Clean Streets

Where I'm from — every-everywhere —, we conceive, discuss and execute our own trouble, though not and never for lack of fun(ds), and only often for lack of trouble. But while our hands jack our own pockets, the gazes we summon are as steely and authentic as inauthenticity can be, and often this proves to be enough. For instance, when some small, graceless critter moaned (in passing) "I'm a walking contraceptive," we snapped his lids with a gaze so contemptuous that he either got lead or laid, and we knew we'd never see him again. Similarly, a beanie-clad bar boy with a reckless mouth:— the sap was spat up and chewed out before you could say a time-consuming word.

"No, no, no. It's fucking intertextuality, man — and I don't swear or man loosely. As a Yous seatzen might say, it's creating a — ahem — 'dialogue' with the past. Suddenly we have a circular history, wherein the long-forgotten has as much place, and I would argue more, as the still-remembered, and the lucky pieces get renewed, modernised, spun again. Master D-D-Darren Deano did the same (to more acclaim) with his ho-hum popcorn — Dogs nicked the plot, Kheel B., its natural, indulgent conclusion, nicked everything. Records are the instrument, just as valid as guitars. Of course, the unimaginative can lean a little heavily, but hey, there's been worthless musicians too. Most of all, however, it's a bed for the voice to lay upon, forcing you to listen, to lap up its cadence, revel in its dexterity, get what the fuck its on about. Clean melodies, by contrast, can get across message-less — the world's better for having both. Sociologically, the hook-jacking also reveals itself as Fuck You function, with some even playing up the perceived thievery. Similarly, the voice — in your f— face — and beat — in your Rs — prove to be enormously effective in getting across one's point, not to mention pissing people off, which is often the point. And—"
"Shut up," said my addressee.

Name omitted, plot lax, delay legendary, result puerile, points wayward, grade C-, too beautiful for words.

Dally en Route

At my most petulant, I can be quite the chemical. One thing, usually small, perhaps misjudged, but in no way ill-willed, and I'm off the good books, losing even the chance to explain. It gets my girders, I'll tell you. The following occurrence, however, is in no way an example, nor a rule-proving exception, of that pretty proven fact. No; it's this: Yesterday (or was it tomorrow?) ubiquitous Ben (hereon) was without his ubiquitous hat, leaving his top exposed. That was wrong, I knew that (as I knew (and know) that "ubiquitous" has been mishandled — though correctly — to such an extent that I'd advocate its permanent eradication, the penultimate of which — this notwithstanding — is superfluous). Like the boogie-to-the-boogie without the boogie-bang, Ben sans hat was an incongruous spectacle, not most because he'd shrunk a little in favour of a duller altitude. His insights were still prime Ben — "Why must every tone be dulcet?" being my favourite — but the naked scalp proved to be an almost insurmountable obstacle in the way of my Ben-schooled enlightenment. Unable to address the issue, I instead focused my attention on the other aspects of his person.
Thus: "Boy, you smell wonderful this evening."
"Pain me though it may to say, you ain't the first person to say that today," retorted Ben, with rhythm too good to go unnoted. Then: "Wait— Haven't you already done this with Harry?"
"Yes, but my readers' attention spans don't stretch back that far."
Ben emitted a smile-shaped grunt.
"I have to take issue with that," he said, "what with me being both your only reader and the person who reminded you of the prior post in question. And that's not even mentioning the time I caught you posting a re-run under a different title."
"But it was an ironic different title!" I protested.
"Irony isn't going to save you now, Hugh. You're going to have to face facts."
"Ironic facts?"
"Nope. Cigars though and through."
"Maybe on my death bed," I said, only half jokingly. I gazed around in that contrived, morose fashion of mine before returning to my quasi-gigantus colleague with "Tell me a story, Ben," and the cutest puppy eyes I'm capable of.
"Rightio," said Ben. "Yesterday, a dear acquaintance of mine said what I interpreted to be 'I issue profundity at ever turn' during a discussion we were having, fittingly about cigars. Consequently, I murmured an insolent 'if you do say so yourself' and stormed off to what I thought were greener pastures, only it turns out that what he actually said was 'I eschew profundity at every turn', and was, in fact, just him being coy. Now, coyness is something I certainly do not have a problem with, so naturally I hurried to patch things up."
"And did you?"
"Yes. All's well."
"Glad to hear it."
"Glad to tell it."
"Good."
"Good."

Like hair that needed it, we went our own separate ways, both looking back on the tenth step to not blow a kiss, and both regretting it later. Ben became a lawyer or a lawnmower, and moonlit as a psyche. I became mighty frank.

Words 196-211 are copyright Ben "Jay Mohr" Hansen, 2007, while 214-220 ever so slightly re-work a phrase of his origin. Any complaints regarding these portions should thus be forwarded to the Ben in question — unless, of course, you are the Ben in question, in which case I'll be gladly accepting any abuse you choose to apply to my person.

Bellydown in Blue

The failings of a self-servo coffee apparatus, tackled here for its doughnut deal, shut me back out into the rain empty-handed, and it was raining. Wasn't quite the collapsing straw, but it was close enough to hurt some. My contemporary, made of a stoop and somehow not Jewish, was more affable about the circ.; he had succeeded in his whim, and was eating it. But his presence was heartening, even amidst the jealousy, and the one thing stopping me from falling to my knees and bellowing.

Crowing the road, we each reached the other side (our goal, I think) and stood down underneath the boxcar sign in some anticipation. Deduction + the timetable informed us that the dusty old people-mover was to arrive somewhere in the next ten minutes, and in exactly those words. Noting this, we slunk further downwards and chewed the in-between time. My own attempts were via the voice-box. Speed: white.

"I'm close to soaked/my throat is choked/voice broke/and near-frozen/feel like I'm dozing/and I'm supposing/you're pretty cold too/bellydown in blue," I said, blatantly.
"Yes, I guess/but you're wearing less/you know it's L-E before S-S/yes, must be a lesson/to not put less on/to listen/while I'm addressin'/no woollen vest?/no winter's best?/but I digress/I'm cold, yes," said Mr. Bee. "Incidentally/that rhyme you sent me/did it really end that way?/well, evidently/but if you want fame/like some lame teen idol/next time don't integrate the title."
"At least this is the right place for it," said Ben, hopping off a street car.
"No — it's music, man. You don't read it." (Me on the defence.)
"Damn right you don't read it/you try and defeat it/with melody and harmony and strict line metres/need a bridge/need a verse and chorus/proper syntax or you're sure to bore us/and syllables/mostly ten/those low street thugs'll never beat Ben." (Ben on the attack.)
"You're missing the beat/this ain't no speech/your small white brain don't have the reach/your mind is blind/it just can't cut it/you say it's open but you already shut it."
"If my mind's white, what the swear does that make yours?/I'd say pure light but you ain't familiar with the laws."
"Light?/swear no/more like lightning/I'm as loud as J. Thunders and thrice as frightening/this ain't no impostor/ala Hawke in Gattaca/those words'll cost ya/'cause I'm blacker than Africa/I don't know if your attempts/are a joke or not/but one thing's for sure/I'm a true reverse-coconut."
Re-enter Mr. Bee.
"Down with love/lust/and all its followers/don't pay no mind or dollars/to no spitters or swallowers/just want a pretty lady/I don't pay/she don't pay me/we go to ballet and call each other 'baby'," says he.
"I win," said Ben.
But I won instead.

Laughing over mostly non-alcoholic beverages at the adjacent inn, we straightened the whole thing out. Turns out I won.