10.25.2011
10.18.2011
NOTE: Run-On King
While revising my fiction work from the last year, prepping some things for sending out, I came upon this sentence out of Bridge, Tunnel -- what a crazy long sentence. I can't figure out if it is technically correct or not. It is like a stranger wrote it.
SHE LIVED on West 38th, State Residence, well-protected by cops and military, GuvHaus, the helipad kids in her building called it, (as did Roger) -- these whiz kids, who worked the State landing site at the park, stopped inviting her to the roof to smoke hash after Roger came around; they'd wine and dope, and watch humvees, and put bets on how long the lights would stay on, and on the nights the neighborhood power went down, they would lay against the rough tar of the roof, and wait for the stars to color in as light realigned to old bearings, and they would chant as if they were Indians out of the island's biography corresponded to visible stars.
SHE LIVED on West 38th, State Residence, well-protected by cops and military, GuvHaus, the helipad kids in her building called it, (as did Roger) -- these whiz kids, who worked the State landing site at the park, stopped inviting her to the roof to smoke hash after Roger came around; they'd wine and dope, and watch humvees, and put bets on how long the lights would stay on, and on the nights the neighborhood power went down, they would lay against the rough tar of the roof, and wait for the stars to color in as light realigned to old bearings, and they would chant as if they were Indians out of the island's biography corresponded to visible stars.
10.11.2011
ACE: 1999
10.10.2011
10.08.2011
COUSIN CHAZZ IN LOVE: 2. The Hillbilly Speedball
Previously on Chazz In Love:
(A boy sheep-herd got a doomsday message on his smart phone; rough and tumble Hillbilly crank-cookers prepped shotguns and trucks; while it hasn't been totally explained, it seems to have something to do with the lovely and dangerous Momia Juanita, and her showing baby bump. But, alas, she may have perished in a meth-lab explosion. Now to SCENE TWO, and the Introduction of OUR HERO)
10.05.2011
10.04.2011
COMICAL: Divine Knickers: The Norman Clature Story
(Below a bizarre excerpt from a fake book on a wholly fictitious competition of cult-like insult comics in Kansas, 1931.)
".. three kinds of players in the cutthroat world of competitive nicknaming: the Easterners, those Appalachians of appellation; improvisers of a style likened to the rat-a-tat of a Thompson gun in their titling; men like West Apple Johnson and Saco Sam Miltfill, who ran the circuit for years, coining thousands of nicks still used today, and not one of them capable of writing their own Christian name; then are there the learn'd men; the university wits who, leaving their ivory towers to travel the gravel, originally took up the back alley game of nicking to test themselves in mastery of the true word of this young countryside -- men like Dr. Alex Messersniff, from a long line of linguists, and an acolyte of Theodius Cram, he took his skills to the nick competition; his books, his theories, he tested against the ingenuity of this cousin'd brethren of the hillside, and often beat them at their game.
-- The final grouping is but the one man: Norman Clature. In his own lifetime he was mythology in the ginmills and opi-dens of the nicking underworld, for in his uncanny gift were the souls of men disrobed of self-serving accouterments. What's in a name indeed..." -- ELBERG WITHERSPOON --
EXCERPT:
THE 1931 WORLD TOURNEY OF NAME GIVING MANHATTAN, KANSAS
-- So it was Norman Clature returned to the tourney for the first time in seventeen seasons. Old now, pocked and rancid with whiskey sweat, still the young ones looked on his entrance into the old stone hall with giddiness; here was he suited to a painting on the wall rather than to sit with them and share beans and cigarettes, and drink with them. It came that a Mississippian called Tom Dunn approached him, and before the rest, made to test Clature in a pre-tournament spat. Here is how it has come down to us:
--"I say Norman, you're looking like the old canvas banners illustrated with your visage, we, as boys, spent hours staring up at, at the fairgrounds. But maybe I am seduced to this thought by the smell of you, Old Hat! I call you, Yeasty Carnival Butter!"
-- The crowd of men went silent as senators to Caesar. It was something as kin to decrying God. Tom Dunn, feeling the room near convulse, attacked on, "Your capillaceous and royal-hued nose shows your business in the last years -- a Bourbonic Plague, I name thee, Sir!"
-- Small laughter spoke out of the halo of men. Tom Dunn meant to kill the old man here, before Norman could be a threat in the tournament that would soon begin, and where men would test themselves as to who could brand the other with the finest insult in the language; it was high alchemy, and, (even a washed up), Norman Clature was not a thing to feel sympathy for. Cheer him for what he was, and he might think himself it again, if for just a little while.
"You, Norman, come to us, we as your children, my good man; but after all these years, you've come as but a sad shell spent in a shot awry -- I name thee Piss-skin of the Forest! A bullet of urine, missing every tree!"
-- Here it was that Norman Clature, with the arthritic spiders that were his hands, rolled a smoke, lit it, and contemplated Tom Dunn, while all the rest waited his reply.
-- Norman Clature said, "You have drempt this since you were a little boy, Tom. But as I am old you thinks I am ripe. I am not so ripe. I am as sour and tough as an old cock o'the yard. Heed me, I will crow soon enough, and when I do, you will, in the auditory, relinquish your other senses to me: I will have you smell the fecal waters of the Nile; I will have you spy the trees of a Gaulic winter closing in on you; I will have you taste your own cold panic as it sweats inward and condensates on the roof of your mouth. You will feel your liver for the first time with this poison I have for you. Know this: I will name thee, Boy! You ladies loan, you wizard fart, you tankard of peppermilk; I name thee Tomcat Foldpants, for in this is the parallel of such a voracious nature as thou hath! Your appetite hath made you womanly, and all around are you merited for a folder of other men's garments!"
-- And in this was the nicking career of Tom Dunn ended, and that of Clature reborn.
".. three kinds of players in the cutthroat world of competitive nicknaming: the Easterners, those Appalachians of appellation; improvisers of a style likened to the rat-a-tat of a Thompson gun in their titling; men like West Apple Johnson and Saco Sam Miltfill, who ran the circuit for years, coining thousands of nicks still used today, and not one of them capable of writing their own Christian name; then are there the learn'd men; the university wits who, leaving their ivory towers to travel the gravel, originally took up the back alley game of nicking to test themselves in mastery of the true word of this young countryside -- men like Dr. Alex Messersniff, from a long line of linguists, and an acolyte of Theodius Cram, he took his skills to the nick competition; his books, his theories, he tested against the ingenuity of this cousin'd brethren of the hillside, and often beat them at their game.
-- The final grouping is but the one man: Norman Clature. In his own lifetime he was mythology in the ginmills and opi-dens of the nicking underworld, for in his uncanny gift were the souls of men disrobed of self-serving accouterments. What's in a name indeed..." -- ELBERG WITHERSPOON --
EXCERPT:
THE 1931 WORLD TOURNEY OF NAME GIVING MANHATTAN, KANSAS
-- So it was Norman Clature returned to the tourney for the first time in seventeen seasons. Old now, pocked and rancid with whiskey sweat, still the young ones looked on his entrance into the old stone hall with giddiness; here was he suited to a painting on the wall rather than to sit with them and share beans and cigarettes, and drink with them. It came that a Mississippian called Tom Dunn approached him, and before the rest, made to test Clature in a pre-tournament spat. Here is how it has come down to us:
--"I say Norman, you're looking like the old canvas banners illustrated with your visage, we, as boys, spent hours staring up at, at the fairgrounds. But maybe I am seduced to this thought by the smell of you, Old Hat! I call you, Yeasty Carnival Butter!"
-- The crowd of men went silent as senators to Caesar. It was something as kin to decrying God. Tom Dunn, feeling the room near convulse, attacked on, "Your capillaceous and royal-hued nose shows your business in the last years -- a Bourbonic Plague, I name thee, Sir!"
-- Small laughter spoke out of the halo of men. Tom Dunn meant to kill the old man here, before Norman could be a threat in the tournament that would soon begin, and where men would test themselves as to who could brand the other with the finest insult in the language; it was high alchemy, and, (even a washed up), Norman Clature was not a thing to feel sympathy for. Cheer him for what he was, and he might think himself it again, if for just a little while.
"You, Norman, come to us, we as your children, my good man; but after all these years, you've come as but a sad shell spent in a shot awry -- I name thee Piss-skin of the Forest! A bullet of urine, missing every tree!"
-- Here it was that Norman Clature, with the arthritic spiders that were his hands, rolled a smoke, lit it, and contemplated Tom Dunn, while all the rest waited his reply.
-- Norman Clature said, "You have drempt this since you were a little boy, Tom. But as I am old you thinks I am ripe. I am not so ripe. I am as sour and tough as an old cock o'the yard. Heed me, I will crow soon enough, and when I do, you will, in the auditory, relinquish your other senses to me: I will have you smell the fecal waters of the Nile; I will have you spy the trees of a Gaulic winter closing in on you; I will have you taste your own cold panic as it sweats inward and condensates on the roof of your mouth. You will feel your liver for the first time with this poison I have for you. Know this: I will name thee, Boy! You ladies loan, you wizard fart, you tankard of peppermilk; I name thee Tomcat Foldpants, for in this is the parallel of such a voracious nature as thou hath! Your appetite hath made you womanly, and all around are you merited for a folder of other men's garments!"
-- And in this was the nicking career of Tom Dunn ended, and that of Clature reborn.
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