THE HONEYED MOUTH

PHSL Public Service Announcement

2009-04-29T10:00:00.003-05:00

Prospect Hill Soundlab

Presents

PHSL PSA

Click for Audio

Editor's Note: As economic recovery is realized, the Honeyed Mouth will return to routine activity -- what little routine this blog has reluctantly assumed. Thank you for your enduring patience. We hope you enjoy the music.

Magnum Opus - Mid April '09

2009-04-13T14:54:00.006-05:00

4.13.2009
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

The elves of 27 Boston Street continue their tinkering in the Prospect Hill Soundlab. These are productive times, ripe for paradiddles, djembe rhythms, and sweep-phasing of watery bass. Atop the crack, thwap and thunder, the Vocoder R3 supplies ample mid-to-low-range stimuli. Father music ponders a minor 5th, while the chief soundlab engineer tweeks the lower registers of the dynamic equalizer.

We are organic farmers of home grown music.

As part of the ongoing campaign to keep folks apprised of Prospect Hill Soundlab progress, we solicit your undivided attention, et c'est tout! Please checkout the April Version of Magnum Opus. While taking it in, one must consider the ongoing effort to expand, reform, and deliberately funkify the arrangement.

Your input, contribution, and general state of being are most appreciated. Link to Magnus Opus is also available at benmyers.org.

Cheers,

Ben
Soundlab Consumer Relations

Walkin' Ain't Crowded: A Retrospective in Miniature

2009-03-18T08:57:00.006-05:00

A quick survey of the forearms reveals red lashes, scars, and pine tar stains. The lumberjack life is a welcome departure from Somerville's chemical sunrise. Liberation is a single healing breath of the damp saturated air rising from the depths of Davidson mountain spring. I’m gloriously returned to Western North Carolina country roots, christened by sweat – ordained upon the fierce briar thicket churning in the shade of old growth white pines. A leaf of dried field grass swings from the edge of my lip.

Arrived by plane a week ago. Mounted a puddle jumper from Newark, commanded delicately by sweet Mahogany. Industrial landscapes relinquished dominance at the Pennsylvania border, surrendering to hardwood forests of red oak and locust. All of us originating from Newark and beyond, landed beneath a blue mountain ridge surrounded by hilly terrain. My family occupies one of these hills, yonder west several miles in a region irrigated by the Swannanoa river.

When they told me my baggage was lost, I was relieved.

When my phone battery expired, I smiled.

Fuzzy Gargid consumes the hemlock spur shoots, or so I’m told. Hemlock, the poison parsley of Socrates fate, the same Devil’s porridge is food for other bioorganisms. My grandfather limps into the airport cursing Wooly Adelgid, his sciatic pains, and the ongoing drought. A comforting habit of his is cursing these recurring irritations.

We file a delayed baggage claim with Malcom, a real southern-type with a chaw-stained collar. He's convinced that the young women of Buncome County are all smoking dope.

An ongoing debate regarding Swannanoa’s bureaucratic paradigm, or lack thereof, marks the zeitgeist. The need for organized tax structure, law enforcement, and development controls is met by a population thuroughly consigned to anti-government tactics. A crooked bumper sticker on my Grandfathers F-150s advocates “NO TO INCORPORATION.” Change is in the air, and with it as always, stern opposition.

We drive out over the hills of Warren Wilson College, an academic refuge for the agriculturally inclined neo-hippies and trustafarians. The campus is a stretch of lush valley filling a void in the Blue Mountains. Pastures and plantings skirt the fluctuating banks of the river which teams with trout during early autumn cool spells. Fertile red clay erupts from the scarified terrain, announcing its rich iron to the backdrop of pale blue sky. With the windows down we’re blasted with the penetrating odor of freshly spread manure. The organic synthesis prompts uncontrollable salivation.

Awaiting our arrival is Leon Fox, a local hero/mechanic with eleven children. He’s sitting proudly in his tow rig. Gramps asks him to join us for breakfast up at the house. He pauses.

“Let’s go” says Gramps, “Walkin’ ain’t crowded.” With this, we lurch ahead up the hill to a warm kitchen scented with bacon grease. Two pots on the stove are filled with grits and eggs, an authentic breakfast designed for the ambitious lumberjack.

Flynn: The Renaissance Rugger-Cellist

2009-03-04T09:13:00.007-05:00

Fluency in a bow-stringed instrument is a prerequisite for the position of scrum half.

blogmuffin

2009-03-04T08:59:00.005-05:00

christian vice

introducing benmyers.org

2009-02-27T11:58:00.002-05:00

rolling out benmyers.org

The intended function of this web page is relatively unclear. BenMyers.org (if you're more comfortable with caps) more readily lends itself to dysfunction. Perhaps this is some tech-psych-post-modern manifest destiny that brings me to the web. This personal website is an abstraction of the nesting impulse. I suppose the wayward web surfer is eventually overcome with the urge to settle down and build his or her own domain. I hope to use this portal in lieu of a banal business card, unkempt myspace page, or bland mission statement. This is the mission statement: benmyers.org: ben on the web.

In hindsight...

2009-02-22T18:12:00.003-05:00

In hindsight, this will have been an epic period.

Cambridge is a prime sanctuary for the disenchanted twenty-somethings. Guided by Memorial Drive and Massachusetts Avenue, there is such a rich culture thriving beside the Charles River. Cross the river and all bets are off. Caveat Emptor!

The latest satori was a group of BU undergrads dancing to an impromptu jam session staged beneath the Park Street T Station. These seven young females, in sexual full throttle, danced the night away among an amused audience rife with colorful members of the entire cross section of Boston's population. With complete disregard for their arriving train, hips continued to shake Shakira-style while hands formed hindi inspired postures into the early morning air trapped under the pavement. Later it was discovered that this was a birthday celebration, the only logical excuse for such decadence.

A skinny man with a tight-curled black pony tail in a purple business suit and gangster hat sat upon a wooden box, which served as both his seat and drum. A saxophonist in worn jeans and sportcoat danced side-to-side, ascending and descending blues scales with rhythmic precision; a guitarist completed the trio, taller than the other two with a full head of long gray hair and Greatful Dead demeanor. Not one was the presumed ring leader -- each broght it hard with their own unique contribution, essential to the success of the ensemble.

The girls danced, the band played on, all the time the crowd smiling -- frozen in mid-stride to gaze upon the spectacular happenings. The volume of the crowd perpetually waning and waxing with arriving and departing trains. Performance artists reigned supreme beneath the city, without contracts or incentives - other than a buck or two from the noble.

The young dancers were full frenzy at the climax of a Jack Johnson tune when a T employee turned to me and said, "Well, now I've seen it all." As if music required another testament to its glory. There have been few brilliantly spontaneous exchanges in Boston that rival this dance session. Only fortuitous Bostonians were in attendance - the tourists long retired to their stale hotel sheets.

Check it Out: Ambiguous Animation on Public Walls

2008-11-29T11:18:00.003-05:00

The artist Blu has created a film titled Muto in which his spray can artwork comes to life. Too sweet not to share.

Click here for a taste.

http://www.blublu.org/sito/video/muto.htm

The Blackberry PDA is a Chastity Belt for the Mind

2008-11-12T21:48:00.001-05:00

The
Blackberry PDA
is a
Chastity Belt
for the
Mind

HFC, ICE, GBC & Other Lazy Anacronyms

2008-11-12T20:40:00.007-05:00

Hyrogen, two vagabond moochers in need, damaged goods to the protonic core, join as enablers -- need persists, high on oxygen becomes a liquid asset: water. Split them again, Hydrogen deprived - fiending charge, selfishly pursues the insatiable thirst for stability, seeks out cathodes with proton exchanging ambitions. Electrons flank left. The power drivers charging through copper highways, harvested by humans, relegated to doing the dirty work of materialistic mammals. Mammals fear the reptiles hunting in the swampland, mammals fear the fear, escape by internal combustion engines straped to rubber feet with radial velocity. Linear accelerations to the vigorous beat of history, archs and delineates until electron cannons reveal black holes.

Behold the hydrogen fuel cell. Elecrolysis breeds batteries - megawatts become gigawatts, we learn methods of perpetuating bad habits. Frenzied fanatics crowd the gambling table - voyeurs eat at the buffet, the cocktail waitresses smell big tips. Is this really all about the Benjamins?

A vehicle in traffic swerves right, into the bike lane. A biker is passing at a higher rate of speed. The biker swerves right, narrowly avoiding the vehicle. The biker pulls up beside the vehicle, stuck in traffic, and says, "Figure it Out!" then rides on. The moral of this story is that the vehicle had no response.

Keeping it safe with surfboard friends, plan a ski bum lifestyle for the winter months. Brew pots of potent coffee with Japhy in February. Make a bed of grass, live the monkish ideal, with a bag of flour grain, rice and a rucksack. The field mice ascend the elevations of Yellowstone as the humans migrate to urban centers.

Living souls with rigamortis need not innovate, innovation they not need. The inventors arch and delineate, creating erudite artwork, steel fitting artisans crafting process piping from 1/4" stainles stock -- seamless. Art cars deliver satoris, nirvana to samsara, Playa crossing messianic monsters - some spewing fireballs from propane nostrils. Terrifying, different, exciting.

Juggle that for a minute, and meet me at the stage of conflagration. We're reopening the red folder. See you soon.

"If you stand there like a statue, Jack you dead!"
- Joe Jackson

Clipped by Lonely Wrought Iron

2008-10-10T09:51:00.004-05:00

Atop the fortified granite block tower,
under American flag pride in the night,
our hilltop vantage point --
the lookout we sport aimless,
our forbearers tracked the British from these very monolithic footholds,
us breaking laughter and corks
break beats for dorks,
overlooking the expanse of Boston waterfront.
Somervillains we become - endemic to the night.

A sip of whiskey.
A slug of beer. Sipping and slugging away the saturated midnight breeze off the bay.
Cannot walk, so we run.
Cannot run, so we fly.

Motivating downhill.
Into the industrial parks -
and playgrounds
monkeybars and cargo canvas,
sippy straws and sliding poles -
this is change we can believe in.
Greasing the wheels
for smooth rollie-pollie-madness!

The improvised terrain
a developed landfill
atop the gurgling seas of saline Scandanavian tongues
Norse gods fear our Anglo Saxon resolve
turning more adeptly to Buddhist nirvanic trance
the satoris of this samsara --
distance from dullards and that
MEDIUM REGULAR COW SLOP
bring us one step closer,
to the perfection of nothing.

Perfect though,
this moment,
because it is,
yet we cannot recognize the perfection --
survival instincts pervail;
stymie enlightenment --
warrior testicles have us chasing the invisible dragon
over foothills,
into virgin forests of frozen fir -
warm villas of field mice
beyond the swales of fertile moss
no home for shotgun wielding gray beards.

Clipped by lonely wrought iron,
we fall into the wood chips
writhing in sweet agony.

An October morning Buddha insists the Spiritual Currency Market remains unaffected.

Radical Self-reliance

2008-09-04T08:25:00.003-05:00

It's good to be home from home for a while - though bittersweet and boring is the desk.

We return, having survived Reno failure and the enduring sandstorms that rocked the Playa. The laughter never so sincere, the trance never so dirty - Burning Man is a meticulously contrived affront to American republican archetype (see those nervous fat bodied elephants sweating filthy oil profusely while cheering, clapping, and grinning like doped apes eating fried chicken).

Burning Man is a protest. The peaceful masses hold hands in anti-structured solidarity, rocking out with cocks and breasts out alike, meditating in huddles around wind chimes, riding out the American Dream amid the spontaneous combustion of gargantuan fireballs.

Burning Man is the omnipotent mind fuck the aimless souls seek, and the rigidly conservative fear. The community is a brother and sisterhood of radically self-reliant free-thinking rebels with good taste. The art created is ubiquitous, boundless in every sense of the word: the interaction of human beings, the human beings disguised as animals, the animals on wheels rolling cross the playa, the playa itself lit by faux full moon and lazers, the lazers a ceiling under which the human beings dance - rage - embrace.

Each one finds his or her own Burning Man.

Burning Man is biscuits, gravy, and home brew during a sandstorm white-out. Over-sexed and under-nourished, fifty-thousand pleasure-seeking manic-pacifists wearing goggles smile on bicycles as fine silty clays cake upon their gums. A raving harlot exchanges a marble for a silver charm, French Canadians offer pancakes and Margheritas to passers-by, old Reno hippies tour the badlands shirt-cocking teenage girls, we all become cognizant of the Native American tragedy.

Buring Man is not a burning man, it is a burning crowd of interacting burned burners thrilled by the burn, thrilled by their hearts. Mutually understood, mutually beneficial, the vast landscape is home to a die-hard crowd jaded by default existence. Showmen they are not. The blowhard tuba operator spewing flames and low C without an audience is healing. The petite blonde adorned in a billowing victorian era gown maneuvers her BMX between the dunes with complete indifference toward the twenty servants dressed in white robes ritualistically transporting one hundred oil lit lanterns to the foot of the temple. A man dances alone by a street sign in the dark - understanding the nirvanic nature of selflessness.

Reclaimed telephone poles underpin a structure predestined for a fiery demise. The hot pink hue of the sun rise accents the skirting hills naturally while the artificial LED-lit profile of the man echoes natures pigment. At Burning Man, it seems the mountains, the sun, the man, and those objects organic and inorganic, sent spinning in orbit, were fabricated as one.

The audacity of artisans realized at Burning Man is a showpiece of human achievement.

- Ben

Sandstorms blew with a vengance- peppered naked skin and cast whole tents aloft! Oh ye wrathful mechanism of nature! But the storms only gave strength to the heathen fire worshippers.

Ah but when the sun set the winds died and lights danced, leaving traces and trails streaking across the desert. A UFO crashed after purple sundown. Aliens emerged and spun breakbeats for the sweaty masses, all covered in dayglow body paint.

A 300 ft duck equipped with laser eyes and a mohawk made of flamethrowers roamed the playa looking for victims. Numerous pirate ships bathed in ghostly light sailed the psychedelic seas blasting 300,000 watts of acid-trance, making hostages of all who beheld their sound systems.

Topless French-Canadian girls stomped in the dirt, elaborate goggles fastened to their elegant heads to proctect them from the bite of the wind.

7 hits of pure liquid in fewer than just as many days- the closing of eyes revealing rainbows of new sensoriums and dancing geometric shapes folding like oregami to the beat of mystic alien rythyms. The sense fields would spontaneously split in half and drift beyond the peripheries of perception, spilling sun-like wisdom into the skull, flooding it with primordial color.

The biggest party on earth and by far the most profound. A time to make new art, new music, new words, new love... a renewed faith in humanity. Burn it all!

Charanara Sama Ti Ta Hee.

- Steve

Words on Boston

2008-08-12T22:06:00.002-05:00

Broken fingers,
malicious at times
large and unseasoned,
without callouses
mapped in thin white scars,
not yet arthritic,
flex a troubled verse immortal –
insatiable and teething.

The girth of these same digits
deterred a rogue five-mississippi rusher
bearing down on Crutch -
ankles strained,
aligning the body -
between aggressor and main protagonist,
bootlegging beyond the margins,
intercepting fervent flesh.

The same grinning gaze remains,
the one of wanton boyhood dawn,
behind the veil of thin-rimmed black sunglasses,
disgusted by corporate greed perversions,
beckoning truth,
surf-casting for spirituality,
in muffs of pubic hair.

The natural,
primordial state of Dzogchen,
transcendental simplification --
the self-aware mental alchemist,
summon from the subconscious,
a fleeting concern -
finite and vivid;
stirring with the warmer thoughts above -
spume forth a brackish froth,
during epileptic convulsions of enlightenment.

Exposing the immaterial qualities of thought,
mixing, melding, and fusing nature,
discarding dogma and pontification,
disrobing the semantics and rhetoric –
the mind detached,
understands more.

A pure moment:
She lies in the dirt and grass under the timeless moonshine,
a peaceful smirk by nocturnal light revealed,
shapely lips and perfect teeth.
outside the Eastern Tabernacle of the Cambridge Meeting House,
Lamas in the breeze –
Effortlessly allow false desires to pass as the clouds.

This enthralling habitat is the toxicity of the urban environment,
the captivating flavor of tuna fish chocolate bars.
A quilted comforter at a craft fair,
an amalgam of myriad fabrics,
salvaged and on sale,
but far too rich to take home.

Reeling squirm junkies buzz about:
The superfluous academia of The Peoples’ Republic,
Back Bay hipsters with esoteric magazines,
the raw fraternity of Savin Hill’s Street Dogs,
Alston’s counter-culture rebellious spirit,
Brookline’s Russian food shops and Indian lunch buffets,
impervious pretentious gates of the Harvard institution,
mysterious underworld of MIT laboratories,
open-source learning on Massachusetts Avenue.

Each has his domain.
In Plato’s Republic,
Whitman’s infatuating characters --
move about with eyes to the fire.

Behold the esteemed forest spirit of Japanese legend --
Bagley writes of a white mountain adventure highlighted by a moose encounter:

“Saw a massive black moose on the trail this weekend. It's hard to imagine their physical scope and effortless mastery of the dense, borreal terrain on which they roam until you see their dark head and broad, sweeping antlers rise from the fern brush with almost mythical grace. Head-on, their piercing glance and wild crown would appear demonic if it wasn't for their passive nature and guardian-like presence in the otherwise isolated forested ridgelines south of Mount Washington.”

The venerable four-legged organic master,
a guardian of alien terrain,
seldom vexed
by the intrusion of infidels,
nods his head,
snorts,
and keeps moving.

Outside, Dorchester is happening on a Friday evening.
Crouched cabals lurk in dark corners of the T-station tracks making arrangements and prophetic statements under the din of passing red trains –
periodic episodes of clamorous clickety-clacking
launch ice blue sparks into the thicket.

Audible sirens resound,
magnified by decrepit masonry squalor,
signaling the arrival of a SWAT team --
weapons drawn from holsters,
their cue,
an alleged pharmacy thief,
with weaponry of his own -
purportedly brandished for immediate,
unprovoked,
discharge.

Bystanders gather beyond the caution-tape,
each one intrigued by the speculation of death.
Boston Police Department blind beyond the usual suspects –
inspecting routine stops,
with routine coffees,
(medium-regular coffees)
and routine thoughts,
business as usual.

All survive to live another day,
thanks to fine police work,
and the young men –
dying horrifically in Afghanistan.

Saturday morning is the smell of eggs crackling in bacon grease,
from the brown bits congealing in the grille trough --
to the nostrils of passers-by,
euphoric olfactory stimuli,
waft gently from the thickly caked Mckenna's grease duct exhaust--
The whole neighborhood
united by the smell of griddle cakes and syrup.

A single, unifying truth:
the appeal of griddle cakes and syrup,
on Saturday morning.

I can smell it from the alpine zone of Pierce Mountain,
overlooking Crawford Notch
and Mount Washington to the North.
The smell mingles with electrons and sulfur –
as ominous t-storm cells roll over the back of Eisenhower,
more intimidating than SWAT,
forming an intense cyclonic huddle around Washington’s proud summit.

The ambiance changes from friendly to fierce in a matter of minutes.

Burning Man or bust!
The man burns in 18 days…
The American Dream is Alive

GREEN duckie

2008-08-08T14:06:00.003-05:00

Free Tech Support by Myers

2008-08-01T07:24:00.006-05:00

Mike McSoley has written again for technical support. McSoley is a reformed concrete flat-worker, construction superintendent theologian, naval veteran, and Dad. He has many guns, and likes to discuss complex issues using the Socratic method. Dare I say Mike is a Hunter S Thompsonesque amalgam of guns, an affinity for well-informed argument and general aversion to political correctness. He's part objectivist, part deconstructionist, part mechanic -- a wholly unique renaissance man of construction.

Letter from Mike:

7/27/2008

Good morning...

Yet again, I have a problem with my laptop, a Dell Latitude D620 (I don't know if you need that info). Recently, about Friday of last week, my screen does not fill the entire area. I have a 1'' margin on the right and left sides of the display. I click the maximum icon but nothing changes. I did not find any answers using the help icon. I'm certain it is a pretty easy fix for people who know but I am not one of those people.Please help before I'm forced to call customer service in Calcutta...

Thanks in advance.

Regards,

Michael J.

Letter from Myers Tech Support:

8/1/2008

Hey Mike --

Here's how you fix your computer:

A) Right click on your desktop
B) A drop-down menu should appear
C) Choose "Properties"
D) Choose the tab "Settings"
E) Change the screen resolution back to the default
F) If you do not know the default resolution setting, try 640x480
G) If that does not work, keep trying different resolution settings until you succeed
H) If that does not work, calmly unplug the machine and do one of the following:

1) Dismember the bitch key by key from Esc to Ctrl
2) Bring it with you next time to the shooting range for a "brogan adjustment" (nod to Pauly, The Sopranos)
3) Pack a carry-on bag (save yourself the $15 baggage check fee) complete with said Dell Latitude D620 and fly to Calcutta. Tell them first-hand what you think of their piece-of-sht machine. Go on to explain the cancer that is American outsourcing of jobs overseas. This hostile rant should continue unabated for the greater part of an hour, alternating between the Dell corporation's ineptitude and your proclivity for firearms.
4) Buy a mac

Please share your results.

Sincerely,

Ben

Memory of the South Amherst Common

2008-07-18T19:01:00.005-05:00

In the late haze of Summer-slow, we would call on our counterparts to join in a game of tackle football on the South Amherst common. Come one, come all, if ye dare! Matt Crutch took the lead -- his persuasive capabilities superior to the others. Ten, Twelve, even Fifteen, were summoned by a spontaneous phone tree of eager youth ready to do battle.

At the crossroads of Shays, Middle and Southeast streets, a constrained pasture of hearty sod is where we convened. The timeworn pitch reckoned the memories of farmers grazing livestock as the masses spilled from the South congregational church. About the perimeter stood old Yankee houses sheathed in clapboards saw cut by hand in local mills and lathered with decades of layered paint. Their resident voyeurs would stand austerely cautious behind the shaded windows as our energetic souls snowballed rebellious, spouting profanity unafraid.

The field was a oblong rectangle lined with teeshirts marking fifteen yard first downs. The first order of business was establishing the field. No shortage of dispute would ensue. The older boys, represented by Brian Crutch, Matt's older brother, had the final say. After the dimensions of the surface were agreed, the rules would follow.

Some rules were standard and to argue their merit was futile speculation. These were the basic stipulations subject to minor variation:

1) Four downs per possession
2) First down every fifteen yards
3) Two completions is a first down
4) Live kickoffs
5) Five-Mississippi rush
6) Three-men on the line of scrimmage

Only rules three and four occasionally generated dissent, the stronger argument championed by the older players. The elders opted for two completions on account of their longer arms and legs. Live kickoffs were an issue of safety -- and members from both sides, no matter how reckless, would carefully consider the risky nature of head-on collisions at fifty-meter pace. The game of pickup tackle football is wrought with injury. So long as the game transpired, so too did the countdown to a broken bone or bloodied face.

The games were this and that and everything. We band of suburban thugs were center-stage of the neighborhood. The wise-comic Tim Levy would raise his reliable hands and retrieve the regulation-sized youth football from the humid summer air. A backfield recluse would fold him in-half mid-air, but it was too late. The victorious party would join him in the endzone for a brief laugh -- then position themselves for the impending live kickoff. A firm boot, a hasty sprint, a rough tackle, flailing legs skyward bound, the blur of a moments opportunity vanished -- then the rallying offense would huddle to discuss strategy.

It was not uncommon for passers-by in automobiles to slow to a near halt upon regarding the mayhem. A few narrowly avoided collisions with other distracted drivers.

Plays were devised by the Crutch brothers. Each brother commanded his squadrons of willing combatants with relative calm. This was a proving ground, and every young man sought his opportunity. Whether constrained to the offensive line, faking a handoff and running a short curl, or navigating the deep post, the fervent constituents were all operating under the assumption that their particular responsibility potentially impacted a favorable result. This was evident in the twitch of their toes. This was realized by their unyielding resolve to compete. This was marked by their incessant modest focus. The boys had arrived with a bone of some sort to pick.

Showing up was enough to garner respect, dilettantes and professionals alike. All participants understood the crude stakes. Derision met only those that remained absent, and they would suffer condemnation within the middle school halls during Monday's reunion. They would be chastised for homosexual tendencies and softness. The most athletic no-shows always received the brunt of the heckling.

And show up they did. Zack Tompson, Nick Eely, Jason Grazeidei, Mike Hannigan, Tony Volpe, John Ozereko... Ten, Twelve, even Fifteen were in attendance!

The Crutch brothers were pickup ball geniuses. They possessed an arsenal of calculated allusions crafted with the purpose of misguiding the defense. Matt was Brett Favres delinquent pupil. He was a master of timing the fake hand-off, rolling out with superbly fluid form which transitioned to a mid-stride release of a ball guided directly for the intended recipient. His gestures were naturally calculated and meticulous as a fine flint-lock rifle upon horseback.

We would gallivant warrior style into the darkness until between the night sky and the ball there was no prejudice and catches were acts of God himself. The scores were always close. Neither team would concede defeat even when the score proved otherwise. This is the way all members preferred it.

We'd give daps and part ways. Each having accomplished his own personal victory of sorts.

As the mud death-spiraled the periphery of the drain, in the shower I would recall then as I do now that these remarkable occasions are so simply perfect.

A Boating Escapade, or Dick Cheney the Dinkus

2008-07-17T23:19:00.003-05:00

Aging military outposts fortify the coastline, concrete memoirs of wars past. Here we defended X from Y and built Z to kill them faster. U is where our scientists developed V to wage war on W. We troll the waters of an abandoned naval yard tempting fatboy stripers scudding along the rusting structures forty feet below. Captain Chambers is at the helm.

The boat engine sputters watered down ethanol infused gasoline, gasping for air in-between coughing fits. Wide open and she purrs smooth. We follow the doom path stretch of black water shimmering under a ghost moon. At peak velocity, the broad trim collides with perpendicular wakes, spraying a mist of brine that tastes like Dragon Creek oysters.

The waterfront of Boston’s harbor towers above the landfill underpinnings, there’s a thin line dividing the man-made environment from the sea that threatens to swallow it whole. Our dwelling appears majestically on the knife’s edge.

Even in the perilous eye of a magnifying glass, the ants do not concede their hole.

Wars are fought on foreign soil and polar bears are drowning more frequently. The grubstakers foreclose on faulty mortgages while living room gangsters and CNN politicians speculate by plasma screen. Lost boys need an agenda, lost ambassadors exchange fierce rhetoric and lost boys take up weapons in their stead. No matter the weather, battle cries ring out.

War. War. War. I cannot write without harking its condemnation! All the maladies of our homeland, and none vex me quite like our ultra-military complex. We, the embarrassed superpower, are sinking into middle-eastern quicksand while the Iraqi leadership asks when we plan to leave.

Cheney, you Judge Holden of modern, formally surrender your silence and be a fucking man. Cheney, the stakes are too high for your consciousness. Your heart will fail soon, your body will die, and generations of the living will wade through the reverberations of your ignorance. What your CIA calls blowback is a force far more complex and indeterminate. Sometimes apparent, more often elusive, the organized organic mass that is humanity is destined to achieve a peaceful balance – but not so long as those with your conflict resolution techniques remain in control. Your legacy is no more than a pothole in the spring; a bump in the road, a flat tire, a last minute swerve. In time, the Cheney memory will be a darkened scar barely distinguishable from the common asphault.

Otherwise, all is quite well – quite well indeed! Crises watch is BORING. Cheney is boring.

Summer’s mystery is unfolding in the streets. Bring your friends.

Rapt Seafarer Under the Full Moon Dawn

2008-07-16T08:08:00.006-05:00

The commonality of human beings is an innate inclination to admire nature -- even temperamental lesbians have an affinity for tomato plants.

BTM
7/16/2008

Boston Legal Rugby Logo

2008-07-15T15:23:00.002-05:00

BOSTON LEGAL BRAND IMAGE
by
TEAM AWESOME

(c) 2008 Team Awesome Associates, Inc.

GET USED TO THE FEAR

2008-07-15T15:10:00.003-05:00

PROPOSED TEE SHIRT DESIGN
by
TEAM AWESOME

(c) 2008 Team Awesome Associates, Inc.

One Page of Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian

2008-06-24T11:48:00.003-05:00

or On the Evening Redness in the West

Steve and Pete:

We may be the three animals left in the caballado, or the Mexican riding out on his third horse in so many days. We may also be three white schmucks living in Cambridge. In any case, thanks is due for insisting McCarthy's Blood Meridian is the balls. I have read it; your claims now confirmed.

I offer the transcription of page 111, not a word more or less. This passage extols the virtues of Cormac's masterpiece -- and will surely return you to the apocalyptic wastelands with which you were once familiar.*

*Gypsy Bar and Faneuil Hall not included.

PAGE 111

They rode all day upon a pale gastine sparsely grown with saltbush and panicgrass. In the evening they entrained upon a hollow ground that rang so roundly under the horses' hooves that they stepped and sidled and rolled their eyes like circus animals and that night as they lay in that ground each heard, all heard, the dull boom of rock falling somewhere far below them in the awful darkness inside the world.

On the day that followed they crossed a lake of gypsum so fine the ponies left no track upon it. The riders wore masks of boneblack smeared about their eyes and some had blacked the eyes of their horses. The sun reflected off the pan burned the undersides of their faces and shadow of hourse and rider alike were painted upon the fine white powder in purest indigo. Far out on the desert to the north dustspouts rose wobbling and augured the earth and some said they'd heard of pilgrims borne aloft like dervishes in those mindless coils to be dropped broken and bleeding upon the desert again and there perhaps to watch the thing that had destroyed them lurch onward like some drunken djinn and resolve itself once more into the elements from which it sprang. Out of that whirlwind no voice spoke and the pilgrim lying in his broken bones may cry out and in his anguish he may rage, but rage at what? And if the dried and blackened shell of him is found among the sands by travelers to come yet who can discover the engine of his ruin?

That night they sat at the fire like ghosts in their dusty beards and clothing, rapt, pyrolatrous. The fires dies and small coals scampered down the plain and sand crept past in the dark all night like armies of lice on the move. In the night some of the horses began to scream and daybreak found several so crazed with snowblindness they required to be shot. When they rode out the Mexican they called McGill was on his third horse in as many days. He could not have blacked the eyes of the pony he'd ridden coming up from the dry lake short of muzzling it like a dog and the horse he now rode was wilder yet and there were only three animals left in the caballado.

Letter from Former Student Turned Christian Zealot

2008-06-12T06:41:00.002-05:00

The clear agenda of Christian missions in China is thriving. The catholic church in particular, has a presence in the cities and surroundings. A young woman with the English name Ada was one of students and has recently (within the past year) been affected by the robed pontiffs armed with proverbial rhetoric and ancient parables. In recent correspondence, her nascent relationship with the church pervades any meaningful depiction of her experience. If this "Lord Jesus" character weren't endorsed so heavily by our state, I might think him the leader of some unhealthy cult engaged in clandestine rituals -- perhaps involving human sacrifice and consumption of blood.

Letter from Ada, 6/12 (sic):

Hi,my best and great teacher,

I can't tell you how surprised and excited to hear from you. Thank Jesus!

I'm full of excitement, i've got an empty mind.hahah...

Luckily,there were none of my relatives affected in the earthquake,but thank you for your careness.

You are right,shanghai is a big city and it's hard to live here,but everthing goes well with me for i have Lord Jesus with me. Few days later i'll to Chengdu,maybe you can do me a favor:can you help me with my resume,how to make it attractive and strong? It's better to give me an example.

I hope you spare some time to read Bible and attend the Sunday service,Jesus is the only one and true God.I'm serious. I hope you won't be offended with my suggestion.

Ok, it's nice talking to you and thank you for your time!

Best regards!

Ada

TAXI!

2008-05-13T22:39:00.001-05:00

HELP I'm losing my mind

2008-05-07T19:37:00.005-05:00

The parable of my life must incorporate the horrid machine before me. Darwinism provides for natural selection against I long before computers become the predatory species they are alas. Seizing from Men their manhood, dislocating animals from the rich minerals of planet earth -- they are winning their ubiquitous campaign waged against our instincts. It's a coalition of the virtual time sink.

The parable of my life is cognizance of technology's impermanence. Ever changing, fluid, in permanent flux, these machines are not the stock of inconstible reality. They, these machines, are a false promise of efficiency. Efficiency being the primary objective of our day, these cursed machines are the "tools" that chant the flawed mantra flouting patience while hailing production.

The parable of my life is the polemic against modern corporate doctrines. I'm a construction man. There is warm blood in these veins. The envy of architecture and the thrill of building are unmatched sensory experiences. The affinity for both are the underpinnings upon which my professional life rests. Right actions, true endeavors are important to one's dignity -- and here; in the dirt, concrete, steel, wood and wire, I've discovered mine.

Observeth the tangible symptoms of the built environment:

an excavator operating laboriously in the cold bright silence of spring breezes
buckets of earth spilling off the blade of a Gradeall.
compacting dense grade with a diesel roller
the confident aroma of wet concrete curing under the afternoon sun
the scraping of a steel trowel over a stubborn, recently-kicked slab
the click-clack of swaying aluminum pump jack staging
wafting powdery air of gypsum and joint compound
stinging chemicals and cleaning agents with hazmat classification
fresh paint
the symbols of inventive design brought forth by ambitious souls

Ignore the passion and a:

Gentle, well meaning spirit

finds a cubicle and call list

soliciting business

recalls the fervent study

brought upon by procrastination

a Sunday evening coffee

to stimulate the will --

engage the erudite spirit;

revel in the comfort of words and numbers.

Samaratin policy for police?

Deriving true power from words and numbers?

These never happen.

The samaratins go unheard

muffled by the noise of braindead power

projecting figurative fireballs with projected digits

spitting up directions and litigious nonsense

while the altruistic mutes

cannot work a microphone.

Design a robot

with actuating forearms

pneumatic shoulders

and hammer fists

to knock out the myriad pundits

making their livings

regurgitating conventional

didactic rhetoric

scared of individual thought.

Migrate to a placewhere the curvature of history

results in justice

and We The People

means what it means

us.

A place where we are not monkeys for media.

A place where we implement the cognitive surplus for change.

Barack and Roll!

f-it

2008-05-02T09:29:00.002-05:00

Faust. Part 1 -- I HAVE, alas! Philosophy,
Medicine, Jurisprudence too,
And to my cost Theology,
With ardent labour, studied through.
And here I stand, with all my lore,
Poor fool, no wiser than before.
Magister, doctor styled, indeed,
Already these ten years I lead,
Up, down, across, and to and fro,
My pupils by the nose,—and learn,
That we in truth can nothing know! Goethe (1749-1842)