google analytics

Friday, June 26, 2009

RIP superdog

If you didnt know Superdog, then this is likely a boring ditty for you. If you did and you werent informed, Michael Jackson wasnt the only vintage loss the world suffered this week - poor superdog is also no more. ...

My car was like a dysfunctional family that was hit with a long island iced tea of ailments. If it were a family it would be of the Royal Tenenbaums/Running with scissors sort, each arm preventing the other from accomplishing anything.
After all, what family can call itself healthy with a suicidal engine for a mother? Endlessly scouring the aging bank of valves and nozzles under her skirt for something that would provide instant relief. THe family forced her to always walk ahead of them so they could keep tabs on her.
THough the facade of dilapidated normalcy was a stretch to keep up, they were able until mother decide to try to martyr herself, the Iraqi way, and ended up with a permanent perfume de fire.
Grandfather, too old to grasp the pains of his daughter suffered, had his own toils in life, responsible for shielding and offering the children the sun from the top of the car. A stubborn old bastard, not only did he refuse to open at all costs if he didn't feel like it, when he could be coerced into fucking off to have a piss every few weeks, a forceful hand had to guide him to his open topped leisure. No one fooled themselves that he might croak anywhere other than his rightful perch on top of their heads, forever sealing their sky view, and this was sure to happen soon.
A teenage daughter, burning with depressive rebellious spirit, was exhausting lines of communication and crushing happiness within the family unit with her explosive outbursts and self mutilation. Her most recent trick was to split herself open in the middle of the night, hiding her garish wound with a floor carpet, and letting the cut rot for weeks, until an unsuspecting messenger discovered that she had not only inherited her mother's less enduring tendencies, but had taken on a more vindictive side, risking dumping everyone onto the highway in her crude abandonment of her position from birth, that of the sturdy floor of the car. Rust and rot corroded her wound until a doctor informed them that it was best just to leave it open. The stinking cocktail of life threatening risk, and bitter betrayal kept the family and their guests cramped over to onto the other side.
A pre-marital son sat in the back left, limp and failing, unable to face himself or his duties after discovering the death of his fiancee who had embodied the electronically operated looking glass opposite him. Her body, stiff with rigormortis, clamped between the seat and the roof, reminded him all day long of hwat might have been the happy life of two healthy, young backseat windows. With any force at all he would recede down into the bowels of the beast, only recoverable with the aid of two hands and a screwdriver.
A valiant and persistently opmtimistic father, seat to those important enough to be transported somewhere in the gene pool jallopy, held his battered head high, though lopsided, as his right hip had given out altogether. The family only discovered while examining the extent of the daughters rotted gash, that father was in fact hanging on by a very thin thread, adding to the urgency to keep anyone and everything away from the right side - even something as trivial as a bag of groceries was no longer safe. But father's spirit was that of a senior sailor, on who should be retired but stays on to proffer experience and heighten morale with the introduction of gifts, like a rubber lined family pet.
Alas, even this pet was maimed by the neglectful spirit of the troubled family, rusting itself from its moorings under the drivers' feet, sick of being stomped on to encourage mother for her last gasps, and shedding it's rubber coat, leaving a sick looking silver bar in the place of it's formerly healthy pedal - a clear S.O.S. to any new driver that, though appearances may be passable, there was definitely trouble in paradise.
Even visits by the more lively set of cousins in a rock and roll cover band failed to turn things around. Their version of classic tunes involved a thick smog of static and crackle, and their performances suffered the unfortunate nodding out of the junkie brother on the right, forcing the driver or dad's regal rider to punch him hard in the dashboard of ribs, jolting him back into action.
In the end, mother prevailed, and the daughter managed and unrecoverable measure of self-harm that spreadup through her dead almost-sister-in-law, through her mum's chambers, and punctured Uncle Tire.
Everyone agreed it was best to put the whole lot of them out of their misery, even though the planned rejuvenation of spirits through a brightly colored pant job had never had the chance to see light.

Thursday, June 25, 2009

6.24 - welcome to Italy!

Im on a train from Nice into Milano Centrale station. I am covered in a film of sweat. THey have turned off the air conditioning in the car, leaves all of us stacked up in the hallway thrusting our heads out of the rumbling torpedo into the Italian winds.
It is all rolling corn fields, sweating Swedish backpackers, and suddenly....a naked buttocks?
In a small hut along the tracks. At first I think he is peeing, then I notice the cheeks clenching. He is thrusting. There is a faint outline of a figure kneeling in front of him.
I guffaw and point for my new friends, parents, from Norway. The father works at the U.N.
Right here, in broad daylight, for the world to see. The guy is an exhibitionist. Bravo.

I missed my train to Venice, but I got to see that.

6.21.09 - the French connection

Its 9:30 in the morning. I am sitting on a bench outside of Antibes station. The sun is shining, and I can see rows of yachts parked in the ocean under a ridiculous blue sky.
The sun is warming my arms.
I want to take my shoes off.
I havent been here ten minutes and I know this place is incredible.