147 En Trance

Twenty minutes matters quite a lot in this tale I have been telling you all these years.



When you are engaged in the world at the root of its function, you will need to remember your time allowance, before you get kicked out.



Twenty Minutes: How long it takes your soul to leave your body after you die. We have “Wakes” for this reason. Sometimes, a body may awaken after two days, but there is no soul left inside. Beware of such an awakening. Zombie.



Twenty Minutes: The amount of time you are afforded after you enter a celebration of strange things to which you have not been officially invited.


Twenty Minutes: How long it takes for a certain stimulant to wear off. Until then, the world is your own, private moon party, no matter who has a telescope.



You, my friend, are officially invited to this here party: this tale, as we head on towards All Hallows Eve. And for that, I apologize to you. You do not deserve to witness this part of the story.










ENTRANCE














There exist entrances into other places which you may never see, here on this tiny blue marble, alone in the eternity of space.


Such entrances are not seen by those who stumble along life’s path with their eyes half-open, like zombies, looking for their own brain.


The rest of us are awake, with eyes wide open, and we are in a state of constant, total amazement.


Is this you?



I think you are.






This tale will get worse before it improves, TDC willies Enjoyer. There is redemption at the end, but you have to earn it. Sorry about that. You are a witness to hell, and that is the price. The cost is, indeed, considerably more.




Let’s check this out, my friend. I won’t leave you behind, if you have the guts to follow.



En-Trance is a French term that makes you all hypnotized and shit.


Here, we three punks discovered all the meanings of Entrance.


We would not find Sean, because he was off at Tellesco’s new place. But Minacca was there, and she did not approve of us showing up. Inside, we saw that freaky dude Glinty McFlintlock; a sweet old photographer who, as it would turn out, was an angry old cowboy ghost who used to paint his wagon hearse with a white circle K.



Yeah, there are entrances you may never see.


God Help You if you ever do. It could change everything.



Let’s go.



+++++++++++++++++



After we exited Katheena's car Orion, I stopped my two best friends to have a pre-game booster. One was staggering, and this indicated the manner in which the other two of us would be soon engaging, because we three young punk bastards had chust polished off a fifth of gin.



“Joseph, Katheena, hold on a bit. I got something here.”


I pulled out a small, white envelope and a straw.



Remember when the Little Lion Man stood behind us at the water reservoir with the giant blood moon glimmering upon it’s surface? Ant Knee and I done made a deal.


Over the chain link fence.



Then Joey began to talk about how Tommy Hewitt’s death was his fault.



Babysitter.


-------------------------


I reached in my pocket for my ID card, and there, upon the gleaming hood of Katheena’s beautiful bitch, I brushed off the desert dust and lined us up.



The black bird spread its wings wide.




Crows record our human condition, lest you have forgotten.



The first line was always the best. Twenty minutes later, you would be wanting more. And then, after many more, you would keep trying to chase the feeling of the first one.


Such a pursuit will always end in despair, ugliness, and fiending for more.


Never engage in such behavior.


Ever.



What follows is not an endorsement of bad things at all. It’s simply a description of a bad time, many years ago, which no one should ever have done.



I waited to see how Katheena felt about this Entrance into another World.


She bent, did it, then stood, and shrugged.


Of course, Joey and I watched her bend over in her short, black dress, and filled our eyes with her lovely back-side.



Now don't look at me that way. You would have looked. Man or woman, we all do this sort of thing.





She handed the straw to Joey.


She watched Joey do his.


She waited as I did mine, probably checking out my own rear. Why do women check out men's butts? Not much to see there, but is it biologically coded? To see if a dude has good pushing muscles back there? Fuck muscles?


I stood back up, rubbing my gums with the remainder of desert dust from her car's hood and I looked over to her.


Huh.



A smile grew across her face.





She came up to me and wrapped her arms around my waist. “Hug me.”



I did, and she started to giggle. It was pretty, like the tinkle of crystal goblets and bone china plates. I wanted to shush her, but what the hell. No harsh from me, then and there.




Joey woke the hell up. “Weeeee-ill! Where have I been?”



"Welcome back, Joseph. We off to the moon."



Indeed, a feeling of warmth and tingle crept from my legs to my sexual parts, and then up my back, down my arms, and then into my head.


A smile formed on my face that would not go away.




Katheena kissed my face all over, and it felt like I could fly off into the night sky without a care.



Again, this was something that would never exist again. Never chase such a thing. Nothing good results from it. You will see.











We walked across the tar to the front doors like we were the crown jewels of the world, as the moon overhead erupted out of it's death shroud of rain clouds and glared down on the Earth.




One of those chauffeurs came over and greeted us as we made our way to the front doors.



“Hi, I’m Gregory. Where is your car?”


I think, looking back, that he didn’t want us to be all parked sideways or someshit and blocking the lone lane out, which would inconvenience his employer when it was time to leave.




You know that we would be inconveniencing everyone, but not in that manner. We would be jetting off in twenty minutes, after the carnage involved.




Katheena smiled at him and he probably wet himself. She was a beautiful night angel from the bright moon. “We got dropped off, while you and those boys have been chugging from that flask over there.” She nodded at the group of men watching us.



Gregory halted for a bit as we rang the doorbell.



An older gent in a tuxedo greeted us. “Hallow there. Are you invited?”


Katheena turned back to Gregory and said loudly, “Thank you Gregory, that will be all. Don’t scratch the bumper again.”


She turned back to Jeeves. “Yes, we are invited.”


The older gent stepped back politely and Gregory turned on his heel and went back to his group.



Dayam, dude, Katheena showed real mettle.




We followed the butler inside through the Entrance.





We were fully Entranced, my friend.




This would not end well.









LINKS




Why is thedailycolumn.com an online place that will be replicated after the FB follows G+ into oblivion? OK, FB will probably always be around, but here’s an interesting 8 minute vid by Chris Poole about online anonymity and why it is important.

And why it will outlast other places. Cyber real is different than real real.








Oh, yeah. The world was supposed to “end” yesterday or something. Like it was supposed to end back in May. …So, how about some recipes for tasty food?





Zombies.


Blood stains and their usefulness.








Drink blood, or drink light beer? Rum and coke? It says a lot about you, mister man.







With the Occupy Everywhere “rebellion” going on everywhere, is there a danger that someone could take it over? There is anger and motivation involved on those places. All is needed is some egomaniac, and the next thing you know, a few million zombies will be created. And here’s why. Some folks don’t have a fist fucking clue.




What do you bet? I mean, do you bet on anything? Here are the 7 worst things that folks bet on and expect to win.







Why do we dream, and how does it happen?











Led Zep’s Whole Lotta Love, by that sound effects guy from the Police Academy movies. Rocking and ramping.















Dark Matter. No, not speckled in your under garments. But real evidence found by the Fermi telescope. Interesting.













God Help You.


God Help Us All.



---willies out.













OK, one more for you.










.

128 Mansion Blues: PIG

.

Mansion Blues: Pig

The following will be gross. Go down to the "+++++++" below to pass by this part if you have a queasy stomach. No harsh on you my friend.








When you have been away from eating copious amounts of fat laden foods, perhaps in a vision quest, or maybe from a hostibal stay, your insides will revolt against such intrusion.

You need to take it easy, and not be a pig.


Your guts do not like sudden changes, ever. Surgery, fasting, diet changes and such are to be done incrementally, and not all at once.


You will pay.


Big time.


Sean lied on the floor with his pants around his ankles, from pooping, and then spinning around to vomit into the toilet.


When such an occurrence occurs, your bowels will release from both ends.

Yes, there was a line of shit spray on one side of the toilet and vomit on the other.



Indeed, food particles of a size and shape that indicated gulped bites without much chewing were in array on both sides, dripping down the lovely Italian mosaic fresco, which means “Masonic artistry.”


Sean had exploded from both ends, and it looked to be the same coloration and textures. His body had revolted from the sudden onslaught on heavy, rich food, in large amounts, and simply pushed it all out.


The red salsa made it look like a murder scene.




I saw actual whole slices of jalapenos stuck to the walls on both sides of the stall area.



Sean needed an ambulance, in case he had hurt himself on the inside. But as Minacca and I went to his side, slipping in the mess, he said, “I beed to blow a burbig chuck outta by bose.”


He blew a snot rocket, and yes indeed, a slice of jalapeno hit the waste basket.


That must have burned like a muthafucka.


His eyes were red, his nose was dripping red salsa, and he climbed over and got into the bathtub. He was wallowed in his own filth, along with all the food he had eaten and wasted.


Pig.


Minacca was losing it. “Sean! We need to get you to the hospital!”


Sean looked up at her and said, “Just ribse me off. I’b cool. Eberytig’s fibe.”


She looked at me, and I shrugged. “He looks perfectly fine to me.”


Her eyes said, “Fuck You.”




++++++++++++++++++++++++






Minacca got a Neti Pot ready and brought it to him. She showed him how to rinse out his nose. Why is it that rich people know about such worldly shit? It’s stuff the rest of us only find out by accident.


To her credit, Minacca did not ask the staff to clean up Sean’s mess. She did it herself. Dayam girl, I think you loved that man.


Check this shit out, here:


Minacca used her phone to call down to the servants' quarters to tell them that she was entertaining guests, and not to worry.


It was like living in a fucking hotel. Except, the maintenance room on the third floor did not have a lock on the door. She came back from it with a mop, bucket, cleaning accoutrement, and rubber gloves.


She cleaned her own bathroom, God Help Her.


------------------------




Sean’s eyes were bloodshot, and his nose glowed fire engine red, complete with water dripping out of it. He stuffed cotton balls up into his nostrils. He wore her father’s plaid golf shorts that went below his knees and some old Birkenstock sandals from the hippie days, found on the bottom row at the rear of the shoes section in her father’s closet.



Minacca followed him down the rear stairwell and I followed suit. The stairwell opened to a hallway that led to several servants’ quarters on one end, and a large galley on the other. It looked like a kitchen built for a restaurant, probably due to the popular dinner parties that Minacca’s folks always held.


None of the rest of we mere poor folks ever new about such wondrous delicacies that were cooked and tasted in the offskirts of Fuckno as those rich bastards enjoyed.



Here is when Sean began a dance with a demon that would haunt him to the day he died. His belly was empty, and he was hungry, all over again.


Imagine that; enjoying food and then puking it back up in order to enjoy more. He would do this at my house, he would do it everywhere, once he got into smokaang. He would also learn that he could maintain his trim weight, even after he got physically huge from weight lifting, and then began to dump steroids into his body.



This would not end well for him. Binge and Purge is a devastating syndrome that knows no difference between gender in welcoming its newcomers into its deathly grip.


Damn.

Sean carried loads of food out of the walk-in fridge. Minacca sat across from me at the breakfast table in the familial section of the kitchen, which opened up to a communal entertainment area beyond. She was frowning at me.


I sipped my RC Cola and looked around at all the shit everywhere that spoke of money. I felt her eyes piercing my face, drilling into my skull. Fuck it. “What you got to say, Minacca?”


I turned back to her and her mouth opened. But she was quiet. She didn’t know what to say, I figured. I was wrong. She had plenty to say. She just didn’t know where to begin.


Yeah, Minacca was smart. But she wasn’t going to save the world with a few well chosen words, or even a stomach full of them. She wasn’t going to fix what she saw as broken, because nothing was indeed broken. It was more like a slow descent into chaos, a sort of entropy that was happening.



“Will. I wish I knew you before you lost your way.”



I thought about that. She and I had met just after Lorelei and I parted ways. She was there that night when we had gone figgin, when we had crashed. She was there when Sean’s mom verbally attacked me and called my mom names. And she was there when I learned about what had happened to Lorelei. It kinda seemed like Minacca was a harbinger of doom or someshit. Omen lady. Crow.



“Minacca, you have brought me nothing but misery.”



Well, that was sorta mean. She had been there all those awful times, but so had I. So had Sean. We three were an odd recipe, really.



Minacca’s kind intentions and any good will towards me that might have been left over, well, it then dissipated. No anger in her eyes. Only impassive disgust.


She stood up, and so did I. She did not reach out to slap my face in sudden, reactive anger, nor did she say anything. She didn’t have to.



Sean was in the walk-in. I followed Minacca through the entertainment area and down a long, walnut-paneled hallway with several closed doors in the high walls, past a larger hall, like a sort of ballroom from what I could see through high double doors.


I had no desire to check out her curvy hips and buttocks anymore, but I did anyway.



We entered into the foyer that could fit my duplex inside. She stopped at the end of the curved, gilded rail of the grand staircase and watched me as I kept walking, over the marble tiles toward the immense entry doors.


--------------------------------



In my car, I flipped off her grotesque mansion, and said, “Fuck bitches.” I wouldn’t be back there ever again.

Fuck that place.


I didn’t even squeal my tires. Save my rubber for traveling back east. Leave this high desert shit hole behind, with it’s rich bastards who lived on the off-skirts of the city but did not engage with it.


They were fucking Pigs.



A Pig is greedy. A Pig will grab all the food and eat it, waste it, and then go back for more. A person who has power, or money, or political influence, or a combination of these tools, who will take it all for themselves and then say Fuck You to the rest of us is a Pig.





Fuck the Pig.







I would leave the smell of fertilizer, say goodbye to all the gawd-damned dust and the fucking rattlesnakes, scorpions, and vultures.


No more scary punk assholes, no more broken-hearted memories of what might have been but could never again be.



I’d be just fine. Of course I would.






LINKS



From my son Gabriel.

Haunted dolls. Yup, we just got done watching Insidious, which is exactly how you write a solid horror movie, and he said he was going into his apartment and saw this on the stairs to the attic.



Very funny, son.




Google+++ Circles you might need.



The Three Little Pigs, as read by Christopher Walken.





Zombo, the game. Kill zombies.


Funny cartoon for your Saturday. Something Of That Ilk. Explore.





Girls making faces. So he says. I think he likes their tongues.



Stay young, if you like. Here’s a Watchumentary, so to speak.





Dioramas. Remember when you were told to make some tiny scene shit as a kid? This dude just kept going. If I was a creepy old man, I’d place an emoticon like this:

:/

But I’m not THAT creepy.



If I was to choose someone to play my role in life onscreen, I’d choose someone more attractive.





Antidote:


Bipolar Billy.

Same three cartoon blocks, but different dialogue each time. Damn, dude, you might have painted yourself into a corner?




Cool Pics.






God Help You.


God Help Us All.






---willies out.





OK, One More For Ya.







Gamarjobats.



















.

126...Minacca Ride

.

Let's go for a ride, shall we?

Get your shit ready baby.

Drink, puff, whatever you want.

Sean made his way down the red-tiled steps on the exit side of the brass hand rail that ran up the middle of them outside in fresh air, smiling in the warmth of a late winter day’s fading sunlight.


Those who walked up these stairs on the other side noticed his smile and their pace quickened to get inside. They wanted to get their smile on like he wore.


Minacca held the door open for him to slink into the front seat, then she closed his door and went around to climb in back over the driver’s seat, in her short skirt.



I pushed the seat back and slid into the front seat, and then we jetted back to the hostibal. Minacca needed to get her car.


She pointed it out in the parking lot by the admissions entrance. “There she is,” Minacca said in a quiet apology.


Back then, one did not often hear females calling their rides “she.” It was usually “it.”



Nowadays, there are as many female gear-heads as there are male. We have all come a long way, baby.


We were stopped near a puke-green rust bucket that frowned sadly at us with a busted grill. I felt bad for Minacca and her fucked up shit. Poor thing.



I helped Minacca crawl out from the rear recess of my car, she in her low-cut top. She clicked her key fob and the lights of a restored and updated ’68 Karmann Ghia convertible flashed, and the sentry system squawked loud and brief in hello.





























Hah?


It was white, in a pearly sort of refractive paint.

The white changed colors depending on your angle to it.






The rag top proceeded to roll down by itself. The engine purred awake.



Hah?


Minacca’s face flushed a bit, and she said, “Where do we go next?”


Sean, that fucker, he was smiling his biggest smile, watching my face. He turned back to his lady and said, “We going to your place, babe. I’m riding with my boy here.”



Minacca’s shoulders slumped. No, not in the manner that tall chicks often do in order to not stick out so much, but because of a sort of resignation. She was resigned to showing me her home. Probably she lived in a slum, and had spent all her hard earned money on her ride.



Yeah, that was it.



My Celica kept up with her quite easily in traffic, except that I noticed how she could change lanes and zoom around cars with tight suspension. Zip, Click, Bam.


Being a fully-poor half-Injun, I only dreamed of someday outfitting my own car with such excellent response. Perhaps I would. It looked like her car was fun to drive, more fun than my own.



Yeah, I was digging her ride, and I wasn’t even driving it. It was like looking through the key hole. Vicarious: Voyeur.

So we headed to the west side where old money lived. It seemed that old money was on the off skirts of Fuckno, from Sunnyside on the south east where Little Lion Man Joey would soon be moving, and also up in Clovis, beyond the top East side of Fuckno.


And where we were heading, up on the north western side where Tellesco’s stately ranch had once stood.



She probably lived in a shack out on the edge of a farm or something, and her folks were the servants and gardeners to a rich family.



Of course. That was how Sean operated. He liked to associate with poor folks, as he and his own fambly was.


+++++++++++++++++++++++++++


Elm trees lined the tar driveway on both sides, and as we drove up the long lane, a small building in the distance grew larger. Windows twinkled in the light of streetlamps, and the building began to spread its wings.


The windows twinkled up higher and higher, until there were three levels of them, and then the front fountain came into view.



Beyond that, the front doors loomed high under the columns.



We circled around the huge fountain on the right side of it, and stopped in front of the mansion.




Yeah, Minacca probably lived in the cellar of the ---



----ok, shut the fuck up.





Minacca was a rich bitch.



Really rich.



Huh.







LINKS




For Minacca. That chick from three decades ago who knew how to improve a vehicle.




She was pretty cool, because she was smart.




Even if being rich can suck sometimes…




But, there's this:


Do you have game? Can you play, in the money arena thing?








We need to hold on to our own shit. We need to protect our little piece of the planet, true? Check out your tiny piece of our planet, the only one in existence anywhere in the whole creation of our Lord Jeebus?



Because, well, you know, there is only one planet like ours in our solar system, in our galaxy, of which there is only one, which we call the Milky Way, which is also a delicious candy bar. Our Lord created only one galaxy, right?








Back here on our home planet, we continuously look for ways to explore each others’ bodies, especially when we are not supposed to do such a thing.






And it comes down to our own little planets. Will Google overtake Facebook? How?




Just try to fuck up our little planet, would ya? If you do, don’t leave the lights on after we close the door.







God Help You.

God Help Us All.



---willies out.













OK, one more for ya. Banksy. Ya know.








I’m off to a weekend of debauchery at a pig roast. See you next time, my friend.

















A TDC Forum Member once shut down a board. He shut down Ze Frank’s board by being a troll. Now who, exactly has that luminous skill?

Before we go there, here’s a video that Ze Frank posted of a talk he gave on TED. If you don’t know TED, then you should know that it is comprised of the brightest and best of thinkers in the world.



And here’s the thread where our TDC member killed a forum.


















.

123 Death Part II

DEATH OF MATILDA PART II

There was no way in hell that I would ever engage with a chick again. I needed to concentrate on getting the Fuck out of FuckNo, which left No.


Sadly, the only member of my club would fuck me up again, at the restaurant, you know.


Sometimes, you can not rise above shit until you can’t get any lower and there is no other direction left for you to go.


It was about to get much lower.




A find from my son Gabriel. "I’ve Got A Cat." By Stephane Pompougnac

Stacy trained at her station, practicing handling money and taking orders. She would have gotten great tips as a table server, or waitress, as they were called back then. Her amazing rack caught everyone’s eyes: men, women and children alike.


Mine too.


She was Jispanish: part Japanese, part Hispanish. I did not know how she got those prodigious boobs, but I would find out that they were the real deals.


Everyone paid their dues at the cashier station if they wanted to go on to serving. This was for two reasons, which are these:


1. You have to learn the value of good customer interaction, also known as “People Skills,” and the easiest time to learn this is during a simple transaction.


2. When you become a server, you are on the low end of the deal. The customer looks to you to deliver to their expectations. Your wages, unlike that of the cashier who gets paid by the hour, are dependent upon how well you deliver the goods. By the time you graduate from cashier to server, you will have heard from the dining guests everything that can make a meal go wrong.



I wanted to interact with her. It was a form of mental escape. OK, no. It was yet another form of sexual escape. Ya know. Sexcapade.

++++++++++++++++++++++


“Hi, and welcome to Fucky Chucky’s! You are our guest here. What can I do to make your dining experience the absolute best?”


“Hi there, uh, Stacy. Nice name tag. Yes, I would like to have what is underneath it plus the biggest pile of fries with cheese sauce all over them.”




“Excuse me? “

“I said I would like to have the one pounder. Plus fries.”



“OK, so that would be two half-pound patties?”

“I’d guess that they weigh about five pounds apiece…”



“Umm, what?”

“I’m sorry Stacy. My name’s Will. I’m just coming in to work today. How are you? Was that too weird?”




“Oh my God! You got me! That was totally messed up! Hahaha!”

"I apologize. I had you at a disadvantage there, You being on the clock and all."



She just smiled.



-------------------------------------



And so it went on, flirting in the awkward way that teenagers do, or did back then. Perhaps teens these days have improved upon the age-old flirting methodology, but one would suspect not.



I had some plans for her. I’d learned quite a lot about the female form lately, and had a good idea about the various nooks and crannies and bumps they held and what their purposes were.


+++++++++++++++++++++++



Sean greeted me with a smile and a whispery chuckle. He sat there in the wheel chair, sunlight making his eyes squint; his hollow, pale face drinking in the warmth.



“Sean. Didn’t you get outside at all? Out here, you look like you haven’t seen any sun at all!”

“No, Will. The antibiotic they had me on made it bad for me to get too much sun. Hey, there’s my lady!”




Minacca strolled up the sidewalk in a short, light summer dress, her brown hair on fire with red highlights. Minacca was actually a red head I guess. Deep, dark, down and dirty red hair. Dayam. She bent over and kissed him, and I stole a peek at her milky perkies as she did so. Pink aureoles. Cute.



Sean crept up out of the wheel chair and motioned for me to bring it back to the front doors of the hostibal. He stalked over to my Celica and then slid into it. Minacca kissed him again, and then turned around to face me as I returned.



“How have you been, Will?”

“Hi Minacca. I’ve been better. But so has Sean, huh.”



“That’s for sure. Have you spoken to Joey lately? How’s he and Nolei?”

“Oh, Nolei went back to Germany. So did that asshole Ivan.”



Minacca studied me for a moment, then she nodded. “I guess that’s for the best, isn’t it? Or would you have something other than that for him?”



Man. She was one smart chick. Sean wanted to eat some non-hostibal food, something really good and tasty. He wanted lots of fat in it too. The best burger joint in town had opened up while he lied there healing, unable to go out into the sunshine.



He’d heard about Fucky Chucky’s, seen the adverts on the telly, and knew that he would need reservations to get in. Unless, of course, he knew someone who worked there. So that is where we went.



He was about to get an eyeful or two of Stacy. So would Minacca. And she was, indeed, one smart chick.





Next time, my friend.



LINKS



Max Winston’s short. I Live In The Woods.

I Live in the Woods! from Max Winston on Vimeo.

Need to get back home out of the woods. 1,200 miles away. And, you’re a dog. Hah?





Antidote: Sunday cartoon. Chaotic Neutral.





25 places to check out. If you are still alive after the next round of the End Of The World thing in October.







Un-Museum site. It’s full of …stuff...





The Butterfly Circus. Huh. Cute. Got 20 minutes to watch? Hell, it’s Sunday. Why not?






Another Sunday comic page, if you are not going to church today. Or if you are the illustrious Jambo of TDC.






Maybe you need a clue if a chick is pissed at you? Please tell me you are not a dumbass and need this info.






Abu Dhabi, baby. In time lapse. You’re welcome.

ABU DHABI 2011 - time lapse film (Score by Vlad Persan) from Beno Saradzic on Vimeo.

Or this. Gif of some racing spreads.




Or, huge NSFW pic of a nice booty.



Heck, if we gonna go NSFW, let’s do it.





God Help You.


God Help Us All.


---willies out.

















One more for ya.


What are you listening to…… in Melbourne?














.