Archive For 2007

Not sure I put much stock into these silly things, but I got caught up in it and thought — what the hell, I’ll post it.

(I’ll know more when I get my Scientology test results back… Stay tuned…….)

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn’t I.)

Last night:

I am riding a tiny kids’ tricycle (as opposed to the large adult tricycle, you say? — yes) everywhere I go, on the side of the highway. Cars flying past at 80 miles an hour, occasionally honking at me. I don’t feel silly or embarrassed; just focused on getting where I need to go.

I’m on my way to a second-hand store to try to buy a radio. I HAVE a radio — but apparently it does not pick up enough channels.

All the radios in this shop are massive and ancient. I like them, but don’t know how I could get one home on my tricycle. (Also, they’re absurdly expensive — not like antiques, though; just because they’re supposed to be good radios, according to the lady.)

Later I’m with my dad, and he notices I’m acting kind of funny — and that I can’t seem to remember anything for more than a minute. My short-term memory is just gone. I notice my head hurts a bit, and discover a bump on the back of my head. It’s a very protuberant egg — I laugh: “It’s like a cartoon lump!” I hadn’t noticed it before, but now that I’m aware of it, it hurts like hell.

Later I’m at home, trying to clean off these two bananas. They’re filthy and appear disgusting and rotten — but somehow I know they’re good, I just can’t peel them easily cause they’re covered in slime and dark muck.

And that’s it.

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn’t I.)

Police seek ‘professionals’ who removed St. Paul man’s testicles

“
Police searched the home in the 600 block of York Avenue on July 28, looking for a list of items including blood, medical instruments, fingerprints, documents discussing medical procedures, computers, and testicles.
. . . . . . . .
“

Weird… Aside from the fingerprints, that’s identical to a list I myself made earlier today. (Hope they’re having better luck than I am — I’ve only crossed off two things so far.)

My great, great grandfather Walter Ian Detlaf Johanesberg, and his assistant Oliver Bartholomew Comstock III.

(Sadly, they never made it further than Omaha.)

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn’t I.)

“
Since 1990, Orlan has been undergoing a series of surgical procedures entitled “The Reincarnation of Saint Orlan,” which are staged in theatrical surgery suites and performed and accompanied by spoken word and live music. Over the course of these operations, Orlan has transformed her physical appearance into a “composite auto-portrait” with features from famous female figures in Western art history: the chin of Botticelli’s Venus, the lips of Gustave Moreau’s Europa, the eyes of Gérôme’s Psyche, and the brow of Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa.

In the surgical act, the drawings upon Orlan’s face are quickly and dramatically replaced by incisions that are both clinical and creative, as the surgeon breaks down and reconstructs a new physical appearance in accordance with an artistic and psychological construct of beauty. The graphic images of her face being sliced open with scalpels and pierced by needles are shocking and unsettling to many, dramatizing the extremes to which women will go to achieve the elusive ideal of feminine beauty that is ultimately unattainable and even horrific. Orlan intends to shock, challenge convention and provoke discussions of taboo issues, for, as she states, “Art can and must change the world, for that is its only justification.”
“

“
The French performance artist whose assumed name is Orlan has embarked on a campaign of self-transformation through plastic surgery. The photo-documentation of her operation/performances furnishes both the imagery and the financial support for her art. Below, the author grapples with the many issues raised by a body of work that gives new meaning to the term “cutting edge.”
”
[ link ]

Now THAT’S art!

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn’t I.)

Wish he weren’t relegated to the worst time slot on the worst day of the week (that is to say, “The Lord’s Day”) — the owners/managers of Air America are clearly fools — but at least he’s still around.

p.s.: BRING BACK MIKE MALLOY!

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn’t I.)

Human Tetris!!

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn’t I.)

Dream:

We’re sitting at a bar, I think in North Dakota — like the Lucky Strike Lounge (bowling alley / bar). I notice a poster on the wall with a picture of Karl Rove on it — smiling. At first I think it’s a mock WANTED poster, but actually it’s a concert poster, announcing that “M.C. Rove” will be playing here tonight. Apparently after dancing around and pretending to rap with CNN’s David Gregory, Rove decided to take the act on tour.

The show will be starting soon. All I can think is: “I have to leave. I have got to get the hell out of here. Now.”

I look over and notice that President Bush is sitting at a table nearby, with his wife Laura (who looks really old and mean). There’s no security detail, he’s just sitting there like any other customer. Bush waves to me — we are old friends, it seems.

Anyway, he seems to know me somehow. Laura gives me a mean look, but I go over anyway and sit down next to “George” (as I apparently call him). We chat a bit. I am polite. I don’t even make any alcoholic jokes.

I ask him what’s the deal with this “M.C. Rove” business. He chuckles, kind of shrugs. I then tell him, “That man is pure evil.” George chuckles, turns a little red. “Seriously,” I say, “You can’t go around pretending to be a Christian when you’ve got someone like that behind the scenes, stealing elections and running everything.”

He doesn’t really say anything.

I feel confident. I have not lost my temper: I have been polite and reasonable. We are friends….

I’m not sure who gets up first — I think I get up to leave. Laura stops me, comes over and berates me about all sorts of things — I can’t remember what, but it wasn’t political, it was about something personal that I had done, something I had done to George, and she could never forgive me for it.

I leave before there is any sign of “M.C. Rove.”…..

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn’t I.)

We’re trying to prevent a group of criminals – terrorists? — from escaping an airline hangar. I believe they are planning to hijack a plane. We catch them just as they are about to drive off in a van. I jump in, clutching the side of the van; they’re still driving off — ruining my “Gotcha!” moment.

I notice that in the front passenger seat sits my grandmother (on my mother’s side). ‘You’re not my gramma,’ I think to myself, ‘She’s dead.’ I grab her wig and try to rip it off — clearly a disguise. And it does come off, but only to reveal the thin white hair of my grandmother, who always wore wigs.

At this point I’m not sure if I made a terrible mistake, or if my grandmother is just a terrorist…

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn’t I.)