The Ks - I'm A Sexy Girl - Live Lakeside Lounge 2-23-2012

Troll Matrix

So I was drafting up a two-axis troll matrix the other day with Bridge Material across the top (rope, wood, stone, iron, etc.) and Spanned Item on the side (watercourse, viaduct, chasms/voids, etc.), so as to better catalog the variety of trolls one might encounter on a given journey.  I started to extrapolate the matrix to situations that one would not normally associate with trolls – for example the instance of a nanofiber space elevator cable which bridges between the surface of the planet and low earth orbit.  Big troll, no doubt, but where is “under” for that particular bridge?

Naturally this progressed to an exploration of abstract troll conditions, such as a shared third language bridging the misunderstandings between two foreigners abroad.  (Are botched idiomatic expressions the trolls of such a bridge?)  This quickly got silly, until I was saying “Love is the bridge that spans the gulf of historic enmity, man.”  Which in turn made me think of a yet-to-be-recorded AC/DC song:

When we cross that bridge

We’re gonna burn it

But before you ride

You got to earn it

First you gotta pay that toll

You owe seven dollars to the

LOVE TROLL.

That is all.  

 --Steve Kilian

Hollywood Harvest

A Classic Joke and A Classic Comedy Routine Meet, With Unsatisfactory Results

 

Rock and Roll is EVERYWHERE

--Steve Kilian

Micky Rourke as Godzilla

The Rose Armonica

Kurrah

There were kurrah skins all over the fairgrounds.  They’d gotten into a patch of volunteer potatoes and tore up the meadow something fierce.  William and Zack Briarson were kicking chunks of sod back into the holes that had been dug, but if it rained there’d be nothing to stop anyone from calling it a mudpit.  

I picked up the skins as I came across them, stuffing them into my old paper route bag.  It was shiny from ink and sweat and grease and still smelled like the Hartwick Courant.

The skins were funny things – some were intact from the waist up, so you could almost picture how big the kurrah was before it shed.  They had little strands on the inside like you sometimes see on an orange peel, but the outsides were smooth, almost glossy in the right light, but so thin that you could read your fingerprints right through them.  They smelled like a cross between cabbage and cinnamon, if that makes any sense.  I’d picked up at least two dozen before Zack called me over.

“What do you make of this?” he said, pointing at a big sheet of skin with his toe.  It was at least two feet across, bigger than any I’d seen.

“Wow.  That one must be at least four feet long,” I said.  We said “long” rather than “tall,” probably not for a very good reason.  It seemed easier to think of them as less than bipeds when it came time to clear out a nest.  Some of the old timers couldn’t figure out what difference it made, but those were the same old timers who would cook and eat them in lean times.  There were some certifiably country folk who lived out east of Millpond and Gerth Roads.  

I’d be charitable in saying that the people who ate kurrah had probably never seen one wash the little shift of fabric that they sometimes wore around their necks, or seen one cry over their young when they got hit crossing 28 South.  But I bet they’d seen it all and didn’t care.  “Meat is meat,” they’d say. 

There’s only so much empathy you can expect out of some folks.  

--Steve Kilian

The Last Reality Show

Birthday Cake Balloon

 

Kim Jong Un's Eyebrows

James Bond's Bad Day

The Magic Banjo

 

Birth Day

Ybbraggm rose from the earth.  

He gazed about, wondering what form he should take, what body he should inhabit. He had been so many things.  Should he be one of the oozes that scoured the crushing depths of the ocean? Should he take the sky as his home as a raptor or cloudvein? Once he had been a turtle of enormous size, smashing cycads with his armored tail.  

No, no beast for him on this birth day. For here was an interesting species, new to the world. He would become a Man. 

And that man would wield an axe.  

-Steve Kilian

Capsule 

Steve's Video and Pat's Video

 

Three Thoughts On Groundhog Day

Now that it is nearly a full week after Groundhog Day, here are three reflections on the day the third in a more poetic form, by my brother. Timeliness is not our thing.

Thought One:

Why is it called Groundhog Day and not Groundhog's Day? What, the animal doesn't get ownership? It's animalism! 

Thought Two:

They should do a remake of the movie Groundhog Day, only just show the original movie again.

Thought Three:

       Punxatawny Horror

The groundhog knows only pain.

The groundhog knows only pain.

The groundhog knows only pain.

The groundhog knows only pain.

The groundhog knows only pain.

The groundhog knows only pain.

The groundhog knows only pain.

The groundhog knows only pain.

The groundhog knows only pain.

The groundhog knows only pain.

The groundhog knows only pain.

The groundhog knows only pain.

-Dan Kilian
-Steve Kilian

Staten Island Chuck

Dispatch from Gobbler's Knob 

Staten Island Muck