Your speed is astronomical, as they say, and there are many asteroids between Space Mountain and the gift shop. This is a moment in which refinancing is not an option given the global market structure. Pretty sure that Walt always liked snakes with good credit, grinning as he must be from the comfortable remove of history. The staff is cordial, even to the reptiles, directing them to the WC and the Heineken tent. You really want to go to Space Mountain?— they’re eyes seem to implore you, challenge you with their glaze. Pluto works in poor conditions, he has been due for a walk for some time. And Goofy has since withdrawn to a state of isolation, his self-deprecation, which seemed so amusing at one time, has become caustic and pathetic, crippling, paralyzing. He lights the third Gauloise Leger of the morning, his coughing light and miserable. “It is sad to see your old friend so broken,” one of the snakes remarks, you-know-like eating an apple of some sort and waiting behind you in line. The adventure will cost you 150 Euros. You owe the snakes something in the order of 200 Euro a month. They are identical twins, these two, and they read each other’s thoughts. Fluency in English, Spanish, French, German, and Italian. But the continent is quickly on the road to obsolescence in the global market. Russian oligarchs own many of the mightiest soccer teams. The Chinese are the new Killer Bees or something equally trumped up by media outlets, pundits, and American drunks in Irish Bars all over the world. “Football,” corrects the second snake, former chairman of several terribly prestigious Arts Foundations. These snakes are aware of Walt Disney’s legacy, grinning as the old man must be from that warm old blanket of history. Which dog did you relate to more, Goofy, glove wearing and holding the leash, or Pluto, happily getting himself involved in some sort of slapstick comedy? You are close to the front of the line, now, though the French seem to pronounce it ‘coup.’ The snakes would love to loan you 20 to 30 thousand Euro, they are telling you. Consider it an investment in your future, for doubtless your quality of life will become more expensive. This is your last vacation to Euro Disney— a bitter realization— and so you are inadvertently squeezing your half-empty plastic cup of Heineken. The snakes scold you for urinating on a small boy from Sweden. They tighten their handless grip on your leash. They whip you menacingly but painlessly with their tails. You are hoping there will be food, soon.
by Daniel Stein
Wouldn’t we all like to think we are in Bob Dylan’s subconscious? Have you been there, too? Lord, I’ve been there for seven years. I don’t like it here. Everything is dictated by choice, on top of that, there is Taco Tuesday—aiding and abetting the non chalance to the point of madness. How many tacos can you eat before you have eaten a cow? I’m worried. I’d like to establish that in words: the fact that I’m worried, that I’m not entirely sure, but I’m addicted to sunflower seeds and cigars, to the point where Freud is now my midget. Is that a term we don’t speak of? Like faggot or nigger? Midget. Sing, Midget! is what I yell because the norm has dictated that it is wrong. Yes, I’ve said all those words. So have you. Lets not blush anymore, but get back to the topic at hand: we are dealing with a very poignant album called Blood on the Tracks, and you have to wonder at all times how much Love—and I don’t mean the band, because everyone hates Arthur Lee for transcendence—manifests itself in every day life, and in moments where we have no love. Blood… is a heartbreak album. But are my ideas of love and heartache obscured to the point that I accept the Dylan to be my god? Am I such a pariah that my skull breaks? The truth: only Mulder knows, and I’m convinced his sister was abducted by my Uncle Paul, a known pedophile in most states. The truth: if you can hear this, well, we’ve made it somewhat to an epiphany. That’s all we can hope for. That, and our ability to endure. I like it here, though. It’s dark, in the not-knowing-and-talking-out-of-me-arse; but, I like how dark it is. We are striving for the Aztec ruins; I’ve been there: swam against its beaten shore. You know what I realized? We need to play with our own skulls more. So, as the lights dim down, we must continue the dramaturgy, and if I like how dark it is, you must like it, too. The dark, my friends, is getting darker. The suspense is killing me. I hope it lasts.
Anything you want, and you will want for the heat has fried any pretensions of civility. Not a calm and quiet progression at all, not a furnace but a wet heat, a leaking dog tongue, oh careful honey you dropped your ice-cream cone and now it’s a puddle. Not a Joe Strummer that is not dead, no, he just learned how to play jazz. Long live the jazz bureaucracy of groove and swing. Long live the sweating bells of yonder horn section. They are making a bomb in the shape of the changes. The clothing is a framing device shoplifted from “Shoplifting from American Apparel.” The body is at stake, but it is not life or death that is this side of distraction. Or digression for that matter. A self inflating mattress has been mentioned in passing to me twice in one week. But only on odd numbered days of the Julian Calendar. Or is it Gregorian. There is a significance in this, the universe trying to send me a message, gesturing at me frantically and fruitlessly. Some call it the Tao. Let us then meditate.
Somewhere in the grand machinery of this pocket sized container, there is a Little Meditation that I have Created. Do not bring your thoughts. Get tuned into the leaf and the swollen throat’s mucus build up. Refocus into a throttled inhale. Who are you O questioning New Age Angel? What have they done to you, was it a low dose miracle? Do you hear that crunch? You will have to make several core changes to my attitude. Dry them out, these moments of pure being, peel them first. Save the husks, chop finely. It is time, repeat to yourself, it is time.
To enjoy the youth you missed you must become a young swinger. Tattoo will not be able to advise you. It is never too late on Fantasy Island, the point being. “Welcome,” says the white suit, the bow-tie, “Welcome,” a half empty piǹa-colada, to his friend, Kenny Loggins. Let us see what mermaid swims below, if she is in fact ‘that’ kind of mermaid. It is as if tropical paradise could not accommodate the terrestrial, if Mr. Rourke’s manner is anything to go by. He is floating equidistant from every glass. Tattoo gets interested in art to attract females, he tells me, but I digress, we should meet our guests.
This is a very special fantasy cake, it comes complete with the objectification of the female form, hence its size.
This is a man who has been engaged for two years, but who will instead marry someone else for love not money. He says his name is Tao Lin, but we have reason to believe otherwise.
This is, oh well yes, we already met him, Kenny Loggins. He is looking for some inspiration on our island, Tattoo, and we should help him. His songwriting speaks to your fantasy, smooth and molded into abstraction, to boost your confidence. Sad that he has lost his own. There is an acoustic guitar next to the cabana, clothing optional. He’ll be alright, he will become Ethel Merman and therefore immortal and able to breathe underwater.
For it is the best fantasy of all, in the end, that you are looking for and of course the beauty queen will tell you that this is reality. We know better than the golden age of romance, better than Don Juan, feeling scrumptious and wanting to kiss the world. It is not love that conquers all, see, it is a golf-course in Los Angeles.
leaving streaks and footprints of shit the color of themselves behind.
You lost some hearing in your left ear in a bet with someone you thought was the devil, which is funny because you tell people at parties that you are atheist. At its peak, between 2005 and 2007, some estimated over ten-thousand individuals living and one would suppose dying inside that wall. You will have to clear out the shelves. Dump out the crowded drawers. There are several kinds of disinfectant, none of which you own, but which come complete with helpful suggestions. This spray bottle is covered in eggs, their glistening little promises. It is best to stomp loudly, and not be alarmed if there is physical contact. Papa Roach goatees reportedly on the uptick under the refrigerator. What is that stuck to the tiles? Is this a cabinet or a roach motel with a paper towel stuck to it? In an era where impartial fathers are the third most common shadowy motivation behind most musical projects, is hope possible without fucking Bono? They are at least crawling in the walls. In the recesses. Between the teeth asymmetrically placing superglue in hair. The bait is what poisons pet sounds at last. The plaster is crumbling for reasons to be reassembled later when you ask: “Do we even have to discuss every detail to death?” Where there are crumbs you will find us gnawing at mystery pieces of crust, dangling crust, crust encrusted &c. And still we have forgotten our Christina to the point where we wonder if maybe she had to change her name. Perhaps she is squatting in Seattle or some such coastal extremity in its steady showers. Its fog. An experienced dumpster diver’s handbook is always by her side. I, too, saw her safety-pin upon entry. You could say, “I was no longer ashamed, then, I felt like I was part of something” but, thank Ivonna B. Yourdogness, you don’t.
by Robert Tumas
The Nang investigated something earlier. We heard him. We are input creatures of malfeasance and habit forming matriculation- don’t investigate further, Nang, you are afraid of the human race as a mass, you’re self inflicted cataracts- and that lamp shade is looking rather skeptical, now, right? Don’t be alarmed, Nang, you tiny creature, wotsit. The Nang is all kingly when perfect pepper of the rain drops cascade about in his emotion hole. The Nang has to go answer some emails from his fans and his agents. The Nang wants to meet everyone and doesn’t care about it too much. The fact that you’re a cutter. Also, beadles eating bobbins and don’t let’s forget about all the different things that Nang might do in New York City, or if one was feeling adventurous might do, with a lamp shade especially, if Nang took the train, no wait, no, no, better yet! a bus! from the Port of the Authority, to New Jersey where one might live in Newark for a brief period of time, the Nang did, all the while keeping in touch with the Nang via his blogger page with his foosle crapper widgets and the partial authority of a dejected youth. This is the generation! Don’t you get it, Nang? We are children of a depression-gong! We are feeling everything so poignantly! But we feel nothing at all! The depression gives us rights, Nang! The depression is everything, it is an exultant rainbow over our tired artistic failure. Embrace it.
There’s an app for that.
Nang will not pay his phone bill. Nang does not fear the reaper. Nang will never understand why his parents have real jobs and plenty of money to spend on fancy vacations. Nang will feel so important some times and then feel totally not important at other times. Sometimes the Nang feels like he wants to eat something really greasy, and then sometimes he feels like he should be a vegetarian and make up for his inbred guilt. Some things, Nang feels. The Nang feels like he wants to poop. So he does. But there are other times when the Nang feels like, instead of pooping, or, like, using the bathroom or something, the Nang would rather just sit there, or make his bed. Because the Nang doesn’t always have to poop, at least not on Wednesdays when his agent always calls him and tells him great stuff, and tells him about how he shouldn’t poop so much in public. The Nang likes to talk to his agent because he knows so much about how to move his mouth in ways that make sound that make words that make meaning that make mouth farts that make everyone turn their heads on the Bus to Newark because the Nang is yelling about coodle buns and little titty bikinis and there are more than enough popper penguins to go around, ferchrissakes. Live a little fat Americans! The Nang doesn’t need this shit anymore. The Nang is just going to write a book and get it out of the way. Fuck you. Nang out.
We are not wearing enough gas masks, instead attempting to breathe without extraneous effort as the dust kicks up and gets in our eyes. Well, first the eyes, first point of entry, first contact in a Jodie Foster wig, this is the kind of thing that will spread if it is not treated. There is noise better far than you are. This is actually mostly about Elvis, a banana sandwich, cinnamon hits nostrils, hits horn section, hits big bang all over the place and but please no Vegas. We are dreamers, even if our dreams eject from our bodies at over 100 mph. Hurricane speed is meant merely as illustration, not an appropriate metaphorical construct, to which, it is fair to say, that the spray hits your face no less a typhoon. Benadryl is probably just as much a problem as raw dust mite. Pass the peanut-butter, I’m allergic. Have a drink of hypochondriac. It is a good vintage. We are singing ourselves back to sleep, or are we sleeping ourselves into song. Tiny distinctions, tickling, spreading in prickly flashes across our faces. Is this sneeze threshold? How about now? Can you sneeze me now?