Razee on LJ

The Rime of the Ancient Tinker's Bell

Dear Diary~

Today, the monster won. I really hate when that happens. Silence has become my best friend. Maybe someday soon, we will get to know each other again. I will wander off to the garage for a cigarette and wonder if you will be here, when I get back. You make me sick.
Razee on LJ

(no subject)

Nobody’s Diary

If I wait for just a second more

I know that I will forget

What I came here for

My head was so full

Of things to say

But as I opened my lips

All my words slip away

And anyway….

I can’t believe you want to turn the page

And move your life into another stage

You can change the chapter

You can change the book

But the story remains the same

If you take a look

For the time we had,

I don’t want to be

A page in your diary, babe

For the good and the bad

I don’t want to see

Another page in your diary

Perhaps if I held you,

I could win again

I could take your hands

We’d talk and maybe then

That look in your eyes

I always recognize

Would tell me everything

Is going to be fine

You are going to be mine

For a long time.

For the time that we had

I don’t want to be

A page in your diary, babe

For the good and bad,

I don’t want to be

Just another page in your diary

For the happy and sad

I don’t want to be

Just another page in your history.

- Yazoo (Vince Clark and Alison Moyet)

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Razee on LJ

Drama is such an Ugly Thing

I am not talking about good drama, like the drama you might see at a play, in a movie, or (heaven forbid) on the television. I am referring to the drama played out in chatrooms and through bloggers throughout the world; and the drama-laced emails that go shambling down the information super on-ramps, onto super-duper byways and into mailboxes like timebombs sent from Montana psychopaths. You know it is bad when you have to leave the divorce negotiations over chatrooms and Live Journal entries to the Liars-for-Hire.

I have to get my penis out of the computer, but it seems to be stuck. Yanking and pulling with all of my might, all that remains is a bunch of bloody scars and a three-and-one-half floppy disk that will never be the same. Yet, some people wonder why I have refused to write, regulated my presence, and packed my bags for the real world.


  • Current Mood
    apathetic apathetic
Razee on LJ

(no subject)

Alice Wisdom


Once upon a time, and all good stories start with Once upon a time, there was a little old woman named Alice Wisdom, who lived in a trash dumpster stashed behind the McMall. She would spend the early morning foraging for food around the Wal-Donalds, feasting on the half-eaten hamburgers and abandoned French fries in the bottom of the sack. Around noon, she would begin wandering around the aisles of the Wal-Donalds. She would pretend to shop, and meanwhile, change her clothes, and eat from the various sample trays scattered around the hyper-supermarket. The building was so large that she was rarely discovered, and if she were, she would be politely escorted to the door and sent on her way. On most days, after eating her way through the grocery section, she would find a nice tent display and take an afternoon nap among the mannequins and camping equipment. Once, a customer, who was checking out the tents for room, awakened her. As he looked down at Alice sleeping contently, his head half in and half out of the tent, a look of shock swept across his face. Alice probably would not have even heard the man and awakened with a start, if it had not been time for her soap opera, which she watched religiously every day, on fifteen television screens, after switching all of the channels on the televisions in the electronics department. After staring at each other for a few seconds, the customer quickly zipped up the front of the tent and walked away without a word.

           Around four in the afternoon, after standing in front of the televisions and talking to all of the characters on her soap opera, Alice would venture out of the Wal-Donalds into the island of asphalt that she called her home. She would walk over to the Taco Bell drive-thru and begin presenting her sales rap:

            "Hi, my name is Alice, and I am a bipolar schizophrenic with liver disease and I am just looking for another seventy-three cents, so I can buy myself something to eat. Can you help me out, brother/sister? God bless you."

            In a couple of hours, her belly was full of cheap tacos, and her pockets rattled around like loose weights on her thighs, with all of the pennies and nickels that she had collected. Wandering back to check on her pony, her wheels, her mobile condo, the shopping cart with the spinning front wheel, just like she liked it, Alice always struggled with this time of the day. Sometimes, she would return to find her pony waiting for her, next to her dumpster, and she would dance with joy. Other times, after the bad man in the pickup truck had driven by and confiscated her home, she would spend the night crying and mourning the loss of another faithful companion.

            For a long time, Alice had tried to keep her shopping cart and belongings with her throughout the day. She would roll the cart, filled with black trash bags of found objects from one end of her asphalt island to the other. No matter where she was, the evil man in the pickup truck would find her, throw her belongings onto the ground, and then put the shopping cart in a row of carts in the back of his truck. Despite her protests and screams, the man would stoically take the cart away from her, not saying a word. Finally, Alice realized that if she did not advertise or flaunt the beauty of her pony, the man would forget all about her. Beginning to understand her invisibility, Alice began hiding her pony among the weeds and milk crates near the dumpster where she slept. Months passed, before the horse thief found her, again. She carried a magic blanket with her, which she believed made her invisible.

            “You watch me,” she said, “I will go over there to the Burger King with my blanket over my head, and even the King will not be able to see me! I will disappear, right before your eyes!”

            Sure enough, no one would see her if she walked around asking for money with the blanket over her head.

            At nightfall, Alice would crawl into her dumpster, usually carrying a discarded paperback novel, and a couple of tacos. Reading for hours by the bright security lights, while munching away at her dinner, Alice drifts off to a serene sleep. Very often, one or two of the many abandoned cats in the neighborhood visit her in the middle of the night. They scrounged around in the trash, steal a few bites of her nightly find, and disappear into the night. Sometimes, the cats curl up against her warm body and sleep.

Like clockwork, Alice awakens with the morning sunlight. Constantly worried that she might be whisked away from her bed and dumped into the back of a waste disposal truck, Alice crawls from her nocturnal sanctuary and begins her day. She talks to herself in the morning, holding long conversations with someone in her head. Maybe she imagines that it is her dead husband or one of her now-adult children, and they are breakfasting at the kitchen table. Frantically gesticulating with her arms, she acts out some strange daily ritual from her past.


            “Hey, Lady! Which way to Hogwash Avenue?” The man is driving a metallic silver-colored Firebird with large tires. He appears to be in a hurry, frantically searching around in his car, one hand on the steering wheel and a map, the other on his cellular telephone. “I am not asking you which way, Judy, hold on, would you? There is some crazy woman outside the Starbucks, here. Stop screaming in my ear for five seconds, okay?”

            “So what about it, lady, do you know where Hogwash Avenue connects up with this street?”

The driver is speaking through a four-inch opening in his car window, like a bank teller at the late night depository. Excited, Alice drops down onto her knees next to the car door, and pushes the tips of her fingers through the window.

“Hello in there! How are you?” She tauntingly wiggles her fingers inside the car like a postal worker waves letters through the mail slot of a doghouse.

Momentarily frightened by her actions, the driver jerks back uncontrollably. Alice quickly pulls her hand back from the window, and pretends that she was scratched.

“Bad kitty! Look what you did to Mama!” She begins sucking on her fingers.

“Look, all I asked you was directions to…”

Before he can finish what he is saying, Alice pulls a dirty cloth from her pocket, reaches in through the window, and begins polishing his dashboard. He drops the map and the telephone at the same time, which causes the car to jerk forward. Alice bangs her head on the windshield and then smiles at him, through the glass.

“Would you kindly remove your hands from inside my car?”

“Your cat bit me and you look worried,” Alice replies, her hands firmly wedged inside the car. “I am not letting go until your cat apologizes.”

Picking up the cellular telephone from where he had dropped it on his lap, the driver disdainfully glares at Alice. He resumes his conversation with Judy.

“Look, I will have to call you back. We are having a slight ummm situation here. If I have not called you in five minutes, call the police and tell them that I am being mugged by some crazy baglady with the most powerful grip on the planet.”

Alice’s clownish face staring in through the windshield and her death-hold on the dashboard unnerves the driver, who is visibly shaken by the interaction. Although he is in a line of cars leading to the drive-up window, he puts the car into park, and futilely attempts to use the electric switch to close the window. Now pinned to the car by the window, Alice’s smile changes into a look of panic, and she starts to scream.

“Help me! Help me! This man is trying to kidnap me! Help! Cat attack! Cat attack!”

The man quickly reverses the direction on the switch, and the window completely rolls down.

“Jesus, stop screaming! Look, I let you go! All I wanted was directions! Look, lady, there is no cat. Everything is going to be just peachy. How about if I give you some money? Will you go away then?

Once her hands became free from the window, Alice began smiling again. For a moment, she makes eye contact with the man, and then sheepishly looks around, inside the car.

“Where did you put the cat, Mister? I know that you have a cat in there with you. Here, kitty, kitty.” She raises her hands again to put them near the window and then stops. She scratches her head, and looks for a moment, like she is having a moment of lucid clarity.

“Hogwash! Hogwash? Why I know all about Hogwash! My entire life is made up of hogwash, let me tell you.”

“The street! The street!” The man yells, and then reaches out to push her away. “Get away from me, you crazy old woman!”

He puts the car in gear, backs up, and then pulls away, leaving Alice standing there, among the cars in the drive-thru.

“Of course, I know where Hogwash Avenue is! Just go right at the next light until you see a big red building. That is the old fire station and it sits right there on the corner of Hogwash and Main Street.”

The next car in line pulls up, and Alice is suddenly looking into the eyes of a woman, and a little girl sitting in the backseat, staring out at her.

 "What do we stand to lose? Everything." Alice says, as she waves to the little girl.

The little girl exclaims, “Look at the clown lady, Mommy! Look! Is the clown lady going to take our order, Mommy? I want a Happy Meal™!”

Waving and smiling, Alice steps aside as the car pulls by her.

“Well, sometimes, you can’t just say good-bye forever,” she says, as she walks away in the direction of her dumpster. “No one cares when you sleep in the rain.”
  • Current Music
    Sigur Ros
Razee on LJ

Outlaws of Fate

I know a girl who dug her skeleton out of the trash and sold it on Ebay. Since hearing her story, I have been thinking about selling my soul, auctioning it off to the highest bidder, and taking the money and running. I wonder how far that I could get on a dollar and fifty-seven cents.


            "He was not afraid to show the world what he owns downstairs," she said to the art critic, while sipping champagne in an art gallery in Soho.

            "So what do you think he was writing about, anyway?" The art critic inquires. “What do you think that he was trying to say with his work?”

            "The last that I heard he was doing some sort of treatise on consciousness, memories, and dreams, but that was before he lost his mind and turned himself into a homeless wanderer. He called himself a Tao Hobo, in those days."

            "Very interesting. What is your position on memories and dreams? Do you have any dreams that you can remember? Would you like another glass of champagne, if you could call it that? I swear it must be the cheapest headache-in-a-box brand that they could find. I am going to have to drink six glasses of the crap, just so it will taste good."

            "You know, if I was him, I would be writing about the McMall of these Disunited States of Amerikkka. I would tell the world about the New World Order with their islands of asphalt, linked together by interstate highways. Everywhere you go, there is a Wal-Mart, Wendy's, McDonald's, Burger King, Kentucky Fried Chicken/Taco Bell/Pizza Hut (all owned by Pepsi, and in the same buildings, using the same drive-up window.) waiting for you. Imagine if you took off on a Kerouacian-like adventure, and all that you got to see was fast food outlets, department stores with sweatshop-made products, and miles of parking lot asphalt."

            The art critic finishes off the last of the wine in his glass, with a dazed look on his face.

            "I can see that you feel very strongly about this, it is unusual for an artist to be so political, don't you think?" He asks, as he hands the young lady another glass of wine. "You seem to be quite acquainted with this writer's work."

            "You could say that I know him, pretty well. We used to be close, once. I think that he hates me, now, maybe because I saw so many aspects of his personality, some parts I am sure that he did not want me to see. He took me emotionally hostage, for about ten months, after popping my cherry. I have to admit that we were in love. I have no regrets."

            "What drives a man like that to go insane? I have always wondered what happened in his life that made him decide to lead the path of pain and suffering, agonizing, as he did, over the complications of society, when it would have been much easier, much more simple for him to give into the urge to turn his back on humanity."

            "He told me, once, that he had been raised by a pair of child-like alcoholics, who used him as a battering ram against each other. He referred to himself as the Stretch Armstrong toy that they tugged on, periodically, each pulling at an arm. He said that he was told that he had a gun shoved into his mouth, by his father, at 18-months-old, in order to intimidate his mother. With abuse like that, who knows what he might have become, if he hadn't found art. Probably a mass murderer, or something really scary."

            “I noticed that you resemble the woman in many of these photographs. How does it feel to be placed up on a pedestal, and shown off to the world? Don’t you have any dirty little secrets that you were afraid that he would reveal to the world?”

            “I think that you have to realize that he was always upfront with everyone that he met. You could not mistake him for anything, but a writer, with his notebook always open, and him scribbling away. He used to say ‘First, I am going to exploit the hell out of myself, and everyone that I have met, and then you all can come to my castle, eat my food, drink my beer, smoke my cigarettes, and thrive on the success of our fame.’ Besides, I have nothing to be ashamed of, except maybe a broken heart. He had a funny way of sucking the compassion out of a person. I guess that is why he was always running away. He was trying to outrun his fate, and escape his destiny.”

            “Do you think that he succeeded, that he reached some sort of higher plane of reasoning, before he died?”

            “I guess that we will really never know, although I can tell you this much. Despite everything that he went through, he always, from the time he was a little kid, considered himself to be a writer, and an artist. He said that he was jealous of the people who did not know what they were going to be when they grew up, because they could change their mind. He felt that he was locked into something, for better or for worse, that was preordained, or destined. He struggled with his identity for the majority of his life. It seems to me that he slipped through the cracks of society, and created a reality that was all of his own. I cannot say that it was something that was easy to watch. He was miserable for a good part of his life. I am not sure that he knew how to be happy. He just was not equipped to deal with the notion of contentment, for some reason.”

            The art critic grimaces, mesmerized by the conversation. Suddenly, a look of sadness washes over his face.

            “It is too bad that he could not be here to answer these questions for us. It sounds like he was quite a character, in his own right.”

            “In the highly complex postmodern world, we are not longer in demand for what Andy Warhol called fifteen minutes of fame, instead we are on a perpetual quest for fifteen minutes of privacy. I mean think about it. Reality-television has become popular as the technology evolved, to the point where anyone can be a celebrity, with talent or with none. In fact, how many people do you know that became celebrities and then decided what they were going to be talented at? Instead of being an artist, musician, or what have you, and becoming popular, how many people come off the street, appear on some television show, as the Everyman, and suddenly they are a celebrity? I believe that, in this shallow culture, we are so hungry for new stars, and stardom itself, that we do not realize how far that we have stepped away from any sort of cultural refinement.”

            “In your own words, how would you define the American culture?” The art critic asks, while scribbling feverishly into his notebook.

            “We are a nation of quick-fix addicts, who thrive on fast-food, automated check-out stands, and the easiest, most mechanized way of doing things. I know people that do not walk a hundred feet, in their day. They sit in their office chairs, sucking on outrageously enormous containers of horrible concoctions, comprised of sugar and God-only-knows-what. We have the memory-retention and the attention spans of aggressively scared primates, always on the move, and afraid that the Boogieman is going to hunt us down. Our idea of a family outing is taking our grandmother and the children on a Sunday afternoon excursion through the Wal-Mart parking lot. Let me ask you this- when was the last time that you acknowledged your neighbor’s presence, with even a hello or a wave? Do you even know your neighbors? How many times a week do you dine with friends, or attend a social function that is not entertainment-based? Even now, this very moment, we are standing in an art gallery, looking at this amazing work, drinking cheap wine, and what is being derived by the experience? Will we walk away from this conversation feeling like we have accomplished even the slightest bit of a connection with Humanity? Shouldn’t we be rushing home to watch American Idol, or Star Search, about now?”

            “I have to admit that the picture that you paint is not very flattering. After all, we are the lucky ones. At least we are standing in an art gallery and not a prison cell.”

            “What makes you think that an art gallery is not a prison? I see meanings, definitions, words and images all locked up in here, bound to their positions as indentured servants to their masters. You cannot tell me that you can smell freedom coming from these people. They are sheep being led around by the want of hay, and a warm place to sleep. We are not free thinkers, any more than we live in a free society. I have always laughed at the term ‘freedom of speech.’ Speaking is not free! If we were free to think and speak our minds, there would not be governmental censors, art critics, or even weatherman to tell us what to think. Ask any babbling psychotic on the street corner how much freedom of speech that he or she has, as they are carted off to jail or a psychiatric hospital ward in handcuffs, for disturbing the peace. Beliefs and truths are constantly being shoved down our throats, by those-in-power, who do not want us to think for ourselves. The politicians, lawyers, and advertisement executives run this world of disinformation, and it is naïve of us to believe otherwise.”

            “Let me see if I am understanding you correctly. You believe that we are not the creators of our own thoughts, and our own beliefs, that they are force-fed to us by all of these outside forces. Is that correct?”

Shifting his weight from one leg to the other, the art critic looks uncomfortable, and almost weary. He finishes off his third plastic cup of cheap champagne, almost sighing so loudly that the people around him would think that he was going through some sort of dramatic revelation.

“The thoughtpolice are coming! The thoughtpolice are coming!” She exclaims, a mischievous smile across her face, “Schoolteachers, social and health-care workers, lawyers, and police officers- they all want you to believe that they are right and you are wrong. Think of all of the paper-shufflers in this society, who are working to keep the capitalistic machinery from collapsing. I am talking millions of people sitting around manipulating numbers and lives, wasting away behind cubicles, while the power brokers become richer and their corporations become the size of nation-states. Concerned only with keeping their fragile places within society, they tear away at any social weaving that a person may have, and then blame them for not having a foundation of belief to stand on. Systematically, they superimpose their rules upon a person until there is little left of the individual, picking away at them like vultures, until finally, the person gives in to them. It is their job to persuade people into believing in them, and in their truths. Orwell is rolling in his grave, right now, knowing that Doublespeak Good is taking over the world.”

Razee on LJ

The Trial of Almond Joy and Bubbalicious

"It has come to the attention of the court that the two defendants wish to enter a plea of not guilty by reason of mental impairment, at this time. Is this correct, counsel?"
"Yes, your honor."
"Will the two defendants please rise and face the jury for sentencing?"
The quiet in the courtroom is deafening, and everything is moving in slow motion.
"By the power vested in me, I hereby find you guilty of the above-mentioned crimes, and sentence you to life in prison without bail."
Tonight, Almond Joy and Bubbalicious are going to be pulled from their jailcells and hung by an angry crowd seeking retribution for crimes that they did not commit. Without help from the time machine, life is going to be over for our two heroes. Instead of worrying about their own lives, Almond Joy and Bubbalicious are thinking about their friend trapped in the old mine fighting off the rest of the Diablos biker gang. Old Ed was a good shot, and meaner than a rattlesnake, but he was outnumbered five men to one.
"What do you think he is going to do, Joy?"
"Aim high and shoot often, I expect."
"I just wish there was a way for us to bust out of this old cell and offer the old man a hand."
Time machines and alien spacecraft are often misconstrued as the same implement of God's hand. Without them, speculative fiction would have no vehicles but a rotting Jeep from the first War to End all Wars. Instead, science took the high road, and made space travel a thing of the past. Without NASA, where would our weapons program be? Since he could not find any weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, our faithless leader has now decided to spend a trillion dollars exploring Mars to see if they have weapons of mass destruction.
Almond Joy and Bubbalicious took the stagecoach from San Francisco to Los Angeles, instead of being hanged that night, by an angry street mob. Time machines and lynch mobs do not mix together well in a story. Sentenced to spend the rest of their living years behind the chainlink fence of a mental institution, our heroes broke free from their captors, and escaped into the mountains, just in time to save Old Ed from the biker gang.
"Stagecoaches and biker gangs in the same story is just as bad as time machines, and lynch mobs, in my opinion," she says.
"What did Coleridge say about the suspension of disbelief, my darling? Reality is what you make of it. How about another drink? I am game, if you are."
"When do you think that we decided that it was okay to wash ourselves away in reckless abandon? I think that playwright Shaw said it right in Man and Superman. We are libertines, and nothing more. For us to imagine ourselves to be these great guardians of the planet is ridiculous. Like that old poster used to say- We have discovered the enemy and he is us. Maybe we have always been slaves to our desires, hedonists hiding behind plastic masks of responsibility."
"How are you going to break the news to 8 billion people that they have lost their jobs as the Smokey-the-Bear forest rangers?"
"Gently, I guess." she says. "I didn't mean to interrupt your work. Keep typing. I will just sit here and look out of the window. Don't mind me. I will be as quiet as a mouse. Tell me again why you put a time machine into the story, as a form of textual dislocation. What are you trying to do, purposely mess with the confines of the text? I am not sure that you are going to keep very many readers with that kind of attitude."
He glares at her, stands up, walks over to the bar, and pours himself another drink. She resumes throwing the pillow into the air.
"Oh, silly me, I was talking again, wasn't I? And just after I had said that I was going to be quiet as a mouse. I wonder if mice are really that quiet after all. Don't you think that to a mouse, another mouse in the nest snoring could just ruin your night? I mean I have never been a mouse, at not that I remember, so I really wouldn't know, but do you know what I mean, anyway?"
"I think that you have done way too much cocaine, sister. Look at me, I must be totally crazy because I am actually asking you for advise."
"Why don't you make the piece into a love story? Everyone loves a love story. The whole trial could lead up to Almond Joy and Bubbalicious falling in love and running away together. See how that twist works? It is perfect!
Razee on LJ

Abortion Stops a Beating

An abortion stops a beating. Stop hitting me, Daddy, I promise to be good. When you get to be old enough, you can come collect up on this beating. Then you have to go off and hide behind the country girl's skirts until you get so sick inside that your nose falls of off your face, in disgust. I have inherited your embitterment, distrust and abusive insanity. Oh, I know what it means to be out-of-control. Let us pretend that it never happened, shall we? Take that gun out of your mouth, Baby, and make a trip to Cinderella City will make me feel like I am sorry, for cutting off your hair in anger, and then beating you senseless. Some of us were born with silver spoons in our mouths, and some of us had guns put there, while in the crib.
We do not wonder why you fear sleepwalking, with all of those voices screaming out in your head. I wish you had let me die, when you were offered the chance. Instead, vainly, you forced your name upon me, and did not want anything to do with me, except as a weapon to use against her. Stop whining, my dear blame-shifter, she was just as guilty as you were, even up until the day she died. I will stop blaming you when you take responsibility for the daily verbal assault and physical abuse that you made into my home. Someday, I will begin to heal myself, and forgive, firstly myself, and if you are lucky, you. I do not expect that you will be around to see that day. Today, the wounds are too raw and too apparent seeping through the dirty bandages that I drag with me, through every night. Meanwhile, I inherit your drunk, your anger, and your poisonous hatred for anything that you cannot control.
Realizing that this conversation is pointless, falling on stone-deaf ears, I raise my glass and salute you. You are one mean rotten miserable son-of-a-bitch. Nana would have been proud of you. Ken and Jim beat you, so you took it out on me. Thanks for the memories. Now you can sit in your house and wait for the perfect moment to drop dead. Carrying a black book of debts to your grave, you will go in the hole bitching and complaining about how you were such a great guy, and how the world did you wrong. You will go to your grave mumbling about how everyone owes you money, or some favor, or another. I bet you know exactly how much money that Bryan and Channon, Jim Berry, Earl Crowe, and your family are supposed to owe you. Remember when you threatened to sue me for $100, 000, if I continued to write about you? Well, you had better have your bread-winning wife hire you a lawyer. Better yet, wander off to that mountain and die. Then your estate can flip coins for who gets to kick your rotten corpse down the stairs, and out into the garbage.
Mother, can I come back to you? Shall we suffer the same fate as all the others? Welcome to the life of a fourth generation abuser. The Lost and Found office called to inform you that they have found some things that you might want to claim, like your mind, your soul, and your love. Quit acting like a four-year-old having a temper tantrum, you sniveling half-nosed freak of nature, caged in rage. It is not always all about what you want, what you get and how you have been betrayed. You have been served notice- I am done living the lie for you. I am not making up more excuses for the bloody noses, bruises around my eyes, and scar tissue on my back. I should have had your ass thrown in the jail that you have confined me in, time and again.
Razee on LJ

4 AM Headbanging

Once upon a time and all good stories start with Once upon a time, there is a very unimpressed tattooed lady hiding in the shadows of the urban forest, waiting for her ride on the Circus train. The bus stop is just down on the corner.

"Pick up my medication while you are out."

This dis-ease is getting a little out of hand. I guess that I should have listened to that little voice in my head that told me returning here would be a big mistake. The couch is burning. The roadfever is not so bad, during this time of the year. Warmth is a good thing. It does not hurt that we have the best shower on the planet now, after waiting two weeks for the ghettoized apartment complex servants to return with parts. I have taken four showers in two days, just in case it really is a flashback to being off the coast of Mazatlan, surrounded by water, and not a drop to drink.

"I have packed my laptop and my bikini. Do you have the tickets? Where is that house on the beach, two bedrooms for $50 a month, a hammock on the covered porch? Come on. You promised. I am not being stabbed by lobster scales, so you can leave me up here for dead. Have you ever tickled a 100 lobsters to sleep, so you can boil them without them screaming, all for a Sunday brunch that you cannot even afford?"

Starting a new murder-mystery cybernovel called 'Cold Facts Avenue,' while pretending to be inspired, the outlaw-in-black wanders around the town, taking photographs of the character's eye-witnesses and forging a ransom note on a borrowed computer.

"I am not sure that you know that there is the ghost of Chocolate-the-Prostitute living in the alley behind Kitty's on Cold Facts Avenue. She shows up at Tom's Diner, sparechanging the drunk native Americans sitting at the counter. Maybe you should ask her for clues to the Missing-in-Action report that you received in your electronic mailbox."

"You are probably misleading me, all over again. I am firmly convinced that it is Mrs. Peacock with the candlestick, in the basement."

"Speaking of which, you look familiar. Have we ever met before?"

"Maybe in Los Angeles."

"Have I ever seen you on television? You remind me of someone famous."

Choking down pain relievers, sedatives and depressants with tequila, she waits in her shack for the whistle of the train. Occasionally, she hears the ice cream truck's beckoning calliope, misunderstands, and chases after the sound, buckass birthday suit and all. Freedom is the taste of an ice cream sandwich, after a midsummer streak through the ghetto of ghosts.

"I am surprised that the police have not found you skinny-dipping in the pool, yet. You might be the right partner-in-crime, for me."
"Stop staring at the ceiling, and look at me. Could you stop playing that same song over and over, and talk to me?"

"That movie 'Requiem for a Dream' was on cable, this morning. It made me want to do a whole lot of drugs, turn up the stereo and play with razor blades."

"Okay, but try not to wake up the neighbors, this time, or punch any more holes in the walls."

"It is not like they ever listen, anyway."

"If you play that song by Nickelback, one more time, I will kill you, myself."

"I like the freckles on your chest. I like the way you like me the best. I like the white stains on your chest. I love the way that you pass the check. I love my hands around your neck. I know who you are. It wasn't that hard to figure you out."

"So how was your little drive to the new suburban house, anyway? She doesn't really think that she can talk you into living there with her, does she?"

"I think that there has to be a plan to escape creeping up from the fallen pages of our epistolary book of hours. Ask Chocolate. She knows who is killed that innocent victim, Mona Leeks, that was missing-in-action. The ransom note is a forgery."

Twenty minutes pass, and still nothing happens. She looks around for the effects of the drugs. The couch is smoldering. Contemplating another shower, she throws herself haplessly across the bathroom floor, prom dress stuck in the door.
Razee on LJ

It is all in the Name

Webster's 1913 Dictionary

Ra`zee´ Pronunciation: rå`zēd´
\Ra*zee"\, n. [F. vaisseau ras['e], fr. raser to rase, to cut down ships. See {Raze}, v. t., {Rase}, v. t.] (Naut.) (raz-za)
Noun: (Naut.) An armed ship having her upper deck cut away, and thus reduced to the next inferior rate, as a seventy-four cut down to a frigate.
Verb Tense: To cut down to a less number of decks, and thus to an inferior rate or class, as a ship; hence, to prune or abridge by cutting off or retrenching parts; as, to razee a book, or an article. [imp. & p. p. Razeed (rå*zēd"); p. pr. & vb. n. Razeeing.]

Fool’s names and fool’s faces are always seen in public places and pubic spaces. Are you razzing me? In the meantime, should we raze the roof and set fire to the floors? Jack and Jill went up the hill, to fool around, while fetching a pail of water. Jill comes down the hill with grass stains on her knees. Jack has a stupid grin on his face, and does not mind carrying the pail back from the well. Jill knows who wears the pants, or drops their pants, as the case may be, in the relationship.
“How did my vanity get to be such a mess?” She says to the camera, and the mirror. “If I did not know any better, I would say that you were having a breakdown.”
The quiet is nice. It is two-thirty in the morning, and the solitude is greatly appreciated. Of course, I miss the Hillbilly Cinderella, and the frizzy-haired princess, and the road! I miss the comforts of home, with this entire episode of couch hopping and dream-hoping. Where is my office? Instead, I found a poem.

The mourning starts a day
A slip her making way
With my bald walk shack S.O.B.
I wish that they should love me
Even with a whip.

Now I need to take the pictures off of the camera and turn them into art. Who the hell is Art, and how is he related to Frank-the-Plumber from Montana? We are going without showers like that simmering summer on the Island before the monsoons came. I light a joint and open a can of soda pop. The soundtrack from the movie “O, Brother, Where art Thou?” plays in my head, as I tickle and torment the creative juices, pulling them to the surface as juicy hickies.
There is a Vietnam War movie playing in the background, and I think about all of the soon-to-be-released Iraqi war films in development. We will experience a backlash of Cuban-Iraqi love affairs after turning the Bay of Pigs into a summer resort for the accused subversives. How do you define a war criminal- by his rules of conduct, or by the atrocities of his environment? Torture chambers used to be so fashionably yet tragically hip, back in the last millennium. We are going to force you to explain yourself. Yet war is the biggest crime of all, isn’t it?
I lost my voice in a gust of wind, and it did not come back to me until I was dreaming, waking up screaming in the grips of the nightmare. She has crawled onto my chest and wants to suffocate my very last thought. I am warning you. She means serious business. There is a mushroom cloud of death coming up the road, and she smells of Happy Meals and Napalm. It is all about putting up a Waldonalds in every village between here and Baghdad Avenue. I thought about silencing myself as a form of protest until I could not breathe and almost turned red, white, and blue.
Sentenced to complete a thought or two, I find that it is not difficult to see how the writing has been stifled, almost hiccupped censorship in action. It is that self-policing that Foucault was so excited to talk about, when he could talk but now he is dead, leaving the text without an author and an author without a cause.
“I began writing as a form of therapy, and an act of defiance. Today, it is a practiced chorus of dissent, a harmony of ghosts that clings to me like a well-worn coat.”
“We will have to save that quote for the biographers. When they ask you what you want to be when you grow up, slap them with that line.”
Protesting the same war for 12 years now, there is not much left of the Left, except for some tree-huggers and crunch-berries who refuse to go home. This is the official emergency command center calling. Had this been an actual emergency, official instructions would have been given. This is only a test.
Two hours pass. It is almost four in the morning, and a bright shining lie is peeping through Tom’s cabin curtains. I am. The world’s shortest sentence is a crime, in and of itself. This borrowed box and couch, an office in the kitchen, has been a nice relapse, but where is the train? Are you packed? You still owe me a tour of Cadillac Mountain, or did you forget? No trespassing. Stand 500 feet back. Leave me alone. I only want to be with you, but I am still living with him. I don’t want to talk about it. She has a mask of cactus covering her face. Be very afraid.
The animated movie Scooby-Doo and the Alien Invaders begins on the Home Box Office network. The leopard wakes up, stretches, and jumps off the couch with a thump. He goes out onto the balcony to look for flying Miller moth snacks, and then strolls back into the apartment.
“Hi, pretty boy. Hi, pretty boy.”
Stroke. Stroke. Meow.
The movie ends, the birds begin chirping, and the blue-collar workers are leaving for the job sight with their lunchboxes and hardhats. I have a feeling that you will never understand. The moon is still out, fighting for recognition against the dull pall of the impending sunrise.
“My thoughts were so loud that I could not hear myself,” says the modest mouse. “What next? Dogs and cats living together?”
Suddenly, it is seven o’clock and the alarm is buzzing. He hopes that he will not have to play Alarm Nazi.
“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey. Time to get up, lazybones!” He screams down the hall. “Don’t make me come in there with the super soaker!”
He lights another joint, and thinks about shaving. After ten daze, the bruises on his cheek fade into a purple haze. The Apocalyptic Hipster-cum- Man in Black buzzes him and then runs off to work, as a translator, in the judicial system of the Great Abyss of Los Angeles. These are the screaming confessions of El Hombre Invisible. The pictures of his beating are grotesque. There is something wrong with this picture.
  • Current Mood
    discontent discontent
Razee on LJ

Staggering Down the Boulevard of Dreams

The conversation went something like this.
“When I got home, you were sitting out on the sidewalk, playing with parts of the HedgeHawg Boy’s vacuum cleaner and wire coat hangers. You rambled something about creating some sort of sculpture, and then started waving and yelling up at the neighbors. You made quite a spectacle of yourself.”
“That does not explain why half of my face is kicked in and I have rug burns on my collarbone and a big bruise on my thoughts.”
“Oh, that all came later. All I know is that you had decided that Hedgehawg Boy was moving out and you were going to help him, by pitching all of his belongings out of the window.”
“Ah, yes, I had warned you that the Hedgehawg Boy could not be in the same room as me and Joe Crow.”
“I didn’t have a thing to do with all that. He really didn’t seem to be that upset that you had thrown out all of his clothes and half his bed was hanging out of the window. It wasn’t until he had realized that you had let loose one of his Hawgs that he lost his shit. I left for school in the morning, and the place was a zoo, and I came home to the animals all running around OUTSIDE of the zoo.”
“Wow! I do not remember anything after having lunch with that crazy redhead who I have fallen in love with, all over again, twenty years ago. We picked up a six-pack of Fat Tire and a fifth of Cuervo on our way home from Friday’s, that gross chain-restaurant over on 120th Avenue.”
“Oh, please tell me that you didn’t have sex with her on my couch? Oh, wait, you blacked out and don’t remember!”
“I would remember if I had sex, wouldn’t I? Besides, she is already in a relationship with someone.”
“When has that ever stopped you?”
“So we were talking about how I got myself beat senseless, weren’t we? There is no point in talking about my nonexistent fantasy-laden sex life. I guess that I should consider myself lucky for not ending up in jail. That would have been a very bad experience.”
“You kept asking me why I didn’t call the cops, and I told you three or four times that you really didn’t want me to call them. You should look on your camera. You took lots of pictures, right after the big event, in addition to trying to get a second beating from the Hedgehawg Boy.”
“I don’t remember any of that. I just need a big junkyard in the back. You can say ‘Go out and play, and don’t come back until you are bleeding and not making any more noise,” and know that everything is all right. Have I told you how much that I hate suburbia, and everything that it represents?”
“Only about a thousand times or so.”
“I miss my old workspace, The Composition Department underneath the Cold Facts viaduct, where I could make all the noise and mess that I wanted. I never had to worry about noise complaints at three o’clock in the morning, when I lived down there.”
“You make it sound so poetic and romantic, now. If I remember right, you were always complaining about not being close enough to the 7-11 and never having any heat. You hated it, down there.”
“Oh, my god, I just remembered that I had my ass kicked all over Broadway, while I lived down there. In fact, that is the last time that I had my ass seriously beaten down.”
“Well, you had decided that since you had lost his hedgehog in my bedroom, he could beat you down, and you didn’t do much fighting back. I finally pulled him off of you, which is when he kicked you with his boot.”
“Oh, ouch! He just bought those steel-toed boots, too.”
“Those are the ones that he had on.”
“No wonder my head still hurts, three days later. Thank the gods that I received more Loresets™ and some kind bud in the mail, or I would really feel like shit.”
“How does your tongue feel? You swore up and down that you had bitten part of it off, the other night.”
“It just feels numb, or like I have a long hair caught in my mouth. Besides trying to find the hair that isn’t there, I keep running the sore parts along the chipped tooth, though, so it feels pretty raw. I would have to say that it is going to be a few days before I will want to eat anything more than soup.”
“You should really put some more ice on your face. It might help bring down some of the swelling. At least, you have a cheekbone, again.”
“I am such a drunken idiot. What was accomplished? Absolutely nothing. He is still going to move out without paying you a dime for the last six months, and not even think twice about it. Besides, I should be the one moving out, not him. Now, I feel like I will be stranding you without a roommate, if I decide to leave. I really wish that I could sublet the room and pay for it, whether or not I was in town or not. I would really like to see it become the office for our business, so I don’t have to keep using the kitchen cabinets as a computer desk.”
“I am really not sure how we can expect to eat until I get paid on Thursday. I have ten more cigarettes, and then I guess I will just go ahead and lose my mind.”
“How much does a carton of clove cigarettes cost, anyway? Those things are going to kill you, I am telling you. I guess that you had better decide between eating and smoking, and we will go from there. A new car, a new house, I really don’t see how you are going to pay for all of these things. Hell, you can’t even give me enough for a train ticket out of town.”
“I guess that is what you get for living on the boulevard of dreams."
"Happy Birthday, ShameriKKKa."
  • Current Music
    Internal Throbbing "White Noize Concerto"