Le Monde de Martin

Let this tide you over

2007-03-28T00:59:00.000-07:00

I Shall Return

2007-03-28T00:56:00.000-07:00

Oh yes, I am still here. I've been through a long, black tunnel, but the end is very nigh. I will, yes, I shall be back to taint the dreams of men.

About time

2006-10-19T12:44:00.000-07:00

WASHINGTON (AP) -- Scientists are boldly going where only fiction has gone before -- to develop a Cloak of Invisibility. It isn't quite ready to hide a Romulan space ship from Capt. Kirk or to disguise Harry Potter, but it is a significant start and could show the way to more sophisticated designs.

In this first successful experiment, researchers from the United States and England were able to cloak a copper cylinder.

It's like a mirage, where heat causes the bending of light rays and cloaks the road ahead behind an image of the sky.

''We have built an artificial mirage that can hide something from would-be observers in any direction,'' said cloak designer David Schurig, a research associate in Duke University's electrical and computer engineering department.

In this case, researchers used microwaves to try to detect the cylinder. Like light and radar waves, microwaves bounce off objects, making them visible to instruments and creating a shadow that can be detected.

Cloaking differs from stealth technology, which does not make an aircraft invisible but reduces the cross-section available to radar, making it hard to track.

Cloaking simply passes the radar or other waves around the object as if it weren't there, like water flowing around a smooth rock in a stream.

The new work points the way for an improved version that could hide people and objects from visible light.

Conceptually, the chance of adapting the concept to visible light is good, Schurig said in a telephone interview. But, he added, ''From an engineering point of view it is very challenging.''

The cloaking of a cylinder from microwaves comes just five months after Schurig and colleagues published their theory that it should be possible. Their work is reported in a paper in Friday's issue of the journal Science.

''We did this work very quickly ... and that led to a cloak that is not optimal,'' said co-author David R. Smith, also of Duke. ''We know how to make a much better one.''

The first working cloak was in only two dimensions and did cast a small shadow, Smith said. The next step is to go for three dimensions and to eliminate any shadow.

Viewers can see things because objects scatter the light that strikes them, reflecting some of it back to the eye.

''The cloak reduces both an object's reflection and its shadow, either of which would enable its detection,'' Smith said.

The device is made of metamaterials, mixtures of metal and circuit board materials such as ceramic, Teflon or fiber composite.

Looking at a cloaked item, Smith said, ''One would see whatever is behind the cloak. That is, the cloak is, ideally, transparent. Since we do not have a perfect cloak at this point, there is some reflection and some shadow, meaning that the background would still be visible just darkened somewhat. ... We now just need to improve the performance of cloaking structures.''

Redirecting electromagnetic waves also could prove useful in protecting sensitive electronics from harmful radiation, Smith said.

In a very speculative application, he added, ''one could imagine 'cloaking' acoustic waves, so as to shield a region from vibration or seismic activity.''

Natalia M. Litchinitser, a researcher at the University of Michigan department of electrical engineering and computer science who was not part of the research team, said the ideas raised by the work ''represent a first step toward the development of functional materials for a wide spectrum of civil and military applications.''

Joining Schurig and Smith in the project were researchers at Imperial College in London and SensorMetrix, a materials and technology company in San Diego.

The research was supported by the Intelligence Community Postdoctoral Research Fellowship Program and the United Kingdom Engineering and Physical Sciences Research Council.

Martin McFriend is no more

2006-09-30T02:02:00.000-07:00

Yes, you heard that right. Inspired by the corporate gurus at every warlock's favorite restaurant, Chili's, your ol pal will hence forth be known only as this:

Shakes.

Another dream courtesy of the Biscuit

2006-09-30T01:04:00.000-07:00

Outside the window I see trees and flowers - a neatly landscaped forest.
Trim borders, paths lined in uniformly sized rocks and ranks and files
of homogenous trees. No neighbors. I can tell by the dappled sun it is
late afternoon and it smells like recent rain. The dog, black and white
and brown with enormous paws and thick fur, is outside yelling.
Something about help, a skunk, help.
A friend, an ex-boyfriend, tells me to go check on him. Turning from the
window I see the inside of the house. Spacious rooms filled with
beautiful furniture, stacks of leather-bound books and green flowered
wall paper. His voice floats in from another room but he remains unseen.
Footsteps, running water, dishes clink. The kitchen.
Walking out onto a broad porch I hear the talking dog. A skunk, help, a
skunk. Then I see him. The size of a bear, laying on a path with his
head bowed between his paws. A rabbit is latched onto his ears,
furiously humping his forehead. Frothy white foam covers the dog's head
and mats down his fur and he continues to yell.
"That not a skunk, that's a rabbit," I say and push the rabbit off the
dog with my foot. He scampers off into a bed of ivy and I see hundreds
of baby rabbits peeking from behind the leafy cover.

In Her name, Amen

2006-09-02T02:52:00.000-07:00

The key was the mille-wrench with disappearing propeller. It jigged and turned under my thumb and tore through reinforced steel thrice before moving the four gripped quarter slats in the proper direction. There I stood, proud as a little woman should be in a big tri-corn hat and habit, pushing a juicy wad of tobacco around in my toothless jaw and smiling heavy. The finished product, gleaming metallic rainbows into my sweat-misted eyes, bellowed its fiery motor rumble, and the machine came alive. I heard heaven's gate tremble.

Wiping crystalline boron sludge into my jeans, I knelt before the engine and examined my proudest handiwork. The genius came in the form of an allotropic synthetic. I had discovered it by mistake, loosing a streaking cobalt inferno upon the fueling corner of my shop. Extinguishing the hungry flames resulted in third degree burns along my left arm and permanent chemical damage to my once flowing hair, but nonetheless I isolated the igniting properties. My waxen, desiccated body gave way to human mechanical innovation on a holier scale. Physical senility and gruesome ugliness were a small price to pay for a pardoner’s tool. Alas, worries about my appearance left long ago, pulled into the same void that claimed my sons and the sodomy of my wicked husband.

There she stood, the world’s first worthy invention. Where the smelters of the industrial revolution and the superconductors of the information age failed, I persevered, and in the clanky iron corridors of a makeshift hutch, no less. History says that prophecy often arrives in fire.

These last hundred years tested everything mankind held close and secure. First the robot disease and then the contagious global waves of stealth assassination. My family fell victim to anarchist factions, and I was sold into slavery. Watching tall buildings collapse in the fires of atomic madness, while brave humans were interned and destroyed inch by inch, my mind turned to books. White pages and black ink, the bastions of philosophy and religion in times forgotten, stole and kept secrets from man’s psychological suppression of itself, of spirituality. Escaping my captors, I wandered, seeking solace in roadside kitchens and exploring the convergence of science and divinity.

My first foray into invention came, not surprisingly, through chance. Or perhaps, it was Her plan all along. While walking through a barren plain, I fell into an abandoned mine shaft, its trapdoor obscured by years of earth. Inside lay a scrap heap of discarded hardware. Using flexible microcontrollers from the unending piles of electronic refuse there, I set about constructing an improvised broadcast system. Once finished, I began to deliver sermons of salvation to scores of willing listeners in the streets. I started with the word of Saul, of course, and fused his liturgy with those of Saint Augustine and the 21st Century’s most renowned martyr, Eliza Maria de Brazil. Through resurrected technologies, my message was received across many miles, and my revolution was quickened. But the path through heresy is treacherous and paved with the nameless graves of courageous believers.

They arrived in the night, ripping through my tent and burning my possessions. I was raped, battered and drugged. After my teeth were successively removed, they dragged me through the village and raped me again. I heard children laughing as my skin opened, and soaked me in warm red. When the sun rose, I lay crying and broken. But then it happened: She sang to me. I was overwhelmed with sudden happiness. They had allowed me to live, which amounted to miracle.

Thereafter, I unearthed the mysteries of every scientific vocation, spending days in the dark of my shop, guided by Her greater voice. I felt the thrum of deliverance in my heartbeat and heard trumpets of glory within the idle sounds of tinkering metals. Creating the rapture engine became my soul’s calling, my reason for being. Forty years passed, fraught with more death and sadness in the lives of this domain. I never let failure overcome me.

Then one day it was complete, and I wasted no time setting off on Her mission.

Cackling and waving my New Bible in the air, I reigned truth and justice and Her way upon the scattering masses far below. She howled, my trusty engine, and together we were the archangel’s smiting fist. The brimstone exploded in puddles of blood and bones. Evil burned into white clouds of wrath and forgiveness. A new day of woman followed.

Date night

2006-08-27T04:14:00.000-07:00

Giant fingers gripped hard around a sweaty bottle. His chest puffed out and exposed the upper part of the body he despised so much. He looked down at the girl. Mariela. She stood several inches below him.

“You are so disturbingly punctual,” said William. His friends called him Billy.

“No entiendo,” she replied, cheeks drawing up, redness blooming on her roundish face. She straightened her dress and nodded, her long pointed nose a sexual dagger.

“Then dance with me.” William took her hand and led her into the middle of a crowd. They swayed. He smiled. She giggled. Both were happy.

Fifteen minutes before, William had been in the bathroom snorting Bolivian cocaine. Mariela had been finishing dinner with her parents. Chilean sea bass.

When the dance was done, William kissed Mariela. And for a moment, she felt completely normal. He had a loveable look about him, large though he was. He hulked over her, the two white ovals in his massive head beaming at her little chest, at her subtle cleavage. He whispered something to her in Spanish, terrible Spanish. Mariela winced and took a step back.

“Que perverso!” she shouted, and ran for the door. William tried to follow but met concrete. The floor looked at him. He looked at the floor.

“What the fuck was that all about?” he asked himself, rhetorically.

William stood up and ruffled his spiky hair. He sidestepped back to the crowd and boogied the night away, while Mariela cried on the vinyl seat of a white taxi with green trim.

Adventures come in strange packages

2006-08-25T18:54:00.000-07:00

Hans, whose imagination was fertile, suggested various expedients. "Now please go to your post, shoot as straight as you can, and dont waste cartridges," he commanded, panting and wiping sludge from his stinking brow.

Every system has its drawbacks, he thought, but these are the risks that must be faced. Goddamn it! It's war. He swallowed another handful of "greenies" and bellowed orders panoramically.

A private, small in stature, looked up at Hans from his foxhole. "Sir, you think it will be quite a show out here, today?" His smile broke like a clever child.

Hans nodded and looked at Major Stubbles. "He is a very good wizard, that Baas," said Hans in perfect Swedish. "Just as we planned." The smell of a rout was in the air, and Hans knew what men would be suitable for this kind of bloodbath. Robots, champions and those too intelligent to risk mutiny.

"His friends back home call him Daniel, Colonel," said Stubbles. "They say Baas used to to sleep with lions. At least until the spotted sickness." Hans murmured something garbled in response.

Hans realized that the responsibilities of this battle were heaped upon him. Indeed, there was a hex on the foul battlefield wind. "Go to your post, Stubbles, shoot as straight as you can, and dont waste cartridges. Fuck." This time it was in English.

Hans turned back to Baas. "What do you have in mind, private?"

"A desire for death to the Danish, sir," said the man who once lay with great cats.

"So then you were a literature student?" asked the Colonel.

"No, uhh, sir. But I'd sure be proud to kill for your army," said Baas.

"Good boy," said Hans, and then again in Swedish, "Take a seat and have some time."

Hans went to one knee and looked at his palms. "Certainly I do not intend to return, Lord. No, not to care for such people who have been so ungrateful. Somehow in the confusion, we let this war, we...she slipped from our hands, and we cannot find her. Nothing remains but the fight." His thoughts were awesome.

Hans returned his attention to Baas. "I'll set myself to watch events with the greatest interest. Damn if we don't gottem," he said. Baas stared glossy-eyed and almost irritated. He paused.

When the Colonel thought to speak again, he was cut off by Baas, suddenly forceful. "The responsibilities of this battle ought to be heaped upon me. As your reverend father used to say, if only you wait long enough, the devil always shows himself. And at last, he helps you."

"You knew my father?" asked Hans, dumbstruck.

"No," said Baas, nonchalant.

"Well, then," replied Hans, "I will look for the devil myself. The fucking Danes won't be here yet awhile."

"But they are sacrificing to him," said Baas. "The dirty Danes."

"You listen up, son, and you listen good," fired Hans. "You keep your head down, shoot as straight as you can and don't waste cartridges!" He spun around and trotted to his horse.

Behind him, Baas conjured with his hands.

Marty is back

2006-07-31T13:42:00.000-07:00

He hath returned. You knew that Dante's 4th and 5th circles weren't enough to keep him down for long. Your ol pal is ready to go back at it, one mo gin. It will start with a photo that pretty much sums up the trip:

Dear June,

2006-06-30T15:02:00.000-07:00

Sorry we missed you. Maybe next year.

Shakes,

Marty

From the southern hemisphere

2006-05-13T02:24:00.000-07:00

Your ol pal is heading out of Dodgio. Spellbound, my confusion and perverted wanderlust have led me to Buenos Aires, home of the Tango, yerba mate, the pampas and swank Argentine ass. The spiral could further expectorate my essence into Uruguay and Brazil. Afterwards, I'll be in the Holy City floating softly around the Basilica of the Holy Selpulchre, maybe prancing near Solomon's temple and hopefully masquerading as an nice Italian mortal spending holiday around hot Jewish girls. Egypt, Turkey and Greece are also horizon liners. It shall be a weird two months, I surmise. Maybe I'll catch up with you again before doomsday. Cast me good fortune spells.

Shakes

Marty

Martin McFriend at the edge of panic

2006-05-04T21:31:00.000-07:00

Forgive me Zod, for I know not what I do. I only walk and stalk among the stench of mortal flesh, repressing my own thirst, like any other innocent swirling vapor. It's difficult to turn a blind eye to so much healthy meat, here in this plane called Los Angeles. Silicone mammaries, shaded eyes, must of falafel, parcel of litter, steel sweat in a concrete jungle jim. A cosmetic mess of margaritas and inflammatory shouts, a bustle of man labor with the spectre of early death in milky cereal pyre and diesel exhaust. It is not I who determines my course, for I haven't the luxury of free will. I resist desire to dance away nights, perspiring among lady spiders and tasting the frothy graf of yesteryorn. I do this upon loyalty. I am helping to sew the seeds of togetherness, so that you might not perish in flame. I am Martin McFriend of the Daosh Mog, a snexel pill popper from a barren, mindless void. Tremble in it, and feel my mission. Plush is the sacrifice to help man and women coexist in relative peace. Fiery is the temperment of my master. GORKON!

Significant e-mail exchange

2006-04-20T11:25:00.000-07:00

-----Original Message-----
From: Youngling #2
Sent: Thursday, April 20, 2006 10:05 AM
To: Martin McFriend
Subject:

Dude, that show on M theory happened to be on PBS last night, and it cleared a few things up that I was fuzzy about. M Theory spawned from string theory, or "the theory of everything." On a side note, these theoretical "strings" are even smaller than quarks (which are smaller than protons and neutrons). If a quark was the size of this solar system, a string would be the size of a tree. Ridiculous. lol. Anyway, the idea is that the three dimensions of space and one dimension of time are not the only dimensions. These strings, on the sub particle level, or sparticle level, create an additional six dimensions that we're not capable of recognizing due to evolved perception, conditioning and whatnot (maybe this is where the LSD filter comes into play?). That's how the parallel universes work. Our universe is like one slice of a loaf of bread that creates a super universe of sorts. The worm hole theory suggests that the far reaches of this universe are closer than the nearer reaches because of the slice shape. Imagine that south LA was folded over to be parallel to north LA, with Beverly Hills at the fold. We only know to travel through the hills to get to the Valley, when, in actuality, if we could create a rift through space, we could just jump from say, Inglewood to Burbank through the worm hole in a fraction of the time, rather than traveling the surface. Because string theory explains that such rifts might occur on the string level, it's possible that a rift could occur on a larger one, but not really. And then they involve the small membranes on that level. The membranes are said to be able to expand with energy. A great force of energy could enlarge a membrane to the point that it is the size of, well, the universe as we know it. We're just a membrane, dude. To travel from one universe to another has to do with another sub-proton particle called a graviton. Gravity, though it aligns the planets and brings apples falling to the ground, is relatively weak. But if you could magnify the gravity, the spill over would travel to the next universe. So, we would have to be able to travel on the gravity, I guess. It's like a pool table. The surface is, more or less, two dimensions - everything traveling on a plane - like our "slice." But the knocking of the balls creates sound waves that transcend those dimensions. They spill over. Like gravity. Ideas such as the Big Bang Theory might be the contact of the rolling, wave-like universes touching each other at a point. I'm not sure there. I'm just giving you a starting point for a massive Interweb study. (Also, atom smashers are the four-mile long loops where they crash atoms together at unbelievable speeds. The people who do this are the same people that as kids used to set things on fire. Fermilab, in Indiana, is one atom smasher. Cern is the one under construction on the France, Switzerland border that is going to destroy Fermilab. Even Fermilab admits it.) All right, dude, I have to go to work.

-----Original Message-----
From: Martin McFriend
Sent: Thursday, April 20, 2006 10:11 AM
To: Youngling #2
Subject: RE:

Particle accelerator! That's what it's called. Btw, thanks for ruining my entire day at 10 am.

Inside the mind of a carnival tycoon

2006-04-15T00:28:00.000-07:00

Friends,

Your ol pal here wanted to share with you a brief glimpse into the mind of a fast-rising genius among the ranks of the new age circus scene. I'm including a letter from my colleague Wink, a gentleman and scholar, to an old college girlfriend of his. He gave me permission to reproduce. Hope you find it in your heart's little bloody space to empathize with this crazy fucker's plight.

Shakes,

MM

Dear Carol,

Well, actually I didn't really quit. I'm just taking a sabbatical, some time off. I really need it because things have been crazy around here lately. More on that in a minute. I don't know if you remember Chuck Wilbur. He's one of my best friends from Andersonville. Chuck and I went into business together a few years ago and started up an entertainment management company. At first we specialized in representing low-end magicians and down on their luck illusionists. It was a mere pittance, money-wise, at first, but we really started learning a thing or two about the performance spectacle industry. Soon we ran into some producers from that old show Wild Kingdom (you may remember it). There are all sorts of Hollywood TV types skulking around LA you know. So these guys had a whole stable of exotic animals and a slew of incredible tricks, plus pyrotechnic equipment. They just needed some investors with vision. Chuck and I hit it off with these dudes immediately. We took a sojourn in SE Asia for two months recruiting the best of the third-world beast training circuit. We came up with an idea to meld magic and Jack Hanna style animal tricks. Chuck knew a guy who worked with Cirque du Soleil who could help us develop a few other contacts and find a ring leader. Our vision slowly became reality.

So we started up JM Tickles Inc. and worked at first in Vegas, doing shows at the Palace Station Hotel and Casino. Eventually, we got a contract to start up a west coast traveling show. We based our offices in Rancho Cucamonga and did a lot of work up and down the central California coast. Chuck got his license in primate education and I started working more closely with our team of dwarves. These guys were vicious and I took a real beating, psychologically and physically. Angry little men, they were. But the money was coming in buckets, and Chuck and I were truly living out the dream. From 2003 to 2005, everything was ridiculous. Long drunken nights in Mexico, sex with strange people (and sometimes animals were involved), vampiric tendencies, intravenous drugs, fist fights, sour milk, bandaids, strange rashes, mornings with the bearded lady, I mean seriously, this was circus living at its best (or worst). We had this one kid who did a three week tour with us, and the SOB had flippers for feet. I mean he really had flippers, man.

But this was all very taxing on my soul as you can probably imagine. Traveling constantly and having no routine in life, no roots, nothing to call home. Just a lot of money and disease and feeling sorry for myself and the veritable freakshow of employees working for us trying to squeeze out a few ducates for a meal of fish and vinegar. By the early part of this year, about February, I was at my wits end. Chuck and I were fighting and getting at each other's throats a lot. We would argue about little things, you know, who's turn it was to regulate the harlot division, getting Sam from Guatemala to clean up in the monkey cage, buying propane for faux explosions during the grand illusion session that we ended every show with. We had government tax guys breathing down our necks, ATF agents complaining about fire hazards, a small group of Berkeley hippies picketing outside our ticket windows crying foul about our waste disposal techniques, alleged environmental misdeeds and, gag, animal cruelty. Do these people honestly not understand that you have to beat an elephant very severely to get it to walk in the direction you want it to? I mean, we had adoring fans to please. But worst of all, it was those damn dwarves, or midgets, or whatever the hell we are supposed to call them now days in this PC society. These silly bastards beat me within an inch of my life on Valentines Day because I served them Dos Equis amber instead of the lager. I spent four days in ICU and was on crutches for three weeks. I felt it was time to make some serious changes.

So here I am, now about to take a trip to Argentina and recollect myself. Chuck and I have agreed that we are going to do some different things when I get back. I have in friend in Buenos Aires, a Mr. Miguel "Lige" Rodriguez who plans to set me up for a few weeks and talk to me about growing opportunity in Latin America. One thing I know for sure is JM Tickles has to clean up its performance and get a little classier. With that said, I'm going to be looking for talent soon. We have an opening for a pretty face and a girl who can move well. We've decided to 86 the whole fire dancing bit, and instead need some female presenters. The show is going to take a tour through the southeast in September so that is when we'll need to pick up some fresh young performers. Weren't you a cheerleader for the Falcons once? Would you be interested in doing some work with us? Just a short two-week contract while we trek through Ga, S.C. and Tennessee. All you'd have to do is wear a sequined oney and present digital cards while the tightwire jugglers interact with Martin McFriend, our top elemental steward. It pays good money and your family could come see you. Anyway, just a thought. Sorry for the long rant. I think I just needed to get this off my chest before I pop some pills and board my flight. Hope all is well. Best,

Wayne "Wink" Niggins

Tell me religion isn't scary

2006-04-14T09:59:00.000-07:00

In observance of holy week, thought I'd post a couple photos taken from a Spanish procession on Palm Sunday.

Comic Book Inanity

2006-04-13T14:50:00.000-07:00

This is all based on separate but related occurrences within the comic book universe as created by Marvel. Utterly fantastic. Let me tell you, every day is a challenge for me to not go insane as I have so much trouble comprehending existence on this plane.

The Beyonders are a race of immensely powerful entities who exist in a dimension other than of Earth. No one from anywhere within Earth's dimension has ever seen one or more of the Beyonders, and apparently no one ever will. The Beyonders are so different in nature from the known beings of Earth's dimension that it is beyond the scope of human comprehension to understand what kind of entities the Beyonders are. It is known that the Beyonders are not "beings" in the sense that that term is used to describe the known living beings in the Earth dimension. The Beyonders apparently do not experience time as a chronological progression, as the known living beings of Earth's dimension do. The limit of the Beyonders' power are unknown. However, teir nature is so alien that they are unable to leave their own dimension. Hence, in their dealings with the Earth dimension, they must operate through agents. It is known that the Beyonders are dedicated to the desire for change.

Having become aware of the universe containing the Earth and of the Earth itself, the Beyonders intend to study the process of evolution (a form of change) on that planet. Therefore, the Beyonders contact an extradimensional race of the Earth dimension known as the Nuwali through an unusual artifact. Having made no notable accomplishments of their own, the Nuwali are said to be distinguished solely for their ability to follow orders. The Beyonders offered to pay the Newali gold (which the Nuwali, like Earth people, consider highly valuable) if they would create a game preserve on Earth stocked with fauna and flora different periods in Earth's history, ranging from Triassic (the first part of the Mesozic Era, the so-called Age of Dinosaurs) into the then present. Hence the Nuwali created the Savage Land, a tropical area circled by volcanoes within Antarctica. In the Savage Land, dinosaurs and other life forms from the entire span of the Mesozoic Era have co-existed with the various life forms that evolved in the later Cenozoic Era, the Age of Mammals, and even with human beings, right into the present day. For tes of thousands of years, the Nuwali stacked the Savage land with fauna and flora and watched over it. At some part, the Nuwali's contact with the Beyonder came to an end. The Beyonders continues to study evolution as demonstrated by the living beings of the Savage Land.

Thousands of years after the Nuwali's relationship with Beyonds ended, the Beyonders used the knowledge of evolution they had gained to create the alien race called the Fortisquians. The Beyonders used the Fortisquians to observe the progress of sentient races on many worlds in the Earth dimension. At regular intervals each world under observation would be studied by a Fortisquian observer who approached the planet in a starship camouflaged as a comet. Having been created by the Beyonders, the Fortisquians' minds are somewhat alien to this cosmos. Hence, only exceptional Fortisquians can avoid going insane when surrounded by large numbers of non-Fortisquian beings. Through the Fortisquians's observations, the Beyonders learned about interactions within societies within sentient being in this universe. The Beyonders learned that all sentient beings are driven by desire to possess what they do not have.

Favorably disposed toward this universe, the Beyonders gave its sentient beings the opportunity to control and advance their own development. The Beyonders provided this opportunity by making possible the creation of the Cosmic Cube. A Cosmic Cube is a cube-shaped matrix that holds vast energies that are responsive to the wills of sentient beings. A sentient being can use a Cosmic Cube to manifest his thoughts as reality, and thus to accomplish virtually anything he or she desires. Sentient beings can create a Cosmic Cube by generating a particular kind of force field which opens a rift into another dimension. A force will slip through the rift which can be collected within a matrix, which the force then shapes into a perfect cube. This force provides the power of the Cosmic Cube that has thus been created. Eventually, a Cosmic Cube will evolve and develop its own sentience, which is influenced by the minds of the sentient beings which have wielded it. A Cosmic Cube created by the alien race of the Skrulls eventually evolved into the being called the Shaper of Worlds. Another Cosmic Cube, created on Earth by the scientists of the Advanced Idea Mechanics (A.I.M.) had evolved into the still-mutating entity called Kubik.

A nuclear accident triggered by laboratory worker Owen Reece had two effects. It opened a rift into the dimension from which the energy that powers Cosmic Cubes comes. But there was no matrix waiting to collect the force that now could enter the Earth dimension through this rift. Some of this force transformed Reece into the superhuman Molecule Man, who was increasingly compelled by the nature of the force to curb the use of his own newfound superhuman power. The rest of the released energy began developing its own sentience and started to observe Earth and its dimension. It is this sentient force that eventually named itself the Beyonder, after its unconscious awareness of its true creators.

The Beyonders later employed an alien named Sphinxor and other aliens called the Prime Movers to take possession of Counter-Earth, a relatively miniature duplicate of the Earth, complete with its inhabitants that had been created by the High Evolutionary, an Earthman who had evolved himself into a superhuman being. Learning of the Beyonders from Sphinxor, the High Evolutionary accepted to their taking possession of Counter-Earth and accompanied Sphinxor on his mission to bring it to them. Exactly what happened there after is unclear. Counter-Earth was apparently somehow displayed in the Beyonders' equivalent of museum, and the High Evolutionary went temporarily insane. Apparently the High Evolutionary visited the Beyonders' own dimension if he was in their "museum." Possibly his insanity was the result of an inability to comprehend the Beyonders' dimension.

The entity that was released by Reece's accident and called itself the Beyonder eventually entered Earth's dimension and arranged a "secret war" between champions from Earth and their criminal adversaries as a means of studying the nature of desire. Later, the Beyonder went to Earth himself, where he assumed human form, and became a menace seeking to destroy the planet. Seemingly killed by the Molecule Man, the Beyonder instead journeyed as pure energy into another dimension, where he created his own universe.

In Antarctica at the site of the Savage Land, members of the Fantastic Four discovered a Nuwali inscription of the word "Beyonder." In the course of their investigation, three members of the Fantastic Four, joined by their adversary, Dr. Doom, traveled to the universe created by the Beyonder. The Molecule Man, the Shaper of Worlds, and Kubik also traveled there. The Shaper explained to the Earth people and the Beyonder about the true Beyonders' involvement with the Earth dimension. The so-called Beyonder learned that he was actually not the omnipotent being he believe himself to be, but an immature Cosmic Cube that had not been contained within a proper matrix. The Beyonder merged with the Molecule Man in order to become a true Cosmic Cube, and the universe created by the Beyonder ceased to exist. That Cosmic Cube's present whereabouts is unknown.

Cripes and shitbuckets

2006-03-21T15:24:00.000-08:00

They do not make cartoons like they used to. Remember this introduction to a popular 80s-era Saturday morning cartoon?

The year 1994: From out of space comes a runaway planet, hurtling between the Earth and the Moon, unleashing cosmic destruction. Man's civilization is cast in ruin.

Two thousand years later, Earth is reborn...

A strange new world rises from the old: a world of savagery, super science, and sorcery. But one man bursts his bonds to fight for justice! With his companions Ookla the Mok and Princess Ariel, he pits his strength, his courage, and his fabulous sunsword against the forces of evil.

He is Thundarr, the Barbarian!

DEMON DOGS!!!

What the fuck?

2006-03-20T11:20:00.000-08:00

Take me to your leader.

The Tyranny of Evil Men

2006-03-09T00:31:00.000-08:00

You all know those absurd e-mail scams where the perpetrator contacts you and claims he’s from Nigeria or some other dilapidated African nation, wanting to execute some three-card-molly scheme involving sending fraudulent checks in exchange for a percentage, in order to escape cooked up international regulatory obstacles, or something like that.

Well, even powerful mystic empaths of my stature can be out-conjured, and I’d like to share an experience from your ol pal’s younger days. I was in my early 20s at the time, working a stiff office job that oppressed my natural desire to levitate outside the constraints of waking viscera. Right around that time I was looking to sell my worn-out sled for $2,500 on Autotrader.com, from whence I was contacted by a faceless cyber-creature claiming to be from England with a special offer for me.

Essentially, the guy proposed to send me a cashier’s check for $15,000, on the condition that I would send a G to some phantom third-party shipper in N.Y., who would then handle the rest of the transaction domestically. The reasoning involved the check being originally for a more expensive ride, but the deal fell through and the check was already made out. My British counterpart had already set up the contact with Mr. Nebula shipper man, and just needed a car ASAP. It went something like that.

In any case, Marty, under some type of level 4 confusion enchantment, told the guy to go ahead and send the check. A week later, sure as the return of Gozer the traveler, I received a $15,000 cashier’s check in the mail from a bank in Arizona. I checked out the bank’s website and immediately read about an alert for fake cashier’s checks from that branch.

Snapping slightly out of my involuntarily induced dementia, I called the bank and was told by what I imagined as a wizened old fat man that, under no circumstances, should I cash the check. They took down my information and had the fucking big guys themselves, the U.S. Secret Service, contact me. This is where it gets good.

Leonard Parizek of the Service calls me and instructs me how to proceed. I could only assume that preparations for a mini-sting had been set up. So, playing stupid, I e-mailed the limey badass back with some questions I had been told to offer. Within a few hours, I received the following e-mail response (which I recently found in an old print-out while I was doing some spring cleaning):

Dearest young Martin,

I sent this communiqué directly to you via The Curse Of The Wicked Soul. Cradling the powers of the Orunmila the Wizard Of Ingoni, I have unleashed an army of seventy-two spirits and demons. The Eiye Efe will gaze from above as the summons of the spirits appear before your eyes. My cosmic powers have grown from the fears of deception and will wreak havoc and spill the blood of the guilty. I have carved marks of evil into your conscience and your spiritual blindness will direct you to fall into the hands of the proper authorities. The curse will begin when I attach this written segment of your soul “hope you are Christian, in the name of the almighty God. Help me thanks.” For you have only made me wiser. Money is only paper, which I used to buy your soul. If you would like it returned unharmed, you must make amends for the deception you have brought upon yourself. If you do not, you will live for eternity in the fiery pits of hell and in fear of Bytor, Light of Darkness, Centurion Of Evil, Devil's Prince. The U.S. Secret Service and the FBI will be on this case if the funds are not sent back to me today. Did you think you would eat someone’s money?

Jim “The Wizard” Waskowiak
Owner Of Your Soul

Ever since, I've been visiting the guilds and grog joints through eons of parallel dimensional stasis, in desperate search for Waskowiak and his diabolical crew. I've only discovered his vapor trail. But I haven't forgotten.

Shakes,

The Magesterial Martin McFriend

From the nether reaches of the Wiki World

2006-02-23T23:37:00.000-08:00

In case you haven't already been introduced, and for Zod's sake if you are reading this you should have been, one of the world wide interweb's most fantastic resources (and perhaps a terrible consequence) is the evolving online ultra encyclopedia known as Wikipedia.

Wikipedia is, more or less, a place where you can look up information on anything. Seriously, you can read extensively on just about everything that one would consider important (despots, torture, nightmares, daemonites, serpentine forces, Alexander Hamilton, etc.). Recent multi-hour sojourns into its pages have given me great insight into eschatology and the Varangian Guard, to name just a couple examples that made Marty's high-priority list. But the most unique experience of perusing the wikipedian universe is the tangential nature of every visit. If you've spent as much time there as I have, you understand, but essentially, each entry is fraught with dozens of semi-related hyperlinks, opening the door for the greatest games of online "telephone" outside of Sidebottom family Christmas circa late 80s. Put simply, if you spend an hour on the site and can by the end of your session remember the first subject you looked up, you're a fucking winner, good buddy.

Now, in the rare instance that a subject does not already have an entry, you, or some other learned soul, can submit your own, which is then put through what I only assume is a rigorous testing routine wherein the entry can be proved to be accurate and worth publishing. What with many astral planes to conquer and souls to devour, I haven't actually found the time to read extensively through the testing regimens the site uses, leaving me only to speculate at present. But I think it's safe to say that, even with the ostensibly stringent standards for submitted material, there is probably a great deal of room for bullshit, opinion and erroneous information. This stipulation explains my earlier claim that wikipedia may also be a consequence of today's citizen journalist brigade, or whatever the fuck self-righteous bloggers are calling other self-righteous bloggers these days. With some regret, I also acknowledge that wikipedia has categorically detroyed my ability to get anything done at the office, which, wait a minute, who gives a shit?

Okay, so the point here is that, I have now discovered Wikipedia's evil doppelganger site that, while being anything but comprehensive, provides a demonstrative wizard's nod to the freakish, sorcerial creep segment of Western cyberlore. For the sake of Tobin's Spirit Guide, just read about demon divination or vampirology. I know, a work in progress, but outlets of knowledge may indeed be necessary one day when an orange-masked, furry-tailed descendent of Cain comes gently rapping, rapping, rapping at your chambered door.

Acadine Archive

Shakes,

Martin

A Tribute to Gunplay

2006-02-10T15:14:00.000-08:00

It's been a militant week for Marty. All these riots over a bunch of semi-offensive political cartoons, on top of Winter Olympic protests, on top of Church burnings, on top of nuclear proliferation, on top of intifada and death and maiming and evil and blood spilling and struggle and loss and political gridlock and escaping cons and marauding armies...ya know, it's had Marty up in arms. Considering the fact that I went through a difficult break-up on Valentines Day last year, I think it's safe to say that February pisses me off fairly well. Not that I'm unhappy, but now is a great time to talk a lot of cynical shit and basically project fearsomeness at life. So, in that charming spirit, I've assembled a small collage of what I feel are excellent images involving GUNS.

Kids with Guns, now that's cool. And I'm not talking about the Gorillaz song.

Now chicks with guns, and large eagle-like tats too, is a whole new level of awesomeness. Particularly when the dame in question happens to be the daughter of avant-gard, ultra freak out horror film director legend Dario Argento. How'd a weirdo like him have such a beauty like you, Asia? Must have been your mother. You see, horror does pay.

Speaking of horror, how fucking terrified would you be if you ran into this old cat in a dark alley? I mean, you should be. After all, he's dead.

Say what you want about this photo. And yeah, it's been overused. But for fuck's sake, has there ever been a better timed photo? This shit is redonkulous, I mean, when you really think about it.

And folks, let's be honest here. Who the hell gives a monkey a gun? This isn't Project X, man. This is the real world. Monkeys with guns are slightly less threatening than cops.

Of course, no tribute to people getting capped could be even reasonably credible without an appearance by Roland Deschain of Gilead doing damage to the sorry citizens of Tull. I think he killed the whole city.

Man bites dog, bitches.

And please, don't fuck with the Jesus.

Danse of the Lycan

2006-02-04T03:08:00.000-08:00

The Mexican night smelled of sweat and burnt fuel. I had just finished my fifth gimlet and was debating a sixth when a pretty little senorita in a green skirt brushed past me, fluttering long black eyelashes in my direction before disappearing into the throng of dark clad street creepers. I took my drink to go and ambled into her wake, trying to recapture the meaning of the look she gave me. Something said she knew me, precisely the kind of thing that can get a man killed.

The late night revelers continued their dance of the dead, skeletons and vihuelas in the moonlight, as cries of passion and pistol shots echoed into the darkness. I stumbled more than once on the crudely cobbled pathway, deeper into the underbelly of the peddler district. I hoped nothing had been slipped in my drink as I noticed the crowds thinning on the lightless, crumbling walkways of the inner zocalo.

Lighting a cigarette, I polished off the gimlet and threw the glass in the street, hoping to draw out a serpent. I knew it wasn’t a smart move, but I figured a risk couldn’t hurt. I was also nearly drunk, and out of sorts in the night’s unnatural humidity. A few shadows stirred in dimly lit windows, and a cancer-stricken cough responded to the break in silence with its own disturbing hymn. This was a dirty place, from the smell in the air to the rot underfoot.

El cuchillo de afeita. The razor. The name was known well in these parts. Sliced up bodies had been turning up every once in a while for twenty years, and always on Dia de los Muertos. The work of a master slayer, each kill had its sinister marking with the angle and number of the cuts and the messages in blood. The victims were far from insignificant. Fair haired tourists with bulging pockets, and the occasional local businessman felled by too much success.

The locals pointed to obscure, occultist rituals and superstitions of demonic spirits possessing the land. Politicians chalked it up to extremist activism or cartel crime, depending on the election cycle. The truth was that no one knew who was responsible. But the razor had systematically decimated the morale of a proud city with a series of murders heinous enough to shake the psyches of even the most optimistic. Industry and commerce had slowed to deplorable levels, with tourism an afterthought, and the townspeople had lost all sense of civility and social function. Oaxatec fell into dominion of the nefarious, and nothing remained to fight back.

I thought about my long years in the business and my cynicism toward the craft. Standing in the shadow of an empty boutique, I wondered how it was that I could lose touch with the emotional plight of a long-suffering people. The strands that keep us alive and struggling are thin and taut, but I’d seen more than a lord’s share of mortal perseverance in the face of the dragon, long though his teeth might be. In the waning moonlight, the street’s empty desperation allowed me the presence to collect myself. I was there for a reason.

She came into the light slowly, smiling. Her green skirt ruffled in the modest breeze, and, arrested by her gaze, I felt the suspicions I had the first time I saw her were at once vindicated. I took a last drag of my cigarette and flicked into the street, footsteps away from where she stood, swaying.

“You think you know what you are doing?” Her accent was thick, but her English was good.

“I promised myself I wouldn’t get mixed up with any local beauties this time,” I said. “I’ve had too many waitresses and aspiring émigrés in my travels down here.”

She laughed a sweet, playful laugh. “I don’t want you to take me back to your country, senor, but maybe you have a nice hotel, hmm?”

“Perhaps we can talk a little first, not spoil things.”

“What is it you would like to know?” She raised her eyebrows, and for an instant, I was immobilized by her beauty. But there was something not right about it. I knew that face. It was a face I could not forget, not after a hundred chambers of torment, not after a visit from the darkest of the otherworldly who come in the night to steel away dreams for their own vile, self-gratifying purposes.

She had taken on the very visage of my Carmela, the one true thing I held dear in the days before.

“You shape-shifting bitch,” I said. “I think it’s time I introduced myself.” I pulled out my blade and sprung without thinking. But she was too fast.

As my chin connected with stone, I felt the sickening crack of my right arm, as my weapon was twisted and flung from my grasp. I rolled onto my back just in time to avoid the hew of her fist, and pulled myself up, arm hanging limply.

In her natural form, the beast was hideous, claws sprouting from her face and spittle dripping from open orifices in her heaving, fur-covered body. The bitch howled with ravenous ferocity, cracking spindly bones and steel talons in her maniacal histrionics. I braced for a fight.

“The circle is closed, foolish gringo,” she spat it like acid. “You have walked onto sacred grounds.”

“Guess what?” I figured it was time for decisive action. “I got paid a lot for this job.”

She bellowed an ear-shattering roar as powerful hind muscles kicked her were-body airborne. The last thing her devil’s eyes must have seen before the end was the point of a silver blade and the glint in my smiling eyes, sated by her destruction. I wrenched the gilded dagger on my boot free of her quivering midsection and watched a venal spray smatter the filth-soaked street. The demon’s unsteady breath was quieted with a final stroke of my good hand, aided by the scythe hidden in my woolen sleeve.

Everybody loves a good joey

2006-01-25T14:46:00.000-08:00

Another gem from the biscuit. So, yeah, I am lazy and my blog is just a bunch of bullshit images these days, but that's not because I don't love you. I do love you. It's just that daddy has been under a lot of stress at work lately. So don't get all over my back for slacking a little in certain areas i.e. silly exploitation blogs. I mean, I don't come into your place of work, bust open the stall door and kick that dick out of your mouth, so allow me some space, some leeway. Besides, I'm working on some really, really weird shit right now. Trust me, fans of Mr. McFriend's macabre mindset are going to be pleased pretty soon when I break out the next installment of American Subversion '06. Alright, kick it.

Shakes,

Martin

The strangest thing...

2006-01-19T12:01:00.000-08:00

When Martin McFriend woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous vermin. He was lying on his back as hard as armor plate, and when he lifted his head a little, he saw his vaulted brown belly, sectioned by arch-shaped ribs, to whose dome the cover, about to slide off completely, could barely cling. His many legs, pitifully thin compared with the size of the rest of him, were waving helplessly before his eyes.

Behold: A Shit Beast

2006-01-15T16:27:00.000-08:00

Weird basket

2006-01-14T02:47:00.000-08:00

This is what I get. This is what I get for putting all my eggs in one basket. A weird basket.

Happy New Year from the McFriend Estate

2006-01-01T23:03:00.000-08:00

We hope things will be good. We hope you prosper. We hope you find equanimity in your endeavors. We hope you find love where you least expect it. We hope you aren't afraid to embrace what you are, difficult as that may be. We hope there is good magic to outweigh the natural evil (no, seriously, we really do). We hope for epic nights and restful mornings. We hope you don't tread too lightly, but are lithe enough to escape waking the wrathful beast of envy, greed, etc., etc. We hope 2006 is McFriendly for ye and yourne. We do. Just ask if you don't believe me.

A Season for a Dream

2005-12-20T21:59:00.000-08:00

Daydream, which is to thought as the nebula is to the star, borders on sleep, and is concerned with it as its frontier. An atmosphere inhabited by living transparencies: there’s a beginning of the unknown. But beyond it the Possible opens out, immense. Other beings, other facts, are there. No supernaturalism, only the occult continuation of infinite nature…Sleep is in contact with the Possible, which we also call the improbable. The world of night is a world. Night, as night, is a universe…The dark things of the unknown world become neighbors of man, whether by true communication or by a visionary enlargement of the distances of the abyss…and the sleeper, not quite seeing, not quite unconscious, glimpses the strange animalities, weird vegetations, terrible or radiant pallors, ghosts, masks, figures, hydras, confusions, moonless moonlights, obscure unmakings of miracle, growths and vanishings within a murky depth, shapes floating in shadow, the whole mystery which we call Dreaming, and which is nothing other than the approach of an invisible reality. The dream is the aquarium of Night.
— Victor Hugo, Travailleurs de la Mer

Another guest contribution

2005-12-13T22:25:00.000-08:00

This time it comes in the form of a grave warning from my older, wiser sibling Le Olde Sasefina:

My fingers hurt. My guts hurt. Spend the majority of your time ignoring or tending to the needs of your body, but what are ye doing for your minde? Aye, youngling kith and kin, when do ye stop to consider what it is good for thy head? If it groaned like yer belly and shook like yer knees and ached like that wounded arm of yourn from the previous eve's worm-dancing revelries, would ye take better care?

Aye, goodly youngling. Haven't ye thought about the contents of your withered and transmogrified psyche spilling out, leaking all over cyberspace like the gangrene ridden blood dripping out of the veins of a slaughtered olde goat ye sacrificed to make room for a soulless new cloned little chicken plumpkin? Be careful lest your soul travel without ye. Media will steal yer minde ere ye even realize ye have been taken. But a split second and ye've gone galaxies deep into the blackest abyss.

Hark, youngling kindred of mein! Ere ye lose thine owne precious being, that which maketh yourn life yourn! Sew up thein head ere ye lose it and experience reinfleshment in the form of a lowely rodent or some other manner of foulness. Take heed, good sons and daughters. The demons abound.

It, my friends, it, and gentle scumbags

2005-12-09T20:24:00.000-08:00

Guest post courtesy of Youngling #2. Check him out:

It pulls from the recesses of the dark and cavernous hollows we call our souls. It taps the murky, milky, putrid sewage from the well of our rotting hearts. The mind is not elastic, but when it comes to This, we can stretch it to limits. The mind becomes frayed, torn at its edges, trying to wrap itself around the idea that we are not alone, that we need someone - but only when This, this gross and filthy and undeniable Thing presents Itself. For when This comes - the shadow, the specter, the revenant that left us, and itself, for hopeless dead - the mind, heart and soul turn desperate and tasteless and listless.

This It is whatever you suppose It to be. It is your inner-most fear. It is the demon that haunts your dreams. It is the devil to your god. The love to your hate. The reality of your love. It is pain rather than joy. So why do you - we - regard the latter?

It is because we are fools. We are the demons. We are the fears. We are the hate. We are the reality. It sucks us dry and makes wrinkled and withered our passion. It creates Us.

Fly away dreary torment. Fly away ghastly dream. Fly away cadaverous and wretched nightmare. Fly away.

Mayhap a demon will possess your "sole"

2005-12-03T02:30:00.000-08:00

Turning it over in my head, over and over. Can't get it out of my unstable mind. But the doctor says that is can be removed. There is a way. There is a light. But it will take intensive surgery. Chloroform. Sedation. Incisions.

The gentle touch of a beautiful Persian hand. Suit cut Italian style and the smell of sticky white lye hanging limp in the air, invoking the pause of an executioner's hew. Just one more little huff. Remembering is not safe, they tell me, as I pass into relative crypt-sleep. Or so it feels.

I wake, naked in the dark. Alone and tattooed, aching and blistered. Caked blood and dried spittle. My breath fills the void with a pungeant, bittersweet odor. Rank are the coils of steam drifting through contaminated consciousness. I can see my reflection in the blackness. Though my eyes find no skill in this stupor, it is there. Staring back at me smiled and poised. Knowing. Believing. Yet something is not right with this still frame. All is silent.

My feet begin to dance. One two, one two, one two. A waltz? No, just a short rhythm, abbreviated from its full desirous release. Just a little motion that sways like an Atlantic current, rocking, lulling. Mimicked at every pace by the image in front of my drifting constitution. The image of me. Just a fluttering profile, glistened with a moist, cobalt aura. Laughing at me. Romancing the darkness.

I twitch to the left, it slides to the right. I duck, it ducks. A reddening glow shines in the blackness, as everything slows. This is surely the end. The end of the way it was. Now my aping cohort smirks back, inviting. He, no I, wave back and beckon. My biology shivers. The body heat releases into the ether a faint mist, a dullish violet. Tiptoeing, I follow. Colder than fire. Down this slickened path, subatomic light particles directing my mind like chalk arrows. To the center.

Sprightly visages cavort and dangle in the fading shadow sun. A grand feast of devils and impish lovers, twitching and echoing one another. Happy to see this new visitor. This man, this pseudo-creator, this sleepwalking mark. It's me at whom they snicker. I'm far from home now, but I already understand. My dread has receded. The subtle tunes, rich in temptation and merry, resonate with irresistable welcoming. Hello and goodbye. Be with us, they seem to sing.

I throw down my hands, transparently. I capitulate. I sway, and my motion is drunken. It is time now. It is time to dance. Two feet are my escort. It is time now to dance. And I dance. A pyre dance, a birthing dance. All is new and fresh with...

Mad Mr. McFriend Needs Love

2005-11-18T14:19:00.000-08:00

"My heart was fashioned to be susceptible of love and sympathy, and when wrenched by misery to vice and hatred, it did not endure the violence of the change without torture such as you cannot even imagine." — Frankenstein's Monster

Wither on 'til lonely death

2005-11-11T17:56:00.000-08:00

People hopping, dudes hopping. Everybody getting their workish on,
Step right up to America’s house, and play with Marty all day long.
Bastardize, this basket case, and turn people stone to mad,
Frumpy dress pulled over her head and dirty time did beckon.
Kill a bad guy, catch him asleep, and sleep thee will whenever’s cold.
The one, the only, the booze drinker curse, and pissed old man is sold.
And show goes on, and hair grows long, and eyes flicker blind to bone,
But already left sight of mommy dearest, and found yourself alone.
Done one, done two, third time, that’s you, rotten sick and bloated.
Furry things and happy smiles and path that gets the golden shoes.
Rest on grassy nothing mades, and play with medal of malaise,
Despite ‘ol grim that found your gaze and brought you off to lower haze.

The mind of Pops McFriend

2005-11-09T15:29:00.000-08:00

The following is a reproduction of an actual exchange that ocurred between my sister Sasefina and my father (who remains blogless) about 6 years ago:

-----Original Message-----
From: Sasefina
Sent: Thursday, July 29, 1999 1:30 PM
To: Father McFriend
Subject: one more request

I figured I would throw in another request. Why the hell not?

I was wondering if you could get tickets for REM at Chastain August 30? It is way sold out, but I really want to see them and the band they are playing with, Wilco.

Soooo, if you can ask around, I'd really appreciate it. Thanks.

-----Original Message-----
From: Father McFriend
Sent: Thursday, July 29, 1999 1:59 PM
To: Sasefina
Subject: RE: one more request

Sase, maybe i'll think about it sometime during the next millenium, long after the band members have died of aids and whatever, and the last sweet tune has been played out from the 80s and 90s and the cyclical pattern of the Snopes and McCoys has re-emerged and the Neanderthal movement has gained prominence once again and the philistines and nomadic barbarian hordes have laid waste to centuries of culture and the settling nuclear dust has finished its permutations among humans, animal, and other various half breeds, the Snopes included, and so it will only be then that the requests of the ethereal ones will be once again paramount in the collective consciousness of those that are and will be and always shall be preeminent, ontological, and basically fucked. ok - i'll think about it. love dad.

-----Original Message-----
From: Sasefina
Sent: Thursday, July 29, 1999 2:09 PM
To: Father McFriend
Subject: RE: one more request

Have you lost your mind? That is a sentence that Faulkner might have written if he had actually gone completely mad. You fatalistic freak.

Thanks?

-----Original Message-----
From: Father McFriend
Sent: Thursday, July 29, 1999 2:17 PM
To: Sasefina
Subject: RE: one more request

What else would you expect from an English major whose consciousness is Catholic, whose kids are legion, and whose aspirations are forever?

Roink banaanng chih-chih-chih puwawk tchone

2005-11-01T15:01:00.000-08:00

Nothing stands in my way. Nothing stands in my way. Nothing stands in my way. Nothing stands in my way.

Human alert. Destroy. Destroy mild lifeform. Inherit. Destroy.
Nothing stands in my way. Nothing stands in my way. Nothing stands in my way. Nothing stands in my way. Nothing stands in my way.

Radiation leak detected. Fleeing mode activation initializing. Destroy meek form of life below. Biological punishment to not cease before 01200.

Nothing stands in my way. Nothing stands in my way. Earth crust heating substantially. Flee. Enabling flight schedule. Thrusters on.

Still in love with the ever

2005-10-30T01:55:00.000-08:00

Caw cawitshalloween everybodyand damn it look at the guy in the silly face. He looks just like your mom and I did back before we started telling people to clean up after themselves. Check the new costume and the compensation and know that there is only a few things that we want and what better time toshow those things then the time that isw is acceoptable to portray that is toportray. Either way it si dark and bats flutter and eyes fltter makeup glowes and every young pretty thing dresses as a slut.But they say I am a xcriminal or I am fugitive and they are exactly fugitives. Becsause everyone is a fuggit8ive from smething or other. It might not be Halloween that you are running from or showing what you are running from but you are f=running away as fast as your littlw legs can centipedally move and wiggle. Sand the time will continue t0 clisck away from you as your haiur starts falling out or getting shaggy oir face dripping aned scaly and age yes age and no, you say. But nothing is going to change that. Right? Only your working toward the dream thazt has been there xseince you were zble to dream in the first place. Otherwixse ther is no fucking culmination oif it, the goal. Don’t get too tired up and coached up and told up about what it is all sxupposed to be about but keep the faith fuck…fuck..fuck. And you can loose everything you think y09u had or might have had.An dyou can think you jkade the call.And you can think that it’s all going to work itself out because you are beyojhnd yong and don’t shy don’t shy. But just whaen you know you can get there, you are confronted with an other swcared person who looks at you and walksx away. Sdo you think you can move. You can mve to another city or another country but you are left with the sdame agonizing realizatiuon that is you. An dwe are all the same in that regard. At least some of us are admitting that at this point. Tinker tinker off. But should have. And every little tiny tiny circuit twitch on the sabboth. I love you go d and and you love me god and god wi8ll be for noioikjhjklj. No moe loathing of the self.No more. Just a cocktail or two…more.

Creature Creature

2005-10-27T17:18:00.000-07:00

Marty: Stand back and witness brilliance in a country-fresh potpourri essence.

Wizard: Folkish, man.

Marty: And how, you say, you ask, I say.

Wizard: Feast on the hearts of peasants? Dine on saturated man-skin? Crawl through a flesh buffet?

Marty: Be not a fool, old 'un. I am no eater of people eats. Leave that to the Draconian.

Wizard: Then goodling sir?

Marty: Today begins a new era of cleanliness. Right next to Zodliness, you are aware.

Wizard: May the light of Astrium Argentium shine and not flicker upon the nave of House McFriend.

Martin: Shakes.

Want to vanish into thin air?

2005-10-24T16:01:00.000-07:00

How to Attain Spontaneous Human Involuntary Invisibility
SHAKES.

We live in a world where reality shifting and temporal anomalies are becoming the norm, a simple case of a person disappearing should not be difficult to explain - yet it is.

What remains obvious is that the person who can no longer be physically seen has shifted into a higher frequency than 3D - therefore cannot be seen with our physical eyes.

This appears to be a mystical phenomena that has been recorded for centuries, going back to ancient India, and perhpas further.

There are those of us who do move in and out of dimension psychically, but this seems to be a physical phenomena that is not controlled by the person who disappears. This is a rare phenomena in which a person is physically still present, although unable to be seen or heard. From the point of view of the invisible person, the world looks normal. They have no idea that they cannot be seen or heard by people around them.

Human invisibility has been written about for centuries.

Indo-European and pre-Aryan shamanistic beliefs accompanied the peoples who eventually migrated into the Indus Valley (approx. 2,500-1,500 BCE). Here, men and women of great spiritual attainment, superior knowledge, and extraordinary powers came to be called rishis.

The Vedas, which form the basis of Hinduism, emanated from the teachings of the rishis, starting around 1,000 BCE In these texts, we find descriptions of the rituals
and techniques of the Hindu priests, sounding very much like the magical and
shamanistic abilities of the old sorcerers, magicians and shamans.

Later in Hinduism, around 700-300 BCE, we find the secret doctrines, called the Upanishads, which were written for students. Within the Upanishads, there is a section called the Yogatattva which gives the rich mystical philosophy of the discipline and theory of practice for attaining knowledge of the essence of God.

A serious student of raja yoga was taught that certain supernormal powers, called siddhas were a natural outcome of gaining mastery over one's mind and environment, and were used as valuable indications of the student's spiritual progress.

One of these yogic siddhas was human invisibility. Patanjali, author of the Yoga-sutra, which is one of the earliest treatises among the early Indian writings, attempts to describe the process whereby human invisibility occurred. He says that concentration and meditation can make the body imperceptible to other men, and a direct contact with the light of the eyes no longer existing, the body disappears.

The light engendered in the eye of the observer no longer comes into contact with the body that has become invisible, and the observer sees nothing at all. There is not a lot written about how this occurs; the explanation of the process whereby
invisibility was brought into being was most likely left up to the teacher to
impart to the student directly.
From the thirteenth century on, numerous texts in Europe refer to similar abilities, performed by sorcerers and magicians who had the power to make themselves invisible, like the shamans (both ancient and modern), and the yoga masters in India.
Some other cultures in which shamanism (and the ability to vanish) has played a major role are the Aborigines of Australia, the archaic peoples of North and South America, and the peoples in the polar regions.

Rosicrucianism started in Europe in the fifteenth century. Among the papers of that time, there are a number that talk about invisibility. A brother in the Rosicrucian fraternity wrote a paper on how to walk invisible among men, and there is evidence that this was being taught in those early days. H. Spencer Lewis, the founder of the Ancient and Mystical Order Rosae Crucis in San Jose, California, stated that one can gain invisibility with the use of clouds. He says that clouds or bodies of mist can be called out of the invisible to surround a person and thus shut him out of the sight of others. According to Lewis, this secret practice is still taught in the mystical schools of today. The written literature on this subject supports the statement that the cloud is the basis of the Rosicrucian invisibility secret.
A man named John Macky, who was an early Masonic leader (the early Masons were believed to be an offshoot of the Rosicrucians) taught a method whereby any man could render himself invisible. Another offshoot of the Rosicrucian fraternity, the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, left manuscripts describing the Ritual of Invisibility. These manuscripts talk about surrounding yourself with a shroud, which is described as looking like a cloud.
It is said that Madame Blavatsky, of the Theosophical Society, witnessed this invisibility for herself and was actually given the secret, thereafter accomplishing this for herself on several occasions in front of witnesses. The literature on the spiritualists in the U.S. shows that there is no doubt they, too, knew about the cloud and its creation.

What is this cloud? We are looking for something that is between empty space and actual physical matter, something unseen by the naked eye but very much in existence. The Rosicrucian manual tells us that the first form into which spirit essence concentrates preparatory to material manifestation is electrons. When spiritual essence gathers into very minute focal points of electrical charge (due to certain conditions), we have the creation of electrons.

Science reports that such a cloud of free electrons will absorb all light entering it; it will not reflect nor refract light waves, nor are light waves able to pass through a human being. Consequently the observer's eye sees nothing there and the person surrounded by such a cloud is invisible. Since light is necessary for human sight, when there are no reflected or refracted light waves bouncing off a person and hitting the observer's retina, the person is not able to be seen and is not visible under normal circumstances.

How is this cloud created intentionally? That is difficult to say. There are references to and descriptions of invisibility and its creation in the writings of secret societies, but most people don't have access to these writings. One could go to India and become an apprentice or student of an Indian guru or teacher to learn these techniques, but that probably is not practical in modern life. To the everyday person, the knowledge of how invisibility works is a mystery.

- By Donna Higbee
SHAKES.

Ode on a Zombie adventure

2005-10-14T01:07:00.000-07:00

Walking a street infested with dummy burglars, statuesque and hands caught in a spotlight of dirt and blood. Organ jewels filched from the grasp of the dead, litter of loot. Marauding dangers in the flesh of walking man, ever hungry for more, more, more. High on swill, drunk on lust, hard on pain. Demented and sick, killing for sport and feed.

I search for you though not encouraged. My veins pulsate with chemical anger. Six hours, I’ve been told. Six lonely hours through seas of madness, unforgiving waste, smog-riddled and poisoned air, every breath a digit in a countdown. Everything minimized, simplified and contained now. A grand reduction to basest element of inhumanity and gain. The only solace is the lack of deceit. The honesty in self-preservation and, of course, my training.

For eighteen years I punished myself, learning to fool my visceral side, concocting a great veneer of spirit, impregnable to stone and stick. Reflexes improve as the muscles begin to fall in line like drilled grunts, and the mind snaps like flint to flame. Holocaustal sequences played out as though prophesied, and few could have been prepared. But I was. And now I seek only one outlet of salvation.

When the disease spread, the talking heads went wild, hyenas in heat. Fire, ice, sulfur, arsenic, ash and decay. Catnip for the radio gods. Sirens replaced wind chimes, howls substituted for voices, the cries of violence echoing into children’s play chambers, sullying idyllic reality into stiletto-sharp night terrors. Losing most of what was left in my waking past, no emotive instinct took over. Only pure, fundamental desire for myself and you. And destruction of those in the way.

I know how to find you. I know where you are. But blundering death walkers intervene. When first I was tested, my quickness was unmatched. Spines shattered beneath my modern mace, wrecking the virus incarnate. Their skin flimsy and flaking, their bones brittle as egg shell, their movements a captain’s nightmare. Through hundreds of carrion obstacles, I march now infected. And now without companion, as the good doctor turned to rot and felt cold steel before blankness. His instructions, however, were simple. The antidote is within my grasp. Enough for two. But only three hundred sixty minutes and more miles between.

Grocery store mayhem, and mucous on brown bags, my supplies still hold, but for what? The sugar rush is irrelevant in lieu of amphetamines, but the bloodborne curse offers no easy transition. I wretch in the pools of man slop, the maggots and roaches and creepers rejoicing behind. Concrete and iron, signage and electricity, a massive joke. My mind fades by the nanosecond, collapsing axon into blurred hellfire. Though taxed, the training will hold, must hold.

Two old women eat one another. Gnashing dentures strewn with dripping steak. A boy carves his hands through concrete caked in red, leaving fingernails and syrup. A police officer clubs a pregnant woman repeatedly, grinning wide in the face of broken skull and brain refuse, his motions a primal memory of standard operating procedure. They begin to understand me, maybe taking me as one of their kind, and the multitudes of insurgent, animated meat are fewer now. Their fate will not be mine.

But the safehouse is far, the lab, a step further. And cars offer no purchase on these burning streets. I must walk. To you, and to our future, which still offers hope. Plans are forged. Operations arranged. Severing ties with family and friends may reward us yet. High-level contacts still function. Communication lines exist. I will continue. I will find you. As long as this case of radiated illness draws breath, as long as this blade shows no blunt, as long as these bullets ignite, I will fight. And we will make it out together. I swear to you, on all that I ever knew, no moving corpse will fuck with that.

This is just too good, quite sick, too

2005-10-07T17:18:00.000-07:00

With respect to www.snopes.com, I have to post this. My heart goes out to this twisted, mutant kiddie fucker.

Read this shit, snipped from Snopes, and behold a real-life creature.

Origins: Many readers have indeed been asking whether the above-displayed photograph, which accompanies an entry in Ohio's Electronic Sex Offender Registration and Notification (eSORN) system, is for real. According to the eSORN entry, the picture depicts one Brian Peppers, registered due to a conviction for "Gross Sexual Imposition" in Lucas County, Ohio.

Most readers are of the opinion that the image is a fake (possibly a picture of some type of mannequin or a digitally manipulated photograph), and that the entry in eSORN is an erroneous one (possible a mistake, an inside joke, or a hacking prank). Points in favor of the argument that this in fact a real photograph are:

We contacted the Ohio Attorney General's office, who told us: "This is an accurate photo of this offender."

The same Brian Peppers appears on a list of registered sex offenders in Lucas County.

A record exists for court proceedings related to cases involving a person named Brian J. Peppers charged with two counts of Gross Sexual Imposition.

The unusual appearance of the individual pictured could be due to a condition such as Apert's Syndrome or Crouzon's Syndrome.

Although the setting of the photograph does not look what one might expect of a mug shot taken for a sex offender registry listing, informal pictures taken in police station cubicles and rooms are often used for such purposes, as evidenced by other photographs in the Lucas County sex offender registry.

We've also heard from several people who live in or near Lucas County and claim they've encountered Brian Peppers in the past. One of them told us he had a relative who attended school with Brian Peppers and forwarded us some high school yearbook photos to document it:

Zod bless Ohio, the place of my terrestrial birth. Btw, if you want to get depressed and feel sad, read about Apert's Syndrome and Crouzon's Syndrome. Tell me with a straight face that you believe in god, and not Zod.

Shakes.

I need an underwater haircut pretty bad

2005-10-05T10:37:00.000-07:00

Only $15 after tip. And you never have to worry about engaging in mindless banter with the chick cutting your hair. You just have to hope she has a nice body, though, or you may be in for an uncomfortable experience.

Dude, Marty has been out of town

2005-09-30T00:01:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I've been in Texas, Florida and Georgia for the past few weeks, that or buried under a small mountain of worthless job responsibilities. The good news is I've been working on some new tricks and am very close to unleashing them upon the general public. I've also become a founding member of a new band, The Wizards, which will be playing its first show at that miserable den of inequity known as CCA come New Year's Eve. We plan to play about four or five originals and some covers. I've written two songs, one of which is a tribute to my favorite late night drug house, Doobies, and is titled "Somebody just let the monkey out the cage." More to follow on the exploits of The Wizards, which should be sort of a mixture between Richard Cheese and The Violent Femmes. Also, I finally got to check out the world-renowned Dallas titty bars courtesy of five-star chef Eddie Mendoza, a true champion and scholar walking among the world of men. The bad news is that I've been losing money in my gambling lately. Also, my blog is suffering. But don't worry, if you're out there, I'm channeling the anger and mystery into something powerful. Stay tuned.

Shakes.

Libertarian Bent

2005-09-14T17:19:00.000-07:00

Your ol pal Marty doesn't delve into the world of politics too much, for obvious reasons. Not the least of which is the risk of exposing an already corrupt and dangerous class of people like politicians to very sensitive and powerful magiks. But in the interests of this most recent human and natural calamity in the Gulf Coast region, I am engaging in debate with the Youngling of #2. Read my "guest post" here:
evolvingrevolution.blogspot.com/2005/09/revolutionary-debate.html
And be sure to check his site for further discussion.

Shakes,

MM

Btw, isn't this a great looking bowl of donburi noodles?

Katrina pic to make you shit your pants

2005-09-13T11:57:00.000-07:00

Sorry I haven't posted anything in a while. Working on some story ideas. Very big things happening in the intra-cosmos. Marauding, sub-visceral demons finding wormholes in the astral threadwork. Overwhelming the decimated defenses of the gaian earth hordes, and mercenary poltergeists. A battle wages in the sky and the ether around us. Someone caught part of it on film here.

Mutiny in the County

2005-09-04T05:26:00.000-07:00

Hey baby, how's it going? Hopefully better than here. I mean, it started off alright but then everything degenerated. My parents are so not cool. Pennsylvania. So not what I wanted with this summer. I can't wait for college. A place where I can be somebody new. You know, just a new start. I really can't handle these double shifts, cleaning up tents. Colorful fucking tents. I mean I hate the traveling circus and you know what, it's all because of the fact that I have to try to meet new people all the time. Seriously, I am not trying to sound like a dick, but it's hard having to always make an impression on everyone. Moving around like a fucking Jedi except without a light saber. Anyway, I miss you, baby. As soon as I get to school and get settled in I'll take a road trip and come visit you. And oh by the way, you want to know why I am so full of negative energy, here is a picture we took over the summer. My parents really are overly concerned about their appearance. Enjoy. Good times. I love you.

Chapter 6: Trumpets of Providence

2005-09-02T01:46:00.000-07:00

After countless hours, I still lay in utter darkness. I tried crawling in every direction and came face to face with jagged rock each time. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to move. My body ached from long periods of inertia. In between daydreaming and moving from my side onto my back, I explored with my hands. I met only dry, cold stone.

My mind moved like electricity at first, calculating and recalculating the moments of the fire and the forces that brought me to that desolate void, and then always, on to the incomparable story of Lorelei. Uncle Lee had gone on to say that, after that night by the lake, Lorelei moved in with his family, though they weren’t crazy about the idea. She seemed closed off for days after her mystical interaction with the demon, and by most accounts, she was just a sad, orphaned child, eager to live a stable existence.

After several months, during which time she rarely spoke, Uncle Lee woke one morning to find that she was gone. All that was left was a scratch of parchment and one of the tattered ribbons she had worn in her hair the first time she arrived in town. In the note she had written three words: “Thank you, Lee.” And that was the last anyone had seen of her. Recollection of Lee’s story brought me to sadness and wonder, and for at least a little while, I was distracted from my own dire needs.

When I had exhausted my mental search for clues, hunger set in. I nervously ground my teeth together, rubbing my stomach and envisioning warm food. The silence was the worst of it. I spoke to myself to break up the quiet spells, but even the sound of my own voice was murky, and its faint, fluctuating echoes frightened me. Complete loneliness and isolation is a torment of the fiercest degree, and as the stale contents of my waterskin gradually diminished, despair became my companion.

Like every other level of my senses, my eyes became accustomed to the oppressive blackness, and the absence of light became a void worthy of imaginative exploration. Though nothing actually appeared in my material vision, my eyes swam through colorful streams, and I became convinced that there was a network of passageways and corridors leading to light and water and possible escape. After some time, I was unable to discern whether my eyes were open or closed, and the feelings of hopelessness gave way to mild dementia.

Looking back now, I recall how my fear of death was overtaken by the will to survive, the empty desire to cling to any dim prospect of salvation. A desperate man’s search for providence, maybe by the grace of his creator, takes precedence over all other wants. Hunger, thirst, fear, sadness, physical pain; they are all secondary distractions. When my waterskin was emptied, I gave in to my clouded delusions, and after the last droplet of water touched my parched tongue, I resolved to follow the imagined passageways of light.

The cusp between life and death is a mystery, for most agree that no coherent man has crossed that precipice and returned to tell the story, without it being laced with fabrication. Those who speak of a great light or memories of their childhoods are likely trauma victims seeking attention. Who of us, then, can truly say what happens on the bridge to the afterworld? Or, I should ask, who is to be believed?

At the time, reason was no ally of mine, and I remember my hallucinations as only swirls of light and short transmissions of the waking world that had, until that point, been the only one I’d ever known. But in hindsight, my journey began the moment I surrendered all concern for my livelihood and decided to follow the tenuous route plotted by these ethereal visions.

I found that the paths of light were easy to follow, and the outcroppings of rock that had been my unyielding captors, seemed to open into shallow grooves, just wide enough to pass through. I trudged through the ghostly caverns, keeping my limited focus to the soft but radiant visual callings of the color spectrum. That slow, subconscious adventure touches little memory in my earthly affectations, but when I reached the other side, my life was changed forever.

I followed the serpentine beams into an opening and stopped to collect myself. All my senses came back in an instant, and I was nearly crippled by this sudden reconciliation. Injured, starving and beyond the brink of exhaustion, I collapsed in the dim chamber and the visions ceased. Torchlight that was no apparition or dream split the haze of the expanse, and my atrophied eyes burned into activation. I pulled my legs to my chest and sat panting, waiting.

“Well, you are no fluke, young buck,” said an excited voice, the first real sound I had heard in probably weeks. “I had my doubts about you, but now, mm hmm, it looks like there might be some celebrating on the horizon.”

What I saw then could not be adequately described by a young man from my era, and it is only with the knowledge and experience I have gained since then that I can describe it now. The speaker was a tall, slender man wearing a finely tailored suit, emerald cufflinks sparkling from his wrists above strong, well-kempt hands. His head was clean-shaven, gleaming in the dim light, and his dark brown skin was smooth and unblemished, the way I imagined angels to look. His eyes were a shade of green that complemented his cufflinks, and his face was sharp featured, handsome. He wore a smile that, given my despair at the time, can only be described as divine.

“My name is Troy Cloverdale, but you can call me Clover.” He approached me and offered a hand. I shook it without thinking. I was still too stunned, and relieved, to speak, so I just sat in a heap and stared at him. He pulled a cigarette from a shiny metallic case and lit it with a the flick of match.

“Well, young buck, you’re probably wondering where the fuck you are, how the fuck you got here and who the fuck I am. And the answers will come in due time, trust that. But for now, there are some things I gotta tell you, just so you won’t freak your shit later on.” This was all gibberish to me, but he spoke with fluid ease and confidence. His posture and movements exuded strength and sincerity, and I liked him immediately.

“I wasn’t sure you were gonna make it here, so count me among the surprised, but just so you know, those lights you followed to get here, they weren’t really there. I mean, they were for you, but not for anyone else. Some folks can use them, and we call them travelers. You’re a traveler, dude. Just like me. It will take some time, but close your eyes and picture them again, you’ll see them, and you’ll need to use them again, too. Cause there ain’t shit down here for either of us. You following me?” He looked at me with mild amusement.

“I think I understand,” I said. “But I don’t…understand.”

“Okay, young buck, things have been rough on you, so we’ll take it slow for now. But listen up, you’ve probably heard here and there in your life that you have some gifts, some special powers or something. That’s all true. That’s why you’re here. To be real with you, I don’t have a clue where you’re from or what it was like there, but judging by your gear, you come from like the 18th century or some time way back. Anyway, you’re here now, and though things will be crazy for you at first, I think you’ll come to realize that where we are going, and what we gotta do is pure bliss, dude. And guess what? I’ll be your escort.”

“Mr. Clover, what about my home — ” Before I could finished he threw a bottle to me. The contents were orange and, though sinister looking, made me salivate. I struggled to figure out how to open the container, but when I finally drank, the taste was euphoric. Sweet and cold and full of vigor. I spilled a third of it on my neck and chest with my ravenous intake. The bottle was empty in four swallows.

“It’s called Gatorade. But please, try not to be so wasteful.” He smiled and helped me to my feet. I wasn’t expecting to move again, but the drink gave me immediate energy, and I found I could stand without assistance. I had a million questions to ask, but I chose to wait while Clover continued his speech.

“Here’s the deal. I gotta take you somewhere to lay low for while, and catch you up to speed on what just happened to you and why. But trust me, it’s gonna be weird, no, damn strange. The place we’re going will be nothing like your world. It’s a world of the future and things have changed considerably since your day. Just don’t panic, and remember to do whatever I say. Follow me and try not to talk to anyone. Also, don’t shit your pants if you see an airplane,” he paused and looked at me with anticipation.

“A what?” I said.

“A flying machine. I’ve seen a dude have a seizure when he saw one for the first time. But that’s another story. So do you think you have enough strength to do this? It’ll take about ten minutes.” He produced a wide-brimmed hat that matched his charcoal suit and placed it on his head, then buttoned up his coat.

“I’ll do my best, Mr. Clover,” I replied.

“Just Clover. Now let’s go. Oh yeah, what’s your name?”

“Denny.”

“Damn. We gonna have to change that shit.”

Chapter 5: Beyond the Pale

2005-08-25T00:40:00.000-07:00

"We will become sillhouettes when our bodies finally go." — The Postal Service

Uncle Lee took a long draw from his pipe then looked back towards the window. The old man held his breath then unleashed a torrent of thick pipe smoke. He spoke suddenly, life coming into his voice like a rising ember, and it was quite some time before he paused again.

Lorelei wandered into town in the summer of 1814, a child of no more than 12. Where she came from or how she got here was anyone’s guess. But she didn’t seem tired or unhappy. At least, no more unhappy than any other kid her age. She just waltzed in wearing a raggedy dress, stitched together with burlap, and no shoes on her feet.

She came to rest by the fountain in town square, the fountain you’ve stopped by so many times before, and she sat on a post, looking around with a gaze that belied her youth. It seemed as though Lorelei had seen small towns like this before, and in all likelihood, she had.

Her hair was black, the color of a moonless sky, and smooth, unaffected by the journey that had turned the rest of her appearance to that of a wandering peasant girl. A blue ribbon, partially ripped, adorned her head, and it flowed in the afternoon breeze. Her face was no more or less striking than any young girl her age, save her eyes, dark eyes that stared like unblinking coals from her pale face, an animal’s eyes.

Still a young man myself, I had been working across the street, helping my father rebuild a stable wall, when I saw her looking in our direction. I got the attention of my father, the town’s champion lawman, and together we walked into the street to speak to her.

“Are you lost?” my father asked, brawny arms crossed over his chest, badge deliberately protruding.

“I think I saw you in a dream once,” she said.

“Do you know me?” he inquired.

“I can see that you are some kind of sheriff, but I don’t think we’ve met.” She spoke to him as an equal, something many a hood and highwayman were scarce to attempt.

“Young lady, are your mother and father around?”

“I don’t know my parents. I just want some water, if you would be so kind,” she said. Her eyes looked up at us, and I could see years of stories in them. She frightened me, this precocious child, with her fearless looks and quick tongue, and I wanted to turn away and avoid seeing the pain in her face.

“Are you here by yourself?” My father was as incredulous as I, but his sense of obligation was unwavering.

“Just water, that’s all.” She looked away, disinterested in anything more we could offer.

I ran to grab water without looking for approval. Upon my return minutes later, I could see that nothing had changed. She sat, unspeaking, digging her feet in the dirt and occasionally looking around. My father’s questioning had ceased, and he rubbed his chin in thought, perturbed by the child’s mystery and likely cooking up a “stately” solution for this wayward orphan. I handed her the water and asked her name.

“Lorelei,” she said. “Thanks.” With that, she ambled off, ignoring my father’s shouts and demands to return. We shared a glance after a moment passed, and he raised his brows. When we looked back up, she was gone. My father and I said nothing more about it and wrote her off as the daughter of a migrant worker, perhaps a miner, as many indeed traversed our roads in those days.

A week later, Lorelei reappeared, in the same place, around the same time. The day was again beautiful and sunny, and we were once again at work in the center of town, where my father spent most of his time engaged in city business. I went into the street to meet her.

She looked sad, with her head down, scratching her throat. “Hello Lorelei,” I greeted her.

“The season is changing,” she said. “It’s going to get cold soon. And then what will I do?” She looked up at me and our eyes met for an instant. In that brief glance, I saw something flash in the darks of her pupils, an electric blue streak and then a shimmer of gold. Its majesty forced me to look away. “You know, you have a great spirit, one of silence. It’s like you have so much to say, but you just haven’t figured out how to say it yet,” she said in almost a whisper.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Right now, it’s still. Everything is still. And that is a good thing. It won’t be like this forever.” She continued to scratch her throat. I tried to say something just then, but couldn’t find the words. We both just stood in the afternoon sunlight for a few awkward minutes, glancing around. I felt lightheaded and, for a moment, thought I might be in another place. It’s difficult enough to explain being in one place at one time, but the creeping suspicion of being in between two places at once. After all these years, I still can’t understand that feeling, unmistakable though it is. “I’ll see you around Lee,” she said and then trotted away.

The next time I saw her was when I first experienced the power of the alm. It was dusk, and the summer was waning. Cool winds from the north quickened the steps of everyone in town. I had been running around all day, making pickups and drop-offs according to my father’s demand. I decided to close out the afternoon reading a book by a lake outside of town. It was a place of profound solace, and the sunsets over the elms and poplars in the west never failed to tweak my lonely young man’s heart.

I had with me a sack containing all the fruits of the day’s errands, some of the items quite important for reasons I did not know. It also held more than a small sum of money from my father’s purse.

In the fading sunlight, I fell asleep. How long I was out, I do not know, but I was wakened by the vicious cracking of wood to my scalp. Sprawling in the grass, I opened my eyes to see a man wrapped in a surcoat, with a tri-corn hat tilted over his dark face, revealing only a grizzled beard. He held a crooked staff, and stood unmoving, a few feet before me. His coat whipped in the breeze, and he held his offhand in the air, as though ready to strike with it.

“What do you want?” I shrieked, rolling to the side and angling myself to make a run for it. He hit me again with his staff, this time in the neck below my chin, and I saw a flash of purple sparks flare into the night air. I spit some blood.

“It’s reckoned simple, simple boy. Hand over the gunny and be on with ye. Away from me lake, and the cursed ground that’s not for simple boys.” He stretched out a pale sinewy hand and flickered long fingers, grimy nails begging for my sack. I faltered, running my hands frantically in the grass around wear I lay. The bag was nowhere in sight. “Here be trouble, goodly simp. This here’s wizard’s silage, not for ye trespassing simple boys.”

“I don’t have it. I’ve lost it,” I said. He dropped to a crouch and exploded into a blinding pounce, swinging the staff across his body. I had barely time to move, but had I not, the chair in front of you would likely be empty now. The blow caught me on the chest and arm, paralyzing me with white-hot pain, again sending sparks into the air, chasing each other like demon flies, fizzling into nothingness.

“Ye’ve one more chance to hand over me gunny rightful, or beyond the pale ye go. Yer brood here before ye is watchful. These here eyes have seen more’n worms, simp. There be darker serpents within the wizard’s gash, waiting for freshness, skin and blood of wee boys and girls. Yer brood here doing one last favor as ye please. Me next hew will cleave yer thick simple skull, boy.” He bobbed up and down slowly, poised to provide what I can only guess as the end of the line for me. Then something unexpected happened.

Fine white streams of light curled down from the limbs of an overhanging tree. The old man saw them and pulled his staff to him in guarded anticipation. He steepled his hands in the center of the staff and looked upwards. I caught a glance of his bearded visage and nearly screamed when I saw that he had no face above his vacant, lipless hole of a mouth. A voice from behind me spoke up.

“Leave him be, spawnling of black. Find your way back through your hole, away from our peaceful ways.” It was the voice of a girl.

“What trespass, what folly. Ye’ve stumbled upon death, simple child.” His voice betrayed fear.

Lorelei appeared behind me, filthy and tattered as always. Her eyes gleamed in the darkness, and the curve of a smile awakened on her small face. “I will not warn you again. Take your maggots’ bones away from us. There are those who are not afraid of your kind, you know.” She glowed, her voice a thin wave of innocence and hope, as she scratched her throat.

“Languoring sleepwalker, ye. Yer brood here deals in deaths deeper than holy rot.” He spat the words and leapt at her, his body contorting into a fluid shadow, his staff blazing violet. It all happened very fast, but what I remember is the old man’s form going limp in mid-air. Lorelei laughed, a full laugh that rang across the sky. Clutching her throat, her mouth opened into light. From it a burst of pure flame lit the air, it’s curls forming spiraling hands, dancing to the notes of her laughter. They grasped and smothered the dark, suspended figure, wrangling the life out of it as they stopped and then reanimated. Hacking screams and the slosh of mucous came forth from the writhing creature, as he diminished into a minute flicker that shot into the sky. The whole struggle lasted less than ten seconds. Then all was quiet.

Lorelei fell to her knees and began to recite something to herself, softly. It sounded like a prayer, but I couldn’t make out the words. I was hurting and exhausted, shocked and confused. Lorelei ceased her prayer and collapsed in a heap, looking more like a 12-year-old than I had previously seen. I tried to stand up and noticed something odd. Lying on my lap was my father’s sack.

I went to Lorelei’s crippled form and took her hand. “Come with me. We have an extra bed. You need to rest.” With that, she rose and we walked home together in silence.

Underrated Bad Asses Volume 1

2005-08-19T17:30:00.000-07:00

I'd like to fire off a list of people and/or creatures who are total fucking bad asses but have never received much credit, and still don’t today. These people and/or creatures have had a profound influence on your ol pal for multiple reasons, some of which I will describe. In general, I’m handing out props to:

Solomon Grundy
Solomon Grundy is an evil juggernaut of a man. More like a walking, muscle-bound corpse, this nasty son of a bitch was one of the few characters in the Super Friends cartoons, and all of DC comic lore in general, to be able to go toe-to-toe with the Man of Steel and hold his own. A limping numbskull with a 3-year-old’s reasoning skills, Grundy is a fair mixture of a Romero zombie and Frankenstein’s monster, and he kicks a lot of ass. Plus, his powers are supernatural.

Rey Mysterio Jr.
Mysterio combines the old-school, acro-psychotic tradition of Jimmy Superfly Snuka with today’s hip-hop, gang-sign throwing street mentality. (Whatever happened to the purity of pro wrestling?) He is also the undisputed ironman of his vocation. He looks to be about 20 but he’s been around at least 15 years, and he manages to be on every major wrestling circuit at once. Don’t ask how I know this, I just do. Oh yeah, and Rey Mysterio Jr. is the only legit wrestler who still wears the Mexican mask. He looks like a complete stud out there, taking on cats twice, three times his size. I always emulate this guy during wrestling matches in the pool. In fact, I called out his name at the Flamingo Hilton pool last week before doing a preacher’s seat and nearly putting a woman in intensive care.

Witch Hazel
This is the only cartoon character in history who not only kept pace with Bugs Bunny, but managed to dish out wry, witty comments almost faster than he did. Consider this exchange:

Bugs: "Shame on you, Granny, Roastin' children when they should be in school...!"

Witch Hazel: "Everyone should have a hobby."

That is pretty solid. Witch Hazel also manages to still scare the johosephat out of me. Imagine that, from a witch, no less.

Lenn Sakata
Before there was Hideo Nomo or Ichiro Suzuki, only one man carried the flag for Japanese baseball in the U.S. His name was Lenn Sakata. He had some notoriously ridiculous hairstyles on his baseball cards, and he was ridiculously lousy as a major leaguer, prompting my brother Poochie to nickname him Lenn Sakat'a'shit, which still qualifies as an all-time classic, right up there with Danny Heep'a'shit. The point is that Sakata was the original Asian forbear in the big leagues, and the last guy to play shortstop for the Orioles before Cal Ripken Jr. In his own right, he's an underrated bad ass. Look at him kick game to this chick on the left.

Low on Inspiration, but...

2005-08-18T21:21:00.000-07:00

...in honor of my newest catch phrase, I'll post this. You see, when you are floating through life in a cytoreality, and you're quick to get caught up in lowly, subversive forms of temptation (let's see, new age animal orgies, grim reveries of demon dancers, summertime Halloween parties on mushrooms, paranoid terrors of poisoned beer, elephant hunting, Argentine Tango, radical tantric accounting, and arson, to name a few) it's difficult to sleep, much less concentrate on the mundane responsibilities that separate you from a life on the street. So you need an exercise to keep your mind rooted in reality, the mainstream, if you will. No matter how fucking lost you are, you are still here, wherever that is, and you must succumb, to a certain degree, to contemporary custom. I used to think of sports or pop music, lying on my back reciting the Atlanta Braves lineup, bench and pitching staff, or thinking of the biggest billboard hits of the 80s. But now I utilize a simpler ritual. I chant. No, not in a Gregorian folk lament or Tibetan hymn. I just take something that I've been saying a lot to myself recently, and I repeat it, over and over. Eventually my mind feels light and breezy. I masturbate. I rest. MONDO BIZARRO! MONDO BIZARRO! MONDO BIZARRO! I am ready for my bath now. Shakes.

I'm back

2005-08-15T16:04:00.000-07:00

Marty is back after a disgusting weekend in Vegas. Some of the highlights include:

Going to a Russian stripper's house at 8:00 am on Friday morning and finding out that it's a $50, thirty minute cab ride from the strip. Plus, she is twice my age and looking every day of it.

Getting kicked out of the Barbary Coast and escorted by six cops. They didn't want any of this shit. I told them, "I'll take all of you on!"

Doing handstands at a tuxedo shop and receiving raucous applause from both the staff and clientele. I told them they were getting what was normally a $60 show.

Returning to the news that Bogans is still kicking and the vets say he's improved.

MONDO BIZARRO!!!

A PLEA FOR RECOVERY

2005-08-09T21:59:00.000-07:00

A dog has the soul of a philosopher.
- Plato

This is my dog, Bogans AKA "the boy." He has come down with AIHA — Auto-Immune Hemolytic Anemia. Don't ask me what the fuck that means. All I know is that his red blood cell count is rapidly diminishing, beset by his own immune system, which has turned on itself and is waging a war inside his bloodstream. He is exhausted and in a great deal of pain, most likely living out his final hours as I type this.

I've invoked whatever magic I know, and turned my thoughts to him and his salvation. The boy is a great friend and as unique a dog as anyone is ever likely to come across. He's a purebred from a championship bloodline of English Labradors and only 6 years old, far too young to die, even for his kind. The boy has been friendly and peaceful to all who have crossed his path, human and otherwise. He's unnaturally large, about 110 pounds, but spry as a dog half his size. He doesn't wag his tail, he shakes his entire rear carriage. He sits, speaks, rolls over, shakes and follows on command. He's smart and obedient, fast and strong, always in the middle of everything. Bogans is genuinely receptive of the moods of anyone around him, the ideal companion in every way. Sometimes he sprawls flat on his stomach, extending all five limbs outwards, coming to rest in complete contentment, head on the floor, body shaped like a star.

When he was no more than 5 weeks old, his paws were already roughly the size of my palms. My brother and I were worried about what kind of monster we might have on our hands. We should have known better, that it would be the size of his heart that would eclipse his big frame. He's as innocent and peaceful as any creature I have ever seen and, unequivocally, the best dog I have ever known. I'm no animal rights activist, or PETA freak, but this furry guy does have a soul, one that is graceful and potent. I would be proud and exceedingly fortunate to reincarnate into such a beautiful entity. Tonight I turn my normally dimmer energy to hope, and I wait in desperation for the boy to pull through. And if he should pass, I ask that any force on the other side see to it that he transcends into a place fit for his purity.

Why I love craigslist

2005-08-06T03:11:00.000-07:00

There are a lot of things to do with idle time. I engage in several pastimes including but not limited to porn, in my leisure hours. One of the many is fucking with people on Craigslist. Tonight, in my boredom, I posted the following (don't pass judgment, dude):

Beaten and humiliated — 25 — Marina del Rey

I was beaten and humiliated tonight at a bar in West LA. The guy said his name was Larry Stricko. I'm looking for a tough fucker to help me seek him out and make him pay. Your reward could be worthwhile. I'm a beautiful tall blonde, modest and intelligent. I have a good sense of humor and a classical education. I don't deserve fucksters like this Stricko character. I have a few leads on where to find him. He is no threat to anyone strong and brave. No weapons necessary. It's a cut and dry bounty hunter job. The payment, based on a job well done, is sexual plus whatever cash and leftover coke I got in my pocket. I promise if you are any good it won't take long. Anyone out there to be my knight in shining armor?

The following exchange was the e-mail discussion I had with one of about 25 respondents. Though many were entertaining (fuck, they kept me up this late at least), I think this one is supreme among all others.

Well it just so happens, I am the half-demon in a white man's body. I don't need a weapon when my foot's in his ass. Stricko ain't nothing but toilet scum living in my city. My reward will be when he squeals like a pig when he is sodomized my shoe. I don't like coke, I just like the way it smells. But I am stoned as shit. What I lack in education I make up for in pure unadulterated character. Let's go get this guy. Rather B Fishin.

Have you ever wanted the demon to descend into you, skid across your soul and make you feel like you thought you were always meant to feel, alive and thriving, kicking and mimicking the times of a child? Newborn, infantile and full of lather, your life still innocent and not corrupted, skinny in spirit, demonstrative in social presence only because nothing made more sense than the naked, earnest heart, exposed and exhausted, only wanting for love and the nurture of a supple person, a supple breast, the breast of josephine? That is me, slick, something that will enter you like a poison, but unknowing, unacknowledged, bereft of typical human warning, just a little tingle down your back. A reminder that the earth holds something, but not something greater than the deepest corner of where we come from. The obscure place in the back of your mind. Haunting you, stoned or not. You know it's there. You know he's there. Larry Stricko. Lucifer. Beezelbub. Many names. The same result. Bone stripped of feeling. Life stripped of living. Only chains and eternity. Steel hurt. Name it. Name me. Josephine, an angel of your only reckoning. Don't worry, it's coming soon.

I am the darkness that brings dread to darkness, the pain that brings agony to suffering, and the torment that cause anguish in hell. You cannott know the demon until you call me forth. Believe what you are taught, think what you have learned, but KNOW that I am he that is unamed, that which is unseen, the one that is beyond redemption, judgement, definition, or understanding. I am the apocolypse, Shiva, Kali, I am Armageddon. You have called, I have responded, you are now touched by my hand. What say you, seeker of vengence? The dance has begun. Rather B Fishin.

You have passed level 1. It now escalates. Whether the reward is worth it, that is something you will have to ask yourself. The truth is that men walk, upright and oblivious, unaware of the haunting that pleases itself on our decay. We can see through the shrill blade of light that is our carriage, our sinew. Can you truly let it go, unleash it to the simple kind. I do not speak idly. I do not speak of death. I speak of happiness, that which can only be wrought with the earthly pleasure of coming to physical orgasm on the skulls of the forgotten. A human life, pleading for its salvation, is an easy one to take. But to rejoice in its remains. To feel the souls that once embodied it. The Japanese call it the Kami, the shinto animism. That is the true transcendence. Our friend Larry Stricko is a gateway into reaching this next plane. The plane of the invisible, the truly powerful. The capability to act with impunity. It starts with a simple procedure. 500 S. Gramercy Place. #202, Los Angeles, CA 90020. There dwells a agent of sublime brightness. He is that which should be extinguished. He is that which our fuel of greed and pettiness feeds. His end is a start. Stricko. A time has come to us. Are you with me? If not, waste no more of my time.

YOUR TIME!!@!
Time is a chain I am free of.
You give me An address and an admonition, from a
spectre?
Child, nothing is that easy.
Come ye first unto me, and be tested and proven
worthy.
Your Time?
Child I AM TIME.
What say you. Rather B Fishin.

Dude, I think we got him.

OK. Well, hope you are ok... If you need some pain killlers let me know! Rather B Fishin.

By the way, all apologies for taking advantage of the sincere utility and genius of craigslist. Sweet dreams and, of course, shakes.

Hold it now, Hit it

2005-08-03T23:27:00.000-07:00

Just wanted to pimp another blog for a second. Check out this dude's latest post. Cult Goes Pop. He poses the question, based on that jacktard who writes for Spin Chuck Klosterman, about who you would choose in your own personal all-star band if you could take a singer, a guitarist, a bassist, a drummer and a wild card. I posted my own in the comments section, but since I think it was a nice idea, I'm pimping his blog out in the hopes that more people will post their own selections, and then I can read it for my own pleasure. Seriously, I don't just get off on death all the time. I like hypothetical discussions about meaningless Americana with other Fucksters like myself, it sometimes helps me to escape this evil, evil, evil world. Just joshing, the evil isn't that bad, but this article is certainly outrageous.

Man holding daughter shot in apparent road rage

BROCKTON, Massachusetts (AP) -- A man lifting his infant daughter out of his car was killed in an apparent case of road rage by a motorist "who obviously exploded" and shot him four times at close range in front of dozens of witnesses, authorities said.

The victim's 10-month-old girl was covered with blood but uninjured when police found her in a car seat on the floor of the vehicle.

Walter R. Bishop, 60, who was taking medication for depression, was arrested Tuesday and charged with first-degree murder in the death of 27-year-old Sandro Andrade. He pleaded innocent and was ordered held without bail; a hearing was scheduled for August 26.

Plymouth District Attorney Timothy J. Cruz said Bishop had made a calculated decision to "shoot a man in cold blood in broad daylight on the streets of Brockton."

Police Chief Paul Studenski described it as a case of road rage.

Bishop's attorney, Kevin Reddington, said Andrade had provoked his client during a traffic altercation.

"We have a homicide that resulted from a circumstance where somebody picked a fight with an individual who obviously exploded," Reddington said. Bishop, a former soldier and security guard, had recently begun taking two medications for depression, he said.

Bishop told investigators he was driving his wife to the train station when Andrade's vehicle backed toward him on Main Street, Cruz said. The two exchanged heated words.

"He said his wife was scared, and he said he was angry at that encounter," Cruz said of Bishop. "He said he made up his mind right there that he had to do something."

After dropping his wife off, he allegedly returned to the scene of the confrontation, pointed a handgun through an open window and fired, police said.

"Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Four shots. It sounded like a cap gun," Louis McPhee, the manager of a car wash across the street, told The Boston Globe. "The guy was lying there in his own blood with a hole in his head and his arm still on the baby."

Bishop left before police arrived, but witnesses gave investigators his license plate number and police found him at his home.

Police said Bishop has a valid handgun license.

Eccentric film king does transcendental meditation

2005-08-01T23:47:00.000-07:00

David Lynch is a genius and a groundbreaking filmmaker. Though I admit not being intimate with his entire movie canon, it's tough to deny the quirky brilliance and haunting reflections contained within Wild at Heart, Blue Velvet, Lost Highway, Dune (also one of my favorite novels), Mulholland Drive and a number of other critically lauded and fan-adored cult favorites. It's also easy to imagine David Lynch the man as a real fucking weirdo (the type of person I like a lot but tend to avoid for fear of causing an interdimensional, paranormal rift, but I digress.)

So I went to get something to eat at this vegetarian place down the street the other day — as Satisfied75 describes it, "a breeding ground for eco-terrorists" — and I was pleasantly surprised by the panoply of books, business cards, bulletins and newsletters in the back dedicated to new age mysticism, spiritual healing and other fanatical, hippie mumbo jumbo. Needless to say, your ol opportunistic pal Marty viewed some of this info as an excellent resource for blog fodder, story topics and new adventures in which to immerse myself for the good of magic. More on this in a moment.

So I picked up and read the inimitable Whole Life Times, LA's so-called magazine of the conscious community. Surprisingly, there are some interesting tidbits in it with a few good contributors. The cover story, as a matter of fact, is a piece on David Lynch's 30-year history of involvement with the practice of transcendental meditation (TM) and its effects on his art, health, etc. I've included a link to the article below.

Whole Living Motherfucker

It's nothing earth-shattering, but I thought the following snippet was worth reproducing, for its empowering and optimistic implications on any artist:

With a knowing grin, Lynch shrugs off the idea that artists must suffer in order to create.

“Maharashi laughs at it,” he says. “It’s so absurd. Yes, you’ve got to understand suffering, but if you’re really miserable you can’t create, and it’s like, what’s the point? When I think about van Gogh, I feel that he was really happy when he was painting… All negativity does is cripple you.”

Maybe there is nothing wrong with a life of joy after all. I think it's also worth noting that Lynch is involved in what seems like a semi-serious effort to get TM accepted by the mainstream as a valuable exercise for spiritual awareness, mental health and creativity. He's taking it as far as trying to get this pastime of the monkish accepted into the curriculum of our nation's fine public schools. Zodspeed, David.

Nevertheless, I also found some information at the granola parlor on a new religion that could open some new fortean astral portals for me. ECKANKAR, the practice of soul traveling, has a depot in my neighborhood. They have an open house this week, which will undoubtedly be attended by an incognito Mr. McFriend. Look for a review later this week.

Shakes.

Rob Zombie: The Coming-Out Party

2005-07-28T02:13:00.000-07:00

Since I’ve been on the subject of movies, I’d like to give a quick report on the theatre experience I enjoyed tonight, a nefarious masterpiece that does its genre, which itself is not easy to define, very proud. The film I’m talking about is the Devil’s Rejects, Rob Zombie’s second gratuitous foray into sadism, violence and feral, subversive humor. At the risk of being labeled a hack at movie criticism, and having not read or heard any peer reviews, I must declare that this is one of the most thoroughly enjoyable films of the year, and probably the best original “horror flick” I have seen in recent memory.

Since probably most movie fans will balk at such a claim, maybe even laugh, I feel that a little background is in order. Everyone knows that Rob Zombie is a total freak. His music, which flirted with the mainstream for a minute in the early and mid 90s, was primarily tasteless new metal, heavy guitar thrashing noise with occasional moments of catchiness. Above all, White Zombie’s chief calling card was a zealous alignment with all things evil, in a satanic Halloween type way. His videos, album covers and song lyrics were rife with demons, death, ghosts and ghouls.

Though I don’t know very much about his music catalog, nor whether he takes any of that shit seriously — I mean come on, the guy’s surname can’t really be Zombie, can it? (sarcasm alert) — I can definitely say that somewhere in his reasonably successful but unsensational rock career, the man picked up a few things about visual presentation, editing and spectacularly violent entertainment. This can be viewed as either negative or positive, depending on who you ask, but the ultimate verdict is that Zombie has dug himself a well-deserved niche in movie-making with his nimble grasp of translating an artistic vision to the big screen. (More on why in a second.)

So a few years ago, I had the privilege of watching the first installment in this postmodern, 70s schlock horror tribute (that might be oxymoronic, but this is my blog). Though the initial film, House of 1,000 Corpses, left much to be desired, particularly in the way of coherent storyline or character background, it served as a visceral grand buffet of colorful imagery, irreverent Tarrantino-ish dialogue and often frightening (yet admittedly scatological) humor. Therein, a surprisingly impressive writing and directorial debut emerged.

1,000 Corpses was so chock full of literary and cinematic allusions and absurd butchery, in fact, that I had no choice but to treat myself to a second viewing the next day. Shortly thereafter, I read an interview with Zombie — one in which he was surprisingly coherent and down-to-earth, — where he described his plan for the sequel. Based on his brief summation, I thought, at the time, this sounds like it could actually work. So I must concede that I approached Devil’s Rejects with some bias.

Still, I found it difficult to believe how well the movie expounded on and developed the strengths of the first. The visual and verbal carnage remained in tact, and the witty, if depraved, dialogue sparkled, but in two important ways, I realized I was watching a genuinely fantastic piece of entertainment .

First and foremost, the story was adroitly conceived and unshackled by the disjointed mental masturbation of the first. Read: there were far fewer, if any, meaningless scenes or infused crosscuts of gore and sexual ruination. That is not to say these elements were absent, as no claim could be more misleading. Rather, this time around, Zombie’s acute sense of incivility served to accompany and enhance the plot. In short, everything added up.

The second major improvement, one that I feel was a crowd-pleasing surprise, was the excellent score and soundtrack. Given what I stated earlier about Rob Zombie’s musical career, the choice and positioning of sounds in this picture are nothing short of remarkable. Because some of the more memorable scenes are aided and abetted by the track list of 70s hard rock, Southern goth and blues, I will refrain from giving too much away. But imagine my ears’ surprise at the timely placement of sounds from the Allman Brothers, Joe Walsh and Lynard Skynnard, among others, interlaced, no less, with bodily dismemberment.

About the story itself, well, it isn’t worth too much discussion here, as the central elements are more or less familiar ones. The demented, blood-savvy clan of skinsuit-wearing creatures, AKA the Devil’s Rejects, is on the run from an equally vicious, god-fearing west Texas sheriff, played beautifully by William Forsythe. Take that formula and throw in a traveling country music band, a rustic but ghetto-style pimp, a Mexican maid, an ill-begotten mother and son, a bestial chicken rancher, the freak from the Hills Have Eyes, a porn starlet, ex-con bounty hunters, Rob Zombie’s deliciously hot wife, a WWF wrestling legend cameo, lots of guns, lots of nudity, lots of sex, drugs, booze, death and gore, and, lest I forget, an evil clown, and you can probably begin to imagine what kind of film we are dealing with.

Is it vile? Yes. Is it disturbing? Yes. Is it exploitive? Absolutely. But it’s also funny, fast-moving, explicit, scary, smart and always pushing the envelope. The “nothing is too taboo” mantra extends to religion, law and the value (or lack thereof) of human life. I’d be remiss not to add that the cast, while not A-list (thankfully) is more than solid. If there is a clear weakness in the Devil’s Rejects, it may be that it possesses an inherent air of submissive, violent treatment of women. And I will acknowledge that, if you see things this way, it probably undermines the entire project. But I’d argue that the strength and unnatural evil of the two female leads discredits this perception.

Overall, I see in it elements of the Coen brothers, Tarrantino, Kubrick, Peckinpah, Hooper and any number of groundbreaking 70s horror directors. So, if you dig those people’s work, you will undoubtedly find something here to suit your fancy. It’s definitely not for all tastes. Zod knows this film may rank high on the all-time list of crass, disturbing and graphically violent grind-house features. But if you want to glimpse your primal side, and feel the pulsing intensity of a nihilist madhouse, presented in a polished, stylized format, the Devil’s Rejects gets the nod.

Huge McFriendly ups to Zombie and Co. Check it out if you have the balls. And go straight to hell.

Odds, Ends and Total Damnation

2005-07-27T16:11:00.000-07:00

Have you ever seen Session 9? It's an excellent movie. Very underrated. Deep, twisted, bloody, and at times horrifying. Though it wasn't altogether cherished by our nation's pretentious media, it remains one of the more well-crafted ghost stories of the past ten years. But that's only my opinion.

Nevertheless, the film, about a worker who starts to "lose it" while cleaning asbestos from a condemned insane asylum, was made on location at what is in real life a condemned insane asylum. Danvers State Hospital (pictured below) in Massachussetts, was purportedly the site of some outrageously fucked up, dramas of the mad, including but not limited to lobotomies and other experimental psychiatric treatment, murders, escapes, hauntings, etc. You know, the good stuff.

Now, a real estate developer called AvalonBay is turning the grounds into 500 luxury apartments and condos. According to the Wall Street Journal, with the current boom in real estate demand, sprawling mental institutions that were federally deinstitutionalized in the 1980s have become huge targets for opportunistic real estate capitalists in major cities all over the nation. The large tracts of land where these asylums are located are ideal for this purpose given their size, attractive and non-traditional architecture and proximity to major cities.

Of course, has-been nuthouses come with other baggage. In the case of Danvers, which opened in the 1870s and is on the National Registry of Historic Buildings, there are ghost stories and disgruntled local residents, some of whom had friends and relatives committed there. Oh yeah, also there are several hundred patients buried on the hospital grounds. Many without headstones.

So my question is, why the fuck would you want to live there? Even if you aren't like me (confident in the theory of Atlantis), wouldn't you want to draw the line somewhere when it comes to living in a weird place?

Whatever.

Doesn't this picture rule?

Another thing I wanted to mention is that you should check out the following site, so that we can mind chat sometime. I'm always open, and I promise I won't "scan" you. Unless you piss me off. Feel free to drop me a vibe.

Telepathy Instructions.

"Many visions of hell report that giant worms will chew on your body."

That is one of the many genius quotes on this website, which is, by the way, completely serious. Awesome stuff. http://www.yourgoingtohell.com/

Check out this prayer I found on the site:

Father,
In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, I plead the precious
uncorruptable blood of Jesus over myself and my family and everything that
belongs to us. I ask for giant warrior Angels to be loosed from Heaven to
surround and protect us. As your war club and weapons of war I break down,
undamn, and blow up all walls of protection around all witches, warlocks,
wizards, satanists, and the like, and I break the power of all curses, hexes,
vexes, spells, charms, fetishes, physic prayers, physic thought, all witchcraft,
sorcery, magic, voodoo, all mind control, jinxes, potions, bewitchments, death,
destruction, sickness, pain, torment, physic power, physic warfare, prayer
chains, and everything else being sent my way or my family members way, and I
return it and the demons to the senders right now!, SEVENFOLD, and I BIND it to
them by the blood of Jesus! Father, I pray that these lost souls will find the
light of your son Jesus.. Their own snares and traps have been set against
themselves.. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth I now loose them from all
mindcontrol of Satan!.. Father I also ask that you Bind the Holy Spirit to there
hearts as a guide to your son Jesus.. So they may be set free from the bondages
of Satan. In Jesus name I pray...Amen

Gives your ol pal Marty the willies.

Shakes.

Let me study how you vibe the beat, you big freak!

2005-07-26T16:02:00.000-07:00

Me: Who's ya daddy, baby?

Her: Martin McFriend!!!

Chapter 4: Through the Vacuum

2005-07-25T01:57:00.000-07:00

The night I heard the story of Lorelei was long, as long as any I remember. Lying in bed, I kept thinking of the possible implications of Lorelei’s story on my own questions. Her mystery haunted me with its similarities to my life and its profound foreboding. It tortured me for hours as I stared at the ceiling, sleepless, imagining that my brother was asleep in the room next to mine, down the hall from my mother and father. All of us at peace for the night. Only the truth was that I was not at peace at all, and they were gone, eternally.

Uncle Lee proved an artful storyteller, full of details and rich description. His intelligence was impressive, and deceiving for an old codger in a one-horse town. He took my mind and my imagination for the length of the tale, and I didn’t speak for a while after the story. I just sat, foggy-eyed and thinking, gazing through the tobacco smoke that wafted from his pipe.

After an amount of time for which I cannot account, Uncle Lee stood and asked me if I would like to return the next day for another conversation. He said there was something else he wanted to say about the alm, but he did not elaborate. I returned home in a chilling October drizzle, tipped with the frosts of a fast approaching winter. It would be a long time before I had that second conversation with Uncle Lee, or at least, a long time in this world.

As I lay, cold sweat moistening my back and chest, the night around me grew quiet, and all I could hear was my unsteady breathing. Then I felt it, discomforting but familiar. The thrumming vibration, distinct from any other sensation. I pulled up the covers and saw the faint glow. My feel were whirring, ankles blurred and tickling. Suddenly, a piercing wail held sway over everything. The sound exploded into my quarters, seeming to shake the dust from the wall corners. A siren. My unfeeling call to duty.

I leapt from the bed without a second thought, throwing on my clothes and racing down the hall, stopping a half second to grab my gear. By the time I reached the street, two other firemen were haphazardly throwing on their hardhats and strapping up their suit suspenders. I saw another man in the tower, winding the siren and furiously pulling the bell toll. We hitched the horses and tore off into the night, following the smoke that rose in the air over the crosshatched rooftops and chimneys of the northern hamlet that was my home.

Townhall. The large auditorium that, by day, housed municipal authority and historical records, and at night, more than its share of drunks, gamblers and corrupt policymakers. The building was ablaze and dozens of villagers gathered in the street, pointing, crying, shrieking. We hooked up the rig to the townhall’s ample well and began to pump water on the unsympathetic blaze.

It was clear to me that this fire would not be quenched, so I began giving instructions to any who would listen that we needed to do our best to fireproof the surrounding buildings. Most looked at me with horror and confusion, but several men sprung into action, moving carts and pulling curtains from windows. We aimed the water at these buildings, intending only to keep the blaze from spreading. It was a difficult decision for these simple men and women to accept, but the townhall was a lost cause.

Then a women, her face ash-covered and tear-streaked, came crying and pulling on my shirtsleeves. “Help!” she wailed. “Mayor Freeman is still inside, along with two or three others. The card games were on tonight. Help them please!” She was shaking. Others turned their glances to me, and more cried out. They turned their collective hopes over to me. They believed I could save the men trapped inside. Me and only me.

I took a deep breath and buttoned up my coat, pulling my rubber necking over my chin. Grabbing two waterskins, I sprinted into the inferno, not stopping to fear my oldest foe. In the foyer, my nostril hairs were singed with the first breath I took in. Smoke curled around everything, and the books and furniture of the large room raged with darkness, heat and hatred. Everything teetered and fell. Gusts of flame shot across the room in flowing, rapid bursts. I ducked and rolled, jumped and parried, moving through the front room like a crazy man, beset by an invisible attacker whose punches disappeared into crackling explosion. I recall being comfortable with the notion that my entrance into this fiery maelstrom was a one-way ticket.

I kicked down a crumbling door and jumped aside as another fireball hurled over my head. I could feel my perspiration boiling and my ears pounded with pressure and pain. After moving through a dark hall, walls melting, I made it into the main rotunda for the last moments of the town’s great gathering place. It was disturbing. Smoky blackness, flames green with the tarnish from the consumed rows of wooden benches. A cross fizzled in the center of the wall. No one could have survived that room for more than a minute, so I figured that any survivors must have headed for higher ground. Then I noticed steps in the back, behind the podium.

My feet began to sing, erupting with intensity, and I answered their call with a frantic dash to the other side of the room. I heard the ceiling collapse behind me, but I wasted no effort looking back. My speed was blinding even to me, and before I understood where I was, I had made it to the top of the stone stairwell feeling the rising swarm of hot air pushing on the door at the peak.

The next minute was, as I see it now, understandably hazy, and most of my actions were completely adrenaline fueled and frenzied. I opened the door and was instantly engulfed by a flame, which I put out with a waterskin in just enough time to save my face from burning destruction. The building was beginning to fall down around me, and the sounds of splintering wood and tumbling rubble were mind numbing. It was then that I began to fear this fire, fearing it like the blaze of my stolen innocence. It was the one power that always conquered my spirit, no matter how strong I forced myself to be.

I heard a desperate cry and saw the mayor and another man standing in the corner, trying to hold their heads through the remaining portion of a searing window pane. Had I heard it a second later, I may have taken a knee, given in to the conquering heat. But I knew my task, my reason for being in this madness. Without thought, I flew across the room, not bothering to avoid the flaming obstacles in my path. I dove at the men, wrapping my arms around them both and pushing us out the window. Flames followed us into the night, and we catapulted into darkness, chips of wood and glass stinging our faces as we fell.

My intentions, to the best of my memory, had been to roll over in the descent and land on my back, buttressing their fall. But jumping out of buildings from sixty feet in the air, I have learned, is a dirty business, and ill-thought plans have a way of failing under such circumstances.

As we tumbled out, the coolness of the wind offered a brief instant of relief from the heat. Then my body stopped obeying me. My hands slipped and I lost hold of both men, seeing only their flailing arms and terrified faces gaze up at me, as I stopped in mid air, and they continued to drop. I was pulled backwards, back into the arms of the fire. I heard the bodies of the two men land, with a thump. Then heat and a crimson flare surrounded me.

Though back in the building, I still felt airborne. And I gave up fighting the force that carried me. I was spun in a circle and rotated, over and over, as the crash and burn of the building screamed all around. And the black flame returned. It crept slowly into the room, taking the same places, inch by inch, of the original fire. I was beginning to choke on its fetid stench, ripe with death and scorched bones, when my vision went black.

I felt an earthy floor beneath me. It was soft and wet. The air was clean and I turned onto my back and breathed. There was no fire. There was no light.

I didn’t move from that prone position, staring into limitless nothing, for what may have been hours. I tried to rest, but sleep never took me. I began to think about what once was, and I convinced myself that this was my destiny, one of dark loneliness. Sipping occasionally from my remaining waterskin, I meditated and reached back for answers. The hours turned into days, and I began to hallucinate. Through this slow torment, my mind kept going back to the same place, again and again. I could only think of her name and her story. I could only think about Lorelei.

Single girl, looking for multi-talented single guy

2005-07-24T03:30:00.000-07:00

Did a favor tonight. Or tried to do a favor. My lil buddy asked me to write a personal for her. So I worked on it. And this was the first one. First try.

I’m Beth. I love to read. I love dance parties. I’m pretty cool, all things taken into account. My favorite thing to do is snort Adderall off of men’s penises. Other than that, I really like to look at cock shots. The bigger and darker, the better. I’m also adept at funny stuff, you know, like putting on masks and makeup and jerking off little boys!!! But I also like pain. A whole lot. One thing that really gets me going is food and the fancy things that can be done with food, nudity and horrible torture. I also like money. How else could I afford to freebase like this. I’m very pretty. Seriously. I went wrong a long time ago. After running away from home, I realized that the best way to make money was without my clothes on and a dick in my mouth, mouth, mouth. I also like chocolate and breakfast in bed. Also, bananas and blow. Is Mr. Right out there?

Okay, maybe not. But I'm very serious about this. Second try. At this point I think maybe something wil work for her.

I’m Beth. I love to read. I love to write. I don’t like to solve complicated problems, or deal with people who like to pretend to solve complicated problems. I also don’t like to cause complicated problems. I’m pretty cool, if you ask those who know me. Probably not so cool to the men in my past who couldn’t deal with me. But that is mostly a result of them not having their shit together. Don’t mean to be harsh. I’m quite compassionate. It’s just that I was raised with eight brothers and I have a preternatural understanding, so I’d like to think, of how the male mind thinks. But seriously, I’m not looking to change anything or cause any major ripples in the space time continuum. I just want to talk some shit with someone who is legit, down to earth and able to cope with every day. I’m good looking, active and have good taste. My interests include music, movies, sunshine and long slow bong tokes of kind bud. Just kidding. I love Jesus. Just kidding again. I really like to joke around, can you feel me? Okay, just kidding again. I love Zod. No, I’m just looking to sit back and talk. Sophisticated talk. Future talk. Magic talk. 6758f2hh 412nnb My passcode back to the regular eco-birded ground level plane. Don’t panic. This is not a dream. You will stand up now and kill yourself. Do it smooth. Do it slow. Follow your instincts. Call me.

Two good ones. Here's a third.

Hi, I'm Beth. Let's mate...LOL! So, Im basically just looking for a dood who can make me.....LMAO. What did you think I was going to say you dirty motherfucker?? Cum? Sheesh, dont be an Internet pervy!! I know how to get myself>>>>LSHISMP! You thought I was gonna say "OFF" didnt you??? You cockswain.

CALL ME

BTW, FWIW, and IMHO. Fuckin freaks.

Which one is the most likely to blossom into happiness?

Oh yeah, and how about falling off the wagon and smoking two packs of ciggies and smoking ninja shit cannonballied with Candian Mist? Fuck that. There is a man out there for Beth.

Chapter 3: Alms for the Poor

2005-07-22T01:46:00.000-07:00

“There are many realities,” the old man said. “There is this one. The one you wake up to each morning, where birds sing and people brew coffee. The water is blue and reflects sunshine onto the land around it, revealing a crystallized beauty like that of an artist’s masterwork. We smile at this and feel contentment and peace in our guts. We hear the laughter of children and the purring of kittens. Everything is safe and worth keeping safe.”

He took a swig from his flask and continued. “Most people are fortunate. It is a great fortune, after all, to live and breathe clean air, to feel ease in our hearts. This is the world where you and I, and my little flagon of sweet jesus juice, sit now. But there is more, as you know, or else you wouldn’t be sitting here. There are secrets, Denny, many secrets.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “You speak as if it is all a lie. Our lives, a lie.”

He laughed and shook his head. His manner wasn’t offensive, just an expression of the comfort of age, experience. He got out of his chair and walked to the window, taking a deep breath in the sunlight, folding his arms across his chest.

After years of traveling, city to city, scant possessions to my name, aside from tragic memories and unconsecrated desires, I returned to the town of my birth. The gravesite of my family. I was 23 and working at the firehouse when I met Uncle Lee, as he was known to everyone, the oldest living man in town. For what may have been ages, he served as the centerpiece of the town gentry, the old guard. Though most of the locals sought his counsel at one time or another, few knew much about him, save for his all-embracing knowledge of obscure tricks and treatments for provincial maladies and his general peacemaking advice.

An outsider in my own hometown, I took to spending late nights by myself in the town square, staring at the placid fountain that was our greatest monument. One evening, time lost in my absent pondering, I looked up from the water and saw him standing next to me, gazing at the water as though he, too, was seeing what I saw, my demons, my confusion. Neither of us said a word, and after several minutes, he paced off down a sidestreet, tapping the cobblestone street with his walking stick.

A month went by, and I continued my lonely vigil, waiting for nothing, waiting for everything. He returned, and again there were no words, only a mutual solemnity and respect for the night’s peaceful grace. He left, not even acknowledging my presence. After many days and a dozen fires extinguished, I’d tallied at six the number of times Uncle Lee appeared. On the seventh, a misty night in early autumn, he spoke to me.

I had been in town nearly a year, and was contemplating another retreat to the familiarity of the road, when I noticed him standing beside me, leaning on his walking stick, smiling. The moon crept through the fog and brightened the street.

“I wasn’t convinced until tonight, but you have the alm,” he said, looking back to the bubbling fountain.

“I’m sorry I don’t understand,” I said. He turned back to me.

“The alm is a gift, or a curse, depending on your perspective. It’s very rare. In fact I’ve only seen it in someone once. Rare indeed.” He shifted his weight and adjusted his coat. “You see, son, people live at the behest and mercy of the elements, and not the other way around. But you, whether you realize it or not, hold some sway over the natural world, or at least, there is a connection there. Subtle, but true.”

I again voiced my confusion. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Hmm, how can I explain,” he said. “I have seen you sit here, countless nights, quiet as sod, looking into the fountain, delving into what nightmares I can only guess about. On every single occasion, there have been amazing changes in the sky and the air around you. You wouldn’t have noticed, as wrapped in thoughtful oblivion as you were, but the very wind changes directions around you. The clouds move, the sky clears up, and at the times when you looked most troubled, the thunder rolls in and the rains begin to fall. Ask yourself, have you ever awakened from a reverie and noticed that you were sitting here by yourself soaked to the bone from a summer storm?” As a matter of fact, I had, and the realization was frightening.

“That alone was enough to sway me and break my cynicism,” he continued. “But it’s not the extent of it. When I spoke to the constable and began to hear the street gossip about what you’ve done as a firefighter, I knew that you had it. In all my years living in this shantytown, I have never seen someone so successful at battling the natural pestilence of fire. You, my friend, are singularly responsible for putting out more than twenty fires. And yet, when I look at you now, I can tell you have no idea the significance of those feats, nor the awe with which your neighbors view you.”

His words, bold and articulate, made a backwards kind of sense. I’d been a ghost in this town, ever since my return, maybe ever since the inferno that usurped my childhood. I was, to say the least, captivated. “Now that I think about it, I guess there is a strangeness to my life here, like a wall of isolation that prevents me from living like everyone else.”

“It’s the alm,” he said. “You have the alm.”

“I still don’t know what that means. Can you tell me more?”

He smiled again, flashing the teeth of a pageant queen. “I’m Uncle Lee. Come see me this week and we’ll have a drink and a talk.”

“I’m Denny,” I said, but he was already walking away, tapping, tapping so lightly at the stony gutter as he went.

A few days later, I found myself in Uncle Lee’s study, books piled high around us, the room dense with rustic charm and the smell of pipe smoke, cherry flavored. Our earlier conversation had roused desires in me, curiosity and renewed fervor for answers to what had been until then, by the simplest explanations, a lifetime of mystery.

Uncle Lee stole another gulp from his flask and turned from the window to face me. “I don’t pretend to know all the answers, Denny, but what I can tell you starts with a girl named Lorelei.”

“Lorelei?” I asked.

“Remember when I told you I’d seen one other person with the alm? Well, that’s as good a place as any to begin a yarn.” He returned to his rocking chair and sat, his elderly bones creaking with the endeavor. I stared back at him with anticipation.

Chapter 2: Dawn of the Black Flame

2005-07-21T00:05:00.000-07:00

Upon kindly suggestions (CHW, Satisfied75), I've decided to serialize this story, at least for the time being, and see where the action leads. If at any point it starts to suck, please let me know. Also, if it's any good, don't steal it.

I was once like you, a man, sensing, feeling and fearing. My heart was full of guilt at the everyday indignities of which men are capable, but I was idealistic and convinced that life had a purpose greater than the sum of foraging, sleeping and respecting my elders.

My neighborhood as a child was small and easygoing. People smiled and winked at each other on the street, neighbors and friends, kin and comrades. Most problems were settled in town hall meetings, the old guard, all of them mustachioed and oiled with drink, would drown out quarrels with simple propositions, mules for grains. After the women and children retired for the evening, those nights would end, more often than not, with outrageous card games and empty boasts of female conquests.

I worked as a fireman, a vocation stemmed from the broken heart I’d suffered as a little boy, orphaned and abandoned when my family burned to death in the town’s legendary three-day fire, a black eye on our collective history. I’d been sleeping that night, across the room from my brother, rest him, and could only remember running through red, blinding light and fierce heat. I can still feel the sweat coating my body, even today, soaking my lips and softening my face. I ran through the anguished screams of my parents, turning and twisting away from debris and dirt and dust and smoke. I’d landed in a patch of garbage, unsure of how I made it out, but coughing and streaked with char. My lungs hurt for weeks after, as I sat speechless in the town square, watching an unremarkable fountain bubble, wishing I could have had that water at my disposal when it mattered most.

My accident left me with many scars, emotional and physical, but two marks took precedence above all else. The first was a deep-seated respect, or more aptly fear, for fire. Every thought in my mind managed to whittle itself into a reflection on fire, the sizes and shapes of flames and the awesome power to burn and blot out life with heat. I became somewhat of a pyromaniac in my adolescence, refusing to back down from what I saw as my arch nemesis, the taker of innocence. This bizarre obsession with fire fueled my professional decisions, with the added catechisms of altruism and the desire to prevent tragedy from befalling other families lending extra motivation.

The second factor, and by far the most important in the story of how I came to be what I am, was the set of matching burns I received around my ankles. On the night of the blaze, I wore pant length pajamas, and though I know not how, I managed to throw on my slippers before my mysterious, frenzied extrication from the house. Aside from face and hands, my ankles were the only exposed portion of my body that night, and as the floor beneath my feet smoldered and seethed into unstoppable intensity, my slippers melted away and the balls of my ankles were ringed with congruent puffy scars. Though the pain was excruciating, the freak blisters left me with unimaginable gifts.

As the skin around my ankles healed, the muscles tightened and my feet became preternaturally strong. Before long, my running and jumping prowess was unrivaled among the other miserable orphans and hinterland street kids I knew. I used it to my advantage in making first impressions over the years, as I my life involved constant displacement from town to town and orphanage to orphanage. I was wise enough to keep this ability under wraps from authority figures, however, as my greatest worry was bringing too much attention to myself, a lesson learned easily in a childhood where abuse often disguised itself as care.

Being fleet was handy, and a source of pride, but my scars hid the secret of another, more formidable quality. Many years passed before I discovered it, and many more before I learned what it was. But one late afternoon while I was sweeping the carpentry shop where I apprenticed, my feet began to pulsate and shake. They made no sound, and they didn’t hurt, but there was a clear sensation, a rhythm beneath my soles. I pulled up my pant leg and saw that the feeling was no imagination, the scars glowed, and I felt a pull towards the shopfront.

I ran outside and stood in the street, feeling the cool night air. The wind hissed, but nothing else moved. My surroundings suspended and time stopped. It was still early evening and the street should have been bustling with activity by then, but all my eyes and ears received were silence and suffocating blackness. The smell of mold became strong, and the stores and building facades looked slippery, viscous. Trees were withered, paved walkways dilapidated and cracked. The town seemed just an echo of a rotted civilization. My own clothes felt tattered, and weakness overwhelmed my senses. I stood alone, afraid and exhausted, with only the pulsing of my injured ankles reminding me of my own presence.

Then I heard breathing from behind me. Hoarse, gruff breathing, like that of a rabid beast. The sound permeated everything, and the street grew darker, and hotter. I turned and saw an immense shadow, growing and blanketing me in the empty roadway. My instinct was to run, but my legs offered no response to any mental urging. I was confined to one position, and I felt my mind rise above my body until suddenly I could look down from above and see myself in the street, frozen in a shocked cower. What bore down on my figure was a dark mass, flanked with reaching, foggy tendrils. A single blue light pierced its silhouette from the center and stared at my crumpled form like a spotlight. The heat was staggering. Powerless, I tried to scream, but again, nothing. I watched in stark horror as a dark inferno overtook the body that was, only minutes before, my own, and then deep, reverberant laughter reigned over my thoughts, branding a black flame on my vision. Then everything was nothing.

I regained consciousness a few hours later, though it seemed like days, and found myself lying on the shop floor next to pile of filth and refuse that I had swept into a heap. I learned the next day that, while I slept on the floor, a lightning storm had savaged the town, destroying many homes and businesses and taking with it several dozen lives. The townspeople remarked in whispers about the oddity of the carpentry store being the only building on its street block that was utterly untouched by the storm’s calamitous reach. I felt ashamed.

A small black film began to grow on my scars that day, and it has since never left, despite rigorous washings. It wasn't much longer before I found out why.

Chapter 1: The Faerie Demon’s Hunger

2005-07-19T00:00:00.000-07:00

I sat down and started writing a story. This is how it goes so far. I wonder if it sounds interesting? When you have been through multiple wiccan seances and mystical meditations, it's difficult to verbalize your own experiences, but I've found that fictionalizing certain parts of them can help. Without further ado...

Blinking, blinking, back again to conscious, I stared at the huge cut on my palm. Dried blood, sore as hell. Rubber marks lined my forearms. I'd suffered severe burns on my chest. Along with the pain, somewhere beneath the surface, a well of pride simmered, waiting for an explosive debut.

I craned my aching neck to observe my prone, slightly bent body. Limp and dirty, I lay in a parking lot next to a shattered bottle of Olde English and a severed, violet-tinted foot. Its blood pooled inches from my head, sticky and coagulated, yet still exerting a healthy shimmer. One of the clawed toes, had a ring on it, jewel encrusted, tacky. I pulled it off and slipped it into my cloak, then swallowed dryness and began to pick myself up.

I'd traveled countless thousands of miles, through shiny corridors lined with innocent souls, piling upon one another, walking to the next destination, unaware of what lurked among them. I'd seen both sides, the hearty, naïve peaceniks with their round faces and ample baby fat, as well as the disciplined killers who always thirsted, who moved like secrets between adulterers, spiderlike and sinuous.

Outnumbered by the hundreds, the predatory class dealt in shadow and stealth, using patience and cunning to run up stores of fresh meat. Their feeding had been a force of nature for eons, routine and powerful, much like rain or wind on this planet, in this time. Hiding even from each other at times, they preyed and preyed beyond conventional bounds of tolerance, thieves casing a mark, until finally, they would unveil themselves, consuming masses of wholesome upright innocents.

Integral to their Fortean ways was the ability to transfer between and among multiple planes, slipping into dimensions like light through a door crease. The scenery changed, but the tubes of time flowed always in one direction and their hunger was always directed at the same target, the spirit of ignorance. A fresh, vibrant spirit, a childlike temptation and life giver to a demon bent on human entropy.

Walking away from the spot where I'd awakened, I noticed that the area was (not surprisingly) silent and vacant, streaks of ash tattooing empty concrete. Another fight resulting in collateral damage. But I'd won yet again, creeping a step closer to the completion of my one and only mission. This time I had gleaned something from the dead discoloring lieutenant. I had gained ground. As the creature's soul digested, a smile crossed my lips. I was confident. A reckoning between serpent and cattle was nearing, and my own hunger was reaching impossible bounds.

Leaving the ground and looking down on the frayed city block, I found it difficult to control my delight.

Required McFriendly Reading

2005-07-18T23:18:00.000-07:00

If you get the chance, do yourself a favor and take a look at this link.

\m/HUMANZEE INFO\m/.

SOS! PLEASE SEND HELP!

2005-07-17T23:45:00.000-07:00

Umm, okay, so I did some thrift store shopping today and came away with a few nice purchases. A new tophat, knife sharpener, jeans, three t-shirts (one of which depicts a satanic redneck in a Camaro), a cauldron, a Members Only jacket, two pairs of shoes, etc.

Well, I also found what I took to be a pretty nice little pullover sweatshirt with some inscrutable graphic print on the front and back. I couldn't read it, and even held it in a mirror, thinking that maybe it was a type of reflective code. Nada. Then I tried a few rudimentary deciphering spells, read some lunar incanations and even consulted my scroll of obscure runes. Still nothing. I made the purchase.

Later, when I showed Sasefina the sweatshirt, she caught immediately what I was unable to see. Suddenly the ceiling began to sag. My throat clenched up and I felt hot, sweaty, suffocating. I wanted to do something or say something, but I was speechless, redfaced and horrified. Sasefina and Keckies began to snort and howl, a mixture of laughter and embarrassment. It was an ugly moment. I looked again. This is precisely what I saw:

This is not a likeness. This is the actual product. Can you read the print? Seriously, if you can, please accept my gracious apology. Everything in the store is non-refundable so I don't know where to go from here. I need help. I really need help. Please send suggestions, donations, sympathy cards, or anything that you feel is appropo of this goof up to:

Martin McFriend
1919 Total Douche Rocket Lane #1
Real Munson, CA 90210

I know I messed up and I'm sorry. It hurts to have to say this, knowing my loss of credibility. I just hope you, gentle blogreader, will understand and forgive. There will be better days. I'll keep reminding myself. Until then, I remain,

Martin

Shakes.

Pimpin' (my writing) Aint Easy

2005-07-15T10:46:00.000-07:00

Just thought I would take a second to plug a film review I wrote this week. Notice the awesome douche rocketry of this website. Also, if you have a minute, look at some of the products "we" offer in the store. Oh yeah, and in case you are wondering, "Joey Campbell" is my pen name.

DARK WORLDS

"Did you cheat on me with Debra Winger?"

2005-07-14T17:41:00.000-07:00

In an earlier post I believe I made reference to an episode in my past that involved having sexual escapades with a certain actress known mostly for her role in An Officer and a Gentleman.

What I failed to mention is that I had a serious girlfriend at the time (three years ago.) She is pictured above (the Biscuit). In any case, today the following e-mail conversation coincidentally took place between her, now my ex-girlfriend, and I. It started from totally out of the blue.

Biscuit: Did you cheat on me with Debra Winger?

Marty: What? No, why?

Biscuit: I’m perusing your blog. I should be working.

Marty: "Did you cheat on me with Debra Winger?" Now that's something you don't hear everyday.

Biscuit: I remember coming to get you after that night and stepped barefoot on some “wetness” next to your bed.

Marty: Did I piss, vomit or drool myself?

Biscuit: None of the above.

Marty: Jerked off on myself?

Biscuit: Yup. I was mildly impressed.

Marty: That’s gross.

Biscuit: Eh. I prefer to think of it as funny.

Marty: That’s what I like about you.

Biscuit: Aww. Well, you know what I don’t like? Meetings. Also, why is it only 2:37? Feels like 6:45.

Marty: Just wondering, do you like awards ceremonies?

Biscuit: No, I don’t like awards ceremonies. I would rather contract avian flu and be forced to seek medical attention than eat egg rolls at the Hilton.

Marty: What about the band Kung Faux? Do you like the band Kung Faux?

Biscuit: I think they’re so post-rock.

Marty: Hey, remember that story about the guy who ate his boogers and skin?

Biscuit: Should I?

Marty: You know, the compulsive weirdo story we collaborated on but never finished?

Biscuit: Ah, yes. I remember. What about it?

Marty: Do you have any trace of it? Twould like to read it, maybe blog about it.

Biscuit: Did we write it down? Shall check my laptop for notes. In the meantime, wanna thumb wrestle?

Marty: No, not really.

Biscuit: How about a haiku battle?

Marty: Bring it.

Biscuit: Here is my ode to crack baby dogs.

opposable paw
moonlit crack on a hot spoon
weep for wide eye hound

Marty: Pretty good.

innocence threatened
deep craving in canine loins
genetic junkie

Biscuit: Round one to me. Here’s my ode to the
humanoid rat.

hairy little man
please put the toilet seat down
and i'll give you cheese

Marty: Alright.

fill your gutter mouth
dust from your vermin belly
regurgitate shit

Biscuit: Tie. Btw, you totally cheated on me with Debra Winger. Pig.

No rest for the busy, beaten, bleary-eyed

2005-07-12T23:41:00.000-07:00

Inundated with bullshit, drifting, drifting, asleep but awake. Skulking around the apartment and the office like warm oatmeal, oozing hither and to. Feeling sunburn and fatigue, but now sober and lucid, the life of a wizard moves in ebbs and flows. The crest is a four-day party, the nadir, a deadline passed and still no stories. No verses to relate, no experiments on which to expound. Though the workload increases, your ol pal feels static and stoic like methusela and want for something to talk about.

Many bloggers fill space with diatribes on politics, music, sports, even the rotten stink of philanderous capering. But me, no, there is nothing for me to give you if you're reading. I only perch at the edge of my black plastic chair and smile, reflecting on the next phase, which involves another round of Japanese lessons, guitar, a folk band, buddhism, a new college football season, weddings for those who gave in.

I'll say this much, the wagon ride is bumpy, and deboarding remains a temptation. Without a cigarette for almost two weeks, in with the new. Give thanks to Zod and let the mysteries follow. Keep your mind filled with the deranged (life is too serious and real and shit.) Here's a light to guide your lonely path:

Bizarre Magazine

And please, check out Satisfied75's new radio blog experiment, like radio clash on pirate satellite, but way newer and of course stylized for your groupie ass. Satisfied75 always lays down the law when it comes to tunes.

Aquarium Lush

Shakes.

Doh! Everything evil is actually cool

2005-07-11T00:04:00.000-07:00

I went to San Diego this weekend to see my vacationing brother, his wife and three kids. I was excited by the opportunity to do something that wouldn’t (presumably) involve shotgunning cigarettes, putting on makeup, or buying mimosas at 9 am to “cap off” a pretty good, chemically charged party. Just an immaculate sunny, summer day in Southern California, replete with jovial children and wiffle ball. I ran my fingers through my thinning hair and admired my reflection in the rear view mirror. Killer shades, man, I told myself.

So arriving in San Diego, at a posh, Disney-esque resort near Seaworld, I was flabbergasted when I met my brother Ukla and his family in the lobby. What the fuck? They were skeletons. Seriously, Ukla stared at me with a bony smile and hollow eyes, a skull in surfer shorts and a tank top. I shook his crackling hand and looked at my niece and nephews. Little skeletons. Holy shit, was I dreaming this? Not hardly. They were in great spirits but clearly undead.

I thought to myself, this is a clever illusion and I need to find out who is responsible, but first, those cookies my nephew is holding look tasty. So Sasefina and I made our way to the room and put our stuff away, listening to the giggles and gleeful hoots of the little ones, ages 2, 7 and 9. They were so damn cute, especially the way their tiny metatarsils echoed on the slick tile floors of the hotel hallways.

Not once did one of them pull out a gnarly old scimtar, the way they would have in Sam Raimi movies or old Sinbad flicks. No beady, red glowing eyes or resurrection humor, no spooky danse macabre maneuvers. This was my family, and they seemed to be having a great vacation at a really nice spot, where no one else seemed to notice that they were walking skeletons.

Then it dawned on me. They weren’t fucking evil, or demonic. Walking skeletons have relatives, too, and apparently I happened to be one. These were not spirits of a dark conspiracy, voodoo conjurations or Halloween curses. I love these people and they were pretty damn good to me, although seeing their chewed food slide through their empty innards took some getting used to.

The weekend progressed wonderfully and I am truly indebted to Ukla and his wife for their generosity and hospitality. I already miss those gaunt little rugrats. It was a well-deserved respite from the maddening limbo that is my “routine” L.A. existence, and on the way home, I reflected. What I came up with was so elementary and obvious, and my own epiphany is pathetically overdue. I mean, hello, everything evil is actually good. Shouldn’t we already know this? Or, I should say, shouldn’t I? What can I say, I’m a little dense, a little slow moving, not a quick learner.

Just in case anyone reading this might share my dim nature, I’ve decided to list some other examples of this self-evident irony. Off the top of my cranium (ha, ha, I’m funny):

1) iPods are really fucking evil. You should see what is on my iPod. I have this band called Goblin. They did the soundtracks to a lot of horror movies. They so kick ass.

2) Anime and manga. They are fucking evil, dudes. There is a reason that Japanese pop culture has exploded, with manga being the fastest growing segment of the American publishing industry. What is it? Can you say, evilness.

3) The Flaming Lips. Nuff said.

4) Any movie that employs a trailer that starts with “from the makers of the Ring.” This one is closely aligned with No. 2 above and that is due to the evil ways of the Japanese (see the Rape of Nanking, circa 1933). These films are kicking ass, making money and everyone goes to see them. Are they good films? I don’t really care. But what they are, undoubtedly, is evil as shit.

5) Fast Food. I don’t want to talk about this one that much because the whole story is well documented, thanks to that dipshit Morgan Spurlock or whatever the fark his name is. But in all honesty, are quarter pounders with cheese not a little slice of heaven, or hell, for that matter? They are pretty damn delicious and pretty damn evil when you really stop to think about it.

6) Cars. Everyone aspires to a better, faster car. Lots of people die in car accidents. Lots of people lose money from speeding tickets, DUIs, parking tickets, towing charges, repairs, etc. Not to mention the fact that gas and petroleum products, which power these awesomely evil machines, are unrepentantly decimating the (hippie alert) environment. But check out these fucking rims. Sweet. Evil.

7) Drugs are so zoddamned evil and everyone knows it. But you ain’t cool until you’ve tried them. This could be a separate blog post.

8) Magic, as we all know, is very evil and, without question one of the coolest things in the world. Even that little Dungeons and Dragons like card game of the same nomenclature is so evil. So evil. Just watch the Lord of the Rings or Star Wars. You guys know what I’m talking about.

9) Television (both the band and the living room apparatus). Another self-explanatory entry in this here list. The band rocked out in their evil punk, brit-fucky ways, and TV, holy frijole, so evil. Reality TV is all the rage, and it is evil. And everyone loves it even if they say they don’t. And it is all because everyone, I mean everyone, is actually really fucking evil. Need examples? Watch the local news. Read a history book. Look around you.

10) George Bush. C’mon! This one is a no brainer. The guy is the leader of the free world for god sake. And he is evil. (Karl Rove and Dick Cheney also totally rule, by the way.)

I could go on and on. There are few things, if any at all, that are both cool and not evil all at once. Just look at this blog. See the skull playing the trumpet on the right side? See the picture of me with a hatchet and ski mask? See the darkness? The evil? Totally fucking evil and also, totally fucking cool. Or maybe not. I guess I’m just sort of into that thing.

Shout to my boy Savas and his bride to be Carolina. May your marriage be full of love, prosperity and undying evil.

Shakes.

Diary of a Really Bad Show

2005-07-09T00:10:00.000-07:00

Trekked up to the Avalon in Hollyweird last evening to see the Eels play their final show of a three-month tour. I've always like the Eels and followed them relatively closely since their first album. I'm no music afficionado, my forte being sorcery and all, but if asked I'd have to say that I have a sound knowledge and appreciation for Mr. E's musical collection. For this reason, I think both Sasefina and I were relatively excited about this performance.

But the positive flow of electrons stops right there, as what ensued was generally an experience in wasted time, money and effort. Again, I'm no expert, but let me explain how a show can go really fucking bad, really fucking fast.

8:00 — Pull up to the Avalon, park in the adjacent lot. Parking attendant is a total cocksmoke who doesn't want to give us change for a $20. Thanks, bra, I say with a wide, toothy smile. In typical H-wood fashion, a bum is pissing fifteen feet away from our parking space.

8:15 — Check out the tee shirts to see if there might be something cool to buy. But there isn't. Why in god's name do they still make tees with the tour dates on the back? I seriously don't care that the Eels played two shows in Germany last May. I definitely am not impressed that they were in Milwaukee. I can only venture to speculate that no one in Milwaukee cares either.

8:20 — Umm, where the fuck are we supposed to sit? In the aisle? Okay, fine. My back's got a few good years left in it.

8:30 — A Russian claymation cartoon plays on the curtain. This is really weird. As far as my primitive American intellect conceives, the story is about a crocodile troubadour and his baby monkey pal, battling industrial manufacturing executives hellbent on polluting a serene pond, bucolic bandits hungry for one piece of vanilla layer cake and a couple of goofy looking reject kids just hoping they can take a swim without the consequence of genetic mutation. All the while a monstrous train puffs smog and disonance into the playdough countryside. If this is what Russian kids watch growing up, then I am sincerely considering impregnating someone (My Vegas sweetheart Svetlana?) and having them brought up in the Siberian countryside. By far, the highlight of the night.

8:45 — A couple of true geeks in front of us commence what becomes an all-night love fest, tongue kissing, necking and swapping saliva continously only inches from our astonished faces. It is downright perverted, but in a really not good way, as I would have at least been happy had they been a couple of hot-looking socialite rocker types. But no, it's Ward Cleaver and his chubby gal-pal. "Hey, I gotta go to the bathroom, kiss kiss," and "Hey, I'm gonna go get a drink kiss kiss," and "Hey, I'm so in love with you and I love the Eels, kiss kiss." Gag.

9:00 — The Eels come on after the crowd is treated to a scratchy, grinding reproduction of Gene Wilder's "There is no life I know" from the original Willy Wonka movie. The acoustics at this venue are CLEARLY sub-par. I start to get nervous when all I see are a strings section and no electric guitar or drums anywhere. This is not happening, I think. My ass hurts.

9:15 — Some hipster bitch is screaming at the top of her lungs at the band during one of E's "not rock" ballads. It is a true abortion and I am starting to get embarrassed. A dude stands up and shouts, "Shut the fuck up!" I offer to buy him a beer. The crowd gives him an ovation, the only justified one I remember.

9:30 — The band begins to experience equipment malfunctions. They stop the show. E prevents a tomatoes and garbage wielding mob outbreak with some smartass jokes. He fires the soundguy. This really sucks but that was kind of funny...well maybe not for the dude who was publicly humiliated, humbled and professionally idled.

9:40 — The show must go on, and it does. But only for a moment before the "dance club" on the Avalon's lower level starts kicking their twisted trance bullshit. My seat, on the ground if you will, begins to rumble and vibrate with the sonorous rhythms of "Motherfuckers Can't Handle the Pressure," or at least that's what it sounds like to me. In any case, the auditorium is now officially a cacophony. Leaving is quickly becoming the best decision.

10:00 — We manage a few more songs, ill-chosen musical mastrbation if you ask your ol pal Marty, but things are reaching a fever pitch. I give E a little credit. He mentions in between songs that the last time he saw a show at the Avalon that the sound really sucked and that he had his car stereo stolen in the parking lot. Now I'm downright uncomfortable.

10:15 — Some nimrod and his chick begin to literally heckle the band. A veritable peanut gallery in front gets in an argument with E and the show is again on hiatus as E, clearly drunk, exhausted or gakked (likely all three, Zod love him), dignifies these fucking losers by engaging them in the shit talking. He asks for security. My back is now locked in one inert position. No crowd pleasing songs are played to raise my spirits. I am getting douche chills from bearing witness to this putrid display of bad fans and mediocre performing. E even apologizes a couple times, in between puffs from his missile-sized cigar.

10:20 — Sasefina turns to me with a truly despondent look, shakes her head and says, "This is a K-Hole. Let's get the fuck out of here." I feel great release as we do exactly that.

11:00 — Mexican take-out at Lucy's on LaBrea. Thank Zod for carne asada tacos. Good stuff, though the sherm head in line next to us nearly wrecks my appetite with his poop smell and pleas for "eggs, man, some eggs!" Fucking Hollywood. It's far less than I wanted and far more than I deserve.

All in all, I still like the Eels, but they need to do some thinking or re-thinking about what their live shows are all about after what went on last night. That was ORIBLAY. I cried myself to sleep and didn't make it into the office until 9:30. But then, maybe that was the late-night Internet porn jamboree and my Haruki Murakami novel. Good riddens to yesterday and hello Ludes! Wait a minute, I meant, well fuck, at least I am still the Trivial Pursuit Champion of the Deuce! Suck on that NYERD!

Shakes.

Attention: 6-Legged Dog With 2 Penises

2005-07-08T15:11:00.000-07:00

Sunday June 19, 2005

Six-legged puppy dumped at temple

PORT KLANG, MALAYSIA — A puppy with two extra legs and a second penis is drawing curious stares at a temple in Pandamaran town near here.

The puppy, found by a temple caretaker at the entrance on Thursday morning, is being cared for by the temple committee.

Kwang Sung Temple committee member Tee Kim Huat said the caretaker saw the white puppy with dark brown patches sleeping at the temple entrance at 7am.

“He lifted the canine to place it elsewhere and was shocked to see that the puppy had six legs! Not only that, the male puppy also had an extra penis,” said Tee.

“We believe someone dumped it at the temple,” he added.

However, since it was an unusual dog, devotees felt that it was a bearer of good fortune and named the puppy Ong Fatt (Lucky One), said Tee.

The temple committee obtained a dog-rearing permit from the Klang Municipal Council on Friday to allow the caretaker to take care of the puppy at the temple.

The periphery of normal, but not even

2005-07-07T15:36:00.000-07:00

It is good to know that there are people out there (full-roaming vapors, really) who have chosen long ago to walk a course of solidarity, far away from the mainstream. I'm talking about people who believe that making art about killing, molesting, raping, maiming, et all is actually not tasteless, rather, it's curious intellectual exploration. Or maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe these creepish mutantes just find depravity amusing. Whatever.

The point is that, on a website that I've included below, I recently read a collection of film reviews that include some rank, disturbing and insanely riotous descriptions. Choosing pretty much at random, I've reproduced the following (very fucking excellent) visual hair curlers. Keep in mind that these are one man's opinions of actual films. (I'm heading to the rental shop tonight, by the way.)

The red-wigged working girl drags her blonde companion to a deserted barn, and instead of administering first aid decides instead to strip her down, tie her up, and maul her breasts.

As Rudy and Gloria head out to try their luck on their own they're visited with the curse of the rotting papaya (no kidding); and with that the tribe's warriors return to the village, and the Americans watch in horror as Joe's body is promptly torn apart and devoured.

What drew my attention were two photographs accompanying the essay: one featured a Marie-Antoinette-looking fox running through the forest in only a corset and blonde wig. The other depicted a naked woman straddling an ape-like animal, milking its sizeable dong. How could one help but be intrigued?

He takes her home so she can do the Linda Blair thing, puking up pea soup and speaking of forthcoming doom, but his declaration of love drives the demons right out of her and sappy music begins to swell. Just as it looks like we're in for some hardcore post-exorcism fucking, there's a cheap message about love being as strong as death and the scene comes to an end.

Her cries echo throughout the caves along with the sounds of the flagellants’ whips, but her body is left unattended to bleed down a waterfall that washes over the life-size crucifix where it came to land twenty years ago.

When she finally passes out from the pain, Red unties her and hacks into her groin, disemboweling her with the detached bliss of a Manson girl.

The critic who wrote these, Tom Crites, is a fucking sick genius. Where does he come up with this shit, you ask? I'm not sure yet, but I think if you enjoy the snippets above, you should read more of his grisly, multi-colored reviews at this fucked up website:

http://www.dantenet.com/

He also has his own bizarro-whack, anti-everything puddle of neo-artsy "I don't know what the fuck is going on here" website called the Paniscus Revue. I really like this guy.

Doppelganger Blues

2005-07-06T16:54:00.000-07:00

Last night, I had a dream that I was walking with a crowd of natives in an industrialized East Asian country, and my language skills were very, very strong. I was able to finish sentences and occasionally reply to others who were speaking much faster than I was. It was hopeful and empowering, this dream, and I felt that my journey to a higher level of consciousness was entering a new phase.

All at once, we came across a giant mirror, and everyone stopped and stood and stared collectively at the shimmer of reflections. The others were beautiful, stately and happy, big smiles on handsome, confident faces. They seemed content with their reflections, but not too curious. But through to the other side of the “looking glass” what I saw was no princely version of me.

Dressed in thorns and burlap and with long black fingernails, my reflection was perfectly charnel and unruly. He looked at me and smiled a yellow, crooked smile, his teeth jagged and biting down into his lips — my lips. Blood drooled through his grin, and my body double opened his mouth to speak. I looked around and found I was alone to hear him.

“Arrogance and naïve love will get you nowhere, Martin,” he said to me, and snickered. “Just remember your face will rot, as your insides have already begun, and your idealism will shrivel and your faith will implode and you will bleed out like a swatted insect, bloated on bodily waste and paid back for your leeching, thieving existence.”

I replied in Japanese: “Kashaku, tadashi naze?” (I don’t know if this is grammatically sound but I meant to say something to the effect of, “Pardon me, but why?”)

He laughed a gruesome, smoke-saturated laugh, which turned to a dead-sounding cough. I thought my evil twin was going to pass on in front of my eyes, but he maintained a disgusting smile through his fit and righted himself. “Take my word, Martin, there is a plan for you already in motion. It is something you will have to learn to deal with, for better or worse. Stop your smarmy bullshit and prepare yourself.”

When he finished speaking, my reflection reached through the mirror and dropped two scrolls with Asian kanji painted into them. Of course, I can’t read those characters so I just looked at them and admired their calligraphic beauty. I woke up soon after.

While in the shower this morning, I pieced together some lyrics inspired by the dream and committed them to memory. Then I started thinking of some lines I had written in my idea journal several weeks ago. I sat down and jotted down all these thoughts off the top of my head. This is what I came up with:

Victim of the Bright

a new kind of spirit
a morning fresh spirit
your redemption unwound
and set forth like policy

with policy, true policy
people leave you anyway
no reasons necessary
papers shuffled, forms filed
but I want to hope to keep you

so take another chance with me
let me see, let us see.
your will above my grasp
the wax of you,
the wane of me
the policy, the policy

Victim of Innocence

Dropping, a bucket into a well of black blood.
The acrid maelstrom of the deceived.
One eye on the prize,
The other gouged out with a nail.

Your trust betrayed by humanity’s want.
Love is a prisoner in greed’s torture chamber.
But you’ll stand proud and fight,
And you’ll die like a dog.
Your resolve’ll end,
With a disfigured skull.

Peaking, your faith strong in the trials of friendship.
But your confidant will bury you alive in earth.
Will you believe in fellow man’s honor?
Even when your jaw is severed?

Blood, sweat and loneliness your pleasure’s harem.
Bottle of pills in your hand, your spirit grown grimmer.
But you’ll not feign to give up,
Though disgrace is your bed.
Know your spirit won’t rise,
And you’ll stay fucking dead.

I don’t know about you, but I think there is a solid connection. I think my doppelganger is trying to tell me something. Something important, perhaps about the future. Perhaps about my death, or an impending betrayal. It’s kind of scary and exhilarating all at once. I’m sweating just thinking about it. In fact, I’m about to piss myself.

I’m looking for suggestions on what this might mean, so feel free to give them to me. Personally, I think there is a crucial reckoning on its way. My dentist, my shrink and my soothsayer all agree.

Beware of the blight from above, and the pestilence from below. Be nice to everyone and do your best to protect the weak. It’s coming, and it may be sooner than you think. I’m not talking about “the rapture,” but it won’t be full of mercy, either. We each meet it in our own way, but the sooner we’re prepared to accept it, the better our chances of meeting it with peace and acceptance.

Why, oh why, does she never call?

2005-07-05T23:18:00.000-07:00

The man fought valiantly, giving every inch of his being. But outlasting inevitability is a fruitless task. Trust your ol pal, he knows as well as anyone.

I pay rent, but just not here

2005-07-04T22:05:00.000-07:00

Seeing as how my life currently operates in an interdimensional phantom zone, and since I don't have the heart or mind to elaborate at this juncture, particularly with only 80 pages left in my shlock japanese teen exploitation graphic novel and fireworks being shot off at gruesome levels outside my window, the only thing I can really do tonight is post a picture of a great man I met this weekend. I confided in him that when I was in high school, he made me want gold teeth. His name is Billy Gibbons. You may know him as the lead singer of a band called ZZ Top. It was a special meeting, and your ol pal Marty was riding a high at the time. But ye, all good things come to an end, and now I'm sitting in my closet, typing frantically in a cold sweat and with a demonic lust for sleep and wishing, just wishing that I don't have to spend another weekend sleeping on a hotel room floor with a 22-year-old waitress from Van Nuys or doing the worm at 5;30 am while wearing a Sonny Bono wig. I'm treading on the precipice of HGL, which I will discuss in depth at a later point. But for now folks, happy fucking birthday to the US of A in the 2K nickel, and may Zod bless me with a sophisticated and voluptuous, mysterious di-polar shape shifting chick who likes basketball, makes a lot of money and all the while loves Martin just for being Martin. Oh, where was I? Please enjoy. Shakes.

It's okay, I'm okay

2005-06-30T23:13:00.000-07:00

Sparkling, spinning and staring like a fool, wristwatch beeping and collar of my new shirt tight and itchy. Then I’m falling and falling and, fuck, so this is what it feels like to die. Hurtling past a mountain, a lake and a sky with birds in it, the kind of birds in chalk figure drawings, childlike, sticklike. I see his face, the old man, my old man, and he’s shaking his head and saying something under his breath that I can only take to be a lecture, maybe, Joseph, there’s nothing worse in this world than a waste of talent. But I’m not sure because a dog barks and snarls, but happily, and I reach out a hand that isn’t there. And he sniffs it and turns over, rolls over, speaks, gives me paw. I feel light and drifting now, not dropping, not so far away. Sadness grips and my forehead is wet. Cold and wet. The new shirt has turned to char and dust stuffs up my nose. Not again, not another bad morning. It’s the only thing I can relate to, a dreaded hangover. But a vision, another image floats in my vantage, short and small and sweet smelling. Bespectacled, it’s a woman with a profile of purest citrus and she touches my cheek. It’s light, the touch, only jewels and shiny things hang from her neck and obscure my line of sight. Her angelic visage slowly morphing, shifting, face now something else. Something still beautiful but featureless. Only air and scent, and a smile may be growing on my face. But she laughs and says it’s okay, Joseph. It’s okay. And I sink deeper, deeper still. Hurting now, I can’t get back the smile. It’s gone, but there is something spongy beneath me and I feel it bounce and give and I’m on my way back up. But the giggling and snickering laugh is now a rubbing, chafing wooden scrape. It’s definitely karma. It’s payback. I was dishonest one too many… but the green smells of southern sunshine and grass and poison ivy and crickets, they return strong and strong I am. Flexing and pulsing and trying to regain facial contortion. If there was only a face. This is a tease, a sadistic tease. I’m scaling, and grappling something rotten, like an old piece of fruit, sugary and nasty and my hands find no purchase but I reach and reach and flail. Now it’s giving and I’m falling again. Damn it, this is maddening, and I know it’s my time. I hear the crying, the whimpering. It’s soft at first. Maybe it’s coming from around the corner in the kitchen, behind the slow buzz of the old refrigerator. And I’m drunk and ashamed. This is why. This is the answer. She really still hurts, just like me. It’s hurting us both, but I can’t gain ground and I can’t really do what I’m supposed to do. I know I can’t do it, yet I swing my fists. I can’t feel this darkness with her voice reverberating through nothing, through a window in my head. Just a lonely wail of sorrow. Nothing ever plays out other than death and regret. Here it goes, my body is now completely airborne and black. The suffocating emptiness curling around until heat controls. Controlling fire, controlling snorts, primal and unforgiving. What is the void saying? Is it love? Is it lost? Is it long? It’s something like that. It’s something that I spin over, tumbling blind, my ears twitching or my sweaty head shaking. Nothing more, just a pit, just a pit, a deep pit. Only money and a nice piece of equipment, digital, sleek and yelling at me with liquid display. I fall, and the bottom is nearing. It hits, shattering me, but I’m okay. I can stand. I stare into the void above, and the void below reverses itself so that I’m not sure which way I’m looking. But the cry is still there, a yawning, slow cry, and I feel raindrops. But they aren’t raindrops, of course. They are tears. They are tears. They are tears. I turn around in them, again and again. I know I can’t stop them, but I can let them fall on me before the end, and that, I know, is surely on its way. It’s only power over me lets me drink. So I cry, too. And I cry, too, and I smile.

Third Eye Innocent and Open Wide

2005-06-29T22:31:00.000-07:00

Prompted by my teammate, Satisfied75, I'm dipping into a repressed memory to offer the following story about a weird night we had a few years ago. The details are fuzzy in places, but essentially the following excerpt is a paraphrased transcript of my mind on that fateful day:

We're simply humming up Western Avenue and I'm trying not to think about how bad I have to take a shit. Satisfied75 looks over at me from the sidecar and gives me an air-gun salute. We are tripping our balls off.

Managing not to crash into a Korean barbeque joint, I renegotiate my ’68 Triumph back onto the street and rev the throttle hard. Let's see if we can get this son of a bitch in the air, I'm thinking. At this speed on a warm Hollywood night, it actually feels like we are flying, and I'm looking good in my sleeveless jerkin. Hell, maybe we'll also get new tattoos tonight.

As we get up into the hills, the roads are darker, narrower and more ominous. Shadows bare large teeth and I'm totally wigging out. After lighting up a couple cigs, I pull over and hand one to Satisfied75, who just tilts his head back and stares at the moon for a minute with glazed eyes. I scamper under the cover of a gabled roof to do my business, but have to cut it short as an old man comes running out the front door with a shotgun, repeatedly asking, "Do you have no honor, sir? Do you have no honor" So this situation is kind of a bummer.

We peel the fuck out of there and continue to our destination, a little old house once owned by Anton Szandor LaVey. It’s a creepy looking house, with snake statues in the lawn, but the economy line of modern cars surrounding it give it a touch of normalcy.

I park the bike and look at Satisfied75, who can only muster the following eight words, “Dood, this is going to change our lives.” I find that my thoughts are echoing through my head in a British accent. “Fuckin, ‘ell,” I say.

The guy who answers the door is a tall, long-haired Japanese with a lot of piercings and a sickle in his hand. Nice fucking scythe, I’m thinking. He escorts us into the party proper and our faces are aglow in the blood covered foyer. Several men and women are pacing gingerly about the room holding scarlet soaked towels to their foreheads. There is a dentist chair in the center of the room and an acrimonious smell in the air.

So my buddy, Chud, from sewing class, the host of this soiree, comes weaving through the filth-ridden crowd with a smile the size of Texas. He slaps himself across the face three times, jovial and brimming with excitement. I ask him if I can get a drink. What a freakshow. “I didn’t know you were from England, Marty,” Chud offers. ‘Brighton,” I say and make my way in the direction of his outstretched finger, running my hand through the sweet new nylon wig I just purchased. Satisfied75 starts dancing, sliding really, on the red, soupy tile floor.

I whip up two stiff ones and hand one to my boy, relaxing in the trancing light before letting out a sickened laugh. The room stops its mechanical gyrations and looks at me, people, walls and furniture. “What the fauk are you wankers doin ‘ere?” I’m clearly shouting, spilling whiskey, slobbering and shaking. Only Satisfied75 continues to dance, unconcerned. I head to the john to finish off my well-deserved expunging ritual.

When I come out, four men in clown paint are performing ring-around-the-rosie steps until one of them is pushed out of the circle. He sits in the dentist chair and grins, his eyes are completely black. I am scared of this man, who is built like a pitbull with a green-stained wife-beater. He bellows.

Chud saunters up to him and begins to apply some network of manacles and straps, then he glances at a pocket sized booklet and diagrams some stick figures on the dude’s Cro Magnon skull. Chud looks at me and says, “You’re next bra.”

The Japanese guy with the sickle does a cartwheel and lands on his face, barely avoiding a facial run-in with the razor sharp point which instead nicks his ear lobe and contributes more living stew to the putrid linoleum. Oblivious to his injury, he manages to reach out and touch some buttons on the stereo and a twisted carnival score blares forth from unseen, in-walled speakers. I notice with some surprise that people are bowing deeply and pissing on the floor, and one guy begins to juggle fire with uncanny dexterity. This is a new level of consciousness, surely. Did I just see Satisfied75 swallow an entire torch? Fuck.

The festivus continues as Chud wipes gristle from his chin and produces a leather pouch with ungodly blue blades protruding from the ends. He pulls out a ruthless scalpel and carves a fresh V in his subject’s jutting forehead. The blood drips, drips, drips crimson tinctures onto Pit Bull’s lips, and he obliges it greedily with a yawn, a lapping motion and then a howl. Chud elbows him swiftly in the temple and the man ceases his bloodlust.

Satisfied75 is now shadowboxing a fat women, who cackles and then executes a roundhouse that lands her ungainly ass on a large cactus. Agonized, she runs out of the room, falls once, then crawls to a door, descending into darkness and shame. Satisfied75 makes us two more drinks and says, “DOOD!”

Up next is the power drill, and Chud gives it a test whirl amidst a crowd of lobotomized mimes. Chants of “the THIRD EYE” are thrown out liberally, and it’s at this moment that I decide to shotgun a Tecate, like we used to do back at the King’s Head when times were simpler. I offer one to my experimental comrade, and he blurts, “Yar,” crushing the can on his forehead after a record breaking pull.

Now Chud goes to work with meticulous precision and focus, drilling a ceremonious hole in this warped guinea pig’s mind. Blood sprays our faces and gear, as the roar of an auger wails its grinding joy. There is a clear energy explosion in the room, and two people pass out in pools of their elation-induced vomit. I give Satisfied75 a high five and we both pump fists like little leaguers. This is some shit, I think, and I watch with sociopathic distance as the patient coughs up allegiant thanks and praise. A flap of skin hangs lazily on his brow, and a clean-cut, fancy dress type walks up and offers a direct blessing on this unspeakable flesh button.

Finished and sated, Chud stitches up the wound, applying alcohol and ink, then cauterizes the man’s head with a makeshift, bitesized branding iron. The sizzle and smell of cooking skin unleashes a new wave of spiritual exuberance, and two prancing douche rockets with fresh holes in their heads begin to grapple, in joy or jealousy I cannot tell. One goes through the front window with a clatter, and the other one follows him out with a dive and a death knell.

Chud says, “Hey buddy, I know you’re not getting cold feet on me.” Chud has no wound on his bald head. No tats, no piercings either. He looks at me with an inviting sigh, and Satisfied75 goes into a deep Dark Side of the Moon lunatic laugh. It echoes from the vaulted ceilings and the room swirls. I stutter, then force out, “LMAO.” A couple of giant people, both over seven feet tall, cease making out in the corner and walk in my direction. They stop, kiss again, swallow a hand full of pills and then put their ape-ish hands on my shoulders. The female of the two, bearded and cute, grunts. Satisfied75 smiles and looks at his hand, searching for something that plainly isn’t there. Chud’s quiet. All’s quiet. I’m being led to the dentist chair. It’s my turn, after all.

The New Hotness — Real-Life Zombies

2005-06-29T12:31:00.000-07:00

I'm a big fan of gore. I like bloody, speculative horror stories, depicting vicious decapitations and unthinkably inhumane situations, particularly in which people are forced to do some crazy shit to avoid being eaten, eviscerated, impaled, disemboweled, shredded and generally butchered. Hence I really like the Living Dead series, Re-Animator, Hellraiser, anything by David Cronenberg, Dario Argento or Lucio Fulci, and other exploitive horror films.

On the heels of seeing Land of the Dead (Romero's latest extravagance) the other day, I was doing some research (READ: interweb surfing) into whether or not an actual human resurrection could ever be a realistic, or even contemplated, scenario. I was invariably led to the Safar Center for Resuscitation Research, which is not surprisingly and probably not coincidently located in Romero's beloved Pittsburgh.

Check it out HERE. I'm particularly fond of the following line from the organization's mission statement:

To understand the mechanisms of cell death after catastrophic insults such as traumatic brain injury, cardiac arrest or severe hemorrhage, with a particular focus on how cerebral neurons die...and...To design and evaluate new mechanism-directed therapies for the above insults, including studies in experimental laboratory, clinical, and field settings.

Then, just a day later, I was literally astonished when a friend of mine (the Biscuit) forwarded me this curious STORY. Umm, okay, cool. I'm down with that. But wait a minute, what in the motherfucking name of John Carpenter is going on here? We are now capable of bringing dead animals back to life?

A million questions are, even now, flooding my head. Do they eat brains? Can they be destroyed with a bullet to the head? Are they slow moving? Did the scientists name one "Bub?" I am dazzled and excited, frustrated and fascinated? I am so scared that I currently have to shit my pants.

Through further research, I also discovered that the United States has a federal department dedicated to research, prevention and combat of vampires and zombies. There was once a vaccination for vamps. This is not a fucking joke, people! Learn as much as you can and prepare yourself. This unnatural pandemic is on its way in. Thankfully, help is available for some of you greenpeas: The Zombie Survival Guide.

Go with Zod.

This and that, and a crazy motherfucker

2005-06-27T22:58:00.000-07:00

Well, my boy wasn't able to quite finish the task. Charged with the assignment of consuming 26 patties and 26 slices of cheese from In N Out burger, he came up a little short. But not from lack of trying. Just look at the poor fucker all excited and getting ready to break the record. I'm still proud of you, Youngling #2.

Btw, the staff at the restaurant deserves a lot of credit for helping out. The dude on the right, Givani, was really pulling for Scrubby Nub and would make a fine Wizard. In any case, I won't say too much more about it. You can read in depth about this guy's aspirations to rise up the ranks of the world's best competitive eaters by checking out the Evolving Revolution.

Speaking of, I also highly recommend that you peruse the International Federation of Competitive Eating. The No. 2 ranked player in the world is a 105-pound chick. What the fuck is that all about?

I'd like to make one comment about life. It's really hard sometimes. Your ol pal Marty has had a case of the blues lately due to a combination of gambling problems, trouble with the government, overexposure, overindulgence, a shortage of compatible shield maidens, loss of creative drive, impotence, self doubt, failure to hit 40% on my three point attempts, lack of drinking money, a bum job, a bum ankle, a bum living in my house, and some, you know, uhh, family trouble. So if anyone out there knows any Class 1 Happiness Spells, feel free to cast them for Marty. I promise thee, the generosity will be reciprocated in kind.

Props to Koushun Takami, Stephen Levitt, Dennis Hopper, George A. Romero, Kenny G, and Barnich. Also apologies to David Byrne. Somebody get me out of this Diet Soda K-HOLE! Fuck off everybody.

Shakes.

I hate people when they're not polite

2005-06-26T04:11:00.000-07:00

Staggering, drooling, dripping, face melting. Finished the cab. Finished the job. Finished just about nothing. Saw the hole in my jacket, felt the hole and put my finger through it. Tasted the ash, the dry throated affirmation. Pull over here. Walked in and gave up. Rejected. Not another negative answer. No more dates. No more asking these beautiful somethings out for a "drink" and no more of these actresses and this visitor thing, too many visitors. Please not another group of visitors. And realizing what I am, no more of that. There is no more recognition. There is no need. There is only the karaoke bar and the residual feelings, the memory that won't last much longer. The monkey escaped the cage again. The lights, crowd, egos and coolness. And yes, the Talking Heads. And my rendition thereof. Eccentric standing swim pose. Leg kick. Making it happen. Acting the oddling fool. I am tired. I am flesh puppet.

In the name of all that's holy

2005-06-25T03:38:00.000-07:00

So I was confirmed catholic and I used to believe in god. That and some other things and then I heard about science and the theory of evolution and dinosaurs and double helixes and LaMarkian discoveries and Gallileo and space and time and Hawking and then Orson Welles and Annaud's Quest for Fire and I played Revenge of Grog on Comodore 64 while reading B.C. comics and taking geology with Ms. Stamper and Adam Borenstein and a bunch of other geeks and also dissecting frogs and then holy shit, I realized that I was a fucking weirdo, particularly playing Zork and eating fruit rollups and being friendly with the dog, but, damn, there were some things going on out there beyond the "religious" chick who used to scold me for skipping CCD and smoking ciggies and I think it was at that time that I started doubting God. Well, I shouldn't have capitalized god. But in any case, I knew when my big brother would take us to McDonalds instead of church that it wasn't for me, the Vatican and all the verses and gospels and holy apostolic angels and saints and then I when I thought that things couldn'tget more confusing I went to the local drive-in theatre and I saw an opus, a cinematic revelation that enhanced my spiritually perturbed little boy's head and shit, do you know what I saw? A gateway, a new beginning, a really fresh way to understand that there is no understanding and, by damn, I was with you all the way. I was no poisonous snake. I was no great criminal mind. I was no parishioner. I was only Martin. Just another guy who heard only one voice, one voice that spoke in a way that made my whole being crumble to threads and shards of person. I heard him tell me to kneel. Kneel before him. I did it. I knelt. I saw him. He is what we all live for. He is meaning. He is the general. He is ZOD.

Rant Alert

2005-06-24T10:09:00.000-07:00

I think all you mothersuckers should check this shit out. It's funny and pointed at the same time.

There's No Crying in Baseball

I don't think the world is going to hell in a handbasket just yet, but I do believe the future will be owned by kids who grew up in the ghetto.

Also, Milla Jovovich is so fucking hot.

Alright, thanks bre.

Life’s realities exposed, no more mystery necessary

2005-06-23T17:06:00.000-07:00

Grooving through green grass over hills and feeling blades brush through my toes, and rolling with grace and laughing all the way to the trough before treading back up again, I realized that the fun will never last. But the adventure moves ever on. The seafarer without a country, the death without a culprit, the class without a teacher.

Love is something I was never taught because I had to teach it to myself. And my achievement has been less than admirable. Holding instincts in high esteem, worrying about being the best host and my physical appearance, I often missed the lesson. After all, under the enchantments of prettiness, it’s easy to be caught by the entrapments of pettiness. People will take what they can and put their personal and financial agendas first, but the cleansing powers of “sunlight” reveal to us what’s important eventually. My own guilt awaits the powers that impugn with cringing speculation.

Like a lost loved one frowning her reaction to my selfish glare and my comments of confusion and how I have to figure things out, realization wasn’t a surprise but, rather, an inoculation of what hurts most — the truth. Shaking, facial ticks, tears and warm, salty breath. A ten-second countdown to emotive take-off. Guitar solo thrashing then departure from care and concern. It’s easier to build a wall and ignore what you are sad about than it is to confront head on the perpetrating agent, hefting spiritual and emotional weight at the unseen. Meeting loss with indifference, my conniving reflection. Assured of loneliness.

Capitulation and creation catch up with many of us, and they linger in a house somewhere, with a yard and a puppy, down the street from a park and smelling on Sundays of grill smoke in June and chimney smoke in December, socializing and convincing those who witness them. Closing my eyes again, I can see them coming soon, or maybe later, or maybe I can just remember them from my own ordeal and past, before and after being awarded the gifted curse (or cursed gift) of living. But from where, there is no key.

Yet frigid, your steely grip and clenched bones reddening, you see it all come down in a haze of nuclear debris and blotted sky. Then there’s me…with my vision constantly obscured by the spree of unattained freedom, whether it actually exists or not. We share these traits and we wallow in the shames and fears that our goals are left untethered but still untouched, while there must be a way to push off the shield, absorb the pain and punishment, reach the next level through self-illuminating trial. The answer is amorphous. Our vanity will decide for us.

Wrapped in cemetery blues, frazzled by grief and creativity-loss, we trudge through what remains of our fractured ideals, missing nothing more than dream and color. Spinning, top-like and naïve, but only in deliberation, for by this time we cannot afford to be anything but skeptical, cynical, realistic, doubting, mourning and dying inside. The natural evolution of humans, even those with powerful energies, spanning geographic climes and long years of mental endurance, is that of a bell curve.

Oranges and pales, slipping from the darkness of darker black and red and reddish. The iron drops, the skin droops, the tales lengthen, while the creation of tales steadies to a slow trickling trickle. Then we see it coming, we feel it approach like wind. I can smell it sometimes even now, already cresting the hormonal hyperactivity of youth, looking behind the drifting wake of my years and the horizon before me, smiling, too, another in a line of uncertain encounters, life and unpredictability. Fate is what we make it, or it isn’t. That’s just the point and we take the cue from nature and our own feelings and interrelationships with each other, the wisdom of seeing and acting and always hoping to spite inevitability, hoping to hold someone warm throughout, keeping the faith that leniency and love and safety await. Until only tears remain and longing and nothing.

The finest piece of unabashed gore you haven't seen

2005-06-22T23:28:00.000-07:00

For the love of Zod, has anyone seen this fucking movie?

I, as a matter of magical fortune, have.

When I was merely an innocent youngling, my older brothers, a ragtag triumvirate of sadistic, morally-lax barbarians, would frequently rent films of the basest ilk. My parents (yes, Marty had parents) were often not around, and that's when these creepy role models of mine would force me and my other siblings to watch such gruesome entertainment. When I say they forced us, I mean that they would literally hold us in place on the couch during onscreen absurdities involving anything from heads being split in half to slow-motion tracheotomies and close-up facial gunshot wounds. Bear in mind that the most ferocious, gory scenes were always rewound a minimum of five times.

No, I am not going to belt into some sociological sermon about how violence on TV fucks with children's minds, or how Martin McFriend's own decadent tendencies are the result of a twisted, Clockwork Orange-style upbringing. After all, I see absolutely nothing wrong with having a passionate love and respect for scenes of visceral disfigurement and grim, demonic imagery. But what I will say is that these guys, my older brothers, are really fucking deranged. When the scenes became graphically depraved and overtly despicable, they would belly laugh. If you cried or tried to shut your eyes, you got laughed at for that, too, possibly even beat up. That leaves an indelible mark on a kid.

But seriously, go out and rent The Return of the Alien's Deadly Spawn, a 1983 classic with several alternate titles. This movie is abject hilarity and bloody, captivating evil all rolled into one. I feel it resembles what Little Shop of Horrors would have been like had David Cronenburg directed it.

In any case, if you don't have the stomach for this treat, then you should probably read the review by clicking HERE. On the real, this movie is pretty damn good for a cheap horror exploitation vehicle. It ranks right up there with other classics that I was forced to watch as a 10-year-old, such as Rawhead Rex and Lifeforce. More on those in later entries. And may my older brothers be ashamed of themselves...as well as proud.

Btw, I wish Richard Dreyfus or Daniel Stern narrated my thoughts.

Still King in Ethiopia

2005-06-22T14:35:00.000-07:00

Please enjoy this if you haven't already seen this, which you probably have, and if you have, you are a real loser if you don't think it's a good story, and please, chalk one up for the Lions.

Ethiopian girl reportedly guarded by lions

The Associated Press
Updated: 6:25 p.m. ET June 21, 2005

ADDIS ABABA, Ethiopia - A 12-year-old girl who was abducted and beaten by men trying to force her into a marriage was found being guarded by three lions who apparently had chased off her captors, a policeman said Tuesday.

The girl, missing for a week, had been taken by seven men who wanted to force her to marry one of them, said Sgt. Wondimu Wedajo, speaking by telephone from the provincial capital of Bita Genet, about 350 miles southwest of Addis Ababa.

She was beaten repeatedly before she was found June 9 by police and relatives on the outskirts of Bita Genet, Wondimu said. She had been guarded by the lions for about half a day, he said.

“They stood guard until we found her and then they just left her like a gift and went back into the forest,” Wondimu said.

“If the lions had not come to her rescue, then it could have been much worse. Often these young girls are raped and severely beaten to force them to accept the marriage,” he said.

'Some kind of miracle'
Tilahun Kassa, a local government official who corroborated Wondimu’s version of the events, said one of the men had wanted to marry the girl against her wishes.

“Everyone thinks this is some kind of miracle, because normally the lions would attack people,” Wondimu said.

Stuart Williams, a wildlife expert with the rural development ministry, said the girl may have survived because she was crying from the trauma of her attack.

“A young girl whimpering could be mistaken for the mewing sound from a lion cub, which in turn could explain why they didn’t eat her,” Williams said.

Ethiopia’s lions, famous for their large black manes, are the country’s national symbol and adorn statues and the local currency. Despite a recent crackdown, hunters kill the animals for their skins, which can fetch $1,000. Williams estimates that only 1,000 Ethiopian lions remain in the wild.

The girl, the youngest of four siblings, was “shocked and terrified” after her abduction and had to be treated for the cuts from her beatings, Wondimu said.

He said police had caught four of the abductors and three were still at large.

Kidnapping young girls has long been part of the marriage custom in Ethiopia. The United Nations estimates that more than 70 percent of marriages in Ethiopia are by abduction, practiced in rural areas where most of the country’s 71 million people live.

Read that last paragraph again. How defunct is that country? Let's blow it up.

Contributing to the delinquency of a bad artist

2005-06-21T22:38:00.000-07:00

I have a new report from my celebrity correspondent, Youngling #1, on a little development from last night. It seems he had another run-in with an auspicious celebrity. Here's his report:

Marty,

I had a meeting with a girl from my acting class last night so I traveled up Mulholland to her house, which was an enormous place for an aspiring actress to live. I had a feeling this chick was loaded, but this was a big fucking estate. So inside, we sat down and talked for a little while, but I couldn't keep my eyes off the familiar face in a picture on the wall. So I started fishing about who her roommates were and what they did. The familiar one, I learned with no surprise, was named Ashlee. A few more questions and my suspicions were affirmed. Minutes later, Ashlee Simpson appeared at the door and had a seat with us, proceeding to talk about rolling and other drug encounters. She asserted her desire for booze, so we took a trip to Ralph's where I was nominated to buy, since no one else was yet 21. She handed me a crisp hundred dollar bill, and I took the liberty of buying some groceries of my own. I needed some wheat bread, after all. The whole business was pretty awkward, what with me jerking off to a picture of her sister the night before. But I thought it kind of funny when Ashlee purchased an US Weekly with Nick and Jessica's cheating scandal on the cover. I had a few drinks but called it an early night. Still I think this isn't my last run in with her. I'm working on getting her over to the Deuce for dance party. Later,

C Murda

Not bad son. You are on the cusp of shedding your Youngling title. Keep up the good work and let me know if you need some roofies for next time.

Btw, anyone reading this might want to visit here. For the record, your ol pal Marty doesn't know a whole lot about this whole celebrity business, so please let me know if this type of content is unacceptable for an illusionist to deal in.

Shakes.

PS - This is how we do it at the Deuce.

Newsflash: Religious people are really insane

2005-06-21T12:36:00.000-07:00

This story about a real-life crucifixion is just fucking AWESOME.

Also, what is THIS all about? Sometimes I think the modern art world is a total farce...just like me.

And one last thing, I am going "Project Mayhem" on the local office of the Internal Revenue Service after this dipshit audited me.

MEXICO...FUCK YEAH!

2005-06-20T23:10:00.000-07:00

One of the nice things about living in Southern California is the close proximity to some magnificently diseased places. The two most obvious are Las Vegas — an excellent place for illusions and one that Mr. McFriend here has set fires in — and Baja, Mexico — a haven for hustlers, handshake drugs and whores, among other things. Although those things stand alone in their awesomeness, the place also has a physical beauty, and by damn if a portion of the McFriend family didn't take a trip down there this weekend to encounter this Latino pulchritude.

Though your ol pal's business is by no means lucrative at this juncture, I was able to secure us a place with the following view to serve as our base of operations:

Upon arrival, a five-minute piss was in order, and then the tequila began to flow like wine. After a short cab ride, five McFriends found themselves here and the madness was put in motion. I'd like to offer a warm thank you to the tattooed freak in the crow's nest who made direct eye contact for much of the afternoon with a lonely wizard that you all know, all the while showing her chest and bending over to touch her ankles at the thumbs up sign that I got so used to giving.

Mariachis on the beach and children smoking Cuban cigars came and went. Food was mostly neglected in favor of beer, and the family became drunk in the heat of the Mexican sun. Later, we wandered the alleys and backstreets of Rosarito, buying trinkets and mota, getting lost in the swirl of colors on the pregnant wanderers and peasants selling chiclets. The Pooch, in particular, was in grand form, and his penchant for making up Spanish words and phrases was an inane mixture of bad TV lines and Taco Bell menu items. But this kid knows how to party.

A plan for the evening was set in order, and we lounged on the balcony of our hotel room, taking turns walking through a gringo wedding reception, where the single women in attendance took offense to my requests that they make out with me on the altar. It became increasingly obvious that I was not going to get laid on this trip for free.

A lobster spread in Puerto Nuevo assuaged the longing in my loins, and the kindly waiter was impressed after dinner when I complimented him so: "Eres un hombre guapo senor, pero no soy un maricon!" We stopped at a farmacia, and after asking for ritalin, soma, cocaine, ecstacy, LSD, steroids and a host of other good drugs, we were roundly rebuffed and asked to leave. It was time to fiesta, so we got dressed up and ready for the evening.

Back at the nightclub in Rosarito, things got mostly out of control. I called a Dutch girl Euro trash, but told her she was hot. The Pooch scored a date with a surfer chick from Anaheim. Sasefina made friends with a group of warped scientists, one of whom performed a decent backspin. Anhski put on a Mexican wrestler mask and got her groove on in a circle of admiring freaks. After a few rusty illusions and several more rejections, we decided for a change of scenery, and thankfully, the Bada Bing accepted us with open arms.

The strip club reeked of crime and collusion, and we were quite clearly the marks. Hustled intensely for lap dances and "sexo," we started to worry when a fat waiter charged us $25 American for two tequila shots. Though that was unacceptable, we decided that $5,000 pesos could help our cause. I have not the heart to tell you what happened after that, but it involved dinero, cowboy hats, screaming, scratching, pyrotechnics, hombre arana ("Spider Man"), a knife fight, blood, and a "friends and family" discount. Our final cab ride of the night, with Frankie from Jalisco, resulted in a Spanglish shouting match and two drunk Americans shortchaning this unscrupulous fuck.

At our sprawling hotel complex around dawn, Pooch and I maintained an incorrigible appetite for trouble and local "talent." After a long and laugh-filled urinating session off a 50-foot bluff overlooking the dark Pacific, we sought assistance from the night staff, two veritable mutants, one with a roving eye and the other, a bionic arm. No shit. The conversation is blurry in my memory, but I remember several phone calls, a Mexican operator's voice, insults in both Spanish and English and the following two lines: "No offense, senor, but what kind of self-respecting hotel clerk doesn't know how to get escorts?" and "Perdon amigo, but I have more pesos than I know what to do with."

The following day was lost in a lot more cerveza, a pirate ship, "Guantanamera" and a long, slow journey across the border, where 8-year-old jugglers made off like bandits with small bills.

I will return, to be sure, but certainly not before a few days in the tank to clear my head. After waking at 4 am last night to shit liquid jalapeno for 45 minutes, I understand the reality of Montezuma and his vendetta against the Caucasian people. It is no picnic, definitely no siesta.

Shakes y que tenga la buen noche.

This one goes out to Carlos, who helped me meet my late-night quotas with his "muy lento" speech and tricked out Fiero. I also want to give a shout to my brother Jay-boy, who is convinced that I am an alcoholic, but maybe starting to agree that I am still functional. Actually, I doubt that.

We are the dreamers of the dream

2005-06-18T03:17:00.000-07:00

Let us travel into a new realm of music and wizardry. As an illusionist, I have taken a solumn vow not to use my powers to manipulate others for personal gain or malicious intent. BUT I do occasionally make beautiful fantasies come true. And in fact, the fun hogs decided that we had something to prove to the cosmos. We could start a band. Goddamn it. We knew we could do it. In a rare case of candid appeasement, your ol pal Marty made us feel like we rocked. These were the results.

THE SLOW MUTIES

Rhythm Guitar
Youngling #1
Bio: Vanderbilt reject. Sought sanitarium in Los Angeles by the grace of CCA. Found himself clean, sober and driving us around a lot, in between jam sessions. Idolizes brit rock freaks. DJs like a mad fucking demon. Hides his inner discontent in the factions of women who have jumbled their speech in conversation with him. Is still a virgin.

Lead Guitar
Satisfied75
Bio: Got really flipped out on too much acid in the late 90s. Listened to a lot of southern folk, fugazi, snuff rock and paint rock. Lost his mind for the second time after the IRS collected on his every earthly possession, shot his dog, cooked him, ate him and became friends with the best barbeque cook in Arkansas. This brought confidence and he honed his craft rocking out at Mouses and Doobies on Crenshaw playa. Brought the house down at the annual rock performance for Torrance children with autism. Found some weed in his pocket, never looked back.

Drums
Capsniff
Bio: Lost his feet in a horrible combine accident while working with his grandfather, a renowned professor and farmer in Kansas, and turned things around by signing up for an experimental procedure inspired after a Ray Bradbury short story. Went for the Guiness record for longest moustache but gave up after being diagnosed with ESS — enlarged scrotum syndrome. Mashes on the percussion.

Keyboard
Pooch
Bio: After multiple unsuccessful attempts as a show diver, Pooch went on a three-year run in which he robbed seven Circle Ks and had sex with over 432 women, most of them legitimate. After such an experience, he switch hit for a few years and started speaking with a New York accent, despite the fact that he was born in Cincinnati. He took up birdwatching and modeled his skill after the blue jay's one-of-a-kind signature. Raises cain.

Bass
Sasefina
Bio: Failed at the academy of illusion after being the victim of pranks perpetrated by the Depeche Mode crowd. After being labeled as a closet Scientologist, she quit the Merchant Navy and directed amateur porn for four years in New Jersey. Found a calling when she bumped her head on the toilet seat and thought of time travel. Lacking engineering skill, she learned to strum and wrote a song that purportedly caused a pulmonary embolism in her boyfriend at the time, a renowned genius piccholo player and car salesmen. Discovered Blur and started popping pills. Is an over-achiever.

Lead Vocals/Harmonica
Martin
Bio: Got straight As throughout high school and college. Received painful beatings that left scars from numerous run-ins with neighborhood ruffians. Went to church daily, prayed and loved Alabama and Dolly Parton. Was launched off Paris Island bodily by an enraged, homosexual drill instructor. Found solace in his love for aquatic mammals, moved near the ocean and almost died in a plane crash. Met a minion Galactus, the devourer of worlds, and saw through the kaliedoscope that was humanity. Blew an ounce of ketamine in 24 hours, had his stomach pumped, donned a mask and started singing like a fiend.

Check us out. Our album "LSHISMP" drops Tuesday.

Change of Pace

2005-06-17T17:10:00.000-07:00

Okay, so, this friend of mine (a seductive, alluring blonde) forwarded me the following story today. She said I inspired her to write it. Said I was just like the kid in the story. What do you think?

A kid ran away from home because his parents mistreated him daily. Everyone called him a freak. His pimples covered new ground in unsightliness; his withdrawal from normal" kids, subatomic fission. He was bad at sports, a slow speaker and shy, courteous but clumsy and often sitting by himself in the grass. Fresh spring grass if possible. Sunlight was the kid's companion.

The funny thing was that the kid knew something that no one else knew. He saw people through dim vision, corrupting the integrity of light in everything. The corrugated shadows in people formed sprightly, laughing ghosts, floating in different directions by the moods of their mornings. He grew to understand that these ethereal formations were reflections of character, and reflections of what human beings had in places that no one talks about, thinks about, writes about, and only rarely dreams about.

But he could read them. He could read people. He saw spirits unleashed, and harbingers of bad times. When his father would go out with his "buddies" the light was a malicious red and full of energy. Dangerous energy that sent the kid sprawling for an isolated darkness, where no silhouetted apparitions could haunt him.

Despite smiles from his mother, he saw an orange incandescence, pulsating with fury, ravenous with warning. She would shout and his eyes were pained. The kid closed his eyes during confrontations, which were frequent, but not because he was scared (though he was). Rather, the kid was hurting inside. A desperate aching, a desperate inner hurt. Wailing tear-stains on his inside, atrophied innocence. The physical beatings were savage.

Yet, the kid saw goodness too. Fairies and angels, pristine in their brightness, kindly, fluid. They giggled and chortled, and the kid would laugh along, losing time in solitude, rolling in the grassy shade. He knew not why.

But the bad times never ceased, and the good times conspired to elude him. So he ran away from home with nothing but a jar. An empty jar and a change of clothes. He wasn't sure where he was going, he had no vessel to get him there. He only had his lone talent, and his bitter sadness. The young boy was alone.

He was alone, but he had something beautiful, a gift that only a tortured soul would have, he saw what truly was. It's amazing how much it can hurt when everyone and everything you know and love isn't what you think or expect them to be.

He walked through the flower-covered fields searching for something pure. He picked up the blossoming lilacs and tried to make himself feel complete again. Anything tangent, that needs food or water or love. He came upon a creek, where moss grew and stones eroded. He knew that something magical was happening. At that moment, he saw her.

He was mesmerized. How could anything be so perfect and be so real at the same time? The light around her was blinding, almost so much that you couldn't see, but yet you still had to look. She was certainly aesthetically pleasing, but it was more than that. For the first time in so long he felt safe. She smiled at him and asked him to come lay with her. The kid followed. She cradled him in her arms and held him because she knew that was what he needed. He fell asleep.

In the morning he awoke to the slow, meticulous sound of the creek making its lazy course. He looked for his friend, seeing nothing but the sky. The kid began walking again, not really knowing what had happened. As he walked, his legs grew tired, and just as he stopped to rest, a hawk swooped down and tore a gash into his neck. The kid did not worry or cry. And as crows circled and devoured his flesh, he did not shudder. In fact, he didn't make a sound.

He died that night on his long walk back to nothing or no one. But when the boy was found, there was a smile on his face. The smile was not one of contempt or complacency, but of happiness.
Lying next to his mangled body was the jar. The jar was closed, but it glowed and everyone who saw it wanted to open it. Eventually someone did and what ensued was incredible. It was the purest form of perfection that one could ever know. And at that moment, the gathering that had found this young boy felt happiness. Not because he had died a horrible death, but because he had experienced what they could only see, or read about, talk about and sometimes dream about. — The LDL

Personally, I think that my powers preclude this type of event. But I appreciate the sentiments. May you have pleasant dreams tonight.

MM's haiku splendor

2005-06-17T02:17:00.000-07:00

this is your ol pal
martin mcfriend on the brink
dyin’s no livin’

whatever you do
don’t fall asleep on this night
the creep is watching

betwixt the nightmares
when ghouls return from the grave
who will save your skin?

to be sure, children
like sheep to the slaughterhouse
they will come to feed

and you won’t like it
when blood becomes your slumber
and evil your dream

the stylish clothing
and magazine subscriptions
won’t save you at all

your education
and classical upbringing
whet large appetites

for the terror lurks
in the addiction you built
in stark faithlessness

shirk material
give pennies to the street bums
cure you not, it will

yet hope finds purchase
in this twisted wreck of death
as one force protects

only say the word
he will visit through the rift
your only champion

you know this sailor
through naked sea his ship rocked
carrying him home

in glory and love
prodigal return come nigh
hark, martin mcfriend

if you don’t party
then i’ll let you come and watch
that’s freaky marty

The need for regret and repentance

2005-06-16T14:43:00.000-07:00

It has come to my attention that my past few posts have been permeated with lude references to unabashed hedonism, drug use, violence, sexual barbarism and other forms of low-rent smut. I would just like to apologize for this. I think your ol pal Marty is just tempted by the moral void that is the world wide interweb.

So in the spirit of contrition, I would like any readers out there to forgive me and celebrate with me the wholesomeness of this grand world by watching an uncensored trailer of George A. Romero's "Land of the Dead," a gruesome zombie opus that completes this brilliant series of despicably gory celluloid classics. I hope that one of these scenes makes you vomit with joy. Thanks and please run your mouse over the symbol \m/

And one more thing.

This guy is a pure genius, an honest, hard-working servant of the lord. And a man who clearly "gets it." Offer him your patronage and visit his site:

NEED A WIFE

After all, even ol Marty gets lonely so it's easy to empathize.

PS- Who wants to fucking party tonight??? Freaks are the shit!

Marty does craigslist the right way

2005-06-15T23:14:00.000-07:00

I was laying back in the extended rear of my barnhouse, when I decided I would take a night off the tranquilizers for a change. Tonight, I thought, I’m going to help someone in need. So I called an old friend of mine from the Miguel “Lige” Rodriguez School of Illusion and Puppetry. We hadn’t spoken in quite a while. Here is a brief summary of the dialogue:

Butch: Hello?

Martin: Speak to Butch?

Butch: Butch speaking.

Martin: Butch, this is Martin. How’s it goin pal?

Butch: Marty, hey buddy, how’s business?

Martin: It comes and goes. Look, I called you because I wanted to ask you if there was anything I could do for you.

Butch: That’s so thoughtful. As a matter of fact, do you have any good ideas for how a lonely, Level 2 Battle Mage can get laid in this town?

Martin: Why sure I do. I am a Class 4 Illusionist.

Butch: Holla atcha Butch, Marty.

Martin: Have you heard of Craigslist?

Butch: Why sure, but I’ve never used it.

Martin: There are many people out there looking for someone like you Butch. You still a good looking fella?

Butch: Why sure, I’ve never looked better.

Martin: Okay, give me your e-mail address. I’ll cook something up for you. A personal ad in the sex with no strings attached column. It will do wonders for you.

Butch: Marty, I owe you for this one

Martin: Take care, ol Butch.

Butch: Shakes.

So I went to work and put together the following listing for him:

Let's get fucking insane!

You wanna party with a real man? Let's get a mound of coke and go nuts. I do flips and juggle shit with blindfolds on. Afraid of being electrocuted? I'm not. I'm addicted to chloroform but get more compliments on my drinking. If you are a fucking freak and you have a couple hot friends, here's a proposal. We'll get a hotel on the Sunset Strip, a large suite, and I'll hire some entertainment. Evil clowns, two ninjas and a mule. Not one as well hung as me, but a good looking mule. After the fiireworks, we'll get into some crazy copulation. Upside down dicksucking gymnastics is what I prefer. Good hard fucking, too. Toys, tools and tits. Let's get in a morally depraved sexual K-hole! You won't regret it. Send pictures. I have more. I have a whole bunch of shit. I love LA.

A couple days later, I got a call from Butch. Here is how the conversation went:

Butch: Marty?

Martin: Yeah, this ol Butch?

Butch: Marty, I love the personal but there is a little bit of a problem. That picture is not of me. That is clearly you Martin. And besides, I live in Atlanta. What's going on here?

Martin: Aww, hell, Butch. I offer you help and then you have the gall to question the way in which I provide it? Is nothing good enough for you Butch? It was just like this back in magician training—

Butch: I'm sorry Marty, I just thought maybe you could do one for an ol pal in Atlanta.

Martin: Okay, Butch, I'll try one last time. This one should work for you.

This is how the second posting turned out:

Looking for Morphing Maiden
with Orb of Ragul Za to christen
my fiery hot scepter

Man, I'm lookin for some bitches, dog. Hit me up if you wanna fuck with this shit, yo. I got the juice and shit. We can party, get naked, get whatever. You know how we do. Holla at me if you want some love. It aint no thang and shit. Bring it, hoes, we be fuckin if you wanna get wit me. All I do is swing dick to these bitches. Damn dog. let's party and shit. Holla.

He called me back a few days later. Here is the exchange:

Butch: Marty, oh Marty man. This is incredible.

Martin: What happened man?

Butch: I have met so many women. I never knew Atlanta had so many swingers. Thanks so much buddy.

Martin: Don't ever say your ol pal Martin McFriend didn't offer a helping hand. Shakes.

This post is dedicated to my ol boy Suave because all he does is swing dick to these bitches.

I'm friendly, but this is ludicrous

2005-06-15T13:17:00.000-07:00

How can they get away with this? Something needs to be done to stop this.

WEIRDOS

Zod help these poor souls.

The Ashtray Says: I got my eat on

2005-06-15T02:06:00.000-07:00

I walked into the concert venue and ordered a beer. A Bud Light. After I drank it in two swallows, I ordered another. I looked at my watch. Plenty of time, I thought, this is gonna be alright. Sasefina, Kades, Stizamp and Satisfied75 told me they would meet me later. Just a little time I had to kill, that's all.

So I went and killed some time. Treading through the liquid arena of sweatshirts and exclusive denim, I found myself back at the concession stand. If this show was going to rock, then damn it, I was going to rock with it. I double fisted myself and made my way to a seat. A sold out show never stopped me before from sitting in range of something that might be interesting.

The couple next to me were fat people. Nothing wrong with that, but it was the most distinguishing factor they had going. That and the fact that they were smoking a joint. It smelled rank and I considered finding another seat that wasn't mine. Then the band busted out a song that was semi-introspective. So I turned to the portly guy and told him I would trade him a beer for a few hits from his little splizz.

To my surprise he handed me the joint, stood up and left, bringing his heifer with him. (By the way, I love you guys whoever the fuck you are.) I started hitting it, hotboxing it really, and found myself completely lost in the supermarket. The fruits infiltrating my vision were ripe and colorful, and all I could hear in my head was Dexy's Midnight Runner. As Wilco wailed away into the Hollywood night, I started seeing another side of things, and my hunger was born.

The hospitality room furnished meatballs and cheese, but they seemed like a stopgap to the desire deep in my loins, manifesting at the sight of these thrift store debutantes. I looked at 20-year-old jeans and wanted to surf through the space time continuum picking my teeth with the wiry flesh and bones of an exhibitionist whose taste in hipster gear diminished my own hidden lust for off-kilter surprise outfits.

Then I looked to my right. My fucking holy soul, this chick had an Air t-shirt on, and it was scrumptious looking. I wiped drool from my chin and listened as the beat rolled into something of a circus rock anthem, bleating like a drum circle hippie twisting an acclaimed noodle dance that no Native American could hope to emulate.

I slapped myself as hard as possible, considering the circumstances, and went for a walk around the open-aired venue, smelling nothing but the sweet fume of folkster, licking my lips to contain the ravenous yearning from my lower regions. Hearing a new song, both on stage and through the din of my imaginary mind-concert, I found another open seat. These people were not fat, nor were they smoking weed. But by god, were their shirts bought on Melrose? I would wager heavily on it. And once again, I was a Pavlovian dog.

I pulled the crusty remains of a roach from my new zip-up pullover with vintage fabric strands. I lit it and inhaled, tasting my own empty breath and weed. Because that taste angered me, I made a quick decision. I would have a bite to eat, and quench this stupid deficiency before it became entirely too dangerous.

Making a quick check for security guards, I pounced, dingo-like and starving. The first thing my teeth met was the jugular vein of a pretty little blue-clad girl. Her skin was salty and full of must, but fulfilling in a live show sort of way. I pulled out the better part of the young nymph's neck with my incisors, seeing the arterial spray sully my newly purchased get-up. Her boyfriend seemed envious and unhappy, so I took a full chunk out of his flailing fist, and boy did I enjoy chewing on his tender finger flesh. He tried, gingerly, to poke my eyes, but I caught the side of his cheek with an uprising chomp and swallowed the pitiful remains of his larynx. He dropped in a heap of style next to his half digested lifemate.

By this point, a full 50 square feet of the Greek theatre was shellshocked and dispersing, but as fortune would have it, Jeff Tweedy broke into a psychotic rock interlude of "War on War" and people seemed to forget the carnage that was my satisfied nourishment. I spit out the stale remains of a triple-pierced ear and ran, as fast as my long intoxicated legs could carry me, humming Echo and the Bunnymen as I fled.

I found myself back in front of the hospitality area and promptly struck up a conversation with Jason Bateman. He thought it such a kick that I was covered in blood. Secretly, I wished I could eat him, too, but I knew that I had to work tomorrow and there was only so much I could get away with on a Tuesday. So I settled for a piece of Brie and a Dos Equis, smiling provocatively at a young girl who was a busty version of Helena Bonham Carter.

Needless to say, I was left helpless and alone, dripping gore and picking human debris from the gap between my 23rd and 24th molars. My human jukebox started up again, this time synchronizing Wilco's encore with the Rapture's House of Jealous Lovers, and I was reminded of the lonely sorcerer that I have become. I took a nap on a bench, was woken by Sasefina and made my way home to a warm, welcoming computer. This is where I stand.

Thankfully, my eye infection isn't contagious. Otherwise, the poor souls at the thrift store would be in grave danger.

By the way, a quick shout out to the IRS. Without you, I wouldn't have this glut for human meat and sinew...which tastes great with diet Pepsi, salted squash and New Order on the iPod. Bedtime for bonzo.

Shakes.

A Trip Into the Nether Regions: An Origin of Martin McFriend

2005-06-13T22:15:00.000-07:00

Some time ago, when I was still new to the sprawl of Los Angeles, I made a stunning discovery that is partially responsible for my metamorphosis from a straight-laced white kid out of the Georgian peidmont to the subhuman creature you now know as Martin McFriend. Until that point, I had never been to the Hollywood Hills and it was only through Bob Seger and late-night television that my perspective had any realistic design.

At the time, I was under the ludicrous impression that the Sky Bar was a cool place to hang out, and like a bovine lummox, I spent an evening on the patio, carrousing with other glamorous idiots. If I had it to do over again, knowing what I know now, I have no idea whether I would still have left my Koreatown apartment that night, but essentially, this is what happened:

I was invited to an afterparty in "the hills," and accepted with gracious drunken joy. It would be my first of many ensuing sojourns into that detestable world, but never would any top this one. In a Victorian manor of a house, I wandered the spiraling corridors aimlessly, peeking into rooms and spilling vodka where I tread. The place was dark, and so expansive that the masquerade in the main hall could scarcely be heard in many rooms. Then I came to a dim room with a low buzz behind the door.

Entering with virginal caution, I came face-to-face with a voluptuous gothic beauty, standing formidable and alone before me. I excused myself awkwardly, fearing I had interrupted something. After finding my way back to the balcony, I was stunned by the speechlessness of the gathering. No one said a word, choosing to mingle in silence, glowing faces trancelike in the sodium backlight from a row of neon bulbs.

I made another drink and moved into the fresh air, feeling the sting of voyeur eyes on my back. I knew before turning that it was her, and as I tried to speak, I found my voice trumped by a rising wind from below the mezzanine. She said hello and moved close enough that I could smell her breath. Taking my glass, she drank greedily, dropping it to the floor when finished. I was spellbound.

She grabbed my hand and led me back into the labyrinth of stucco and brick, taking us down two levels and finding a plush bedroom with an another eerie organ hum to it. We sat, and she looked at me for awhile. After several minutes of this madness, ones in which I had trouble keeping my eyes from this freakish, sexual specimen, she said she wanted to share something with me. I nodded my assent, the first coherent communication I had managed in what seemed like hours.

She pulled one of these from a handbag and my soul was stretched thin in two tokes time. Then she began to whisper and weave tales of intrigue and death. Her words unglued my thoughts, and I found myself hypnotized by the speech.

One story of note involved an insidious plot to kill a man who had overstepped his marital bounds. It would be a quick, bloody stabbing and departure operation, an idea she got from Roman Polanski, who she claimed to telepathically commune with on occasion. Before long, I was woozy and she held my swimming head hard against her bosom, assuring me that protection was available from the coming swarm.

The intercourse came like a dream, of the psychedelic variety, and all I will ever remember about it was the horrible, unceasing drone of machinery and laser fire. When I regained consciousness, I lay alone in my own bed on a beautiful, smogless SoCal morning. I felt certain that I was still at the house in the hills when I last knew reality, but my acquaintance could not have been responsible for getting me home. I decided to forget about the whole thing, instead choosing to be proud to have fornicated with such a beautiful siren.

Two days later, while straightening up my room, I came across a frayed sheet of parchment. The handwriting was beautiful, and the words seemed to glide. This is what it said:

Scion of time, you must heed this warning. In the dark reaches of the mind, everyone possesses a subtle curiosity about mutilation, torture and death as a means of control. Most turn a blind eye, or subdue it with solid resolve and faith in their nameless gods. But it is within these buried thoughts of debauchery that people can find a gateway to alternative release. Regarded as witchcraft in some sects, or insanity on educated earth, a disassociation with worldliness carries with it arcane meanings. Behind smiles and handshakes exists a spirituality based on a greater respect for the ambrosia that is life, though it is attained only from destruction of the visceral.

The archons that control us line up in numerous factions. The sociopolitical earthlings who hold elected office represent only the crust of this manipulative hierarchy. True authorities wait much higher, and their agendas are more sinister. Consider the world of dreams, hallucinations, déjà vu, drug trips, near-death experiences and religious awakenings. These are the paper-thin planes through which this surreptitious yet stately lynch mob can be glimpsed, tinkering with humanity’s machinery. In waking life, the clues to its presence are glimpsed only with extreme delicacy.

Knowing this, I have uncovered a mass marketing campaign forged by these powers, and it has scared me to my bitter soul. Their efforts, which are kept at bay only by a distraction more powerful than their own society (I will later elaborate), aim to rule us for their own insidious needs. I can only say that we are being harvested to become soldiers for a cataclysmic battle, and our own social entropy is predominantly their device by which they both train and recruit the wickedest, most blood-savvy warriors. It has, to the best of my estimates, been going on since the earliest days of mankind.

So I tell you this with grave concern. You are in danger. My only gift is to give you a venerable contact, someone who can help you see the truth. Call her at WITHHELD. Her name is WITHHELD. God speed to you Joseph.

Shakes.

Not long after, I made the phone call. I touched base with the emmissary. I became part of the guild. After three years of cloistered study, I emerged safe and 'protected' as something new. Something more powerful in spirit, and ever-thirsting for more dark knowledge. I am now prepared for the impending war. I am ready to face stark pandemonium. I am Martin McFriend.

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." — Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 5

This is very important

2005-06-13T00:11:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine, henceforth known as Youngling #1 (he can be seen in a major motion picture rapidly descending on a theatre near you...more on that later), sent me the following communique today. I felt obliged to include it on this posting. It goes like this here:

Martin,

Here are the pics with Tony Cox. Feel free to
include them in your blog, thus immortalizing me in
cyberspace. If you write up a little piece for the
pics you should keep in mind the following details:
1. The encounter occured at the 7-11 by CCA
[editor's note: CCA is a wretched hive of scum and villainy
that can be explored by clicking here]
2. Some random woman in a car next to me offered up
her camera
3. I had to help my new dwarf friend reach his drinks

And, for the record, he was cool as shit. A
really friendly vertically challenged african american
dwarf. I feel that must be noted.
Take it sleazy,
C Murda

Good reporting Youngling #1. Martin is expecting great things from you.

The Sabbath, a time to give thanks

2005-06-12T23:06:00.000-07:00

I'm thankful for the simple pleasures in life. Take shamanism, for example. If I hadn't been able to cast good fortune spells, I cannot imagine what my weeks would be like. And for that matter, if it wasn't for llama wool, my cloaks would not be so comfy. In Utopia, it is said, men and women were happy by only fulfilling the most basic of needs, separated from the troubling interferences of capitalistic endeavor and coveting the neighbor's wife. One of the simple, yet infinitely pleasurable gems of Utopian life, Thomas Moore imagined, was, of course, relieving an excess. I'm thankful for that, too.

I'm also very thankful for low-hanging fruit, such as the luminescent genius of Tommy Burger. Who is this fucking guy and how could he have conceived of something so magical? As a distinguished illusionist, I am nothing short of astonished that this is available with chili cheese fries and a big gulp for somewhere in the neighborhood of $7.50. Though times are tough with those fucking Coldplay clowns selling out so many venues, I consider it money well spent.

After another long weekend of run of the mill depravity, it's nice to look back on the things that give life flavor. In the last 72 hours, there was both bad and good. Good: doing a show-stopping karaoke version of Only the Good Die Young. Bad: being stonewalled singing Been Caught Stealing. Good: Raucous sex with divorcees. Bad: losing $50 in pool to a retirement aged Chinese lady (and $10 to a guy on mushrooms.) Good: finding a cigarette under the couch in the morning. Bad: forgetting to eat for two days and coughing blood. Good: performing an impromptu puppet show on Lincoln Blvd. Bad: being arrested for it. I appreciate all of these mundane treasures with equal passion.

I'm not entirely sure why, but I am also quite thankful for this guy. Just knowing that he is out there makes me not ever want a girlfriend again. In fact, I'm close to confident that he has been hand fed grapes by at least two of my ex-girlfriends.

Well, let it be known that I am no ingrate. For these things and more, I am thankful.

Shakes,

MM

Oh yeah, and a special shout out to the LDL. Good times were channeled.

I am the ancient mariner and not in Xanadu

2005-06-11T18:10:00.000-07:00

Kings fall, water evaporates, people do things that were always expected. Especially when they're day drunk. But sometimes, yes, sometimes you find that little bit of pure energy, that untamed, unchecked and undeveloped power pulsating in someone or something and you only want to harvest it and develop it, and then, damn, you have a project.

Well, I found that project. She was so cute in an Indie rocker sort of way. Hmm, let's recite, Parliament Lights? Check. Lives in Silverlake? Check. She has bangs? Check. She has an Apple computer (so do I but that is irrelevant) and wears Brooklyn sweatshirts. She says she's an artist, (she's got everything she needs, she don't look back?) and quite honestly, I've never seen her work. Her musical tastes are so hipster, and by god, I'm sure she doesn't like the way the Administration operates. Oh yeah, and she loves Stephen Malkmus. What could Martin McFriend possibly offer to this chick? And can I get her to acknowledge and expose the hotness she could become?

Well, let's just say that when I asked her out, she was skeptical, but maybe it was that carnival charm to which she capitulated. Well, I was a little worried. You know, just nervous and thinking that maybe I couldn't impress her. I needed help. I needed to call a friend. Someone with the heavy artillery. My illusions only go so far. Doing five 20-inch rails in succesion doesn't impress everyone, after all. But, well, this is how it went down.

Dinner, uhh, well, fuck it, let's get to the drinking. My buddy came by ten minutes after I picked up this cute, thin little t-shirt wearing chestnut. I figured he would help take the edge off like Orko did for the Masters of the Universe. Things were going swimmingly. I mean, she passed the Trivial Pursuit challenge with flying colors and, man, did I cherish those lips of hers. (By the way, how the frack did she answer that question about Spirew Agnew?) I found myself flat out, yep, smitten. Maybe I had been overtaken by this obscure beauty, this aspiring songwriter who seemingly didn't understand that there is a world in between LA and NYC. And hell, maybe there wasn't that night. I sure as hell didn't give a...

But then something happened on the way to that astral plane of romance, and it wasn't us running out of weed. My friend, who I had invited in the hopes that he could help:

Well, I'm not clear whether or not he was on my side in this skirmish of sexual agendas. Suddenly I noticed her taking quite an interest in the fruity bastard. Would I have been concerned about that before this picture was taken? I don't know. And fuck, who took this picture and why? My god, it was crumbling. My statements were humbly ignored. The rasberry salad I had worked so hard on was nothing but a clown's prop. Things were really spiraling downward when she told him he was so fit and his hands were soft. What? Did I hear that right?

Okay, so the development of her potential didn't look like it was going so well when he gave her a ride home. Okay, I cleaned up the house by myself. Okay, I owned Q-Movies that night. But damn, aren't there any surprises? Couldn't it have been better for Martin? Don't I have the illusions that these ladies love? How bout some help hipster chicks? If you have a stone that needs to be cut, I guarantee it will be so. Just hit me up at Marty. Who knows, maybe it could be our night? Or your night. Or mine.

Shakes.

Feelin' Groovy

2005-06-10T16:52:00.000-07:00

Martin McFriend doesn't show his real face very often, but I just couldn't resist on this one. For the record, this is me...

...NIFOC

(NAKED IN FRONT OF COMPUTER)

"Way to go Paula!"

2005-06-10T15:10:00.000-07:00

Because of the sensitive nature of this story and its potential effects on the reputations of people who consider themselves legitimate, functioning members of upper social strata, I will omit all names. As for me, I’m Martin McFriend. You know how I roll.

One of my brothers is getting married in August. We’ve been talking a lot about the plans for this Vegas wedding extravaganza (which will be his second), but I can’t keep my mind from slipping back to the last time the poor fucker got hitched. It was July of 2002. And we threw one hell of a bachelor party. A legend in its own right.

The night started off with the normal bachelor party fare – booze, strippers, fat Columbian guys and ex-baseball playing pimps. (By the way, has there ever been a stripper pimp who wasn’t some sort of ex-athlete? I swear I’ve never met one.) From there things got downright nasty. To start off the festivities, one man took a header on the balcony of the grand class suite at Hotel Bel Age in West Hollywood. From 10 floors up, the puking became forceful, and innocent passersby on the Sunset strip could not have been happy to discover this fact. The funny thing is that the incident escalated to involve beer bottles, urination and other debris expunged from the unruly hotel room.

When the rest of us decided to hit the bars, we split into several groups. My group, which included the man of honor, got into a vicious fistfight with a rowdy Persian sect in the street in front of the Saddle Ranch. Though it was bloody and I lost a shirt in the battle, by night’s end, the situation was more or less forgotten.

Another group, composed of at least some other combination of knockdown drunks, fell in with some Russian ladies, who kept the party going with incessant drug trips to the bathroom. After numerous bars, shots and unspeakable drug use, we returned to the hotel for a little late-night CCA-style partying. It wasn’t long before I looked around the room to see four men left standing, including me. It was late, and we are drunk people, so it was with joint surprise that we heard a knock on the door. Answering it, we watched, spellbound, as a young woman entered and asked if we wouldn’t mind sharing a drink with her. Umm, okay, come on in, we said, and handed her a beer.

It was with utter consternation and awe that we realized our unexpected guest was none other than Debra Winger, and that signified the start of a true Instant Classic. Now, I’m pretty uninhibited, but I do have a shred or two of class and wouldn't want to provide all the details. So instead I’ll just say that “BUKKAKE!” became a common chant that night, and after we pulled down the shades to block out the rising sun, Debra’s nude figure continued to dance on, and in fact, is still dancing in my head today. The four of us had separated into two groping, licking factions when the debauchery began, but we will forever stand together in the beauty of that perversion. May my big brother be married many, many more times. Here Here.

This story is dedicated to the Sheriff, a true prince among men, and a formidable party gag of a friend. May Zod bless you and keep you.