Hello, diligent workers. Do not be alarmed. This is not a drill. Arms outstretched, make sure you have a widow's space between you. I won't imagine you're talking today.
We called everyone in the factory floor to discuss hand-holding & other deviance within the ranks. Surely this must be opposed. What would your guardian angel think? I believe we hold each other responsible in this manner.
Further, the management would like to interest everyone. This is not nearly as energetic as one might suppose. As an example, let us bring out our top of the line. You see? Everyone here had a hand or foot in that.
As the morning turns to day, assuredly does the bone turn to fossil. We live ever so quirkily on a shifting conveyor belt of duty & responsibility. The alcohol takes what the Lord gives away. You know this.
Why then complicate the abject with the objectification of your fellow worker? Must we make stuffy government write the rules for us? They already have your dental records & your pet's DNA.
As management's eyes in the showroom & the restroom, we only want to stress what we have received on company letterhead: do not make us come down there & scold you. Let go of each other & hold hands with work!
You may take a few breaths before you return to your assigned tasks. We will not speak of this again. Tissues are being handed out by your supervisors. I think I got something in my eye. Excuse me.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Whither Listening?
In the land of the ears, the headphoned are sad. Ears were not born with headphones, but some have found them. Unable to control content or volume, these ears despair, & wish & hope for someone to help release them from the headphone bondage.
In the land of the eyes, there are some who never blink. "Dry-Eyes" they are called, but they do see everything. They see the sadness of the headphoned ears. They would tell the others, but the others communicate with blinks. & the Dry-Eyes never blink.
In the land of the noses, something smells strange. It's not a familiar smell - the noses love all the regular smells, from the sweet to the sour - this is a bad kind of strange smell. They lift their nostrils & wonder - is it coming from the land of the ears?
In the land of the mouths, there is singing, talking, eating, brushing of teeth. They don't notice anything. They never stop moving.
& in the land of the hands, the scene is touching. The hands care. The hand feel their way around, gently brushing fingers past mouths, noses, eyes, even the ears. The ears feel strange! The hands gingerly lift the headphones off the ears. The ears are free!
When the ears gratefully gather around the hands that rescued them, the hands - if only for an instant - can hear. The curious nostrils find their way to the curious celebration, as do the Dry-Eyes. The jumble is a party & as they congregate, the nostrils can see & the ears can smell & eyes can feel & of course the hands can hear.
& all of them think, in their freedom & joy, "Holy mother of fuck, don't those mouths ever shut the hell up?"
In the land of the eyes, there are some who never blink. "Dry-Eyes" they are called, but they do see everything. They see the sadness of the headphoned ears. They would tell the others, but the others communicate with blinks. & the Dry-Eyes never blink.
In the land of the noses, something smells strange. It's not a familiar smell - the noses love all the regular smells, from the sweet to the sour - this is a bad kind of strange smell. They lift their nostrils & wonder - is it coming from the land of the ears?
In the land of the mouths, there is singing, talking, eating, brushing of teeth. They don't notice anything. They never stop moving.
& in the land of the hands, the scene is touching. The hands care. The hand feel their way around, gently brushing fingers past mouths, noses, eyes, even the ears. The ears feel strange! The hands gingerly lift the headphones off the ears. The ears are free!
When the ears gratefully gather around the hands that rescued them, the hands - if only for an instant - can hear. The curious nostrils find their way to the curious celebration, as do the Dry-Eyes. The jumble is a party & as they congregate, the nostrils can see & the ears can smell & eyes can feel & of course the hands can hear.
& all of them think, in their freedom & joy, "Holy mother of fuck, don't those mouths ever shut the hell up?"
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Preface To Listening: What About The Other Four Senses? Not "Radio Friendly"?
This is coming to Austin: the Austin Booger City Booger Limits Festival Booger. Except for maybe the Decemberists, whom I've seen live, & the National, whom I'd like to see at a smaller venue, I have zero interest in the band coming to this. I have actually zero interest in the event itself. I have only been to one or two "festivals" in my life, &, except for the fact that nice people gave me nice drugs there without really knowing me, it was hot, noisy, boring, & smelled like a toilet more often than not. So what's the draw?
I have a theory.
Life on the lonesome prairie was kind of lonesome, what with the prairie being big & wide & expansive, & also not a lot of people around, unless you count prairie dogs as people (& remember, dogs don't count prairie dogs as dogs), & so when there was a house fire, or a quilting bee, or a lynching, or a bible-beat-off, or some other community event, it was worth the seventeen day journey to the nearest town to just hang out. You might could even to get a bath.
All human societies, you will recall from our earlier lessons, began on the lonesome prairie. Except for the mountain folk who dwell beyond the night. But then they never make it to music festivals, so fuck them.
Years have passed, & the drugs have become more illegal, but even so, we live in the lonesome prairie of our own lives. Since we haven't yet discovered how to share our thoughts (or even, really, how to throw our voices), we are trapped evolutionarily on the lonesome prairily, & music festivals, even if they have to bring Bob Dylan back from the dead, remind us of those times.
Also, we're kind of snobbish fucks & we're envious of everything, so most certainly a town full of moronic hipsters will be ejaculating all over themselves for months for having "seen" so many "big names" at one time. It's as easy as Cheney hunting quail for them. It doesn't require any real work on their part, but now they can say, "Oh, sure, I've seen BLEH." I'm sure some of them might even get to have some superstar snort cocaine out of their ass. Those people are COOL.
But I still can't see the draw, so please, you can come to my slightly bloated city & make use of our facilities, but remember: you're really just a forlorn settler who's spent the majority of your life in a badly-built cabin in the middle of nowhere, scared most of the time about hurtful enemies & monstrous beasties, & all that the City Booger Austin Booger Limits Booger Festival is to you a chance to get away from the lonesome prairie which is your soul. You poor fucker.
What a theory! Just by writing it I got accepted into graduate school! Thanks boring trendoids! I hope to milk your pathetic posturing & grubby grasping into irrelevant pop culture paperbacks that you'll unironically embrace! Hooray!
I have a theory.
Life on the lonesome prairie was kind of lonesome, what with the prairie being big & wide & expansive, & also not a lot of people around, unless you count prairie dogs as people (& remember, dogs don't count prairie dogs as dogs), & so when there was a house fire, or a quilting bee, or a lynching, or a bible-beat-off, or some other community event, it was worth the seventeen day journey to the nearest town to just hang out. You might could even to get a bath.
All human societies, you will recall from our earlier lessons, began on the lonesome prairie. Except for the mountain folk who dwell beyond the night. But then they never make it to music festivals, so fuck them.
Years have passed, & the drugs have become more illegal, but even so, we live in the lonesome prairie of our own lives. Since we haven't yet discovered how to share our thoughts (or even, really, how to throw our voices), we are trapped evolutionarily on the lonesome prairily, & music festivals, even if they have to bring Bob Dylan back from the dead, remind us of those times.
Also, we're kind of snobbish fucks & we're envious of everything, so most certainly a town full of moronic hipsters will be ejaculating all over themselves for months for having "seen" so many "big names" at one time. It's as easy as Cheney hunting quail for them. It doesn't require any real work on their part, but now they can say, "Oh, sure, I've seen BLEH." I'm sure some of them might even get to have some superstar snort cocaine out of their ass. Those people are COOL.
But I still can't see the draw, so please, you can come to my slightly bloated city & make use of our facilities, but remember: you're really just a forlorn settler who's spent the majority of your life in a badly-built cabin in the middle of nowhere, scared most of the time about hurtful enemies & monstrous beasties, & all that the City Booger Austin Booger Limits Booger Festival is to you a chance to get away from the lonesome prairie which is your soul. You poor fucker.
What a theory! Just by writing it I got accepted into graduate school! Thanks boring trendoids! I hope to milk your pathetic posturing & grubby grasping into irrelevant pop culture paperbacks that you'll unironically embrace! Hooray!
Monday, September 10, 2007
My Brain Has Its Own Holes
In 1388, on the coast of France, then called Germany, three Pristinian Monks wearing dog collars & x-ray spex decided they no longer believed in a "catholic" god. They wanted laughter, fun, adventure, ha cha cha cha! & they certainly the fuck weren't going to get it in 14th century Germany.
They wrote a book, which they called "the Bible" - they wanted to piss people off - they were, in fact, the first performance artists - which to this day smells a lot like stale beer. The three monks outlined a festive way of living which can be enjoyed with only a minimal of fuss &, with aspirin, only a smallish hangover.
That philosophy became unpopular when priests with scary weapons killed the three monks, but it has experienced a resurgence today among born-again villains & crazy hippie children. Though no one outside the inner circle has seen "the Bible," leaked pages have been recovered, only to be thrown down in disgust when people realize they're called "leaked pages" because someone took a leak on them. So far no one has been eager to see the pages which are claimed to have be "wiped out."
This has nothing, however, to do with Self Help Radio, the radio show which, rather than spend a long time researching a topic & sharing deep, important knowledge on the air, took the easy way out last week, & totally faked a show about fakery. & no one was fooled!
Don't believe me? Listen for yourself at selfhelpradio.net. The entire show is there & shall be for a while, so please use it in whatever lawsuit you're currently involved with. Standard super saver shipping restrictions apply.
The story of the monks, by the way, is NOT a fake. It's a lie. Tell me what the difference is.
They wrote a book, which they called "the Bible" - they wanted to piss people off - they were, in fact, the first performance artists - which to this day smells a lot like stale beer. The three monks outlined a festive way of living which can be enjoyed with only a minimal of fuss &, with aspirin, only a smallish hangover.
That philosophy became unpopular when priests with scary weapons killed the three monks, but it has experienced a resurgence today among born-again villains & crazy hippie children. Though no one outside the inner circle has seen "the Bible," leaked pages have been recovered, only to be thrown down in disgust when people realize they're called "leaked pages" because someone took a leak on them. So far no one has been eager to see the pages which are claimed to have be "wiped out."
This has nothing, however, to do with Self Help Radio, the radio show which, rather than spend a long time researching a topic & sharing deep, important knowledge on the air, took the easy way out last week, & totally faked a show about fakery. & no one was fooled!
Don't believe me? Listen for yourself at selfhelpradio.net. The entire show is there & shall be for a while, so please use it in whatever lawsuit you're currently involved with. Standard super saver shipping restrictions apply.
The story of the monks, by the way, is NOT a fake. It's a lie. Tell me what the difference is.