Jack's Generosity

To celebrate the release of their debut LP in October, those kind folks behind the world's favourite band, The Jack Nicholsons, have made their enormously successful single "Yeah!" availlable as a free download online. Get it here. Please note that you may need to troll through a few ads first, and there may be a bit of a delay before the download pops up. Still, it's a small price to pay for perfection.

The first few downloaders will have the luxury of a direct link and won't have to leave this site. If you're feeling lucky, click here.

Yeah!

After years in development, The Jack Nicholson's debut LP — clocking in at a whopping 11 minutes — looks like it will be hitting our shores next month. Though it's yet to be finalised, and there's talk of recording new material, one thing's for sure: it'll be bloody awesome! Track details are sketchy at the moment, but the inclusion of "Yeah!" — still number one in the charts of every first-world country — has been confirmed. With the working title for the album being "Yeah!" that doesn't come as much of a surprise.

Even before their album's release, The Jack Nicholsons have proved to be incredibly influential, with artists such as the woeful Jeff Mangum refusing to record again after "Yeah!" raised the bar to insurmountable heights. Indeed one can't even flick on the radio these days without hearing a flood of Nicholsonesque pop, and for a band who've only released one song for public consumption, that's staggering. But perhaps the best testament to their brilliance comes by way of has-been Bob Dylan, who has taken a wild left-turn into instrumental prog-rock after stating that he had wasted his best years writing complex verse. "When it [Yeah!] first came on the radio, I was amazed at how simple it was," he told a reporter early this year. "I'd been writing all these overblown lyrics about fiddlers and senators to try to get to the heart of the human condition, but then The Jack Nicholsons come along and sum it up in one word: Yeah! I was just thinking, How could I have missed that after all these years? And now when I look back across some of my lyrics, I'm just embarrassed by how idiotic and bloated they seem. I mean what the hell is a Leopard Skin Pill-Box Hat?"

So what can we expect from this long-overdue release? Nothing short of better than everything else.

150th Anniversary Special

50 posts ago, I was writing the 100th Anniversary Special. In 50 posts, I'll be writing the 200th Anniversary Special. Doesn't that just send a resonant tingle up your thighs?

My Pretty Pretty

Hello lads. Guess what the world was doing today? That's right, it was swirling around and distorting things. Mother O' Nature was a playful lass this morn, seems. The hordes of dole-bludgers who make a habit of hugging her leafy erections couldn't even irritate her. Nothing could stop her pride and joy from shedding golden beams over the sprouting orgy of unquestioning life.

She holds my every desire and fuels them day after day. And from time to time I give a little back: a few young frogs swimming in the soil, borne from her rapturous weather. And on these occasions, when we connect, neither hell nor heaven can be. Instead, they wait for the lazy smoke to rise from the church and end the holiday.

It sickens me to see them try. Their arms wrapped and their unwashed hair wrapped, and they're wrapped. But they can never get deep enough inside to play God. It's never more than a horrible fad; a scene.

I can crawl in her caverns, I can roll in her fields and I can slip in and out of her favour, but she'll remain unchanged throughout the seasons, like an immobile stone. And though her hills provide me with vital nutrients and a place to be, her weary smile holds out for a walk in the aisle. O but how hot she is!

The Humanist Perspective

Whoops.

Better Than Never

The following is at Ben's insistence and is on a subject very close to his heart.

Yes, I have been contemplating whether I should get rid of the clock in my room. It makes too much noise in the wee hours when I'm trying to think or read or sleep. It ticks loud, you see. But I suppose I'll grow used to it.

No need for worry just yet, Ben.

Février

Her face cackled like two winds in an overblown afternoon — that is to say she laughed. The wisened man tying her shoelaces laughed too, proudly.
"O one day, my love, you will be able to do this all by yourself," he said.
She lent down like a leaner and kissed his world-weary cheeks with a smile that mooned my dwindling infatuation. I nodded politely.

The lo-ovely man of everything a humble woman could hope for rose with a glance and a proposition.
"No sugar," I answered with fierce discretion. And he a-went off in the general direction of what I supposed to be the kitchen, leaving me entirely alone but for the other person in the room.
"You see why I love him so?"
"No-o-o-o," I retorted in song. "All I see is an unhealthy man and his nurse."
Her face reflected the horrific aftermath of a juvenile joke told to the wrong audience.
"Grow up," she snapped.
"All right. Maybe then you'd..."
"What is your problem?"
"He's in his forties!"
"So?"
"So-o-o-o he was your age now when you were a baby."
"I hardly think that matters. He's only ever known me after my coming of age."
I glowered at the floor and paused for a trickle of ugly sun.
"But why?" I resumed a moment later.
"Why what?"
"Why allow such a man to approach you?"
"Because such a man could offer me more than any other. Such a man is a well-polished pit of knowledge and experience that only comes from many years."
"And you don't waver on that at all?"
"No. It's maturity or nothing."
"And maturity only comes about at the halfway point?"
"In men, yes."
"I wouldn't call I man who goes for woman half his age mature."
"I would. It means he's broken free of the restrictive class barriers and begun to appreciate people for their minds and not their status."
"Ah but you're looking for a mature man who is looking for a younger woman, which means that you both have different views on the situation."
"You don't expect me to marry myself do you?"

O and then the cups were brought in by the shining knight from the forty-year war, who sat down and gazed in at his lover in awe and patted her fragile skull with his paw.
"Darling, look how you've grown," he gushed.

And I asked Ben, who had appeared from the window, grappling hook in hand, what his relevant thoughts were.
"I preferred the six-sentence version to the umpteenth degree," he told.

Betwixt Tumblers and Tonnes

O and how horrible it seems sometimes, when things are a-flickering and blue bars are on the move and it's over into tomorrow. And around you nothing but peeps and in front of you nothing but bobbing cabinets. O and not much but a stream of nothing above a time that's wrong, over in an hour that's been and gone. And on and on, till a sizable lump has grown from an O and ended before the end.

And o-over the things that pile in stacks and are filed away but float away, and rest when the restless are restless no more and faceless and wondering like the rest. Where o-awful things are wording by word and making each other wonder. Why the stooped knee-trodden is rattling the right cage and scooping up the crap that falls. Why the face he makes is inappropriately sculpted and jarring in the very best sense. And when he feels a wind of regret or anticipation, he nets it too, and tags it and cages it as the very best excuse in town. O and he charges the very best people the very steep prices, which leave the fakers at the roots and finds the successful weary at the peak.

And though it feels wrong in aspect it's from a boy who lost the verve, and wants it back and wonders if he ever had it. So the admitting comes fast and thick and phrases flow but none of them stick, and he as an entity of whatever is left falling over himself until he's picked up on and left. O and then he'll grow and he'll wonder some more. Why he couldn't be much of anything in anything and why he tried. Why the manuscript repeats the word Forest for days on end.

Then o-o-another time will pass and apologies will be fed to the forgetful unwanting from a postman's lovely bag. And he'll still be left to wonder and a-wonder why no reply was forthcoming from a healthy communiqué. No doubt was overtaken and forgotten in the slightest by the federal rover in silly knee-high ivory nails. Who had a crisis of fate and welled a wish upon a star in a half-dead act. O accidents happen all the unsuspecting.

And in his beard he'll wonder too who became of the other one on resentful slopes. Who seemed to lay claim to any of the worth that he's long since put to waste. O and who it was who was destined to never be known. And he can picture himself waking up to their shoulders and storing the veil in a box somewhere unspecified. Like he can picture himself with half the world.

O and a-wondering and a-knowing the very reactions from the few, who look like their ears are bursting and their souls are spent. And one in very particular who abhors every bar and has lost the rival who fed his survival and lives in a car. And who is destined for floor-shows and microphones and dying Labradors. Who has just witnessed adolescence expelled upon a screen and left uncleaned for fifty days.

He knows the very diseases that will plague him tomorrow and the next. He knows the very cures but can't build enough of that party stuff to pay off the chemist and the like. And o-he knows of the things he was aiming for. The pipes in the clouds that could clean the very best expositions, and wipe the smiles off hundreds of rotting politicians in Dorsett Alley.

And over they tumble like wheels of lead, never getting any clearer or nearer his goal. Soil from his well-off roots have stained the carpets from his boots, and branded o-his every move, from valuable creeks to small bakeries.

O o-they end with the usual whimper, and he wonders who's coming to dinner. Over frosty packets and heaped dishes, he studies the guides and plans the rest of his night. O and it ends with nothing but nothing over the horizon.

Lifted From Oily Tom

My knees were sore to some extent, and I around them and above them and below them knew quite why — I did, you know. They were sore because they, along with the ground, had been supporting the rest o' me as I knelt — that's what you do with your knees, I'm told — and, in fact, did. Why was I a-doing the kneeling? 'Twas because the activity I was doing while knelt required it, see? But the thing of morer importance, I felt and feel, will be dwelt upon more then the knelt, as there's only so much kneeing you can do, and there's only so many words you can use to describe it. Anyway, the thing was a non-physical-type thing. It happened 'twixt my ears, you see.

Before this occasion of my description, there was a great bridge between myself and woman that prevented me and myself from ever approaching them and themselves. I was as scared as a chicken and a bail o' hay in winter. Now, however, after Miss Piphany struck her lovely old wand on my soul, I knew how to overcame this here problem.

Oh I was in a bar after all this occurred. In a horrible bar. I was scoping out nice faces.
"Hallo," I said. "How are you a-doing?"
"Yes."

We never married, nor did we wed. In fact we didn't even interact beyond that point. But how I was satisfied.

Kinda Stinks

"I like it, man. There's no expectation and the only place to go is up."
"But aren't you ashamed?"
"Not at all. I think it's bloody cool being the underdog. And the girls down here have a rough charm that's simply lacking from those plastic cut-outs above. I can just shove my cock at them and they don't get offended."
"How lovely."
"You bet. Honestly I much prefer these humble living conditions to the others on offer. There's something so hollow and meaningless about the glossy and pampered lifestyle of the well-off."
But I could see in his face that he wasn't telling the truth. He smiled an empty smile and swug the rest of his stale whiskey.

The next time I saw him was the one after the last. He was eating a shoelace on a fishing line.

Grave Expansion

No longer content with a few words of vague praise and a badly-segued link, the Robots have grown ambitious and begun to articulate their concerns in great length. But screw them, I'm here to talk about Rag Dolls.

The Awful Delay

With steaming brown swirling through my innards, I took to the mines with spade and barrow in search of poor man's platinum and a bigger house. Upon arrival (it was morning, you see) I saw a man milling outside the grubby entrance and, naturally, bumped in for a closer look. 'Twas none other than the esteemed silver resident. I was about to greet in my usual reserved way, when I noticed the look of deep and drowsy sorrow 'neath his brow and a rattling jar marked with skull and crossbones in his paw. With my indiscreet inhale he turned his slow eyeballs towards mine and sadly acknowledged me. I looked away. I could not bear it. From my vision of wobbling red plain I spoke.

"What are you a-doing?"
"J'attends le bon moment," he answered dolefully.
"And what are you going to do when it comes?" I asked.
He glanced down at the jar in his hand.
"Ma vie ne fonctionne plus," he said.
"But why? What's happened?"
"Ben ne visite plus mon emplacement."
"Is that all?"
"Non. J'ai cessé de visiter mon emplacement aussi bien."
"What's stopping you from going back to it?"
He wearily looked at my ears and said: "Je n'ai jamais trouvé un chéri."
"You're still young," I reassured.
"Et mon roman est terrible." He handed my a wad of faded manuscript paper and turned away theatrically. Having no other option, I sat upon a comfy rock and poured my eyes out.

Fifteen odd hours later I had finished.
"I liked it," I announced from my comfy rock.
"Menteur !" he screamed.
"No really. I particularly liked Mary's character."
"Soyez silencieux ! Vous ne dites pas la vérité. Je connais parce que Lou Reed a écrit trop de chansons avec les mêmes cordes."
"And his lyrics were awful too," I added.
"Je conviens. Maintenant pouvez-vous comprendre pourquoi je suis sur le point de se tuer ?"
"No. Don't even say such things."
He smiled and opened the jar.
"Au revoir Hugh."
But before he could place the coward's pill on his tongue, I lunged forward and tackled him to the ground. The jar flew out of his hand and bounced down the dry hill. Watching the pills spill out across the red, he began to giggle and cry.
"On me flatte que vous avez essayé de me sauver, mais j'ai déjà pris un avant que vous soyez arrivé." he said as he rose to his feet.
"What?" I cried. "How long have you got left?"
"Environ trois minutes."
"Jesus. Can I do anything?"
"Oui. Améliorez votre français." He began laughing again.
"I'll write something for you on my page," I said firmly.
"Et il coulera comme le fleuve, aucun doute."

Two odd minutes later he fell like a stone.
"Je vous enterrerai dans les mines," I said as I dragged him into the dark.
I perched him up against one of the walls and started to dig.
Gold wasn't forthcoming.
"Il n'est pas aussi facile qu'il regarde," I said.
The hole I was digging became body-size.

I sat atop the mine and took great pleasure in being. Especially over the current scene. I wasn't to be rich, I wasn't to be successful, but I hoped that somewhere down the track I would own an old car and afford the luxury of occasional leisure.

The sunset was setting and I was happy till dark. Wording my tribute for the most of it, the walk home wasn't nearly as arduous and I enjoyed the darkness for once — mainly because there wasn't to be anyone else in it. Occasionally I would falter and feel horrible over the prospect of having to work for my keep, but for the most part I was strangely calm and energised by the silver resident's departure and what I would write for him. I was happy I had known him, and that helped me cope.

As I pushed the wheelbarrow into the shed, I was again struck by the crushing blow the absence of gold brought about. It was still there as I glanced at nothing discernible through the kitchen window with a waiting cup of brown. And it was still there when an imperturbable silence reigned.

And now Monday loomed.

Quite and Nobody's News

Outside was fairly light and nice today. I had a fresh cup of steaming brown for breakfast and I might make another soon.

I saw Tom in the city last week. He had his hair in a bun and wore a "No Planet!" t-shirt. He had a bundle of St. Kilda cakes in a shopping bag too.

"I'm going to sit on top of a building at Southgate and eat these cakes," he answered.

"No thanks. I've got pressing concerns," I replied.

At the stroke of ten thirty-five A.M, I appeared almost as if by magic at the café — my visible entrance through the doors betrayed me — and sat down opposite Harry for luncheon.

"Henry is still in denial," he told. "And I's still over the moon in love with my local market employess."

"Wear the tails," I instructed.

"A bit too fat," he added.

Next up was afternoon tea at the best afternoon tea room in the land.

"It brings out the leaves," said one.

"It strangles the leaves," said I.

"A better album has seldom been heard," said both.

And of course the phone call.

"We will be it, you hear? We will destroy them. I hate..." said the phone.

"Yes, but have you..." I said.

"Monday."

And finally.

"I took this at..." he said.

"Yes, but why?" I asked.

"It stank."

What a nice day! But it's not over yet.

Tom Rises

A flood of posts from no-one's land has insured Tom's promotion from measly fourth to tender third, and dropped poor old Stephan (once in proud possession of the fabled meat platter and marble-substitute trophy) down a rung. Waiting for him in Tom's old and brief housing is a battered vinyl copy of The Return Of Bruno — with "Youngblood" rendered virtually unplayable from overuse — and a rotting steak sandwich wedged between the pillows on the couch. Tom on the other hand, has endless nights of Gold to look forward to, with only a makeshift fort Stephan built out of furniture offering light relief.

Above Thomas, the silver resident has become complacent in his newfound fame, and has taken to sipping sugary, blasphemous versions of England's favourite non-alcoholic beverage on his glorious balcony overlooking the scum below. Occasionally he joins the exhalation of above for a game of Croquet-Cluedo™ (a fusion whose rules are much too complicated to explain here) on the high-rise lawn, usually against an early morning backdrop of green fields and rising suns (though evening games are growing more popular with the pair of late).

Below, Anh Tu remains in his coma and Harry continues to swim through the waste of his making.

Harry Falls

Tom has finally clawed his way up from the dirt and settled into rung number four, where ol' Harry once resided (clean out the bin before you get too comfortable, Tom!). Now, of course, ol' Harry has his face in the phmud, and isn't looking like getting out of it any time soon. Why Harry and not Anh Tu? Well, I've taken Anh Tu's lack of internet access into consideration and weighed it against the fact that his posts generally have a tad more ambition than the likes of "Yeah......... I haven't updated in a while. Fuck I'm lazy." On the business-end, Ben has proven himself enough to remain at the peak, and I have promoted Romeo's rival from non-contender to silver medalist. That means that Stephan has slipped down to where attempting to identify Gold hits with bronze egg on his face is as good as it gets. Still, it could be worse. He could be Harry.

Only Wankers Use Diminished Chords

And as he turned away from the three bails and glanced artificially at the sweeping horizon, a note from the flutist's exposed pipe fluttered with all the gall of an ancient Frenchmen, and lapsed like a refreshing blanket around the previously silent and awkward mood, finally settling in the yellow grass near a fisherman's neglected knitting needle. The glancer's illusion shattered like so many dead flowers in a field (I've seen it happen, you know), and he was suddenly grounded in all his horrible flaws and imperfections and left with a face uncertain of whether to laugh or ball. In fact it did neither; he merely nodded slowly and glowered his way out of sight. But can you blame him? What man wouldn't act thus if he was faced with the same dilemma? As for the flutist, well, he just blew out the rest of his steam and went the other way.

The next day had the advantage of youth and celebrated by way of a particularly shimmering sun, which awoke the still-sleeping and patted the awake gently on the nose. One of the latter was cooling himself by a faulty air-conditioner in a building of sorts, and fluttering his store-bought eyelashes for extra heat-resistance. Another of the same was next to him and eating a ham roll mundanely, while all around flies made their presence felt on her yellowed right-hand. The same couldn't be said for someone who wasn't in the same situation, and won't be.

But on returning home, neither the flutist nor the industrial relations employee knew where the secret of All Rather lay. I did, but that's another matter. And then it happened. I wasn't watching, mind you, so I won't be able to fill you in on the details.

After forty years of the stuff, it didn't hold up, and eventually was laid to rest in a tomb of caskets.

To be discontinued...

When God Made Me Sick: Neil Young’s Trilogy From Potatoes To “Let’s Roll” And Beyond

Here's a small prod in the right direction, and one that resembles its maker to an uncanny degree. It goes from woe to whoa in the split of an atom and freezes inconsistencies at the push of a belly. It lights the phases of the faceless and walks the plank of despair into an ocean of plum. It mourns on broken shore-lines and breaking tides, where caking actors smile on the inside only, and puppies moan from exhaustion. It brightens on entry and bellows a roar from ear to ear.

The prod, now a respected member of society, lives off its remainders by cutting the fence-sitters down to size and smoking in prairie bathers. On occasion it speaks to the meek who gather at its door and instructs them to follow the clouds and seek the divine, so as it's left in calm and free to wear fancy. And sometimes it is allowed the luxury of mansion-hunting in the spring, where the washing is lined and the people who need money are.

On its deathbed, the prod is wisened and wistful, and willing to circumvent any troubles which pass its way. The moon, as some would have it, is still very much bent and bending, and is quite visible from the prod's lovely winding window. The sun, however, is a probing occurrence which greatly disturbs its daily peace, and leaves it bitter and unable to swallow. Things could be worse, I suppose.

Saul Bellow Vs. Glenn Richards

It was as I witnessed two conversing creatures on a Hurstbridge train that it first occurred to me; and it was as they reached the conclusion that a certain engine was superior to another that the occurrence transformed into a full-fledged decision that I would act upon that very day, and that would grant me further isolation from the riding rev-heads who alternatively and exclusively discussed automobiles and portable phones.

As soon as the journey saw me safely home, I prepared a sink full of water and burned every T-shirt and brand-name piece of clothing I owned, leaving only the clothes on my back, which I planned to dispose of after I secured a replacement pair and many besides to make up my new wardrobe. Not being very handy or well-equipped, I burned my arms and hands many times in the process, and eventually left my house resembling a neglected bomb victim with an unusually calm disposition.

Upon arrival at the reasonable pre-loved clothing store, I found myself in the company of numerous items which would suit my transformations and see me, at the very least, looking the part. Eventually I decided upon a heavily-patched brown jacket and plain belt-supported beige pants, which, along with a week of white shirts, I purchased in bulk with as little variation as possible for the unstately sum of twenty dollars.

The next step in the process awaited me at the library, and was laid out in multi-edition volumes, collected essays and histories, with inevitable detours through non-non-fiction to keep my mind up to imaginative speed. I became such a frequent visitor in my second closest library that the staff therein actually greeted me from time to time, and, on occasion, slipped a smile into their mannerisms, an expression seldom used since the gay days of their early youth.

When I was confident that my mind was suitably expanded, I began to try my hand at writing essays, ranging from mundane commentaries on the fallings of today's society, to attempted profundity in my philosophical forays. Publishers wouldn't touch 'em, but I still thought of myself as on-par with those who had inspired me and a bourgeoning talent, to say the least.

Unwilling to embark on acquiring new companions, I turned towards my former ones, who were on friendly terms with yesterday's version of myself, but wholly unfamiliar with today's, and, in an attempt at pulling them up to scratch, recommended books to them which I thought would be adequate tools for re-shaping their minds and ridding them of their pop-culture fascination. Somewhat perplexed by my erudite vocabulary and peculiar outfit, none of them were enthusiastic about their reading, and I dare say none of them actually read what I had taken great pains to choose and procure, so I gave up on them slightly after they gave up on me and convinced myself of the merits of solitude.

Though feeling that I still had some way to go before I was up to scratch, I was eager for an opportunity to flex my brain. It came within a month of that thought in the shape of two coffee-drinking university students discussing philosophy at an up-market café in the city. Listening discreetly for as long as it took to get a feel for their level of intellect and ideals, I finally interjected where one of them had clearly reached a point of contradiction by comprehensively arguing to the contrary. I'd like to think that it was solely due to the strength of my argument, but in recent years I've started to wonder whether it was partly due to my appearance and manner that induced their silence and rushed departure. Nevertheless, I counted it as a victory, but a victory, I'm glad to add, which was superseded the following year by a bout a stuffy professor and myself undertook concerning the deterioration of the English language, in which I allowed no room for credible opposing views, and from which I appeared victorious after rattling the morals of my opponent and leaving him utterly speechless.

With my ego fully-pumped, I took to the trains and waited for my former fellow passengers to breathe word of automobiles and portable phones. When they did, I was glad to discover no connection bar species linking me to the filthy twenty-somethings at the back of the carriage and those like them. It was at this point that I knew that I, like my spiritual fathers before me, was close to defining the human condition, and that time was my only object in achieving this through the truthful fiction of my own pen. Though the pages have yet to be writ; though the plot and characters haven't been outlined, I knew that the truth I had finally discovered would give birth to the modern masterpiece and bathe me in all the world.

The Drought

I was sitting in the caking sun with a checkers board spread glamorously across my knees, and with a bent-backed thesaurus flapping at eye level from a music stand, when my steam ran out and left me with the bill. Removing it from my lips, I rose to catch a glimpse of my fleeing companion, who had, I might add, only half-heated the water, which I and he intended to be tea only moments before, and which, after the transformation occurred, we intended to drink and eventually flush away. But I was too sluggish in my reaction and had no chance of catching an explanation. After sighing and tut-tutting a few times, I decided to pay a visit to the well round the back to see how things were getting on.

On arrival, I was shocked and awed by the discovery that the well was empty; no longer was there the refreshing gush of water, or the distorted reflection of a face giggling back at you, to be replaced by bare foundations and uncertain echoes. Indeed so distraught was I over this revelation, that I simply could not make anything for the rest of the day. Thus I went to bed severely undernourished.

I inevitably awoke and found myself one day closer to my day of dying, which I had estimated on my extended bedside calendar in grim red strokes. As I unloaded my bladder into a basin, I began to think about this empty well of mine, and how I would go about filling it. One possibility splashed from the basin onto my feet but the mere thought of it sent me into sickness, so I let it go unharmed. Another made itself apparent over breakfast and was much less demanding, but because of a strict word limit imposed by the task master, and already exceeded by myself, I never got around to doing it. I shouted "Ho Hum!" to the heavens instead.

Happiness for Those Who Avoid

Here comes some more minor meaninglessness bashed out without forethought in the haste of being prolific and reliable, and extended beyond reasonable doubt in hard to chew portions of overblown patches. Adjectives are the bulk of the flesh in these cases, and in this one, while the remaining quarters focus their energies on whiches and whos and ands in an attempt to float the bloat, which was sunk the moment it left port, and which has the same seaworthiness as a concrete slab.

Perhaps with the promise that I will/won't do some extra-long ones in future do I escape. Perhaps.

Substance Abuse

Beneath the gliding punts on reverential lake there must, in theory, lie hidden or half-expressed universal truths which exist to elevate its home towards the immortals above, and which serve as a tonic to the vacuousness of majority. It matters not whether these ambitious clingers have clung to another bow, or whether their sentiments are household, the point is in their existence; for without them, one would never be able to distinguish the high from the low, and standards would be standardised forever.

Contract Filler

It was an unrainy day in June when I realised my potential as an acquaintance, and discovered a glamourous facet for reservation and wholehearted agreement. And it was all the more potent when the who was taken forcefully into consideration and weighed gently against my own, which at the best of times wasn't a force one would bother reckoning with, and at the worst a force one wouldn't even admit to, even if the one was itself.

And in the end I was no better. Nor was I any closer to any of my small goals. But oh well.

Letter to Far Away Ben

[Deleted]

On His Majesties Secret Request

I squandered a fairly unique experience of my own making because I wanted it all.

I had realised some time ago, after completing my sixth novel, The Juicy Beaks, that I wasn't much of a writer. I think it was this sentence that did it for me:

The Juicy Beaks break down upon the havoc-stricken town of Ontario in lulling flights of loving round the coast to coast with flappings sounding meek and murk, and marble milling in the dirt.

So with the knowledge that no prize or positive review awaited me over the hill, I took it upon myself to invest my efforts — hitherto used to bash out prose — on developing a time machine, that, as well as ignoring physics, would allow me to claim the great works of fiction as my own. Of course later I'd expand my ambition to include the canons of great pre-20th Century composers and various other milestones of medium, but for the moment I was satisfied with being the most prolific and diverse writer the world had ever seen.

It took me a few months to create a working time machine, and a further two weeks to plot out my course through history, after which I set out with a sack of manuscripts and various inconspicuous garb for each stop of my journey. Anyway, Ben has chronicled my outcome elsewhere, so I won't go into details. Suffice to say (again), I messed up, and deeply regret it, for I could have seen more of our future instead of fiddling around with the already well-documented past. And with comprehensive knowledge of everything that will happen to me and beyond, I could have lived a nicely predictable existence with calm on my side and a justifiable belief in destiny. I could have made a mint being a fortune-teller, too — though I already would have known that.

But alas, I was finally brought in by the inanely named Rigid-History Police, and forced to hand over my creation to a person of my choosing: Ben. And it is with deep earnestness that I advise him to learn from the greed-induced mistakes I made, and use the time machine to benefit personkind or, when that fails, keep busy exploring the unknowns of unseen corners.

ELO vs. The Beatles

A magistrate of considerable talent, dipped himself into a majestic pool of considered opinion, and, with pale disinterest, withdrew a disentangled drawing implement, which in this case was going to be used as a writing implement, and vindicated a verdict upon a considerably clean sheet of paling paper, that stated, in carefully measured statements and cluttered clauses, the decision reached by him as to the fate of the accused, who was accused of interfering with the fate of a merchant by murdering his principles, and the body and soul that lived by them, in one swift stroke of a pen, which allowed or ordered a certain accomplice, whose job it was to do the dirty work, to dispose of the disposed in a quick clean manner that left as little evidence as possible as to whose hand befell the deceased, and as to how the hand achieved this, and as to why it happened and, in this case specifically, where it happened, as it was soon discovered that the place where the body was found was not the place where the body was created, which opened up a whole new pool of suspects, and ruled out the old ones, who could never have done the deed if the place where the deed was done was not near-by, and thus a whole case of filings concerning motivations and possibilities for these near-by folks was rendered void and quite literally thrown out the window, whereupon a new set of filings were writ into existence concerning the motivations and possibilities of a new group of suspicious minds belonging to a place near to where the crime took place, and, after a few weeks in this mindset, they found their man, who now swings from a post somewhere as a warning to other potentials, and as an example of the no-holds-barred approach favoured by the authorities in these parts.

For Want of a Better World

Now there's a song that should never be writ.

Just Jotting Down These Words Before I'm Faced, Quite Wondrously, With the Demise of Temporary Employment

There I was, The Mighty Jugular, with lips sewn, so as no hindrance arising from brash verbosity could arise, and with feet locked, so as escape, should I want it, would be impossible; and in this situation of my own making, I forced two disobedient pupils to make short journeys back and forth over line after line, in conjunction with my lovely processor within, which tried to make heads and tails out of their findings, and, when failing at this, instructed the two to back-track in the interests of re-assessment. And boy was it ever fun.

Our goal is:
a) To provide our customers with the BEST possible service.
b) To become the most successful of our kind in the WORLD.
c) To inspire loyalty in ALL creatures great and small.
d) All of the above.

Betwixt me and this befuddlement a battle raged, the victor of which won't be revealed until a fair way into the next sentence. So there we stood 'tween the hit-off and the green, our ears flapping in the trees' breeze, our slacks slipping, our eyes darting for the bull's eye marked by a waving white flag over yonder, and shook hands, like all good divisions of winners and losers should: me being the winner, it being the other. This meant that every grain of pride and history and philosophy that they owned and instructed was ground into every natural fibre of my being, and that I was now the embodiment of their soulless body and free of free-will for, I should think, ever.

"How's things, O Hugh?" one might ask. To which I would reply, "Things are focused on maintaining a safe environment for all concerned. By following the eight simple safety steps (ESSS), we at this particular enterprise are working positive wonders for everyone who has not liked the idea of injury, and wished to avoid it at all costs. But be wary: if an accident arises that affects a customer in any way YOU MUST NOT BLAME ANYONE OR TRY TO EXPLAIN THE ACCIDENT OR EVEN MENTION ANYTHING TO DO WITH THE ACCIDENT. Oh and make sure the customer is all right too. Just try to be helpful and calm the customer and DON'T BLAME ANYONE FOR THE ACCIDENT."

And how lovely these outbursts would prove to be at boring dinner parties and the like, where, leaping suddenly from a quiet corner, I would spout every important date in our history, and instill our beliefs upon the the eaters, who would in turn pack their lovely wallets and make for our nearest franchise. And for that I would be handsomely rewarded with advice on the best way to climb the ranks and up my rung.

And then there I'd be, Responsible Hugh, with a tie to tie and decisions to decide; and, back home, a wife to keep everything homely in firm order, and with kids to inspire with my dedication to my responsibilities. I'd stay late to give us extra flexibility in the fund department. And then I'd retire comfortably at 93, safe in the knowledge that I NEVER BLAMED OR TRIED TO EXPLAIN ANY ACCIDENT INVOLVING A CUSTOMER IN MY DEPARTMENT.

Commenteers of Rage

And here the double-edged sword, with its previously unfounded name, soars into focus over mein eyes and rears both its points with surging precision, whereupon it mouths an I-told-you-so and glints carefully out of narrative attention. It represents attention wide and expectations great, and it refers directly to certain practitioners of the footnote variety, whose job it is, with the understanding that the traffic flows in both directions with equal ferocity, to occasionally make their presence felt, so as no one thinks the harbour of sometime effort is not abandoned and churned regularly out of indulgent necessity. Thus with awaiting feedback do I now approach each piece, and with public dread and delight do I open the increased blue, perhaps purple, number near the gray, unremarkable signature. But always was not so.

Even after attracting or forcing anybodies into my womb, I was still beset by mere carefreeness, but a carefreeness that was partially limited by my own standards of practice. It was only as the words grew to be more articulate and constructive that my awareness and my pen were sharpened and shaped accordingly. The feeling that comes with this is not, in all honesty, a pleasant one. Indeed some might call the sinking sensation rotten, but it is, nonetheless, vital and important in the shaping of all things writ. Without it, one muses, this one wall would certainly crumble to self with only the fanciful hope of Professor Unknown stumbling, quite by accident, to a mess, which, in his hands, becomes a masterpiece, keeping it up.

And though it tears right through me like a ball and chain, I am grateful to the extreme for the honesty presented and the unflinchingness from which it is presented. And though I am being pierced from both ends, I feel that I, as a non-representative of personkind, am most certainly the better for it. The populous of my theatre, with bobbing heads and rampant chatter, are the be all and end all and the givers of worth and the givers of words, and for that, again (and echoing one of them particularly strongly with the whole gratitude angle), I thank.

Frayward-Thinkers

Resembling a fed-up parent who's been snubbed by a heavily defaced door for the last time, our saviour, our armour in shining knighthood, has sent us out into the ditch of responsibility and horrid independence, where casualties are pushed out into the road and, ironically, forced to fend harder than ever before, and where flickers of life's majority are projected in the fore as a reminder of the monotony — for most of us — of things to come. But, unlike some inconsiderates out there who choose to throw their brought-up-by-hands straight into the fire without so much as an asbestos bandana, ours is kind and thoughtful enough to provide us with suitable inspiration, out of which we managed to forge deceptive word-games and succeed in banishing the cruel caesareans from our once again aptly named strongholds.

We enjoyed our freedom and uninfected habitats like two jolly laural-resters, and all but forgot those which had worried us so when we were initially overrun, but, thanks again to our mentor, we became aware of our selfish ways and expanded our minds to include the poor others out there who have not been so successful in their battles. Eventually we schemed to plunge into the kettle ourselves, with a full-on onslaught of three (for the moment) that heralded all our might and courage, and that supplied story-tellers with material to embellish and children with idols to live up to; we were going to their homeland to lay waste the source of their creation once and for all and shower peace across the rolling hills and lively settlements.

And it is here we sit now around a superbly-cartographered map of our destination, that, with the aid of diagrams and complex battle-plans, in theory, should see us to victory. Our Captain is suitably donned, and we — me and the one who resists French-leaning foes but welcomes the English-speakers — are also prepared and adequately equipped. Our tally, too, has been carefully hoed, and from here it looks promising. Tomorrow beckons with all the beckoning of a seasoned beckoner, and we await.