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That’s It For The Other One, Con’t. December 28, 2015

Posted by The Typist in Moloch, Sinn Fein, The Narrative, The Revolution Will Be Televised, The Typist, Toulouse Street, We Are Not OK.
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I really need to sweep, but so does the United States.

Think Ghouls. It’s Friday. August 21, 2015

Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, Moloch, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.
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Arabella’s request for a Friday song. The Speaking Tequila Skull approves.

And roverman’s refrain of the sacrilege recluse
For the loss of a horse
Went the bowels and a tail of a rat
Come again, choose to go

And if epiphany’s terror reduced you to shame
Have your head bobbed and weaved
Choose a side to be on

If this job doesn’t kill me, I will emerge a creature that would horrify Rimbaud, Hunter and Lovecraft. I will utter words of truth so monstrous the unfrozen pole will shift its axis, the clouds will rain fears dissolving the statistically consistent, and all of the money hustlers will be swallowed by the gaping cracks that will grin in the earth hungry for their souls.

No Camels or Burros Were Harmed In The Making Of This Message August 20, 2015

Posted by The Typist in Moloch, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.
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Before I settle down to an evening of [NON DISCLOSURE REDACTED]: first, settle in with a big, steaming mug of hot, black WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING THESE PEOPLE ARE GOING TO KILL ME to make you straighten up and fly right, as my good old mother used to say. And to help keep me going, light up a COUGH HACK WHEEZE cigarette made without added chemical ingredients by sage smoke-wreathed, earth-prayer chanting naked Indian maidens WHO ARE IN REALITY A ROBOTIC PRODUCTION LINE IMPORTED FROM CHINA. This message has been brought to you by DEBT IS THE MODERN BASIS OF SLAVERY [Ezra Pound].

This Is Not Funny August 17, 2015

Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, Moloch, music, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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I want to get off.

The hottest record on Radio Free Albemuth goes out to all of the frantically sprinting slaves of Moloch, whose soul is electricity and banks…

Gravity Always Wins June 26, 2015

Posted by The Typist in Moloch, The Narrative, The Pointless, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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Fuck you tomatoes, miraculously irregular Renatza’s 4800s, each as soft and meaty as a breast.

Fuck you summery cucumbers. Fuck you broccoli florets.

Fuck you crisp lettuce, blessed with the sweat of the pickers like blood of a Mexican Jesus.

Fuck you, too, lovely artichoke hearts gleaming slick with olive oil.

Fuck you mushrooms, you glorious flowers of cyclical immortality.

Popeyes, that’s it: dark and spicy, the crisp skin all slicked up and sliding off as if god meant you to eat it that way, like pulling apart Oreos.

Hemoglobin diabetic markers equals fuck it, a biscuit.

Fuck it.

The clock ticks. Nothing happens.

Waiting.

The end of the week hasn’t started yet, the little bits still sliding through the wires into place at 2/3C, the Speed of Copper, waiting to be arrayed into fields and screens, checked off one against the other, work for monkeys.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Suck the fingers clean enough for a cigarette.

Fuck you, vape.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

ESTRAGON:
But I can’t go on like this !

VLADIMIR:
Would you like a radish?

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

What is the glycemic index rating of fingernails?

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

If there is not enough nourishment in coffee and cigarettes, I won’t have to worry if they’ll have an iron lung in my size.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting…

VLADIMIR:
This is becoming really insignificant.

THE TYPIST:
That’s what I think.

You’re Only Coming Through In Wave 1 Release May 15, 2015

Posted by The Typist in A Fiction, cryptical envelopment, Moloch, New Orleans, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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This week has been more fun than pulling cactus spines out of your hide, but not as much fun as falling drukenly into the cactus. I am listening to the solo works of Syd Barrett VERY LOUD while sipping a beer as I finish up work. There is an unopened bottle of the sugar skull tequila, intended initially as decorative, staring at me suggestively (cut that out!) from the mantle.

This is certain to end well.

The madcap laughed at the man on the border
Hey ho, huff the talbot
The winds they blew and the leaves did wag
And they’ll never put me in their bag
The seas will reach and always see
So high you go, so low you creep
The winds it blows in tropical heat
The drones they throng on mossy seats
The squeaking door will always creep
Two up, two down we’ll never meet
So merrily trip for good my side
Please leave us here
Close our eyes to the octopus ride!

HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME May 8, 2015

Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, Moloch, New Orleans, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street, WTF.
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New Orleans: 4:39 pm
New York: 5:39 pm
Poland: 11:39 pm
Malaysia: 5:42 pm
India: 3:12 am

Monday 6 am: 61:14…61:13…61:12…..

The Mind of Me is a Terrible Waste of a Thing March 11, 2015

Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, Moloch, New Orleans, The Narrative, The Pointless, The Typist, Todd Rundgren, Toulouse Street.
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My EEG while at work today transubstantiated into sound. Primarily the part up to about 1:26 The heavy distortion effect is probably due to the coffee. The giant monkey may be the coffee or just me loosing it.

Damn, that’s a big monkey.

[coffee]

Daylight Slaving Time March 8, 2015

Posted by The Typist in Moloch, New Orleans, The Odd, The Typist.
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Oh, by all means, let us schedule four days of meetings at 7:00 am my time, half an hour beyond the sacred hours of “protected time” that allows for the interaction of New York and their overseas developers and testers all on China Standard Time. What better week than the first of Daylight Slaving Time. Monday will run from 7 am to 6 pm. I will be reduced at day’s end to a sack of gibering idiocy, remote in hand and a book no where to hand.

Moloch is just in his mortifications. I have spent beyond my means to finish school and visit Europe, pointless exercises which added nothing to the Gross National Product or the annual earnings growth of my particular sect. I converted dollars to Euros, among my other sins.  Mea culpa, and pass the babes in finance down the long line leading to the furnace.

Give me November 19, 2014

Posted by The Typist in A Fiction, cryptical envelopment, FYYFF, Moloch, New Orleans, The Narrative, Toulouse Street.
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your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free so that we may burn them.

I have bills to pay and you, Mr. and Mrs. I Love America Look The Flag Is Right There On Our Credit Card, are It. I am Elmer Gantry with a PowerPoint tour of hell and a Visio process map of how to get there.

Hail Moloch.

“If you’re losing your soul and you know it, then you’ve still got a soul left to lose”
― Charles Bukowski

Unhappy Hour October 29, 2013

Posted by The Typist in A Fiction, Counting House, Dancing Bear, Moloch, New Orleans, Rebirth, The Narrative, The Odd, The Typist.
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That hour when you realize you have lost the connection with the people you work with and wander off to another bar to drink alone. Some sadness is natural, after seven years together. Some anxiety at what comes next. Beneath it all is the realization that this is the moment you’ve been waiting for. At 56 and on your fourth “career” you remember that somewhere inside you is the spirit of Odysseus. You have lingered too long at the money tit of Circe. It is time to visit Tiresias.

Moloch’s Kabbalah June 25, 2013

Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, Moloch, New Orleans, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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I sit in the coffee shop sipping green citron iced tea and making notes on the Rumpus poetry club book. Behind me sit two techno-yipsters cackling acronyms and algorithms, the hollow stories of the latest Agile software development process. Tonight I will sit on the phone for hours with people whose entire minds–excepting perhaps a spot for a favorite sports team–are entirely dedicated to the minutiae of a vast project, who can call up any obscure detail of it without frantically searching through email and documentation as I do. I will spend the dead hours of this long call reading the same book of poetry, and a novel for a class: a heathen among the rabbinical faithful constructing the final algorithm of their Moloch’s Kabbalah.

Just Another Moloch Monday May 21, 2012

Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, Fortin Street, Moloch, New Orleans, Toulouse Street.
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I wish it was Sunday…

Moloch / whose soul is electricity and banks!
Howl

A Beige Day March 10, 2012

Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, Moloch, New Orleans, NOLA, The Narrative, Toulouse Street.
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It’s impossible to talk on a cell phone in the lobby over the roar of the fountain but they try anyway, bellowing to invisible parties, wandering the floor hollering and looking for a quieter spot as if this were the lounge of a madhouse just before medication time. I pass the utilitarian dry cleaners and UPS store, both open for early business, and admire the display lamp radiance of the jewelry store, which is not open but serves as a gleaming reminder of forgotten birthdays and anniversaries. I’ve been here perhaps twenty seconds and already I want another cigarette but I head for the elevators instead, business casual among the intent lawyers discussing cases as if we were not all there to hear them, their attractive secretaries in modestly revealing dresses, heels and hose. Eighty-thirty is a good time to arrive, as the fourteenth floor express turns into a cross-town local at eight and again at nine, stopping at every other floor to collect riders from the garage. I am not in a particular hurry to return to work after four months off but I want coffee, waiting for me on eighteen.

I would stop on the fourteenth floor if I could if there were coffee and wireless (and O! ashtrays), sink into the moderately soft but utilitarian transit furniture and spend the day there on my computer. Noise is suitably intermittent, not much worse than the office, and there is a view. I once could watch the pigeons in the adjoining building (and not much else) until they moved my cube for the third time in six months, leaving me windowless at a busy corner near a shared conference room and the copier. I wonder at the cause of that past punishment but then the entire environment of a cubicle-filled office seems some waiting station, not exactly purgatory but an uncomfortable place for the expiation of bills.

On the fourteenth floor the terrazzo is cool and bound in soothing shades of cream and vermilion. If I select a chair instead of a couch I have my choices of views of the river. The best looks southeast toward the Algiers bend, the city stretching away into the distant frosting of humidity, the periodic excitement of a down-bound ship navigating the treacherous turn, engines furiously churning the water as the vesslrel bides into alignment with the river’s eastward course past Chalmette, recovering momentum just in time to miss the Esplanade Avenue wharf. On this side, however, you have the concierge, a vaguely attractive woman dressed in business sexual but her voice is a screech, and too many of the buildings other workers stop by to chat. If I stop I would choose the southwest view, although the prospect toward Gretna’s working waterfront, not wharves but a collection of tank farms and barge moorings is less attractive, and partially obscured by the adjacent building, but it is quiet.

I don’t stop.

I am being paid by the hour as a contractor and the sooner I get started the sooner the money tap will flow. I had enough cash to finish the semester as a full-time student, and relished the idea of a sabbatical from the corporate grind, but the offer was too generous, too tempting, the chance to stretch my severance out perhaps until next winter or beyond if they keep me, allowing me to stay in school at least part time. Doing both will be hard, but at least I’m not waitressing well into the night like the woman next to me in Writing American Nature. The downside is I must do more than remember orders but engage my brain three days a week in the service of Moloch Bank, N.A., puzzling out the arrangement of what is wanted and what is possible in the matter of software, not writing ambles through anywhere such as this but instead atomic nuggets of specific deliverables, in a clear prose both a code monkey and an approving executive can understand.

On the 18th floor the same painting still hangs in the elevator lobby, a vague landscape suggesting not so much an exterior as a waiting room redolent of antiseptic. Four tree-like smudges stand on a muddy red foreground against a sky of beige close to the color of the interior office carpet and cube wall fabric, as if they meant us to think that at our metal desks we were somewhere else, somewhere under the sky. I found my old cube the same disheveled, disinterested mess of an exit mentality I left it, down to the pencil. Someone had taken the adapter cord required for my monitor but I wasn’t surprised. The looting had started before I left, after the first big wave of relocations to Richmond. I had to remove my old wall postings to make room for the new. They still haven’t turned on the white noise they promised when we moved into Place Sans Charm. I go out onto the internet to find the sound file I had on my prior computer, my own pink noise loop (pink closer to the sound of an untuned AM radio and thought superior to the white), and I find that Moloch, N.A. has blocked the website where I once found it.

Welcome back to work.

Days of Disobligation October 24, 2011

Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, fuckmook, FYYFF, Moloch, New Orleans, The Narrative, The Odd, Toulouse Street.
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Now with spell checking (no IE Spell on the work PC) and less hungover proofing of other sorts at the same low price! –mf

It is the last Monday in my last week of service to Moloch, the financial institution where I have given good and faithful server for over five years. My reward is a pot-metal, gold-tone Five Year pin and the relocation of my job to Richmond.

I am not going to Richmond. We all pretended for a while that might happen but I don’t think anyone directly concerned believed for a moment I would.

I walk out to the car, dressed in chinos and socks and a collared shirt. The air is that state of damp just this side of drizzle and the air is rendolent of excrement and wet hay, the stable smell drifting across from the race track. Horse shit and fodder of docile, stabled animals are the perfect bas notes for a perfume bottled just for the event of my last week, my final trips into the office.

Over the next four days I will sit in what Moloch calls a huddle room, tastefully indicated by the skeletal outlines of tee-pees (I wonder if we are allowed to smoke here, if only ceremonially; I could use a cigarette in honor of the occasion). I will confer with two associates I am trying to train up to take over parts of my function, and spend too many hours on a Polycom, those conference telephones designed to fit into the decor of everyone who owns an English-Klingon dictionary, with those who will assume my other function.

There is a certain satisfaction that my job will be divided across multiple people, making up a substantial portion of the day of several. I like to think I will be missed, but better not to think of it as all.

At least I am starting the day out right, with a Revive vitamin water and now my third tall cup of coffee. Last night the Saints played the late game, a blow-out against the Baltimore Indianapolis Colts minus Peyton Manning, petulant scion of the Saint fan’s own hero of the early days Archie Manning. The game was so one-sided the only real pleasure was in the cutaways to Manning on the sidelines in a Colts ball cap, looking every bit the student of Newman and annointed future NFL star denied, through some cruelty of fate, the homecoming crown.

Saints fans are long-suffering and as such a people, we have long memories. Peyton’s insulting tantrum at the end of superbowl XLIV and the failure of Archie out of some misplaced consideration for his brat, to say one kind word about the triumph of the franchise he helped establish are not forgotten, and will likely never bed. Watching Peyton sulk was better than any touchdown or suggestive shot of a cheerleader.

When the game is a blowout, the world divides itself into two sorts of people: those who take their leave early and so to bed, and those who drift into the kitchen, game ignored on the radio, speaking of other things, in dangerous proximity to the beer the others left behind. I fall into the latter category, and so have a wondrous hangover to amaze the druidly Druids to carry me through the first of my final hours of Moloch.

It is a week of disobligation, a set of rituals of the sort favored by the Catholic Church. Not an excomunication exactly but in the end my boss (whom I dearly like, a great fellow) will arrive to collect my badge, laptop, Blackberry, sword, cassock, &c. and take us all out to dinner on the company’s dime somewhere I will suggest. He has never been to Jaques Imos, has long desired to go, and may never have an excuse to come to New Orleans again so that seems settled. After that, Frenchman I think, d.b.a. and that glass of Johnny Walker Blue we were discussing. (Neither of us scotch drinkers, preferring our Jameson’s but we are curious and hope to pass the expense off as another travel meal).

As we drfit deeper into what our children will call the Great Something (everyone agreeing that Depression is formally retired like the names of particularly terrible hurricanes), I should be more concerned. I am not. They are giving my a decent severance and a retraining bonus, enough without other emergencies to get me through a semester at the University of New Orleans, which will kindly accept every last credit hour off my thirty year old transcript and plug them into the current graduation requirements and in as little as six months: voila’, I will be promenading through the sterile mothership cavern of the U.N.O. Assembly Center, in Privateer blue with a bachelor’s white hood.

I rather like that the color of the Liberal Arts in general is baptismal white, as getting my long-defered degree will not be so much an ending as a beginning, the start of yet another reinvention of my life. I left the university both to take a job in journalism at a local newspaper, and to evidence my displeasure at the place denying me the editor-in-chief’s post. It was not so much personal pique but rather that in the late 1970s the U.N.O. Driftwood was a broadsheet that frequently ran to 24 or more pages a week, and sold enough advertising to turn a small but tidy profit, some of which we were allowed to spend to pay staff and throw a fabulously drunken end of year party that culminated in depositing the crawfish shell bags outside the private entrance of the Chancellor (one Homer Hitt, a very nice man who did not deserve it, but it was his Office we were honoring, not the man).

At some point we began to take ourselves seriously as a newspaper and took sides with the Faculty Senate against a particularly odious Vice Chancellor of Administration, and so when it was my turn to assume the top position the newspaper was reduced to a typically hollow college student tabloid, and my job was given to someone from a respectable fraternity who had never before crossed the threshold of the paper’s office.

From college I managed to make my way through journalism with an award or two along the way, a stint on Capitol Hill as press secretary and speechwriter, then a jump into the lower echelons of IT through a general knack with computers and a program of self-study, when I had determined DC was not for me and I needed to arrange some more portable skill than public relations. When I was first hired by another bank, I managed to quickly get myself plucked out of the ranks of bit plumbers and tool pushers and made a project manager, which is where I find myself today. Or rather, where I find myself at the end of in the last days of Moloch.

What happens after that I am not sure. I look forward to another stint in a corporate world that bears a frightening resemblance to the world of Dilbert with all the relish of a felon at-large contemplating his appointed noose. I am much in need of what the academic world calls a sabbatical. After that, we shall see.

In an hour or two the Richmond contingent will arrive and we will get down to work. Until then, I think another Vitamin water for my dry mouth to wash down some Ibuprofen and a cigarette or two are in order. We will get busy once they arrive, and we have only four days to transact all our business. I will be off on Friday to the Louisiana Book Festival both as workshop student and correspondent for NolaVie, the arts and culture adjunct of NOLA.com, and so escape the last bit of the ritual of this week of disobligation, the tossing of the apostate into the jaws of Moloch. I hope instead to carry away a few more unwanted pounds and a Biblical hangover to rival Noah’s from Thursday night’s parting dinner as my fitting punishment.