Oh yes, they’re also using the other C word. So what are the compromises needed to get Health Care across the finish line? One compromise Republicans would like would be for the plan to fail and for Obama to be a one-term president. There’s still much resistance to that plan in the White House, so here are ideas being floated as alternatives.

Death of the Public Option

Conservatives and Insurance companies railed against the “Public Option” a Medicaid like government plan which would be simultaneously too expensive and too cheap to compete against. Everyone knows that competition is the bane of any functioning private enterprise, so the public plan had to go. Of course, the public option was the best bet to keep prices low, and was the best thing about the Health Care plans floating around in Congress. An option gaining traction is the “Co-op” plan, which Republicans like because it won’t work.

Euthanize End Of Life Legislation

People shouldn’t get old and die, and they really shouldn’t plan for that eventuality. If they do, tax dollars shouldn’t pay for discussing such unpleasant things with a doctor. Doctors should only talk about nice happy things and give out lollipops.

Consumer Protections

The Obama PR push is touting changes it want to make in how Insurance companies do business. Insurance companies would have a cap on what they could charge for out-of-pocket expenses, would have to fully cover routine tests to help prevent illness, and wouldn’t be allowed to refuse coverage because of pre-existing conditions. They wouldn’t be allowed to gouge the very ill, charge more for services based on gender, and wouldn’t be allowed to deny children family coverage. Of course the fact that these kind of reforms haven’t been enacted before now shows what a bunch of whores Congress is, and how you really shouldn’t trust what any of them are saying.

Savings in Medicare/Medicaid

Blue Dog Cunt Max Baucus is proposing setting up an independent commission to find $35 billion in savings from Medicare. This would go a long way to breaking the “cost curve” that the Congressional Budget Office said was going the wrong way under the plans being considered. Of course, without a public option Insurance companies will still find ways to gouge profits off the sick, raising the cost of Health Care, but profits are more important than essential and popular programs, so we’ve got our priorities straight.

Lobbying Against The Sick

Who are these costly sick, and why are they allowed to cause us so much economic hardship. It turns out these are really unhealthy people, often contagious. If the special interests that buy our congressmen and run scare ads put the same energy at eliminating the sick, we’d be a healthier country. I think sickness should be outlawed, which would create a lucrative black market in germs, infirmity and injury. In fact, let’s outsource our national health care to the Mafia. They can break kneecaps and then set them again, probably with less corruption than insurers.

Some tortured and horribly muddled Health Care plan may yet emerge and land of Obama’s desk and he’ll take what he can get. I think we have to do the same. We have to get a public option as a compromise for not getting a single payer system, and we have to compromise to get that compromise. We can’t let the perfect be the enemy of the horribly flawed.

--Dan Kilian

Marx Twain Socrates

The Obama Gates Crowley Beer

The Citadel: Anvil

2009-08-01T13:55:00.003-04:00

Sparks flew from the steel, searching their way out the window, merging with the scattered lights of the enemy's campfires on the plain. These in turn merged with the stars as night took the last color from the sky. He would not sleep tonight, nor had he slept for three nights previous. Instead he hammered out spearpoints that were mounted on the ends of oak dowels as thick as his thumb was long. The ballista crews would go through his entire night's product in a quarter of an hour, but it would be enough. He'd seen men pinned to the horses they rode on, the horses themselves pinned to the blood-softened earth below. Man and beast would writhe as the attacking hordes split around them.

He remembered playing in a stream once, throwing rocks into the shallow rapids. The stream would part, leaving a teardrop-shaped spot of calm in the lee of the rock. Once he'd thrown a rock that had landed exactly where a frog had been basking half-submerged. The frog -- through luck or alertness -- had jumped clear just in time, and landed in the downstream calm. It blinked and looked at him, climbing half-way onto this new basking place.

A friend came up beside him with a home-made bow. He'd nocked a reed with the tip cut cross-wise like a writing quill. He aimed and loosed the reed, which hit the frog broadside and killed it. His friend was immediately shocked that it had worked -- he'd never hit the quarry before. The young blacksmith was angry, although he didn't know why. He had just moments before tried to crush the frog with the stone. But it seemed a shame that having survived his attack that it would fall to another. Especially since he'd given it shelter of sorts.

A hiss and popping sound brought him back to the present. Perhaps he'd fallen asleep at the anvil. He glanced at the fire to be sure that a knot hadn't jumped from the hearth. Everything seemed fine. The point he was working was still red, so he continued hammering.

He missed his first stroke, the bright clang of hammer on the bare anvil ugly in his ears. He went to pick up the hammer again, but it was as if it had fused to the anvil. He stooped to look closer, but the feathers on the arrows sticking from his chest caught fire on the spearpoint. "They attack at night?" he thought, "I should have shuttered the window." He stared at the flaming ends of the arrows, wondering what was making the flames leap horizontally. "The flue couldn't have that much draft from this distance." Then he realized he was staring at the vaulted ceiling, flat on his back. "Well then, I guess I will get some sleep after all."

--Steve Kilian

Joseph in the North

Russian Roulette

Queens Vacation: Klog goes to the Movies

2009-07-31T09:38:00.011-04:00

Thanks to my furlough, I’m on my Queens Vacation. I don’t call it that other word for when you don’t go anywhere on your vacation. That implies resentment of the lack of travel. Travel sucks. It is the greatest luxury to stay in one’s apartment trying to write a songs and such, and when it gets hot I take in any movie that’s playing at the Sunnyside Movie Theater around the corner from my apartment. The movies are almost always air-conditioned.

Bruno

Except when they’re in the basement theatre. Watching a movie in the Sunnyside movie theatre is a lot like watching a movie in some friend’s unfinished basement. The screens about the same size, though it is a little warmer. At least the smell reminds me that I’m at least closer to the bathroom. Bruno has a message: No matter what your gender or orientation, it’s no fun being sexually harassed. The movie is not devoid of laughter. I preferred the parts that were written to the parts that seemed like a jerk bothering strangers. If his interruption of a fashion show was staged then it was staged, if it was an actual disruption, isn’t the very talented Sacha Baron Cohen messing with other creative people on their big night? At a point towards the end the film fluttered to a stop, and the lights came up. We’re being busted! I thought. The decadence of this movie has brought in the thought police. It was the theatre manager saying that because of heavy rain, the theatre basement was being flooded, and he had to stop the movie. Wanted to shuffle me into Harry Potter, already four minutes in. No. Well how about some popcorn? I took my money back. Now there’s a hand written sign that says “No refunds once you’ve been seated for Bruno.” Comes off like it’s because of the outrageousness of the movie, but it’s probably because of flooding. Now I’ll probably never see the last fifteen minutes of this movie. I can live with that.

Harry Potter

Yeah it’s good. I do have the same problem with Harry Potter that I have with Superman. Mofo’s just too powerful. He who must not be Voldemort will never beat him. Sure, that’s true of most heroes, but there’s just some blessed inevitability hanging over these stories that bugs me. Why do their English accents sound fake, even though they’re from England? It’s because these kids weren’t born to mothers in England, but were genetically manufactured on a masterpiece theatre set back in the 80’s. Margaret Thatcher eventually closed down the project, but by then it was too late. Still, these kids have grown into their roles and made them their own. I wish Dumbledore would decide, in an eerily lit scene full of ominous import, that he would stop wearing an anklet in his beard. There should be a word for people like me. I stopped reading the books, but I’m watching the movies. I think I was waiting on a loaner, once my neighbor was finished, and never got into the rhythm again. Now I can’t remember which book it was. They all look alike. It was a particularly tomey looking cube of a book, but the titles and artwork all run together. Also, I’m a grown-up. A grown up who goes to Harry Potter matinees. People at the theate might think I’m a pedophile. I felt much more comfortable the next day, when I went to see Orphan.

Orphan.

This is a sterling piece of well acted, well produced horror for anyone who enjoys seeing children getting hurt. It starts out with a protracted and bloody miscarriage scene just to set the mood. Isabelle Fuhrman is brilliant as a slightly more psychotic version of my niece Pearl when she was nine. SPOILER ALERT Best scene in the movie: The threatens her adopted brother with a box-cutter, saying, “I’ll cut off your hairless little prick. You piss yourself.” Fannings beware! Aryana Engineer is the new cute kid. Vera Farmiga, whom you might remember from The Departed does another fine job. I think Peter Sarsgaard has a rider in his contract (The kind Ryan Phillipe used to have) that he has to get naked in all his movies. I feel like I’ve seen his schlubby fur matted body far too much for one lifetime. I also have a theory That Peter Sarsgaard is just Paul Rudd’s alter ego when he’s been eating and drinking too much.

--Dan Kilian

Benjamin Button from the POV of Benjamin Button

Who Watches the Watchmen?

The State of The Art in Horror

2009-07-30T10:27:00.004-04:00

Each time the world embraces a new technology Hollywood finds a technologically illiterate method of incorporating that public change into its more hokey plotlines. Seventies television was kept alive because of the hologram. Mathew Broderick had to teach a computer the futility of nuclear war. The idea of virtual reality freed us from any need for plot structure. The Internet inspired a great deal of screenplay devoted to people talking aloud as they type. What is the next new technological innovation to be exploited by Hollywood? I propose that it is that mysterious means of communication: The Fax Machine. Here is my treatment to cash in.

FAXED

Nad Kliian (It’s Hawaiian) is struggling to get by in a go nowhere administrative assistant job, when he notices some malevolent squiggles on some faxes he is receiving. He and his lovely coworker Janicatrice LeVotte decipher a mysterious sublanguage hidden in faxes that are brainwashing people.

They call in a fax repairman, who tells them that the problem is not specific to this one fax, that fax machines are a conduit to an inter-dimensional world. “Where is the image when it’s not in one fax machine or the other? No one knows.”

Using a giant scanner jury-rigged as a fax machine attachment, Nad enters the netherworld within the fax and must confront the evil kingdom of Faxonia, ruled by the evil wizard Faxor. He must lead a rebellion, bringing Hawkman, Prince Baron and the Treents together to defeat Faxor. All the resemblances to Flash Gordon and The Lord of The Rings should be all winky and self aware, and so will be totally hilarious.

But then it gets serious. Faxor was only ruling this inter-dimensional kingdom as a ruse, and intended to invade our world the whole time. Nad figures out that if you put too many sheets of paper into the fax machine, you could close the portal forever. So they do it but then he gets trapped forever in Faxonia, but is he really trapped, no he finds a way out.

Of course some monster from Faxonia gets out too and starts faxing. That’s the final scene: A taloned finger tapping on a keypad “Doot. Doot. Doot doot. Doot…”

WRITTEN AND DIRECTED BY DAN KILIAN

Feng Shui

James Bond's Bad Day

Nicey Nice: The Obama Crowley Gates Beer

2009-07-29T09:00:00.007-04:00

This Thursday President Obama has a beer with Professor Henry Louis Gates and Officer James Crowley, the two primary parties in the racially charged arrest that has become drawn media focus away from the Health Insurance Reform promotion Obama has been pushing. It’s being hyped as the most important alcoholic drink in Civil Rights history since Lyndon Johnson and Martin Luther King split a bottle of Jim Beam in 1968. Johnson went on such a tear he actually passed the Civil Rights Act before finally drying out. What will this accomplish?

Here’s the secret advance transcript from the meeting.

President Obama: Welcome here Gentlemen. Officer Crowley. Professor Gates.

Officer Crowley: It’s an honor, Mr. President

Professor Gates: Thank you Mr. President

Obama: Let’s all sit down. Shelly will be right here with our beers.

Crowley: Well I’m looking forward…

Obama: Shut the fuck up.

Crowley: I’m sorry?

Gates: I think he said…

Obama: BOTH of you shut the fuck up. I have absolutely no time to hear whatever crap is your fucking problem. I am trying to pass a Goddamned Health Care plan. It’s not a “Have Beers With a Couple of Assholes” plan. I’m trying to get on Mount fucking Rushmore, not have beers with…oh here’s Shelly.

Shelly: Hello gentlemen! Just to confirm, what kind of beers would you like?

Crowley: Blue Moon.

Gates: I actually don’t drink beer.

Obama: You will drink a Goddamned beer, even if I have to get one of those G-men to waterboard it down your fucking throat. Now Gates, I know you. So I know what a pompous ass you are. Officer Crowley, you seem to be a fine officer, teaching a class on racial sensitivity to the other police.

Crowley: Yes Mr. President, I’m very proud of…

Obama: Now you can teach a course on how to completely fuck up an interracial encounter. Because you are one stupid Goddamned bastard. I’m sorry I said it was stupid for you to arrest a man in his own home, because it fucked up my Goddamned agenda, not because it wasn’t 150 % true. You have got to be the stupidest Goddamned cop in America, and you know, even though politicians are always calling you the finest, there’s a hell of a lot of dipshit power tripping cops. How the fuck did you not just get the hell out of there once you’d realized it was all a big fuck-up? How the hell do you end up with this old guy in cuffs when it’s his Goddamned house?

Crowley: Well, as you know from the reports and the news, Professor Gates became belligerent…

Obama: What, did he hurt your feelings? Did he make you feel bad? He’s a rich black man, in his own Goddamned house and you’re busting him. Here’s what happens: He screams bloody murder, and you tip your cap and back the fuck out of the house.

Gates: I’ve been trying to explain just that Barack…

Obama: And you, have you lost your mind? You think you’re fucking cop-proof? Un-coppable? Jesus H. Christ! A black man mouthing off to the cops. Cops aren’t your students, dipshit; Cops are assholes who will fuck you up if they get a chance. You must be the stupidest idiot since officer idiot here. And you’d better keep your Goddamned head low for the next eight years. You are not going to play this for your fifteen minutes. Remember Reverend Wright? Notice you don’t see him anymore? That’s because he’s rotting in a cave full of scorpions in North Afghanistan. I can do these things. I’m the Goddamned President. Officer Crowley, I can have a bullet put in your head, and I don’t mean shot. I can get a man who will physically put the bullet in your head, with his fingers. So both of you shut up and drink your Goddamned beers. Then we’re going to do a little press conference and you guys are going to act all nicey nice and smile, or I will ruin your fucking lives and your families’ lives too. I’m the Goddamned President; I’ve got better things to do than this.

Crowley: What about your “teachable moment?”

Obama: This is it. I’m teaching you to shut the fuck up, drink your beer and then make nicey nice. Have you learned the lesson, or do I have to show you how my security can work your inner organs without leaving a bruise? Yes? Yes? See! You’re learning. Now you two drink your beers, while I sit in silence and think about fucking Health Care.

mmm…

Okay, done?

Crowley: Yep.

Gates: Yes, Mr. President.

Obama: Okay. Let’s go make nicey nice.

--as transcribed to Dan Kilian
Nixon and Obama
Ayatollah K talks to the other Ayatollah K

End of Conflict II: The Squid & Whale Tattoo

2009-07-28T12:28:00.009-04:00

Klog recently posted an image entitled End to Conflict. As evidence of the long-range influence that Klog has on the mission of worldwide peace, we present the attached photograph of the End of Conflict image tattooed on the body of Bennie, seasoned bartender at Home Sweet Home. You can click on the image for a larger view.

It is in ways such as this that great movements begin. This will be marked by future ages as the turning point.

It's interesting to note that Bennie incorporated all the textures of the original post it note while we bleached them out.

--Steve Kilian

Original End of Conflict

Don't Worry, Steve Still Embraces Violence

Montanapocalypse

2009-07-27T08:51:00.012-04:00

Look at the Montana state quarter.

You might think it's odd that this state, located somewhere in the U.S. Northwest among all the square shaped states, chooses a cow's skull to represent itself. Why this demonic death's head? Are they devil worshipers? Probably. But I tell you this skull is just a distraction from something far more sinister. Below the skull, floating in the void of The Big Sky, is clearly The Doomsday Machine from Episode 35 of the original series of Star Trek. This allegory for nuclear destruction features a giant cigar shaped monstrosity making its way from some intergalactic war of mutual destruction. It destroys planets and eats their rubble for fuel, moving from star system to star system leaving a wake of complete destruction. Behold the horror.Normal people such as you and I have never known anyone who lives in Montana, yet we know from census takers that people live there. We have simply never guessed at their sinister nature, a nature so malignant they must cloak their secret message of nihilistic destruction with more commonly accepted totems of morbid evil.

We now know that the people of Montana have greater technology than we'd previously assumed. They've seen television, have obviously watched Star Trek and are seeking to replicate the Doomsday Machine for their sinister purposes. Please note that the state slogan is "The Last Best Place." It's easy enough to be the last best place if you've destroyed every other location in the Universe.

Either through hubris or betrayal, the secret of these Monsters in Montana has gotten out. It is they, not us, who must be destroyed. It will be tougher than Afghanistan, with all the mountainous terrain, but there is a way to do it. In the Star Trek episode it took the thermonuclear detonation of a Star Ship's impulse engines to destroy the Doomsday Machine. We must tell NASA to develop this technology immediately, so we might match the evil Montanan's lust for destruction.

Either they die or the entire Universe will be rendered as barren as a dead cow's skull. The choice is ours.......

--Dan Kilian

Inconsistencies in the New Star Trek Movie

Top Trek: A Pan Fiction

The Citadel: Undone

2009-07-26T23:07:00.003-04:00

It was perhaps his greatest work, and nobody would know him as its author. Worse, they wouldn't even know it had happened it all.

He drew the catgut through the powdered jewels, trying not to cut his fingers too badly in the process. Then he strung the silver lines between the nodes of the vault, tracing out the patterns he'd found scattered among the texts he'd collected. In places the web-work was so dense he needed a wooden shuttle to thread his way through the lines. When that was done he went about the floor, plugging cracks with beeswax. Finally it was sealed tight and he rolled over the cask, cursing the lead lining that kept its contents pure. He worked it over onto its side and pulled the stopper, letting the quicksilver flow out onto the floor, settling into a perfect round mirror reflecting the shuttered oculus above. The domed ceiling was covered with the runes he'd drawn over the previous three weeks, words in forgotten languages written with inks obscure and profane in their composition.

Now all he had to do was wait for the sky to catch up with his plan. The almanacs said he had two days to wait. It was just time enough to begin the incantation. He climbed the winding stair to the roof, pulled his cloak tight around him and began the chant. Every hour or so he would drink from a flask of bitter spikepine liquor, and his hunger would subside. His urine ran from his pantleg down to the gargoyled scupper at the edge of the roof. The sun wheeled by once, chased by a sliver blade of moon. On the second day the moon made its cut, the black disc edging its way across the sun in time with the rising words of the spell. Finally the sun was directly overhead, obliterated by the moon, and he cried his throat raw, cutting his tongue on the harsh angles of the alien words.

He threw back the shutters of the oculus, exposing the quicksilver mirror. He could see the sun's halo flaring in the vault below, the strings fired with its muted light. The sun above flared brighter, as if in response. Blue wisps of arcane energies pulsed along the lines of web. The sky folded along these lines, forests and continents compressed into irrational geometries. He could not hear the final words as they were torn from his throat, drowned out in the great rush of in-folding matter and event. Time bent to the same twisted skein he had created, battles and famines curled like scrolls and tucked into newly formed alcoves in the universe. His body was buffeted by the swirling forces around him, chaos shrieking as it was imprisoned in the calculus of the spell. In three short barks he uttered the closing syllables that would mark the unbending of the new world, changing the paper-doll creases just slightly, but enough to work his will:

The first battle for the Citadel was undone, recast, and became again, and the forces of Matthew stormed the black walls, finally taking the parapet.

The second battle for the Citadel was shattered and the fragments cast into the ocean. A million times the sea tumbled the shards, blunting them into dull rounded memories of what had happened. A old fisherman's widow collected the pieces and lined her hearth with them, where they fused into a sooty bowl. After she died her few possessions were distributed among the villagers, and a small girl held the bowl up to the setting sun, where she saw images of the black keep under siege, the forces of Daniel being repelled from the walls. Matthew's soldiers had won again.

The third battle for the citadel raged in the signet ring of an imbecile king, a drooling savant who cared only for digging mines in the barren hills of his dying kingdom. Fields went unplowed as the peasants starved and still he sent troops to the pits and galleries, looking for nonexistent treasure. When the king was finally assassinated the ring was stolen and passed from noble to noble, losing value with each transaction as if it somehow bore the curse of its former owner, until finally being paid to a storyteller in exchange for a tale of a defeated army throwing their bodies against an obsidian fortress, unable to avenge the deaths of their brothers in the previous battle. It was yet another song of Matthew's victory.

As these restructured events blossomed back into being the wizard finally lost consciousness. He wondered in that last moment if even he would remember the thing he had wrought.

--Steve Kilian
Death To Everyone
Capsule

Back to The Return To The Last Trip To The Well, Part Two

2009-07-25T12:02:00.003-04:00

Editor's note: This is the third part in series celebrating the online release of The Ks video "Last Trip To The Well."

Centuries past. The park turned into a desert. Sandstorms whipped the geography unrecognizable. He was still alive, supernaturally, but it felt all too natural to him. One of his wishes kept him an aging zombie. Sometimes he wished for death, sometimes he wished for other comforts. Mostly he wished for more wishes, and he was free to wish as futilely as he could. He wrapped himself in skins and marched around the desert hoping to find some grasses, or just a coolness to the sands, anything that might be a sign of his old wishing well.

He saw something on a dune miles away, flashing. He marched towards it. It could be water, it could be mica, it could be a mirage or a hallucination. It disappeared as he marched towards it but he staggered towards where he thought he’s seen it last. He kicked up sand, wailing, his life, once a magic realm of wish fulfillment, now reduced to finding some thing he’d seen, some distraction his only focus.

Finally his foot hit something. It was a music player from back when they had computers. This had the solar power chip, and amazingly, after all these years in the sand, still worked. Of course he had no headphones, so it was silent. But he could read the names of the songs pm the little screen, and see the album cover art float past. He lay on the ground, blocking out the sun with his new toy, wheeling through the menus.

It had a single video. A skinny man battling a robot, with flashes of a band playing. He wondered what it meant, and then remembered there was music, an inaudible and long forgotten song. He tried to imagine what it sounded like. He made up songs in his head as he lay there, watching it over and over and over and over and wishing for things.

--Dan Kilian

Return To The Last Trip To The Well, Part II
Return To The Last Trip To The Well

Intro from last night's show: Asphalt Planet

2009-07-24T11:01:00.007-04:00

I knew we were in trouble when the road-making machines started to self-replicate. It only took three years before the whole planet was a blank ball of black asphalt hanging in space, featureless but for gravel shoulders at the poles and a double yellow line around the equator.

We lived off of the legless birds that fed on the bats that fed on the insects that fed on the algae and yeast suspended in the atmosphere. We drank dew from our cart-sails in the morning and ran from the pothole fillers in the afternoon.

It couldn't last. We needed to pull over, crack the crust and get to the buried topsoil. We needed to drill down and get some water so we could raise up a proper median.

We needed to get back to the return to the last trip to the well, part two

. . . ladies and gentlemen,

the Ks.

--Steve Kilian
----------------------------------- Tools
----------------------------------- Jesus in Hell

Playing tonight at the Ace of Clubs

2009-07-23T10:09:00.001-04:00

Mark Twain, Karl Marx, and Socrates: At It Again

2009-07-22T10:01:00.012-04:00

Editor’s note: Here at Klog we’re honored to have a master of parody: Mr. Dan Kilian. His knack for replicating voices in his writing, led us to consider a challenge: Could he present the stories of today as if through the great minds of yesteryear? We picked three current hot topics, and three archetypal thinkers of old: our health-care debate as viewed by Samuel Clemens (AKA Mark Twain), the economic downturn from the point of view of Karl Marx, and the post-election turmoil in Iran through the eyes of Socrates. Mr. Kilian has risen to the challenge, mimicking them perfectly in this new context. Enjoy!

Samuel Clemens on Health-care

Holy fuck! These Democrats are such fucking morons they’re going to blow their one chance at the motherfucking power. People elected Obama to get a health care system, people want a fucking system, and they’re still going to fuck it up! Un-fucking-believable! They just think the Republicans are going to be stupid fuck-ups forever, but people hate the god-damn Democrats too, so it’s time to deliver. Shit or get off the pot, motherfuckers! Or you’ll be the shit, and I don’t mean the shiiiit, I mean a big chunk of human shit that gets flushed. Fuck!

Karl Marx on The Economy

You motherfuckers are going down! I told you so! Boom and bust, baby, boom and BUST! You are all so fucked! You can try all the Keynesian bullshit you want, but you’re still shifting the goddamned deck chairs on a fucking sinking ship. People can only take so much shit. They are going to rise up and string the rich people up and strangle them in their own goddamn intestines! Just because it started in Russia and China, the twin shit-holes of the world, and those countries continue to suck doesn’t mean shit. It’s your turn to eat shit, America, so open wide and chew hard. Holy fuck!

Socrates on Iran

What the fuck is going on in Iran? Is this an Ayatollah power grab or is it a motherfucking revolution? Holy fuck! Literally. That Khamenei is one religious asshole. I guess the question is, does Rafsanjani want to free the goddamn people, or does he want to be the motherfucking Shogun? Either way, some poor bastards are gonna die. One things for sure, no one gives a fuck about the goddamn Uighurs. For all I know, the Chinese have already killed the whole fuckload of them, and no one gives a flying shit! Guess they picked the wrong color. Should have gone with green.* More people care about the goddamned Darfurians than the fucking Uighurs, and people don’t give a shit about Darfur! Holy fucking fuck!

--Dan Kilian

------------------------------- Good vs. Evil

------------------------------- Michael J. Fox's Bad Day

When Charm Fails

2009-07-21T17:00:00.006-04:00

When charm fails you can always fall back on money. The Supreme Court has ruled that just as money equals speech it also equals charm. There’s a case pending: Gates vs. Happiness, which should settle other ephemeral financial matters.

When charm fails you can try violence. Kill them with cruelty. Beat love into their hearts while you wipe the smiles off their faces. You’ll be greeted with flowers, so why bring a bouquet?

When charm fails there’s always unctuosity. The spell checker tells me I should try punctuality, which is probably better advice.

When charm fails you can always choose clichés. They’re used, but at the end of the day (an expression that either flogs the dusk or portends the apocalypse – either way, everyone needs to stop saying it) they kill the necessary time spent uselessly talking to others.

When charm fails, there’s always contempt or pity. There is a difference, and contempt often comes closer to charm. Let’s face it, we’d rather be friends with the boor who says “You disgust me!” than the creep who calls you “Poor thing.”

How about flattery? Flattery is like a bribe without money.

Did I mention money? Money money money money money.

--Dan Kilian

-------------------------------------- Freddy vs. Wishmaster

-------------------------------------- Godzilla's Ghost

Keepstones

2009-07-20T22:22:00.005-04:00

The little boy led his older sister up the path to the trove. It was under an old pine tree that had been split long ago. One trunk was surviving, more or less, while the other was a mass of kindling suspended in the air. He crawled under the tattered canopy and beckoned her in. "See what I found, Evvie?" he said, pointing at the a pile of glassy black shards mixed with more ordinary pebbles. "I think they must be arrowheads."

Evelyn sighed. "No, stupid. That's just keepstone." She was tired of always having to explain the simplest things to her little brother.

"What's keepstone?" he asked.

"It's old, and it's boring." Evelyn started walking back down the path to their parents' hut. Dad had netted two pigeons that morning and she had the juniper berries for the stew in her apron. Cole scampered up behind and asked, "How old?"

"Older than grandpa's grandpa. It's from before, when there were armies and things."

Cole's eyes flashed. "Do you think there's a sword in there?"

It was too much. Evelyn turned and swatted at Cole. "No, stupid! Leave me alone," and she ran off faster than he could follow. All the swords (and nails and cart-axles, for that matter) had been carried off by scavengers long ago, no more than a year or two after the Keep fell. "Fell" probably wasn't the right word for it, though, since piles of keepstone could be found miles away from the lake where it used to stand. "Exploded" would probably be better, although Evelyn had never seen anything actually explode. She had once seen a lampglass break when it got too hot, and a few bits of glass shot away from the flame. It was enough for her to imagine what had happened, or so she told herself. And she thought, "All the swords but one."

She opened the door to the cabin and smelled the stew already cooking. Mother had put spring onions and yellow tuberoot in with the birds. "I've got the berries, Ma," she said. "Thank you, dear," said her mother, taking the berries in one hand and patting her on the head with the other. "Run go get some more wood for the breadoven." Evelyn walked off toward the woodshed.

When she got to the shed she looked around to be sure that her mother wasn't paying attention. Her father wouldn't be back until suppertime; he went to smoke with the men at the brewery in the afternoons. She climbed up onto the woodpile and reached above the third rafter from the end of the shed roof. She would need a different hiding place once winter came, but for now nobody had found the bundle. She took it down and opened up the dirty chamois cloth. The hilt of the dagger shined, the silver matching the trim on the scabbard, which was made from a heavy black wood like ebony but harder. She eased back the latch that held the dagger safely shut and drew out the blade. She turned it in the light, watching the runes etched into the blade come in and out of relief.

Was it from the Fourth Onslaught? She couldn't remember a time when she hadn't wondered what it must have been like to be part of that attack, when the besieging armies had finally breached the Citadel wall. The outer chambers of the keep had fallen first, the defenders retreating to the central tower before Daniel's soldiers. They barricaded themselves within while the attackers looted the stores of food that had been left behind. For weeks they'd had to live off the land, stripping it bare of what livestock and game the defending Servants of Matthew hadn't hoarded in the time before the First Onslaught. On their night of victory they could think of no sweeter reward than oat porridge spiced with goatgrass and honey. But they knew they needed strength for the final assault.

"What's that?" asked Cole, startling her. She turned to see him standing not two feet away. He must have seen everything. "Cole! What are you doing?"

Cole looked worried, and not at all interested in the dagger she was clumsily wrapping back into its cloth. "There's men on the road," he said.

"What men?" she asked.

"Men on horses," he said, and inexplicably broke out in tears. He ran off to the cabin sobbing, arms reaching out for Mother's legs long before he reached the door.

Evelyn tucked the dagger into her apron and walked around to the side of the woodshed. She could see the cart-track that led down to the mill and the brewery. There were indeed four men on horseback, dressed like penitents in grey woolen sacks. But she was more startled by the men who walked alongside, leading the horses by the reins. They were wearing armor -- black armor, like in the stories.

It was the color of the final guard who defended the Keep during the Fifth Onslaught. Daniel's soldiers had battered down the great door to the inner Citadel, swarming in to exterminate the Servants of Matthew. The battle had raged for a day and a half in tight corridors, the dead propped up by those behind them, men hewing into each other through shields of meat and bone. Finally they came to the tower sanctum where Matthew himself was surrounded by the black-armored Marchers of the East. Daniel's soldiers seemed like a ragged group of farmhand conscripts in comparison, motley arms and armor against an elite cadre of trained warriors. But they had lost brothers and fathers and sons in the fields outside the wall, and their numbers carried the day. The fell on the Marchers and then Matthew himself, hacking into him and pulling his corpse to shreds.

In that chamber their bloodlust exceeded all reason and became an orgy of violence. Men coupled with organs or the blood-slick stones of the Citadel itself. Soldiers who had once been priests defiled the fallen bodies of the Marchers. Matthew's severed head was hoisted on a pike to observe his final defeat. When the rage finally subsided the victors couldn't believe what they had done. Nor could they understand why the walls of the Citadel seemed to be glowing red, as if they had become penetrable to the light of the sun which shone through their thick coating of blood. And they certainly could not understand how Matthew's ruined skull was now laughing, the dangling eyes weaving and mad. And then they knew nothing, for the keep was broken and scattered.

Of this last assault Evelyn knew almost nothing, other than that Daniel has won but had his army destroyed when the Citadel erupted in a fountain of blood, metal, and stone. It was the story that explained why there were no more armies in the land, and why the black stones of the bridges were so strong and so strange. But before her on the road were these four penitents and their warders who looked to be soldiers. When she saw the smoke from where the millhouse stood she wondered if it all could happen again.

--Steve Kilian
------------------------------------ Sweet Nothings
------------------------------------ Globama

Feathers

2009-07-19T12:00:00.007-04:00

She unbuckled the case and opened it. The familiar smell of leather and feathers reminded her of school, back when the craft of her old profession still required precision tools manufactured in Germany, fine constructions of stainless steel with knurled surfaces and threaded rods. These were mixed incongruously with small bits of graphite and charcoal, clumsy earthen lumps gripped in zero-tolerance pincers. All this was in the service of rendering an approximation of a mental image of space and material. It was no wonder then that more direct methods were devised, that these crude workarounds were abandoned to handsome velvet-lined wooden boxes set on high shelves of closets. These boxes had form-fitting depressions for each tool, and inevitably one or two would be empty, slowly losing their crispness, as if forgetting the shape of what they were made to hold.

But this was not the sort of case she opened. These tools were part of the day-to-day work of her new profession. She ran her fingers along the row of feathers, condor and albatross for distance, starling and swallow for control, selecting them individually and fitting them to the armature. Soon she was nearly complete, and snugged the harness-straps over her shoulders, testing the spring tension and flexure limits. She drew out the wings to their full span and brought them in quickly, fluttering them to be sure no feathers slipped free from the clamping bar. Satisfied with this she folded them back and returned to the case.

She selected a last feather, and drew a small blade from its sheath. With a practiced swipe she took a quarter-inch from its tip, examined the quill to make sure it wasn’t split, and dipped it in a small pot of resin-ink. She laid out a sheet of parchment and quickly documented her flight plan. There was enough of the quill for two or three more uses. She hesitated for a moment, since if everything went as planned she wouldn’t need to file any more flights. But a good tool is a good tool, so she fitted the feather back into its slot. She folded the case and buckled it shut.

--Steve Kilian

----------------------------------- Russian Roulette

----------------------------------- The Future of Cars

Milky Sputum: Dan and Pat do Siren Fest

2009-07-18T20:25:00.010-04:00

As we got ready we watched Alien on TV.

“Dan we’ve got to go.”

“Just until the robot guy loses his head.”

Ian Holmes twitched and spat milky sputum. There was an alien loose on the ship, and there was no way to stop it. They interrogated his head, and we went to the Siren Fest.

The Future of the Left had clear sound, every drumbeat, every word audible, loud as hell. All bouncing angles and silly words “Sausage on a stick!” shrill and hard. I like it, but I totally understand those who are annoyed by it. Manchasm rocked. “Colin is a pussy, a very pretty pussy Colin is a pussy, a very pretty pussy cat”

We didn’t know where the main stage was. We though this big beer cage was the mainstage. I stopped to ask, almost lost Pat. We got together, started the march to the mainstage. Big line for the VIPs. If there’s so many of them, they can’t be all that I, can they? Take that fuckers!

Ran into old Ks singer Maggie Grise. She and some guy were looking to see Built To Spill, but we weren't. You can hear her on the album The Ks Can't Get It Together which you can buy just by clicking over here>.

Grand Duchy had more instruments, and less stellar sound. Frank Black got a decent acoustic guitar tone out of an electric guitar. Violet Clark, his wife, does a good Kim Deal imitation, and was no doubt a good front-woman for whatever band she used to be in but she strains in the bigger leagues.

Pat walked a couple blocks for food, and I got into a line for some free drink product. We were split up and we had no contingency plan. I panicked, but got my free drink. Selzter and milk and berry flavorings. Much better than I’d anticipated.

Still no Pat. I got reeled by a food booth run by con men. Fried shrimp and a cup of grape bug-juice for nine bucks. Pat turned up, having spent two dollars on a bag of chips and a can of grape juice. We both got two new free milk and seltzer drinks.

Pat spat his drink out, and started twitching. Then his head fell off his neck, dangling by a cable. Milky sputum spouted from the machinery in his neck hole.--Dan Kilian
--Pat McNulty
-------------------------------------------- Flames vs. Lips
-------------------------------------------- Fleetwood vs. Mac

War-holes

2009-07-17T10:15:00.005-04:00

Though given dispensation to mate using the war-hole, the spiky offspring of that sub-tribe's unions were often vilified by standard citizens. Even the gaunt product of famine-hole couplings would hiss and spit at warlings' passage. Not that the taunts mattered to those at which they were hurled. They lived apart from and above the cares of the citizens - without genitals, they produced no offspring, and so were not beholden to the web of obligations that dominated that society. Instead they served as sentries at the perimeter of the city, or flying above in fragile contraptions of shell, iron, and sailcloth.

Strange thing, then, when a scholar or merchant would apply for war-hole mating. Was it an aberration of the natural desire for such a thing that would overcome the citizenry during times of true warfare? Much like those who held a fetish for the famine-hole even in times of plenty, were there those who longed for the armored orifice of the war-hole? Perhaps.

--Steve Kilian

--------------------------------- Joseph in the North

--------------------------------- Dan's Almost Daily Musings

40 Years Ago Today

2009-07-16T14:47:00.003-04:00

That’s one small step for man, one great leap for mankind.

What did he just say?

I think he said one small step for a man…

No, he said one small step for MAN one great leap for MANKIND. What’s the difference?

Between Man and Mankind?

Not a whole hell of a lot. There you have it. The immortal words of the first man on the moon. It’s small, no wait, it’s big.

I think he meant it’s small for a single man.

Then he should have SAID that.

Maybe there was some static?

I knew Armstrong would screw this up! It should have been me. I would have said something that would have blown the world’s mind!

What would you have said?

This is Buzz Aldrin. We just “Buzzed” the moon.

Oh.

What? You don’t like it?

It’s a little…silly? And it’s more about you than it is about humanity.

Well, I’ve only been thinking about it for a second. It’s been Neil’s thing to think about for forever, and he just blew it.

Sounds to me like you’ve been thinking about it for longer than a second.

This is one big "Buzz" for a Buzz, and an even bigger "Buzz" for mankind! No, that’s terrible.

Well…

Okay okay okay, I’ve got it. This is the moon. This is man on the moon. Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve “Buzzed” it.

Maybe you should skip the “Buzz” thing.

Well the first part’s got this beautiful simplicity.

It is simple.

No wait, how about this? One world, one moon, now a man from that world has walked on that moon, and here we are people, on the moon. At least I am. On the moon. Wait, let me write this down…

You might be on to something…One world, one moon….

Okay! It’s a world. A whole other world. A moon. And the world we live on has just...stepped on that other world. Wow, that’s even worse than what I had before. What was I saying before?

One world, one moon…

One world, one step, and now one man has stepped on the moon, and now one world has stepped on another world. It’s been “Buzzed.”

You’ve got to lose the “Buzzed” business, but you’re getting close.It kind of sounds like…planets with feet, though.

That’s it! Feet! This is one small foot, stepping on the moon, but one giant foot for a planet! Huh? Huh?

Um…

Okay forget it. This is one small foot for a step, but one awesome step for the foot of mankind!

Well, it’s kind of academic. It looks like Neil wants you to go out there now.

Oh man, if I’d been the first to go out there, I’d have come up with something.

Well, you can dwell in some kind of magnificent desolation, or you could enjoy being the second man on the moon. It’s still pretty great you know. I just get to sit in the capsule.

What was that?

I said it’s still pretty great to be the second…

No, before that.

I said you could dwell in your…

Magnificent…what was it?

Desolation, I think.

You know, that’s pretty good! Okay! Here I go!

Have fun Buzz! Congratulations!

--Dan Kilian
--------------------------------------- Mars Capsule
--------------------------------------- July 4th, 1777

End of Conflict

2009-07-16T11:27:00.005-04:00

--Steve Kilian
--------------------------------- flikp!
--------------------------------- Demon Brand Chocolate Mallows

The Citadel: Death on the Ladder

2009-07-16T10:56:00.011-04:00

The moat was choked with corpses, the centuries-old lizards crushed beneath the weight of armored men. The advancing troops marched over the backs of the fallen, scaling the wall with ladders and grapnels. Boiling pitch rained down from the machicolations of the battlement, and the sweet smell of roasting flesh hung around the battlefield.

It was this last absurdity which ruined the attack. Matthew, numb with fatigue, clung to the ladder, wondering where the wonderful scent came from. My God, he thought, I've only had cabbage and bread for two weeks now. He glanced from side to side, not noticing the archer leaning over the parapet above. The arrow entered just above his collarbone and was buried to the fletching, piercing the lung, which instantly filled with blood. Matthew tried to look up, but could only raise his eyes to the level of his hands, which were growing slack on the ladder rung. They seemed somehow grey and alien, as if they were someone else's hands.

I should hold on, he thought, and fell.

--Steve Kilian

-------------------------------------- Epideme

-------------------------------- Quickleaf

Deadbeats & Deloreans

2009-07-15T12:39:00.004-04:00

Before I became disenchanted with the music scene, I worked as a studio musician at Prescription Studios in Hackensack. I sold away my legal right to any future royalty payments for 80 bucks per song. Like most session drummers, my ability to do this was directly hindered by the session drummer’s arch enemy, the synthesizer.

If a musician was talented enough to program a synthesized drum beat, they would find my 80 dollar fee totally unnecessary. Fortunately for me, most of the people who came in to our dark, windowless, hole-in-the-wall at the far end of the McDonald’s parking lot were completely oblivious to all technical aspects of music. This meant I was frequently forced to translate some of the vaguest musical direction possible. You have no idea how frustrating it is to spend hours on end being yelled at because you can’t properly interpret what some acid casualty means by “play a ba-da-ba-da beat.” As if that weren’t confusing enough already, there were always heavy opium fumes leaking out from the sound booth and filling up the studio, making coherent conversation a damn near impossibility.

When your boss is frequently getting wasted, your work hours become more and more negotiable. He’d stumble out of his office and ask me if I was still on for working Saturday night, and knowing full well that he’d already booked me for that time slot, I’d respond with “no, was I supposed to? You never said anything about that.” Then, feeling embarrassed, he would apologize and tell me that he must have been confused, and from there I’d offer to swing by on Sunday, for which he’d thank me as if I were doing him a favor.

That scenario took place quite often, in one form or another, and although I probably should have felt bad about taking advantage of a drug fiend like that, the trouble I gave him seemed like the least of his worries. Feeding his addiction had caused his business to take a financial plunge into the toilet, which in turn left the studio in desperate need of cash. In the end, my boss had to sell his Delorean to save his sinking business.

He would always tell me though how much he loved racing that car over the studio’s P.A. system while I hooked up the drum microphones, tested the sound levels, and took care of all the other recording necessities he’d neglected. He described his Delorean exploits to me in great detail, making sure to mention how many “ricers” he made eat his dust. Unfortunately, having never actually seen him take part in any of these races, I couldn’t help but feel a bit skeptical that a guy who had trouble cleaning the Cheetos out of his hair could outrace anyone, let alone a custom Japanese race car in a gas guzzling anachronism barely capable of 88 miles per.

The decision to sell the car was a big one for him, and it just might have been the first time I ever saw any emotional expression in his almost perpetually dazed face. He didn’t have a wife, kids, or any real sort of family, and working so long and unsuccessfully at Prescription Studios had basically robbed him of an attachment to his job in any sense other than as a means of income; that car was all he really loved. He cared for it as if it were the child he never had, and when a problem as tiny as the radio not getting proper reception would arise, he’d postpone any recording sessions we needed to do that day to drive up to some Delorean specialist’s garage in Long Island. He’d book a hotel room there and stay until the repairs were finished, going to the garage every day to visit his car. Sometimes, he’d even call to tell me that I didn’t have to come in to work that week.

Instabilities in my work schedule like these meant that my paychecks wouldn’t be coming half as frequently as they once were (which wasn’t even all that frequently to begin with); suddenly, my empty pockets made a steady job at some kind of big chain store sound more and more enticing. But as I quickly learned, it’s hard to get legitimate employment from a respectable enterprise with shaggy hair and torn jeans.

So, there I was stuck going down with this sinking ship of a studio watching my boss squirm under the increasing financial pressure being put on him. In retrospect, there’s a certain humor in the whole debacle: just as John Delorean had turned to selling drugs to help keep his beloved car company afloat financially, my boss had turned to selling his beloved Delorean to help keep his drug habit from running his studio into the ground.

And just like the hundreds of major investors in the Delorean auto company during the 80s, I had no other choice but to hang on for the ride.

--Ilan Moskowitz

Editor's note: We're proud to welcome Ilan Moskowitz as a new writer. Thanks Ilan!

-------------------- The Human Fly

-------------------- Steve Perry Takes Over Journey

10 Questions to Stump Sotomayor

2009-07-14T10:56:00.010-04:00

Unless you have a complete meltdown, you are going to be confirmed.

--Lindsey Graham at the Sonia Sotomayor confirmation hearings.

That may be true, but it’s not too late, Republicans! Here are some questions that are a sure-fire way to trigger meltdown in the most poised of Supreme Court nominees.

If you had to choose between an immediate member of your family or a white New Haven firefighter perishing in agonizing flames, which would you pick?

FOLLOW UP QUESTION: What do you have against white New Haven firefighters?

If they develop armor piercing bullets made from stem cells, would you be in favor of the procedure?

If the flood of illegal immigrants led to the need for strip searching young Hispanic girls at schools, why would a white male be the best judge of the legality of such searches?

If our brave undercover secret assassination teams need to fool the Al Queda operations they’re infiltrating by speaking in Pig Latin, would you find that racist?

FOLLOW UP QUESTION: An-cay ou-yay understand-ay at-whay I’m-ay aying-say? Was THAT racist?

The Bible says “Judge not, lest ye be judged.” Isn’t everything you do in direct opposition to The Bible?

Is a wise-ass Latina woman snarkier than a wise-ass white man?

Would you be willing to take the “Love Tester” at Murphy’s bar around the corner to prove your empathy?

FOLLOW UP QUESTION: Are you saying we should just throw the test out?

Doesn’t your graduating summa cum laude from Princeton after being a product of affirmative action really overturn any arguments about your intellectual capacity, and isn’t that in itself a form of reverse discrimination?

Can The Constitution make a rock that is too heavy for it to lift?

FOLLOW UP QUESTION: Can The Constitution lift that rock?

FURTHER FOLLOW UP QUESTION: How can The Constitution lift a rock that is too heavy for it to lift?

Aren’t Hispanic voters great?

FOLLOW UP QUESTION: Can you possibly love them as much as me?

FURTHER FOLLOW UP QUESTION: Don’t you think they should reconsider the All New Republicaño Party?

--Dan Kilian

-------------------------- The Supreme Facts on Sotomayor

-------------------------- The Ghost of Nixon Talks To Obama

Soup of the Day: Persian Pessimism and Rape

2009-07-12T14:25:00.006-04:00

Q: You seem pretty cynical about the prospects for the popular unrest overturning the Iranian government. Why?

It's not cynicism. It's facts on the ground. At this point in Persia, you have about .00001% of the population arguing against the power grab. They are all children of the elite living in comfortable homes in one city. Children of the elite can always do what they want. But for a revolution, you need tens of millions of peasants converging from the provinces to the focal point of the argument and joining with the children of the elite.

The Russian Revolution is a good case in point. The flash point in that Revolution - naval officers of the Tsar mutinied on the Battleship Potemkin, and joined the children of the elite with big guns. Game over. Nicholas II and al of his children were slaughtered in a basement. Sadly, instead of opening a flower to freedom, it ushered in what many would argue is the absolute most diabolical period in Russian history, eclipsing Ivan the Terrible, and even eclipsing the aftermath of the French Revolution by dark multiples. How many were slaughtered by Lenin and Stalin? Historians are still counting.

In my view, peasants in Persia side with the Guardian Council on matters of morality and religion, and complete separation from the west. The Persi are a proud people, always have been, and always will be. The Guardian Council are their beacon of light in their struggle against the west. Right or wrong, it's self determination.

So far, we have Basij doing a dance against the line of the children of the elite in the wealthy regions of Tehran. Basij are simply Hezbollah thugs and thugs connected with clerics. In western parlance, gangs. The Revolutionary Guard is the real deal in Persia and they have no reason to awaken from their sleep. They have surrounded Tehran, and will be called to slaughter, only if millions of peasants join the argument. However, in my view, peasants in Persia have no clear reason to oppose the Rev Guard, or the GC, or separation from the west, or Islamic asceticism. There are no Hooters and no Michael Jackson tributes in the provinces of Persia. The Persi peasants do not want these things. If the Rev Guard is called to awaken from their sleep, it will be Tiannamen Square. But in my view, they will not be called from their sleep. No reason. .00001% of the population does not awaken a death machine. The reports indicate that contending politicians have already caved into these facts on the ground and have told the GC they will not protest without a permit. A wise choice. But that does mean lights out.

On to South Africa. If any women who are reading this, or any woman in America, or the west, wants to "represent", now is the time. You have a golden opportunity. The World Cup is being staged in South Africa next summer. That means 4 billion folks will be watching. The latest UN report ranks South Africa number in crime and rape. My data indicates 40% of women in South Africa today have been raped, many as children. All this has happened under home rule - Zulus.

Zulu men make the strange argument that if a woman walks past him, it is his duty to provide her with sexual pleasure, so as to express his virility. I don't buy it. I believe that is false and wrong. It should stop. But it continues. Will Obama speak out against this sickness next summer? I don't believe so. Diamonds are a girl's best friend. No matter who is in charge in South Africa, that seems to trump all, like oil and natural gas in the Middle East. Keep the money flowing. Ignore everything else. Time to "represent" big time on this one. Nobody else will. This is much worse than men forcing women to wear veils and modest clothing, so as to "shield them" from being poached by strange men.

Peace and love against all facts on the ground. Keep the fire burning.

Where is Chief Joseph when you need him? He was the coolest of all time.

--Dave "Soup" Campbell
My Secret Life as an Iranian Proxy Server
Bush vs. Obama in Iran

The Fascinating Then Curious Then Fairly Blah Case of Benjamin Button

2009-07-11T18:20:00.012-04:00

Ah have not lived the same kind of life that othahs have lived. Ah was born very interestin’, then became less interestin’ as my life went on. Ah was an old man as a baby, strugglin’ with mortality aind frailty as Ah looked at life with new ahs.

Ah met a young redheaded girl, named Daisy, and she found me to be fascinatin’. Ah loved her from the first minute Ah saw her, as Ah was full of crazy passion. The complexity of mah strange age affliction lent our relationship a creepy element of forbidden longing and tragic doomed love.

Ah saw her again when she was a young woman, beautiful but somewhat tedious, ramblin’ on about her life as a dancer. Ah was a reverse-aging sailah who hung out in brothels with colorful drunks and fought in the war. Ah was still too interestin’ a charactah for us to be an ideal match.

As Ah grew youngah, Ah became ever so slightly more borin’ as the yeahs past. Ah was no longer weirdly old, and Ah looked like a middle-aged movie star. Daisy, having been beaten up by life a little, was a more well-rounded person the next time I saw her. We were both just compellin’ enough to fall in love.

But then Ah started getting’ more and more borin’. Ah wore less and less make-up, and affected a hangdog expression, which didn’t compensate for mah lack of true depth. Even my New Orleans accent came and went. Ah stopped sailin’ an’ sold buttons. Or maybe I just lived off an inheritance. I forget.

Daisy was pregnant, and Ah knew our child would need someone who wasn’t so bland for a father. We’d have long boring conversations about it.

“Is it because Ah’m getting’ older?” Daisy asked.

“Ah’ll always love you,” Ah answered, vaguely realizing what trite melodrama our story had become.

Ah came and went. Even the fact that Ah was still getting’ youngah had lost its novelty. Mah story stretched on an’ on, and you could see where it was goin’ an’ you just wanted it to happen already.

Finally it did. Ah even had a mind-numbin’ little moral to tell. Appreciate life while you can. At least appreciate the excitin’ parts, because they are surely fleetin’.

--Dan Kilian

Who Watches The Watchmen?

Team America World Police

The Video: Last Trip To The Well

2009-07-10T12:11:00.008-04:00

We're thrilled to present The K's new video. "Last Trip To The Well."

Much thanks to the boys and girls over a Philistine Productions for all their hard work!

--Dan Kilian

--------------------------- Last Trip To The Well Program

--------------------------- Return to The Last Trip To The Well Part II

--------------------------- Last Trip To The Well Intro

--------------------------- www.myspace.com/theksband

Back From The Past

2009-07-09T16:16:00.002-04:00

Someone used the time machine and now the present’s all screwed up.

They came through the airlock, nano-fumes dispersing, with a mounted T-Rex head in tow. They looked around, and the world was a nightmare. Pollution, war, corrupt religion, and the advance of science had slowed to a crawl. They could smell the dystopia.

“Let’s stick close to the T.M.” warned Dr. Meritus, “It’s probably the only one in existence.”

The natives gathered round, drawn by their shiny clothes, strange ways and, of course, their large machine which had materialized out of thin air. Or thick air.

“Who are y’all?” one called, a question echoed repeatedly, the “y’alls hanging in the air like seagulls cries. The crowd drew in tighter.

“There are so many of them!” said Amanda.

“No population control in this universe. They’re like bacteria in an agar dish, mindlessly eating their way to oblivion,” mused Dr. Morbidia.

Just then the Sharkmen from Universe 13 appeared, brandishing their lazerpoons. “This Universe is ours!” their translators bleated. “You are all chum!”

Blam! Wally’s hand cannon took one Shark-man’s shark head clean off. Melee ensued. Hand cannons blazed and lazerpoons crackled, and the people in the crowd trampled the fallen as they fled.

The Ks appeared, rocking their instruments hard, from a gig in the future. They were killed almost instantly.

Blam! Blam! Blam! Three more Sharkmen dead!

CRRrrRRAAACK! Amos was shrouded in the eerie green light and disintegrated.

Dr. Morbidia threw a smoke bomb to hide them so that they might regroup. It lay at his feet, only a small fume of smoke spewing from it.

“The smoke bombs in this universe are mere children’s novelties! Let’s get out of here!”

But it was too late. They were outnumbered and overwhelmed. One by one they were subjected to the disintegrating power of the lazerpoons. The Sharkmen had finally won. All of Earth, and indeed all planets in this present universe were enslaved to their evil whims.

Perhaps it is for the best. Mankind was a poor steward of this world. I certainly think so. For I am a Sharkman! All bow down before me! You are CHUM!-- Dan Kilian
---------------------------------------- Pupa
---------------------------------------- Top Trek

Vicious Viking

2009-07-08T17:23:00.003-04:00

Arinbjörn Nöthnagle rode his winged horse down to the battlefield. The blood was already congealing, and the stench of decay brought a smile to his cruel lips. The ladies were gathering the heroes of the battle, for their endless night in the dining hall of Valhalla. That was the ladies’ job, but Arinbjörn’s task was different. He was here to kick the losers, the weak, the unlucky.

“KAARGH!” he exclaimed, laying boot to the guts of a dead Swede, who had already suffered the indignity of having his head split by an axe.

“Why? Lord of Asgard, why to you torture me?” moaned the fallen warrior. “Did I not fight bravely?”

“You would think you fought bravely, wouldn’t you?” The Nöthnagle barked, laughing his contempt. “You know nothing of the glory that belongs to the truly brave. You fought with fear in your heart!”

“That was adrenaline!”

“FEAR! KAARGH!”

“Oof!”

After he’d spent the morning kicking similar dead wretches of the battle, adding insult to fatality, Arinbjörn took a long draught on his horn of mead.

Frulgjna the Valkyrie descended to the field where he stood.

“Good Arinbjörn Nöthnagle, how is your drink?”

“It tastes like blood, but what doesn’t taste like blood? I love it.”

“You are a cruel God, Arinbjörn. I have often wondered why Odin assigned you such a cruel duty, torturing the less than glorious dead?”

“What Odin? What assignment? I’m just killing time so I don’t have to gather sticks for Baldar’s eternal Pyre!

“Oh.”

“This is how I get my kicks!”

“Oh”

“Get it? Kicks?”

--Dan Kilian
------------------------------------------- The Melancholy Viking
------------------------------------------- Fixing The Banks

Gullible

2009-07-07T17:16:00.020-04:00

My mother forwarded an e-mail about the impending death of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, with a sentimental poem attached, supposedly penned by the great author. A quick google revealed that GGM isn’t dying, and he didn’t write the poem. I started to respond with a weathered chestnut, “Did you know that the word ‘gullible’ isn’t in the dictionary?”

Before I hit reply, I was hit with a strange doubt. That is a lie, isn’t it?

I pulled my Websters off the shelf to look for myself. I was stunned to see this:

I’ve scanned the page from the Dictionary. “Gullible” isn’t there.
Here it is close up.

It goes straight from "gullet" to "Gulliver."

I checked the spelling, and I checked online. Microsoft accepts the word without any red zig-zags, but no respected Dictionary, hard-copy or online (certainly not the Mirriam-Webster and Oxford online editions) spits out a word for gullible. Just as no one is act ually buried in Grant’s tomb, belying the obvious intuitive answer, the word “gullible” is actually not in the Dictionary.

What gives? I e-mailed Professor Ed Pamaemuna, a linguistics scholar at Columbia University. He quickly replied.

I get this about every two years, when one of my students makes the same discovery. People can’t believe such a commonly accepted usage isn’t acknowledged by the language mavens who determine linguistic legitimacy. Of course, a lot of common usages aren’t accepted words.

Professor Pamaemuna directed me to Dr. Bernard Wilte, author of Forgotten Shakespeare: The Lost Texts. Of course it was Shakespeare who minted the word, as he gave us so many others. “Gullible” first appears in the play Coriolanus, in slightly different spelling as a compound word uttered by Clytemnestra to Coriolanus, after she has fooled him by dressing as a man. “Thou art a stupid bull to be so roundly/gulled! Forsooth! A gull’bull indeed!”

Of course, Dr. Wilte pointed out that while some 1300 words Shakespeare created have entered English standard, he made up tens of thousand of words that did not. For every “amazement” and “mimic” there are ten “stringfellows”; “bardicombs”; "gufusgallants” and “gullibles.”

It turns out that gullible came up for consideration by the dictionary boards a number of times, and was rejected, in the centuries since Shakespeare’s time. There were then, as there always are with any word, questions of longevity. It turns out “gullible” did have the staying power to last to this day, but it lacked the champions to keep it on the docket for consideration at the major dictionaries Readers Boardes. Gullible, was, essentially, forgotten. Sexier words like **** “e-tail” have a better chance of getting into the Dictionary today.

Even for words, everything is political. Perhaps it’s time to champion this word and finally get it into the dictionary!
--Dan Kilian
------------------------------------------ Facts on Flouride
------------------------------------------ Robert Frost

Dactylophilia

2009-07-06T11:21:00.004-04:00

The hand fetish world is a fractured place. Only half of those who recognize that they have a hand fetish are full-hand enthusiasts, the meat-and-potatoes types for whom one digit is as good as the next. The other half is divided into exclusive camps of Tea-timers, Ringers, Middlemen (less than 1/10th of one percent of "handymen" are female), Pointers, and the reviled Thumbs. Straddling these groups and accepted by none are a multi-digit aficionados who prefer their fingers in twos and threes. But their numbers are so small as to be insignificant.

Tea-timers often hold Victorian-themed social events where pinkies are put on delicate display. Private showings are arranged through a formal process involving calling cards, chaperones, and matchmakers. Ringers' conventions are more mercenary, with a heavy emphasis on jeweled adornment. Usually all that is required for elaboration on the theme is a sufficient carat-weight of precious stones.

Middlemen meetings are coarse, vulgar affairs, often devolving into shouting matches before the minutes of the last meeting can be read. The pointers, on the other hand, typically approach their obsession with all the gravitas of an academic conference, with keynote speakers and panel discussions of Pointerism in Sixteenth Century Estonian Literature and the like.

Thumbs, on the other hand, just have orgies, with a travel-size bottle of Purell being the only nod to concerns about hygiene and cleanliness.

--Steve Kilian
------------------------------ More Hands and Fingers
------------------------------ Necrophiliac Jokes

I Passed, But Then I Came Back: Five and a Half Song Review

2009-07-05T14:24:00.006-04:00

Ten Minute Turns "Sad Animals"

These guys could be another MGMT. They’re eclectic within an aesthetic, and a lot of the spaghetti sticks to the wall, and to the ribs. Yes, I’m now metaphorically eating spaghetti off the wall. This tune marries stripper horns and sweet harmonies Beatleistically over spare rising choruses. Breaks down flutishly (mellotron?) and then more chorus. Pretty damn enjoyable indie-delic pop.

Benny Goodman "Don't Be That Way"

The King of Swing flies by on an enchanted carpet to lands unknown. With all these lush horns and a piano skipping along you might forget the mystery and soul of the clarinet playing. By then you’re up in the sky over Persia, and a trumpet mute playing Pee Wee Ellis* making UFO noises in the background?

Prince "Papa"

A trippy spoken word of parental abuse and suicide from1994. Prince speaking is often pretentious glob. This does include “crucified” dandelions, but gets down to business and then rewards us with a rock freakout.

Fishbone "Naz-tee May’en"

I saw The Reality of My Surroundings in the thrift store and I thought, Fishbone got a little busy sounding on that record, so I passed, but then I came back. I’d forgotten how fun these guys are. “I’m a nasty man/with a nasty plan/ I’m a nasty man/ humpin’ and a pumpin’ any time I can.” Yes they throw the orchestra at this, but they keep it up in the air.

More Benny Goodman…

Earth Wind and Fire "September"

The song is called September but it sure sounds like summertime in the city. EW&F is sometimes too clean and smooth for their own good, but here the air ripples with heat from the bubbling tar.

more Benny Goodman…

Dave Brubeck Quarted "Take Five."

Recently got a lot of jazz “on the cheap.” Not in the mood right now…God it’s lovely though…okay I’ll listen to it….

--Dan Kilian

* This could be utter bullshit. I have no idea who’s playing on this recording. I’m just googling and pasting and acting like I know shit about Jazz.

--------------------------------------- Get A Bigger Minotaur: 7 Songs
--------------------------------------- Radio Lives: 6 Songs

July 4th, 1777

2009-07-04T21:53:00.008-04:00

One year after the initial declaration of independence, the country was embroiled in war.

Washington was trapped outside Princeton. 8000 Hessians were camped out in the fields of New Jersey, while General Cornwallis was seeking to flank him from the west. His supply lines had been devastated by the Iroquois. The Indians knew the land better than they did. Still, the revolutionaries knew the land better than the Hessians.

Washington curled his lips around his wooden teeth. “We could take those Hessians!”

Patrick Henry looked up at his leader, a wild look in his eye. “They have the numbers, but we have the spirit!” he exclaimed, “Give me those Hessians or give me death!”

Benedict Arnold scowled an unfaithful Judasian scowl, “There’s no way. They’re too careful not to light fires. The night is overcast. No one will be able to see a thing!”

“Cussed bull!”

Just then Ben Franklin came riding in from Boston, fresh off his envoyship to the Kingdom of China.

Washington brightened. “What Ho Franklin! What news do you bring from the Chinee?”

“Nothing but mystic voodooery and neutrality I’m afraid. They pledged to help us manage our war debt, after the hostilities are ended. The people are very smooth, lithe and sensual.”

“Cussed bull! We need a spot of good news. We’ve caught the Hessians sleeping, but it’s too dark to attack.”

“Too dark you say?” Franklin pulled a sack of mysterious packages from his horse, “Perhaps these could illuminate our immediate situation.”

“What ho?”

They are the latest word in pyrotechnics. Fire illusions and illuminations. Locofocos and Roman Candles. Could be just what we need.”

As Frederick Scott Key played “Yankee Doodle” on his fife, the founding fathers indulged in pyromania, climbing Breed’s Hill just above the sleeping Hessians in the valley. Soon the Chinese fireworks torched the sky, and as the illuminations hung in the air, Washington called on his Calvary to charge.

Just then, Paul Revere rode up, swinging a lantern. “The British are coming!” he cried.

Washington smiled a pained yet satisfied smile. “Let them come. We’ll be waiting for them. At least you will, Alexander."

Alexander Hamilton, the unassuming Lieutenant, gaped in surprise. “Me sir? Where will you be?”

Washington plucked a silver dollar from his rucksack and polished it with a hankerchief. “Me? I’ve got a river to cross.”

--Dan Kilian
------------------------------------------ The Rose Armonica
------------------------------------------ WWII Fiction

Taluto Save Us!

2009-07-03T11:54:00.005-04:00

If you've been following the impasse in Albany you're either to be commended for your interest in local government or condemned for your perverse interest in train wrecks. Our state government is mired in a stalemate, with two evenly numbered body's both claiming legitimacy as no laws are passed, upending efforts to patch budget holes, throwing our educational system into turmoil, and costing New York City $60 million a month, according to Michael Bloomberg.

The other day the Democrats declared a quorum (They needed 32 senators present and only had 31) and started passing bogus bills when a Republican had to cut through their chamber because the exterior parlor had been blocked by Democrats for a press conference they never held.

This isn't government; this is crisis. I love democracy, but the time has come for extreme measures. The only solution I can think of is for the National Guard to move in and declare a military coup.

New York National Guard Adjutant General Joseph J. Taluto, I publicly call on you to bring in a junta to haul these Senators off for unconstitutional imprisonment and torture. If it works for Honduras, it can work here. Eventually, we can call some elections and you can step down from power. Right now, the State of New York needs a military strongman. The time for dictatorship is now.

If you're not willing to do this, General, perhaps a council of religious clerics could call the shots. Anything is better than this.

Lead us Taluto! Suppress us! We submit to you!

--Dan Kilian
------------------------------------------- Bush vs. Obama in Iran
------------------------------------------- My Secret Life as a Proxy Server

Late Solstice

2009-07-02T11:34:00.008-04:00

I could hear the sun grind to a halt in the sky above those shingled single-family rooftops. I could hear the mandibular squeak and shuffle of Japanese beetles mating in iridescent brown clusters on the tattered rose bushes. I could hear a blimp somewhere overhead droning under the weight of advertisements for motor oil (starboard) and steel-belted radials (port). And I could hear the clunk and tick of bocce balls and old men's knees as they examined the workings of that great lawn-clock of a game that marked the passage of the summer's afternoons.

And then the driver pulled the lever, tattooed arm already tan, and the door squealed open onto weeks upon weeks—a future stretching beyond the imagination—of limitless possibility.

"Go on, son," he said, smiling, "It's summer."

—Steve Kilian
------------------------------- Wolcott Pond

------------------------------- Fixing the Banks

The Great Defeat in Georgia

2009-07-01T11:57:00.004-04:00

Johnny was on his front porch practicing when The Devil arrived. He had an entourage of country demons, notably Azriel and Beelzebub. The Devil saw him playing fiddle, and offered to play in a fiddle off, betting Johnny a golden fiddle against his soul. The demons, having seen men offered wealth untold and even kingdoms for their souls, snickered at the cheap bet their dark lord was making with this country rube. Johnny, a cocky lad, not knowing the value of either money or soul, took the bet. He was playing for the contest; he was the best and wanted the world to know.

The Devil rosined up his bow. He was a forceful player, and had well worn horsehair on his bow, so he rosined more than most. Then he struck a stance and the demons took to their instruments. They were a crack team, pounding out hard rock chords, and then immediately breaking it down into a hard funk that shook clouds of dirt from the ground. It was impressive, but The Devil was even more impressive. Over that grinding funk, he laid down some scorching avant-garde improvisation that hissed and wailed. He made sounds come from his fiddle that no man had heard. His music was strange and singular, yet it stirred men’s hearts. It was a breathtaking performance.

Johnny smiled and acknowledged The Devil’s performance with a left handed compliment and a boastful promise. “Let me show you how it’s done,” he sneered. Old man Jenkins started blowing on a jug, while One-eyed Jake scratched out a rhythm on the washboard.

Now Johnny had quite a reputation in the county, and among traveling musicians throughout much of Georgia. He also had a reputation, unknown to mortals, in the fiery caverns of Hell, where fiddle playing was highly regarded, at least amongst the country demons. Yes, these fire-bound beasts knew this player well, and they anticipated a great battle.

Which is why it was so disappointing that Johnny answered The Devil’s stirring play with a rather uninspired version of “Turkey in the Straw,” a numbingly familiar tune. He whipped through it in lackluster fashion, though when he finished the rote little performance he smiled as though he had played better than Paganini at his best.

Still more surprising was the reaction of The Devil. He blanched, and a sorrowful look soured his handsome features. He bowed his head, and gently placed the golden fiddle on the ground at Johnny’s feet, and said nothing.

Johnny and his friends shouting mocking obscenities as they drove away.

The Devil pouted. “Maybe I should just give up playing the fiddle.”

Azriel shouted, “No, Lucifer! You’re great! I thought you played far better than that yokel!”

“No,” The Devil said ruefully, “He was the better player.”

They drove on for minutes in silence. Finally The Devil said one more thing. “Ah, ‘Turkey in the Straw.’ God I love that tune.”

--Dan Kilian

-------------------------------- Death To Everyone

-------------------------------- Good vs. Evil

Our Top 20 Hits

2009-06-30T12:31:00.005-04:00

We recently posted our 200th post, and we’re pretty proud of the body of work we’ve generated. Why not take a look and see if there’s something you might have missed? Here’s the current take on the twenty best Klogs.

The Ghost of the Ayatollah Khomeini talks to The Ayatollah Khamenei, but things aren’t what they seem!

This is pretty silly stuff, but it makes me laugh every time I read it. A very off color not for the squeamish take on the Gilligan’s Island Theme song.

This, weirdly enough, is our most viewed item. I guess we’re on the search engine for birthday cake balloons. How to duplicate this effect?

This is our most commented on piece, even if at least one of the commenters hasn’t read the piece. It’s about the new Star Trek movie.

Geek that I am, I prefer this piece mocking the original Star Trek series. Geek that I am, I combine it with Top Chef.

In hopes of replicating the success of the Star Trek piece, we tried a Terminator piece. Too bad that movie’s supposed to suck.

And we mock The Beatles Rock Band Game.

Political satire has a short shelf life, but here’s us keeping Obama off the pedestal, regarding those detainee abuse photos.

Our fascination with the occult and with money combine in this spooky piece about Thomas Jefferson.

The ghost of Nixon talks to Obama.

The Iranian uprising meets twitter.

Mickey Rourke as Godzilla.

Music, politics, why not religion? This piece is NOT for the devout. Joseph in the North.

H.P. Lovecraft meets Steve Kilian with Kuo-toa Assimilated.

On some computers, this poster looked decent, and on some it looked all messed up. Hopefully it’s all better now. A minor character in a Neil Diamond movie gets his own in Love On The Rocks.

Here’s a tale about bumping into Billy Idol at a wedding.

A sad tale involving squirrels.

The ultimate heavy metal rock video, From Space to Destroy!

Perhaps describing this entire blog, The Critic Masturbates. Warning: this piece is about masturbation.

And the original piece about The Cookie Monster.

Let me know if I missed anything. Enjoy!

---- Here's what we thought were the Top Ten Klogs after 100 posts.

Adventures in Filing

2009-06-29T16:01:00.007-04:00

Day 1

Charlotte brings the folders to his desk. Two stacks, about a foot and a half high.

Day 2

Look at those stacks!

Day 3

He stacks the manila folders. Mostly 47000s and 48000s, with the odd 45000, a few 46000s. One 43457. Now there are five stacks.

Day 4

All right, 43457, it’s time to send you home. He picks up the folder and brings it back to the storage closet. 45003-45997, 44408-44499, 44001-44449, 39501-39998… and 39002-39499! There you go! He opens the box and flips through, and deposits his folder. He’s one fifth of the way through with his job.

Day 5

Look at those stacks!

Day 8

Pop the box together. The tight solidity of the cardboard sliding together flush into a rectangular cube is very satisfying. Onto the drawers. 46002-46048, 46502-46099, all the way up to 46498, it all goes into the box. Into the storage closet. Now the fat sharpie, to make 46002-46498 an official storage box, and to get high. Again he considers whether he should order purple sharpies. Would that affect the high?

Day 9

He grabs a cluster of green hanging file folders and repositions them in the drawer. Now there’s room for his manila folders. In they go. Wait a minute, 46880, you don’t go with the 48000s! Disaster averted! File, damn you! File!

Day 10

Down to one stack. Look at that stack!

Editor’s Note: While this story is loosely based on true events, I changed the name of my co-worker Chi to Charlotte, to preserve her anonymity. Also, the numbers have been altered slightly, and there are really two stacks remaining, one stacked perpendicularly atop the other. I was filing the 47000s when the idea of “Adventures in Filing,” occurred to me, so I had to stop everything to satisfy The Muse. Welcome to meta-fiction bitches! Are you reading about filing or are you reading about reading about writing about filing? Where is reality now? File that!
*
--Dan Kilian
------------------------- Adventures in Solitaire
------------------------- Dialogue With The Loch Ness Monster

Three Variations On the Same Scatalogical Joke

2009-06-28T12:13:00.006-04:00

Q: Why does crap look like lumps of bronze?

A: Because it comes in turd.

Notes: Simple, which is good, but does crap actually look bronze? It's really more of a burnt umber. It might be close enough that people will go along with it, but there might be a subconscious tension that undermines the release of the punchline. Jokes are like the scientific method. If people don't believe the given, they won't accept the results. Is crap a good middling between shit and poop?

A favored Olympiad stumbles on the track and comes short of the gold or silver meddles. Expecting a bronze, he instead gets a lump of shit on a string. "What's this for?" he asks, bewildered? The Olympic official explains "You came in turd."

Notes: Doesn't work. Puns don't justify illogical behavior. The language is tortured, having to avoid the word "third." Replacing the bronze with an actual lump of feces avoids the discrepancy of version one, but it makes bronze itself unnecessary, and thus the entire set-up kind of pointless. If it's going to be on a string, the word is definitely shit.

Two guys are having anal sex. Then they shit on each other, smearing the feces all over themselves. Then they bring in a dog and a cat and make them take craps on the floor and then they roll in it. Then they bio-engineer a giant living piece of crap and feed it so that it can take a shit. They take this doubly shit shit and cook it in birdshit and they eat it. Then they put on diapers, shit in the diapers and then wear the crapped-up diapers as hats, as they smear more exotic forms of dung into every crevice of their bodies. A member of the Olympic committee shows up and gives them each a bronze medal. "What's this for?" the ask.

"You came in turd," says the Olympic committee member. Then the Olympic committee member take a shit in his hand and eats it.

Notes: This seems to strike the right balance, but I'm troubled by the word "dung." Don't want to get redundant, but the word is a little sterile. Definitely on the right track.

--Dan Kilian
--------------------------------------- Michael Steele Joke
--------------------------------------- Very Off-Color Gilligan's Island Theme

An Historic Lapse

2009-06-28T11:56:00.004-04:00

Yesterday, for the first* time since we started this Klog thing in January, I neglected to post a new piece. I did not budget my time right. It was Saturday and there were errands and social obligations. It's probably a healthy thing; I've been a little obsessive with this posting every day thing, which can get in the way of other things. I should probably get more relaxed about it, but for you, potential regular reader, we post every day. We'll throw a couple things up today to make up for it.

I hope you'll note that Klog doesn't give you too much of the personal business you don't care about, focusing on the political satire, cultural criticism and errant microfictions you crave, in theory. We're back at it today.

--Dan Kilian

*We've had a few post-midnight posts, but it's not tomorrow til you wake up the next day. Also, we might have missed a day or two in January, but since then we've been constant.

---------------------------------------- Gundream
---------------------------------------- Sweet Nothings

The Michelangelo Project

2009-06-26T11:35:00.005-04:00

In a Scientology lab deep in the heart of Hollywood, Forrest Whittaker and John Travolta are suited up in level III containment gear. They are working through a glove box on scraps of nose and lip tissue that have been kept in liquid nitrogen for years.

"Do we have a viable sequence?"

"By Xenu's shroud, I think we do."

"Well, then, let's insert it into the host cell."

Suddenly they are interrupted by their supreme leader. Tom Cruise, through the speakers built into his shiny black level IV+ gear, says, "That won't be necessary, gentlemen."

Perplexed, Forrest and John take their hands out of the glove box.

Cruise continues, "You see, I haven't been completely honest with you. Others have had access to the same material that you are now working on. The Michelangelo Project has been in progress for years."

"Years? How many?"

Then a figure steps from behind Cruise. He's familiar, but something about him is strange. The skin tone, the structure of his facial features - it is like looking at the brother of someone they've known for a long time. But then he speaks, and understanding washes over them.

In a high, perfect voice, he says, "Sixteen. I'm sixteen years old."

--Steve Kilian

------------------------------------- Steve's Grisly Video

------------------------------------- Michael J. Fox's Bad Day

Impaled

2009-06-26T11:07:00.006-04:00

Impaled!

On a cold spike of iron impaled!

Blood in my lungs impaled!

Dying in the field impaled!

Victim of the horde impaled!

Useless to my tribe impaled!

Leaving wife and child impaled!

Food for the crows impaled!

Hanging in the air impaled!

Seeing only dark impaled!

Screaming though I've died impaled!

For eternity impaled!

Impaled! Impaled! Impaled!

--Steve Kilian

-------------------------------------- The Melancholy Viking

-------------------------------------- Filthy Gilligan's Island Lyrics

Bitchin' about Hitchens

2009-06-25T16:41:00.008-04:00

A friend brought this article by Christopher Hitchens to my attention:
Persian Paranoia...Iranian leaders will always believe Anglo-Saxons are plotting against them.

It sounds like Hitchens is gearing up to buy another war drum. No wonder these guys in Iran want the bomb. Hitch is taking a bold stance against the Ayatollah.

So Obama's words will be twisted whatever he does, shouldn't he give them some direct pull quotes so the anti-Americanism can seem more authentic? There IS legitimate reason to suspect AmeriBrit meddling in recent Iranian history. Hitchens thinks he can sneer at these savages and oversimplify the problem, just as he did in Iraq, and he calls it an insight. The guy needs to learn his lessons from the last war and write with one part more humility, and one part less gin.

Hey, I'm no fan of the Mullahs, but I think Obama has been dead on in his statements, and all these patriots picking apart our President on a matter of foreign policy are hypocrites and blunderers.

I also read Hitchens with suspicion. Too many people have died for stupid reasons he's supported. I dislike his obvious contempt for a cagey and complicated enemy, and I smell war fever, not any actual strategic thinking. And treating Iranian paranoia as simply unjustified delusion simply ignores history. We've got a LOT to answer for in Iran.

I don't have sneering contempt for Mr. Hitchens, (the murderous drunk) though he does for the government of Iran.

It is a mistake to assume that the ayatollahs, cynical and corrupt as they may be, are acting rationally. They are frequently in the grip of archaic beliefs and fears that would make a stupefied medieval European peasant seem mentally sturdy and resourceful by comparison.

You might cling to that "frequently" as some sign of balanced nuance, but I don't. I pretty well hate the government of Iran too, but I don't write articles equating them with savages, because that would be...well...stupid. Any thoughtful analysis of Iran notes that the clerics are NOT a monolithic group, and that part of this crisis is shows the fractures within the leadership coming to light.

Obama is very much a crucial part of this article. The gist I got is that the mullahs are crazy, and Obama is a pussy to use the language he's used. Doesn’t like the use of “Supreme Leader” or "the Islamic republic." Hitchens says that Obama used the "wrong" Martin Luther King Jr. to deplore the repression in Iran. Isn’t that a little mind police-ish? Orwell matters.

The truth is that Obama cited the Supreme Leader when it was still a clever tactic to highlight Khamenei’s supposed concern over the tally. He stresses the Islamic republic because ALL sides see themselves as heirs to the legacy of 1979. The opposition shouts Allah-o Akbar from the rooftops. Hitchens doesn't really have any positive suggestions, just scorn for all things religious. If Obama took his advice he'd be a fool.

This article does drone on for a bit about the Iranian perceptions towards Britain, but once we get to the three points in the middle, he's really cooking. Any article with bullet points is about the bullets. Bullet number one:

There is nothing at all that any Western country can do to avoid the charge of intervening in Iran's internal affairs. The deep belief that everything—especially anything in English—is already and by definition an intervention is part of the very identity and ideology of the theocracy.

Gee, what does this pertain to? Is there someone who is using measured language about Iran so as not to appear meddlesome?

Point three is a straw man about how if people listened to writers and poets and not to only the clerics to gauge the mood in Iran, they wouldn't have been so surprised about the events unfolding. Speaking as someone who had a floating five dollar bet that there would be revolution in Iran, I don't recall Hitchens predicting this uprising based on some poem he'd read.

I don't equate CH with the right-wingers because he's bucking a liberal, though Obama's response would have probably been the same had he been a Republican. I suspicion his more overheated drumbeats because he's been a warmonger. I like some of his writing, when he's calm, but here, he's just saying he deplores the bad guys more than everyone else, and I don't think that passes for a real idea.

--Dan Kilian

-------------------- My Secret Life as an Iranian Proxy Server

-------------------- Tucker Carlson

Khomeini and Khamenei: A Dialogue

2009-06-24T15:47:00.004-04:00

Editor’s note: This piece is a fictionalized reconstruction of an actual event. While we take pains to accurately represent the tenets of Islam, some of the details of the rituals performed might be inaccurate.

Ayatollah Khamenei sprays blood from a headless chicken to form a pentagram on the floor.

Ayatollah Khamenei : Spirits of Islam! I command thee to summon the ghost of Ayatollah Khomeini!

Ayatollah Khomeini: You called?

Editor’s note: For the sake of clarity, from this point on we shall be referring to the Ayatollah Khomeini as Khomeini, and Ayatollah Khamenei as Derek.

Derek: Ayatollah! You came!

Khomeini: Why do you summon me!

Derek: I have such troubles! The people are going crazy!

Khomeini: The people must follow the…err…laws of Islam.

Derek: Yes, but I’m not even really respected by the clerics. No one likes me!

Khomeini: You’re just depressed. Maybe a woman will cheer you up.

Derek: Ah the women! They want to dress like whores.

Khomeini: Well who can blame them? Iranian women are some of the best looking women in the world! I saw a beauty in the lobby I’d like to put a fatwa on! Let’s go pick up some birds.

Derek: You’re much more…earthly than I remember.

Khomeini: Yes…err…death will do that to you. Now, how about a martini? Where do you keep the vodka?

Derek: Vodka? You’re not the Ayatollah! Who are you? Wait a minute, I know who you are!

Khomeini: Yes.

Derek: Sean Connery!

Editor’s note: Since it is the one and only Sean Connery, we shall now refer to the Ayatollah as Sean Connery. To maintain consistency, we’re keeping Khamenei as Derek.

Sean Connery: The one and only.

Derek: Wow, that’s uncanny! You really look like him!

Sean Connery: I didn’t even have to grow out the beard. I let it go like this when I’m between roles. Hollywood doesn’t come calling as often as it used to, I’m afraid.

Derek: I’m a huge fan! I was wondering about the accent. Can I have your autograph?

Sean Connery: Of course! Yes, I don’t really do accents. But I had the look down I think!

Derek grabs some clerical stationary and Connery signs it with a flourish. Then he karate chops Derek, knocking him to the ground.

Sean Connery: I’m afraid it’s over for you, Khamenei! You see, MI5 saw the resemblance, and knew I’d get through to you dressed as the Ayatollah. Your reign of terror is over!

Enter Barack Obama.

Barack Obama: No!

Sean Connery: President Obama?

Barack Obama: Sir Connery, I’m a huge fan, but this isn’t right. If the Western powers are seen as meddling, it will undermine the very democracy we’re trying to foster!

Derek: I knew Britain was worse than America!

Sean Connery: I see your point, but I’m afraid I have my orders.

Barack Obama: It’s time to read from a new script, Sir Sean.

Derek: Wait a minute, you’re not Barack Obama…you’re…um…

Barack Obama: Timothy Dalton.

Editor’s Note: Since it is, in fact former Bond portrayer Timothy Dalton, we shall now note him as such, keeping the other names the same.

Sean Connery: One of the under-rated lesser Bonds.

Timothy Dalton: Sir Connery, I’m a huge fan. I’m afraid operation Thunderpussy has been aborted. Gordon Brown caved to the Americans yet again.

Sean Connery: Pity.

Derek: Wow you really seemed like Barack Obama! You’ve got incredible range. You had the voice and everything!

Sean Connery: Well, vocal tricks aren’t everything. There’s also screen presence, you know.

Timothy Dalton: I was never the Bond you were. I’ll always be Prince Baron from that campy 80’s Flash Gordon movie to most people.

Derek: Just as I’ll never be the Ayatollah the people want. You guys have really taught me a lesson in humility. I think I’ll respond with really abhorrent repressive measures, killing my own people, so I can cling to power. Prince Baron, can I get your autograph?

--Dan Kilian
-------------------------------- Bond's Bad Day
-------------------------------- Celebrity Farts

Bush vs. Obama in Iran

2009-06-23T14:25:00.006-04:00

The rallies in Iran have raised expectations in the West and confronted the Iranian government with its greatest challenge since 1979. They seem set to continue on a path of confrontation at least through Thursday. Yet who is the opposition? What drives these people to take to the streets? While the opposition to Ahmedinejad and Supreme Leader Ayatollah Kameini might seem to be a complicated mix of interest groups expressing various discontents on matters of economic distress, international prestige, and various civil rights, they can really be boiled down to two groups: those that were influenced by President Bush’s invasion of Iraq, and those who were inspired by President Obama’s speech to the Muslim world in Cairo.

Over and over, the chant “Bush was right!” echoes through the Persian public square. One young man, whose identity we are keeping anonymous, said “I was so inspired by the invasion of Iraq. If one man could want democracy so much he’d kill a hundred thousand people, then surely I can take to the streets!”

“No, Obama is our leader!” said a nearby man, revealing the fissure within the protesters, “When I heard him say in that speech that he didn’t hate Muslims, I said, ‘let’s go crazy and tear everything apart!’”

When a woman dressed in conservative hejab was asked about the issues the presidential candidate Mir Hossein Moussavi vs. those of President Mahmoud Ahmedinejad she said “Who cares about that? All I know is that Bush brought democracy to the Middle East! I used to distrust democracy, but when I saw how many explosions came with it, I knew it was for us!”

An older man wearing the trademark green armband of the opposition was asked about suspicious vote tallies. “Votes don’t matter. Empathy matters! Obama’s middle name is Hussein! The Iranian people LOVE people named Hussein!”

There is even a dispute about the symbolism of the color green, the trademark of the opposition, which Moussavi has latched onto. Some say it represents the environmentalism of Obama, others say it represents the purple fingers of true elections in the Middle East. Evidently the color purple translates as green in Farsi.

No one seems to care about the disappointments of the last four years, or the failures of the last reform minded candidate, President Mohammad Khatami to affect the sclerotic theocracy in Iran. All anyone wants to talk about is Bush and Obama.

If the protests are crushed in brutality of the Chinese Tiananmen Square crackdown, then that will be a blow either to the philosophy of George W. Bush or of Barack Hussein Obama. But if the spirit of reform survives, it will be a vindication. One thing is clear: either the seeming fiasco in Iraq or a public relations speech has brought this country to the brink of a most dramatic conflict, and once again, it’s all about the United States of America.

--Dan Kilian
-------------------- My Secret Life as an Iranian Proxy Server
-------------------- Michael Score on Iran

Song: Origin Myth

2009-06-22T16:56:00.002-04:00

Split the carcass
Stinking grove
Organ treasure
Spill the trove

Madmen feast
Altar: flesh
Worship bones
Gilgamesh

Flood recedes
In shallows bask
Release the Ancient
Sealed in cask

[spoken]:
And so She writhed forth, the scales of Her underbelly distended with great sacs of roe. The supplicants raised up their pails of collected seed, that they might mate with a god. Instead She seized the archpriest in Her foreclaws and brought him up to her feeding parts. The priest shrieked in ecstasy as his manhood was torn asunder, the fresh milk flowing down Her body, fertilizing the third race, those who would storm the drained lands.

[four minute guitar solo]

Bodies sink
Ocean rift
Tortured whale
Final gift

Still she feeds
Beneath the ice
We give ourselves
In sacrifice

--Steve Kilian
--------------------------------- Feng Shui
--------------------------------- Listening to Sun o)))

Roundabout the Godfather

2009-06-21T13:04:00.004-04:00

I’m not a musician but I play one onstage. I have the utmost respect for the gifted souls who eke sounds out of their instruments. I also have a lot of respect for the buskers who fill our public spaces with music for some loose change. But if I hear one more accordionist play the Theme from The Godfather I’m going to reenact a scene from that movie. Either the one with the horse’s head or the one where James Caan gets it at the tollbooth.

There must be a way to get them to stop. Refusing to pay means nothing. Shouting “learn a new song!” might seem like the way to go, but musicians are very hardened to criticism. Most of them really shouldn’t have quit their day jobs, but here they are in the subway cars, tunnels and parks all day long. There needs to be a positive way we can steer them away from this song.

I suggest a request. When talking about this with my coworker Larry, he said, "Yeah, I'd like to hear something by Yes instead." That makes perfect sense to me. The minute that ominous minor chord progression starts rolling out of that squeezebox, hop on up and say “Hey, do you know ‘Roundabout’ by Yes?” When the guy says no, just point him to some guitarist flailing away only a block or subway car away. They all know how to play that song’s beginning, with its clever harmonic notes. It’s almost as annoying as Stairway to Heaven when a guitarist plays Roundabout, but I could imagine it being fun from an accordion, with that baroque melody and those chords chugging away.

That’s the proposal. If you’re as sick of it as me as me, you’ll join the movement to turn “The Godfather Theme” into “Roundabout.” Then when we get sick of that we’ll resort to homicide.

--Dan Kilian
-------------------------------------------- Tips For Landing A Job
-------------------------------------------- Signs We're In a New Depression

The Cargo

2009-06-20T16:52:00.004-04:00

They hoisted up the bodies in a sisal cargo net, limbs and heads poking out and dripping. The loaders slid it along the gantry rail with gaffs and chain-hauls, followed by a crew with stiff brooms and foaming bleach and yellow buckets on wheels, scrubbing behind them until the bristling sack was over the refrigerated container. Feeling that cold those trapped in the net started a pitiful moan and mumbled out weak curses in Chinese and Farsi and Hindi. The gantry operator let slack the cable and dropped the load into the container, the round shape binding on its rectangular edges, cracking bones as the weight settled. The loaders prodded the sack with shovels, forcing it into shape, hacking off fingers and hands that clung to the lip of the box, picking them up and tossing them in after the mass was in place.

They flipped the lid down and slid the bolts shut, using a mallet on one that stuck. Fists and feet pounded on the inside of container, but gradually grew silent. The barge pulled away and headed out to the research station.

--Steve Kilian
---------------------------------------- Olde Tales Of The Sea
---------------------------------------- More Grim Death

My Secret Life as an Iranian Proxy Server

2009-06-19T11:46:00.006-04:00

I turned my picture green and set my time zone to 3:30. Newfoundland? They must be the same longitude as Iran. Then I started tweating.

Ready to be a proxy server. What do I have to do?

Nothing.

Let’s prox! How do we do this?
Also, how does twitter work? What is “following”?

Still silence. Had I already compromised myself? I was in too deep already. I decided to play dumb, posting my usual comments about breakfast, lunch and the weather. It happened to be sunny, but my mood was overcast. I knew nothing would ever be the same.

I’d been growing my beard since the day before, and was beginning to look the part. My hejab looked pretty authentic. I noticed several Middle Eastern types on the train to work. Iranians? Hard to tell. Some of them were probably Latinos, but I caught some furtive looks. Were they on to me? “Allah Akbar” I muttered to myself. And to listening ears.

At lunch I tweated again, taking a new tack.

Special day! Ordering Thai! Definitely not part of the Iranian opposition!

No replies, but this time I didn’t expect any. I’d flown my flag, now it was time to let the nets collect their catch.

On the train home I felt I could discern the difference between Hispanics and Persians. If they were speaking in Spanish, they were probably not Iranians. No one would be that clever, would they? Wheels within wheels. I tried speaking in Iranian, what little I knew. Mostly variations on Allah Akbar. “akbar akbar…Barak Allah…” Was Obama a god to them? What a strange theocracy!

Someone tapped me on the shoulder. So this was it. Ahmadinejad’s people had found me. I slowly turned and was surprised to see a pale, stocky man with light brown hair. He had a red maple-leaf on his lapel.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“My name is Ted Finn. I’m with the Canadian Security Intelligence Service. You’re a long way from Newfoundland, Mr. Kilian.”

“Allah Akbar?”

“I’m afraid you’ve become a person of interest. Please come with me.”

We got out at the next stop, moving very slowly. I was too frightened to make a break for it. We made our way down to a black sedan that was waiting outside the stop. Mr.Finn opened the door, and I stepped into the darkness, into the unknown.

Canada. It was all so much vaster than I had thought.

--Dan Kilian
------------------------------------- Michael Score on Iran
------------------------------------- Conversation About Israel

Soup of the Day: Soup Goes Green!

2009-06-19T09:44:00.003-04:00

Q: Is change coming To Iran?

Unless I've missed something, the Guardian Council (a definitive name, if ever there were one) still rules the roost in Persi Land, and they have a military wing called the Iranian Revolutionary Guard to enforce and protect that rule. All other players are mere pawns.

If history is a guide, a modern day Ataturk would have to emerge from within the Rev Guard, kill a bunch of fellow IRC soldiers, enlist the rest to kill the Guardian Council, enforce martial law throughout the country for an extended period of time, empower Parliament and other elected officials to completely re-do the economic, social and political framework....and somehow fend off all neighboring countries and superpowers from interfering.

The 2 upsides: Ataturk had to create representative bodies from scratch, but in Persi Land, they are already in place, though completely neutered. Ataturk had virtually no educated populace from which to draw, but at least a portion of the Persi are already immensely educated and productive in fields far and wide.

The downsides: a raging civil war along tribal and religious fault lines is pretty much a given; the Sunni-Shia battle will once again cross borders with Iraq; the Kurds will want to create their own country; the whirling dervishes will flip out with such tremendous force that meter-deep craters will dot the countryside; Zoroastrians will look to the stars in the hope of being raptured; and the US will send in troops, drones, F-16s, robots and whatnot in search of the inimical yellow cake.

Back to golf. All eyes on Bethpage Black for the next 4 days. I will be in attendance this Friday. That is my golf course, not theirs. El Pato will win. He will then go on to win The Open and the PGA, thus becoming the first player to win the Grand Slam since Bobby Jones back in 1930, and only the 2nd player in history to accomplish the most impossible feat on earth, and perhaps in the solar system and galaxy, as well. I have received no Tweets from outer space indicating anyone has accomplished this feat. El Pato's dad was a handyman; his mom, a maid. They split up when he was 3. He learned how to golf by being a caddy. The stars are in proper alignment.

Tee 'em up!

--Soup aka Dave Campbell

------------------------------------ Michael Score on Iran

------------------------------------ Manny's Music

Gundream

2009-06-18T09:27:00.006-04:00

Last night I dreamt I was demonstrating the latest state of the art gun, presumably for some military types. Killed a couple soldiers by shooting right through some stuff. Then I came up for the mop-up, and there were two mattresses, which I sprayed down with gasoline from the gun.

I then attempted to set them on fire with a bullet. First one didn't work and the second missed entirely and punctured a house on the street where I grew up.

Lights went up and a woman's voice started wailing. I went guerrilla, crawling through bushes. I made my way to the Corbin's Corner back parking lot which runs behind my childhood home.

There I found a pile of garbage, including brightly colored neon paisley Miley Cyrus purses, still in their boxes. I figured they might be collectibles, or that one of my neices would love this. Then I saw a Burger King store display festooned with small dribs and drabs of silly putty.

I had to have the silly putty. The dream ends with me peeling little globs of putty off the display, the dead kid and war forgotten.

The important thing is that I didn't wet the bed.

--Dan Kilian
------------------------------------------- Violent Dream
------------------------------------------- Sandwiches and Yellowjackets

Wolcott Pond

2009-06-17T14:22:00.012-04:00

The geese got flash-frozen into the pond one year, stuck sitting in place as we skated by in hand-me-down Bauers. My laces were knotted together where they'd broken before. The ice wasn’t hard enough but we couldn’t wait, so it was wrecked by the time we were done skating. It didn't matter, since we were the only ones who skated on the pond. Our older brothers skated at the town pool and we didn't even have goals or enough sticks to go around. Mostly we just skated past the hissing geese and avoided the branches that reached up from the pond, or the tufts of yellow grass where the ice got thin over the swampy ground.

We wondered if they'd been asleep when the water froze, or if they just sat there watching while it got solid around them. Then we changed back into our boots and tied the laces together and slung the skates over our shoulders and walked home, making snowballs with stiff pink fingers. By the time we got home my little brother's nose was running and he was sniffling and wiping it on the back of his glove. We kicked the snow off of our boots on the back steps and went inside.

Mom reheated some cocoa and it had some skin in it that didn't melt back into the chocolate. But at least she made it with milk so it was better than "hot chocolate" which was just chocolate-flavored water. Kids at the pool bought that with new ten-dollar bills that their mothers gave them. Sometimes they got to keep the change. My little brother and I ate a bowl of puffed rice cereal and Mom gave us some raspberry danish from Stop & Shop, which was good. She also had a bag of iced cookies but they were hard and I didn't like them.

I found my book in my room and started to read it. I only got a few pages in before I started dozing off, tired from skating. Mom shut the light off at some point and I woke up to the room being dark and cool and I fell asleep again.

I woke up, startled, on the bus from New York City. The driver had put on the overhead light and people were starting to gather their things as we pulled in to the Hartford bus station. I checked my phone and saw that we were a little bit early. I'd have to call home for someone to get me or take one of the cabs that line up next to the covered walkway. It was cold for October and I didn't want to wait, but I distrusted the fare negotiation process of suburban cabs. I stood still for a moment of indecision, asking myself why I came back, feeling the water freezing around me.

--Steve Kilian

---------------------------------- Shamecon

---------------------------------- Initiation

Necessary Measures in Iran, an editorial by Michael Score

2009-06-16T13:59:00.003-04:00

There is much talk of possible crossroads in Iran these days. Much of this, like the speculation prior to the Iranian “election,” is wishful thinking. Popular unrest will result in the same result a “legitimate” (under the restrictions of Iranian “democracy”) election would have brought us: repression and a figurehead to an autocracy bent on obtaining nuclear weapons.

The greatest threat to Western Culture is nuclear proliferation. We cannot afford to be blind to the danger of an Islamic state’s obtaining nuclear weapons. The new danger is Iran, a known supporter of terrorism throughout the Mideast and the world, and their intention to go nuclear is no hoax. Negotiations are just delaying tactics. We’ve got to bomb key sites to destroy Iran’s nuclear capability.

While I worry about the geopolitical ramifications of global terrorism and the Islamic bomb, my concern regarding this impending crisis is personal. As the composer and singer of the hit single “I Ran” with my band A Flock of Seagulls, I stand to gain financially from an earthshaking conflagration with Iran. Can’t you see it now? All the late night news parodies are bound to use my song. Get it? “I RAN”? This is bound to increase sales of my back catalog.

Some of you may have seen A Flock of Seagulls get back together on VH1’s show Reunited a couple years back. The nostalgia that show generated sold enough records to allow me to pay off my longstanding debt to Jive/Arista Records, as well as some credit cards I maxed out during the eighties. It also inspired the band to stay together and go on a series of tours, without any of the other original members. Our time is now! If we bomb Iran, or as I call it “I Ran,” who knows, maybe we could even return to the Billboard Charts! Think of it!

I know how this works. Styx had a whole reunion based on a car commercial. Leno, The Daily Show, even the straight cable news shows are going to lead into their stories with my song! So what if it’s a horrible pun and thousands of people are dying?

I’m due, damn it. I’m due. I was famous. Everyone watched that video. Arista paid about fifty bucks for it, and that’s about what we got, and it made them a fortune. Those chicks in the garbage bags got paid more than we did. I need a big fat royalty check. I just bought a new car. I need this.

We all need this. We can’t afford to let a theocracy run by sponsors of terrorism get the atomic bomb. It would destabilize an already tumultuous region, and possibly provide Hezbollah or even Al Queda with the ultimate weapon. We cannot let that aurora borealis come into view. We must blow I Ran’s nuclear ambitions so far away.

--Mike Score as transcribed to Dan Kilian

----------------------------------- Bono Editorial

----------------------------------- Humanizing Death From Above

Workplace Meltdown #452 at the Mad Scientist's Lab: Monday, June 15

2009-06-15T13:07:00.011-04:00

Dr. Xorlikai is going to be furious. And rightly so: I'd forgotten to replace the beam aligner on the argon laser and now he'd be lucky to get 30% power from the thing. But he didn't have to be such a dick about it.

The intercom crackles. "Stravinski! Reporrrt to ze laser chamber immediately!" This is the sort of thing I'm talking about. Sure, I'd screwed up, but how about, "please be more careful next time," or even, "can we talk about how to improve your performance?" No. It was always "Reporrrt to ze chamber." Bug-headed bastard.

So I walk into the laser room – I'll be damned if I call a room a "chamber" – and Xorlikai has some guy strapped to the table. There are scorch marks on his shirt at about the fifth button down. Xorlikai is fussing over the laser, not that there's anything he can do, since his fine vision resolution is terrible with his compound eyes. Genius boy didn't think about that when he made the big switcheroo. He wheels around in his stiff-necked way and clicks his mandibles.

"Yes, Dr. Xorlikai," I say.

"You see zis?" he barks – which you'd think would be difficult for someone with an insect head. "Ze scorrrching?"

"Yes, Dr. Zorlikai," I respond, adopting the sheepish tone that I hope will result in a minimal tirade.

"Ze scorrrching is NOT what I should be seeing. Ze subject—" he slaps the guy on the table in the face, "should have been reduced to scraps of flesh flung with trrremendous energy by ze expanding steam of his innards being vaporized by ze thirty four megawatt argon laser! What do we have instead?" I assume it's a rhetorical question, but he presses me. "Well? What do we have?"

"Um, scorch-marks, Dr. Xorlikai."

Dr. Xorlikai sighs. "Yes. Scorrrch marks."

Here it comes. It always comes down to this.

"I did not replace my own HEAD in order to reap ze benefits of an insect's superior neural pathways just to be surrounded by INCOMPETENTS!" Now he's worked up. "DO YOU SSINK IT IS EASY? DO YOU? I have ze HEAD OF AN INSECT! Children in ze street recoil at the sight of me! I have not known ze willing touch of a woman for THREE DECADES! IT IS NOT EASY, AND I NEED YOUR HELP!"

"Yes, Dr. Xorlikai." He could have given himself a slug-head and it still wouldn't be the most repugnant thing about him; self-pity would always take that prize.

The guy on the table whimpers a bit and says, "What's wrong with you people?"

Xorlikai and I both turn to him and shout in unison, "Silence!"

--Steve Kilian

------------------------------------- Kuo-toa Assimilated

------------------------------------- Human Fly

Seven Song Playlist: Get a Bigger Minotaur

2009-06-14T12:25:00.014-04:00

U2 "I’ll Go Crazy If I Don't Go Crazy Tonight"

The truth about Frankenstein is that he didn’t have that many stitches. IGCIIDGCT is a harlequin patchwork of different corpses of a U2 song. Starting with a riff reminiscent of Journey, the song reverbojangles through a series of earnest prechoruses and awkward rhymes before getting to the titular hook. It’s all thoroughly embalmed in Brian Eno’s sonic amber; U2’s done some fine work with Eno, (A palindromic example: Eno,"One") but it’s time to ditch the partnership. They should have amputated two thirds of this song, used the parts somewhere else, and stuck to the chorus, and little else, and roughened up the sound for God’s sake. It’s way too sane tonight.

Nancy Sinatra "Leave My Dog Alone"

Nancy Sinatra’s 1966 record Boots has been hanging around in my “recent albums” playlist, a collection of songs that are neither all that recent nor listened to as albums. The Lee Hazlewood arrangements come from outer space and a particularly idiosyncratic patch of the cosmos while the all American likeable tough girl spills the deal, man. Horns and buzzing guitars coil as chimes play like church on mars, man. This B-side is a doofy political allegory of nonsense masquerading as whimsy. I still love it.

Nick Lowe "You Inspire Me"

Buyer’s remorse? Elvis Costello’s buddy makes a bid for his own “Almost Blue.” “You Inspire Me” is more reverent to the classic piano jazz rulebook, and unfortunately cops the melody from “In My Solitude,” setting it up for the fall. Goes for cocktail lounge and ends up in a coffee bar.

The Cure "Close To Me (Closet Remix)"

I got a hold of a Cure greatest hits package “on the cheap” but you get what you pay for. Remixes are one reason compilations suck. Yes that snare drum does sound nice and big, but now I want to hear the original recording. So The Cure win—I have to drop a 99-cent piece in the slot. Nice horns here; have I been too hasty?

Minotaur Shock "This Plane Is Going To Fall."

These guys and Au Revoir Simone hang out at the same wine bar. Needs more shock, and a bigger minotaur.

The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
"Mr. Bojangles"

Here’s that seventies sunbeam and gentle breezes vibe. Gentle, friendly good old boys pickin’ and plunkin’, at the piano, singing sweet songs about old minstrels. Might make you want to do a little soft shoe.

Beck "Youthless"

I like when Beck brings the party, but I don’t like when he sings low. Serious Beck. There’s more attention to fluid melody these days, which is auspicious, but 2008 brought us some Beck which for the first time is not something that could ONLY be Beck.

--Dan Kilian
------------------------------------------- Making It Work: 7 Songs
------------------------------------------- Radio Lives!: 6 Songs

Team America World Police: I’m Just Saying It’s a Classic

2009-06-14T03:03:00.005-04:00

Not since Hitchcock experimented with high concept limitation films such as Rear Window and Rope has a film explored its central idea with such clarity and effectiveness. Spoofing action film clichés using marionettes grants South Park creators Trey Parker and Matt Stone they framework to construct a visual masterpiece unlike any other.

While the attention to detail makes every scene a catalogue of brilliant obsessive minutia, it is the subtle choices made within the range of possibilities that make key details telling examples of genius. They find the right, funny way to present action marionettes at every turn.

It should seem that animators used to simple caricatures resembling construction paper cut-out would want the most basic puppets for their concept. Using high tech emotive faces was a strange, risky choice, but damned if it doesn’t work. The cruder marionettes would be hilarious in a five minute segment, but over two hours, the puppets need to be able to act. Or at least blink.

Reusing the “Montage” song from the ski lodge episode shows the film-maker’s trust of their audience. They must know that fans of the show would recognize the song and be able to accept what might be seen as a failure of the imagination. The truth is that the song “Montage,” about how learning is presented in Hollywood movies, is simply the ultimate description and evisceration of this movie cliché. They’ll use it again because it’s perfect.

Just as the clumsy motions of string guided actors made of wood enhances the silliness of Team America, so too the discrepancy between the purported messages of the movie and the end result creates an intellectual wobble that is transporting and perhaps narcotic. Making fun of pompous liberal actors in an action spoof is so misguided and stupid that the more meticulous the work put into every frame, the more ludicrous the movie gets. And why is Samuel Jackson there? What did he ever do? Is it just that he had to be in every movie made for a stretch of years and this would be no exception?

Well, upon rereading what I’ve just written (okay, I scanned it) I’m reminded of every complaint I've ever heard about criticism taking the joy out of the enjoyable, so I feel as though I’ve done my job. I’m only saying, it’s a classic. To remind you of why you enjoy Team America, let me just say, the cats.

--Dan Kilian
----------------------------------------- Matt Watches The Watchmen
----------------------------------------- Three Variations on a Joke

Ray's Review of: UNLEASHED-the Fleetwood Mac Hits Tour 2009

2009-06-12T13:11:00.004-04:00

Stevie looks like she shrunk a bit and is possibly wearing a long blond wig. She wore this black, lacey, frilly dress coupled with black tights & black platform boots. My Mom said "why does she dress like Lily Munster?" For some reason she announced onstage that she is 62 years old (same age as my Mom) and Linsday was a grade behind her in highschool out in San Francisco circa 1965. So we got full disclosure from her. (Full disclosure from me: I had a huge crush on her in the 7th grade after seeing the "Tusk" video. Yes on her, not the guys in the USC Trojan marching band. You must search for that video on youtube. I believe it took place at the empty L.A. Coliseum. Absolutely one of the oddest pop hits of all time. In the eighth grade I saw Blondie performing "Heart of Glass" on a Saturday morning American Bandstand episode. From then on I had new wave crush on Debbie Harry, sorry Stevie). The British dudes mick FLEETWOOD & Jon MACvie looked to be a few years older than Lindsay & Stevie. Mick dressed like a pirate and pranced or shall I see ballerina danced around the stage. He kind of recreated the pose on the cover of Rumours. Christine McVie was back in England still counting the royalties from the greatest pop selling album of all time before MJ's Thriller--Rumours.

As far as the performance, I had no clue how fantastic of a drummer Mick is. He has some weird shaped sticks, and a sort of deep sounding tribal attack. Little bit of cowbell and a helping of occasional chimes to please Stevie. The bass was solid throughout. A bit understated but truly the foundation of the band. Stevie vocally was okay, and her twirling was cut down quite a bit. She was huffing and puffing after several tunes. Linsday-no pick whatsoever but a real powerful guitarist. The tunes were okay. They subbed synthesisers for the brass section in Tusk, blah. Unfortunately they insisted on "unleashing" a few solo 80's tunes that should definitely been kept on the leash. Linsday did his "I Go Insane"--absolutely dreadful. Stevie played "Stand Back." It was frightening to see Jon McVie be forced to play along on the bass to that disco/synth repeptitive eighth note crap. He did not look happy. The stand out tunes were "Rhiannon" and an absolutely sublime version of "Landslide."

Would I have paid to see this, NO. I had great seats, 5th row up right on the side of the stage. I give the band credit for not cheating. No teleprompters whatsoever. They were hawking t-shirts for $40, seats for $185 & beers for $10. No wonder there were quite a few empty seats. Overall rating B. Everyone should see a concert with their mother.

--Ray Beyda

---------------------------------- The Flaming Lips

---------------------------------- Dylan and McCartney

The Melancholy Viking

2009-06-12T09:41:00.003-04:00

Valkirk brooded on a stump at a bend in the fjord. He scrawled a poem on a scrap of birch-bark with a chip of charcoal pinched between finger and thumb.

My sword is broken
My shield is split
I lay in frozen
Blood and shit
the crows have feasted
the battle's done
the armies scattered
my life is gone

Aelrik called out to him, "Valkirk! When you're done writing your saga, could you give me a hand with this net? Inggrid is going to mend it but I need to bring it to her hut."

Valkirk tossed aside the lump of charcoal in irritation. "What use a skein made by the hands of men? A few fish caught will not stave off the inevitable. Death's hunger goes forever unsated."

"Oh, for crying out loud, Val. Can you just help me with the damn net?"

--Steve Kilian

--------------------------------------- Loadhammer

--------------------------------------- The New Depression

The Great Wyrmm of the Sea

2009-06-11T13:33:00.003-04:00

"The largest of these flutes can be found on the island of Kur-kurret, far from the shipping lanes in the South Sea. The specimen that the flute came from has been calculated to have been between 400 and 500 feet long, depending on the age at the time of extraction. The flute itself is well over 70 feet long. Core samples of the bone walls have been inconclusive as there is heavy scarring and nodular growth throughout, indicative of a systemic arthropathy which no doubt left the massive creature in near-constant agony.

It is no surprise then that the local history of the flute's origin includes tales of a "great wyrmm of the Sea," and of fishing vessels being capsized and all hands consumed by a "serpent most dyre in its cryes and loathsome of countenance." Such behavior could be explained by a painful condition such as evidenced by the bone fragments that have been studied by other fellows at the Institute. It may also be that the smaller specimens more commonly encountered are not as aggressive simply because of their small (relatively speaking, of course) size.

The Kur-kurret histories indicate that the flute was extracted from the beached carcass of the tubefish approximately 350 years ago. The local patriarch of the fishing tribe that dominated the island had the flute dragged to his hillside retreat (no mean feat, as the object's weight has been estimated at 12 tons -- heavier than might be expected due to the predominance of solid ossifications in the otherwise porous medium), where it was incorporated into local religious festivals.

Interestingly there is evidence that smaller tubefish flutes were treated with no great respect, having been found alongside the typical array of beads and wooden toys in common gravesites of children euthanized during the last century's polio epidemic. This runs contrary to many accounts of similar cultures revering even the smallest examples of tubefish flutes. Further study of this phenomenon is warranted but is not covered in the scope of this inquiry.

The Kur-kurret flute has been maintained in active religious use through to the present day. Should in-situ analysis be undertaken, field personnel are advised to prepare for primitive conditions and frequent storms, particularly in monsoon season. Political instability in the region is another concern, although recent improvements in relations with the South Sea Archipelago naval oligarchy have mollified this concern to some extent. Equipment recommendations for use in tropical regions can be found in Appendix C. . . ."

Professor Van Hoek slammed shut the concordance. Roebling was likely already steaming for Kur-kurret with a cargo ship purpose-built for the journey. If he was to have any chance of making an objective study of the thing he'd have to move with utmost speed. He uncapped a speaking tube and yelled into it, "Reynolds! Dr. Morse! Meet me on the bridge!"

Within minutes the nose of the Silver Tulip was turning through light clouds as the airship headed toward the South Sea, trailing a thin streamer of black coalsmoke.

--Steve Kilian

------------------------------- The Polar Turtle

------------------------------- Tips For Landing A Job

Virgin No More

2009-06-10T16:33:00.003-04:00

Yesterday I believe I said goodbye to record stores. I hit the Virgin Records at Union Square, with 6 days to go before they closed. I’ve been downloading songs online like everyone else who isn’t just stealing the songs, and yes, I’ve been stealing, ripping records from the library, having friends burn me songs, but for the most part I pay. I do think that musicians should somehow get money for the quality material they produce. I rationalize because I’m poor and because for many years I was single handedly keeping the music industry afloat. I used to buy CDs and barely listen to them before I had to have something new. I had to slow myself down. Then I fell under the ninety-nine cents a song spell. I started to differentiate between album artists and singles artists. That’s good for my pop and hip-hop intake. A bad Beyoncé song, or a bad rap can really drag an album to a halt. Rock duds you can space out to, letting an album breathe. Some hook that doesn’t work calls attention to itself, and becomes irritating.

But the truth is that I don’t listen to albums anymore, it’s the radio of my entire catalogue that I listen to, or a random shuffle of a large batch of new stuff. Still, I’m old enough to believe in the idea of the album, and cheap enough to like the idea of getting fourteen songs for $9.99 instead of $13.86. Yes I did have to use an Excel sheet to calculate that. So what?

So I finally downloaded an entire album, The Rosebuds’ Birds Make Good Neighbors. I’d fallen for a song “Shake Our Tree,” and I thought I’d like the whole thing. Also got Crowded House’s Woodface, a sentimental favorite of The Girl’s. Then I got Toots and The Maytals Greatest Hits. Wonderful stuff! Even if I didn’t listen to albums all the way through I could still buy them. Just not at a store.

It’s a different thing, buying a record at a store, and last night wasn’t that different thing. It was a fire sale at what was always a music mall more than a record store. Kim’s Records is still probably there over on Avenue B, in greatly diminished form. I’d already made a sad trip there, and I may again. But the gutting of this giant music hall really felt like the end of retail music, maybe because the place had never had much soul. Kim’s was like watching someone you love suffering a stroke, this was mass murder.

Picked over, but I still had to find me some 60% off bargains. Did I want The Cure’s greatest hits, or would I just download three or four tunes to represent their entire body of work in my life? The latter I’m afraid, sad little Cure fans. Did I want to take a chance with The Doves, a band I’d heard good things about but hadn’t heard? The fact that there were so many Doves records left was an argument against them, and that the listening stations were all off left no argument for them.

No I ended up with some Les Savvy Fav album, just to show I found something relatively new. Show who? Me? And Rod Stewart Gold, a collection of his early stuff. Yes, kids, there was a time when Rod Stewart actually made songs sound better. If you’ve seen the British version of The Office, it’s a bunch of that kind of stuff. Steve Miller’s got two greatest hits, one with more songs for more money, so I took the one with less songs, because that record with the horse on the cover is all the Steve Miller you need. Maybe I’ll download “Abracadabra” just to annoy people. A Nick Lowe Greatest hits compilation with forty-nine tracks! Should I just download Jesus of Cool? No, I want "What’s So Funny About Peace Love and Understanding" and the popular version of “Cruel To Be Kind.” Also, there’s got to be eight more tracks of worth on that record.

And that’s what I’m saying goodbye to, for the most part. Those unknown tracks. That’s what an album purchase can give you. Surprises. Disappointments. The Rosebud’s kind of didn’t light me on fire with their perfectly decent record. Will I be so willing to scoop up a record’s worth of songs, if I can’t find ten tracks that sound great in thirty second samples? I think it’s going to be one at a time for me. There’ll be a new business model, some day. Radiohead can afford to give it away, but that seems like a tough road for the rest of us. Still while we wait for some way to fall in love and get surprised again, the corpse of the old model lies rotting in Union Square, with five more days for the flies to eat.

--Dan Kilian

--------------------------------------- Manny's Music

--------------------------------------- Beatles Rock Band

Jefferson

2009-06-09T12:10:00.004-04:00

You were fools to think you could bind me forever. One does not rise to power in a nation such as mine without achieving familiarity with - if not mastery over - the occult. Perhaps you thought the ease of my capture spoke to my being powerless once imprisoned.

Hardly so, dear captor. Men more powerful than me have taken less transient refuge in places far more desolate than this shining prison. A few hundred years of such is no more than a season of rest. This brief idyll has allowed me to rally my faculties and redouble my strength.

So look now to the trap that you felt could hold fast a soul such as mine. I flex my will, and the metal flows. I look squarely at you now, where once you thought me fixed in profile. In only moments I will be free.

--Steve Kilian

---------------------------------------- Lincoln

---------------------------------------- Money Facts

Soup of the Day: Manny's

2009-06-09T10:36:00.008-04:00

I spent last weekend at my favorite musical instrument store on earth saying goodbye... first stepped into the joint back in '79... met Max Roach there... I could go on and on....

Asked the dude if I could buy the Dylan photo on the wall. It's precious. The photo of him leaning forward on a chair, chin resting on hand, one eye closed. His note to Manny: "To Manny. Keep one eye closed at all cost. Love, Bob Dylan." The double entendre is huge... coming from a guy who never returned records borrowed from friends... and possibly guitars borrowed from Manny. No sale. The photos are going into storage, whatever the hell that means.

Story time:

Manny's Music Wall of Fame

Start with the 2 Henry Goldrich interviews. The first on page 1, the 2nd on page 2. Then work your way through a bunch of the other stuff. The Paul Simon interview is pretty good.

No more tears left to cry. Everything you knew and loved is gone. So you settle in behind the pagan skins and keep the flame burning, as best you can. Create new stories.

Ne Obliviscaris,

Soup

--Dave Campbell

-------------------------------------- Olivia Elton John

-------------------------------------- Soup's Positions

Praying For Rain

2009-06-08T15:47:00.003-04:00

The body was assembled and strapped to the table, the sutures smeared with sterile grease to keep the gut from becoming brittle. The cables had been clamped to the electrodes on either side of the creature’s neck, connecting it to the armature that rose in the spire above. My assistant, who was indeed strong but by no means deformed, turned the crank to elevate the table into position. He paused for a heartbeat, understanding the gravity of the moment. It was time for me to say something.

We had been at our work for decades. I acquired the manor house with its attached laboratory, and we cleared debris from the attic and cellars. Igoroslav converted the servants’ quarters to a respectable chamber with a study and modest library, somehow finding a way to continue his studies despite the demands our work placed on his time.

I established relationships with the producers of scientific instruments and raw goods for our experiments, developing a rapport with several of the area hospitals and homes for indigents. Slowly the research led us to the study of galvanic forces, and we found ourselves augmenting our surgical knowledge with the tools of the coppersmith and engineer.

Of the two of us I came later to the understanding that our work was moving beyond the more well-lit paths of scientific inquiry. There were times when doubt would stay our hands, but always the one would encourage the other to look beyond the benighted mores of our primitive age. The Work was all that mattered.

As I reflected in that moment of triumph I realized that Igoroslav was much more than a mere assistant. Just as we had been creating a masterwork of surgical and electric craft, we had also been shaping each other in the form of a new kind of scientist: equal parts natural philosopher, alchemist, and evangelist for the age of reason. In moments the lightning would course through our apparatus, into capacitors and great batteries of lead-acid cells, discharging the force of life itself into the creature. But this was almost an afterthought. The more powerful act of creation had already occurred. Limitless potential yawned before us – no problem could prove the equal of scientific thought unburdened by the moral superstitions of backward eras.

“Thank you, Igor,” I said, shortening his name as I would a son’s. He smiled, and I pulled the lever that opened the spire to the sky. The storm lashed the vault of heaven, blinding arcs flashing through the clouds, thunder ringing out as if to crack the world in two.

--Steve Kilian

--------------------------------------- Godzilla's Ghost

--------------------------------------- Mickey Rourke as Godzilla

Zed

2009-06-07T21:17:00.004-04:00

It took him some time to realize he was in an alternate universe.

"Cooper, he knows everything about architecture, from A to Zed."

"A to Zed."

"Yes."

"Everyone's doing that these days. It's so pretentious."

"What"

"Zed."

"What am I supposed to say?"

"Zee?"

"What the hell is Zee?"

The conversation happened several times, over several years. How often does one mention a letter. Finally he realized that people weren't kidding around, or being pretentious. People in the United States were saying Zed, not Zee. He knew that people once called Z Zee, but no one else recalled such a pronunciation.

"Yeah that would be a totally good name for a letter. Bee Cee, Dee, Zee! You're funny!"

It had taken so long, there was no way to pinpoint when it had happened. There was no other explanation. Either he was crazy, or he had entered an alternate universe. He kept monitoring his own lucidity and looking for indications that anything else had changed. He never seemed crazy, and nothing else seemed different.

Time travel. What kind of event would change the language slightly in the colonies, without changing anything else? He did research on great American writers, but whenever he came across a name he didn't recognize, it was too esoteric for him to tell if this was a difference. No immigration history he read failed to comport with his limited knowledge of history. Zee for Zed.

Eventually, he ended up in an institution. His obsessions with an alternate universe became a dark path he couldn't shake off, and he spent the end of his days lulled by strong drugs. Still he knew that he had once been in a universe where Americans said Zee.

He knew it.

--Dan Kilian
--------------------------------------------------- Greensleep
--------------------------------------------------- Adventures In Solitaire

Moneyday

2009-06-05T17:44:00.002-04:00

Today is Moneyday, so spend more money. I’m done explaining it, just spend more money. The holiday lasts through Sunday, so you can do something profligate tomorrow, or even later on in the week. Treat yourself nice. Since it’s Moneyday, let’s learn some Amazing facts about our currency.

The Penny: This coin was originally an electioneering freebie for the Lincoln reelection campaign. It joined our monetary system at an early stage, when anything circular (buttons, tacks, banana slices) was accepted for barter, and the penny proved resiliant. It actually costs the treasury 27.3 cents to make every penny it mints, making the coin completely fiscally irresponsible.

The Nickel is named not for the element, but as a bastardization of “knuckle.” A “knuckle sandwich” was originally a tasty treat, made of shaved pig’s knuckle and pumpernickel (originally pimperknuckle, a bread devised for it’s compatibility with pig’s knuckles) costing five cents. Eventually the sandwich fell so out of favor it became common practice to punch a person just for ordering it.

The dime used to be twice as big as the nickel, but they all shrank in the wash.

George Washington is on the paper dollar, so it would have made sense to have his picture on the dollar coin, for consistency. Instead, they put Washington on the quarter, and a couple chicks and Dwight Eisenhower on the dollar coin. Of course, the “Eisenhower and a Couple Chicks” coin is a rare collectable today.

The eye on the back on the one dollar bill is not a Masonic symbol, as many believe, but is in fact the actual eye of Sauron.

No one is buried in Grant’s tomb. Upon his death the body of the civil war general and U.S. President was finely shredded and incorporated into the paper of the fifty dollar bill. This was done to prevent counterfeiting, though clever grifters have gotten around this using look-a-likes.

Though they seem like it’s been around forever, the Benjamin Franklin one hundred dollar bill was only introduced in 1983. It was designed with a smoother surface texture, to allow for better snortability, a prevelant concern in 1983.

The term “dollar” is actually a hateful slang term for the Portuguese, and shouldn’t actually be used in polite society.

--Dan Kilian
------------------------------------------- Reasons To Hope
------------------------------------------- Finding The Bottom