The Triumph of the Shills February 26, 2016Posted by The Typist in The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street, We Are Not OK, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.
He did not expect a rally when he stepped out for coffee. The sidewalk was clocked by a feral collection of people in their office clothes, an angry mob that frightened away the homeless, gathered in front of one of the last small electronics shops, a window filled with televisions.
The mobs’ man was giving a speech, and every set in the window was locked to Fox News. Their man railed against the man selling vegetables across the street who wisely decided to close up for a while, and went inside to light a candle to the Virgin Guadeloupe for protection. Their man bellowed against the old woman with her EBT card who had come to the now-closed stand hoping for bananas, who shuffled in hunger slowly back toward her tidy if tiny one room home. Their man called for war and the mob cheered, mindless that their own children were the ones who would be sent to some foreign land most could not find on a map.
He needed coffee and to get back to work, but the storm of emotion stood between him and Starbucks, a gauntlet no thinking person would dare to pass. He stood for a long time, smoking his break-time cigarette, then turned back towards the bar on the corner. There was a television there, but he was certain from experience it would only show the afternoon’s double header, a gentle, Black peanut-man bit of a different America he remembered fondly from his childhood.
I Can’t Get Started February 23, 2016Posted by The Typist in New Orleans, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.
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No going back to sleep for the Insomnimaniac. It’s just going to be one of those days. Time for a slouchy hat, brim snapped low, and to pick up a pack of smokes. Where can I get Chesterfields? [Cough]. Gotta put a quick spit shine on my shoes, find my cleanest shirt and squint out into the painful sunshine of another instant coffee day in the city of broken sidewalks.
First, slink over to the bank, the teller lines snaking around the slumped customers in chairs that would shame a bus station, all waiting for some good word that will not come. Sign my name, wait my turn, close out the big account, and shake the dust of Downtown off my shoes as I walk out the door. Take that fat check somewhere people smile and remember my name.
Lunch. Fuck doctors. I want it medium rare on a soft white bun. Ketchup yessir mister and mustard you bet. A nice sour pickle to suit my mood, and a draft beer with a famous shame. If you’re looking for me, ask Otis. He knows where I slink to drink when afternoon’s a thunderstorm and my raincoat’s at home. Somewhere in Metairie where no one knows me, there’s an ashtray on my table, and the kitchen smells like last night but tastes like Kansas City.
Tonight when the shit storm is blowing outside: whiskey, Prez and Lady Day, a broad brush sadness that brings a smile to dump the cigarette ash on your pants. Well, fuck. Laundry tomorrow.
An Imaginary Genocide The Cause of Which Is Unsupported by Fiat by Any Government Funded Science, or Your Tax Dollars At Work February 17, 2016Posted by The Typist in fuckmook, FYYFF, je me souviens, New Orleans, postdiluvian, The Dead, The End, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street, We Are Not OK, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.
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And so the end begins, a slow-motion genocide as a byproduct of The American Way and Dream, swallowed by Moloch the infant-feasting god of Capital, a land poured into the tank of your SUV, a people’s way of life devoured to supply you with an endless supply of plastic-wrapped things.
And I chose that word carefully, and mean it.
The individuals will mostly survive. nly the multiple, unique, World Heritage cultures of the place will be diluted until untastable. Their children will be assimilated and the great machine will move along, consuming them in the more convention ways. Except of course the very old who cannot manage the transition, as they died in the thousands after the Federal Flood and the Great Evacuation of 2005, the largest forced movement of US citizens in history. The old could not cope. Their deaths ride shotgun with you, are the faint dark spots you sometimes spy in your high-riding review mirror.
Nice Day, Fuckmooks.
The Spectrum February 12, 2016Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, New Orleans, The Narrative, The Odd, The Typist, Toulouse Street, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.
Reproduced from the Disorder Service Manual of the Pharmaceutical Research and Manufacturers of America (PhRMA).
Agraphoria January 28, 2016Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, The Narrative, The Spectrum, The Typist, Toulouse Street, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.
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Crappy to report that the lexical selection terror on this knew medication is much butter. Going to try not to drink about it, and go watch something mindless (like me), like Disney’s Dysphasia. I love the part with the element ballerinas. Agraphia me a beet while your up, will ya?
— Benzo the Clown
What Rough Beast? January 23, 2016Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, New Orleans, The Journey, The Narrative, The Typist, The Vision, Toulouse Street, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.
Tags: Bob Dylan, William Butler Yeats
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Say OK, I’ve had enough. What else can you show me?
I do not wish, Doc, to be healed
lose everything that is revealed
to those who turned away and kneeled
their backs turned to where bells are pealed
& chose to keep their eyes wide-peeled
to witness the world burning.
Think Ghouls. It’s Friday. August 21, 2015Posted 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, 2015Posted by The Typist in Moloch, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.
Tags: Ezra Pound
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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].
I’ll Remember It For You, No Charge August 11, 2015Posted by The Typist in movie, Politics, Reality, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street, We Are Not OK, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, WTF.
Tags: Bobby Kennedy, Radio Free Albemuth, Sen. Bernie Sanders
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It was the reference to Bobby Kennedy that was the gut punch. I won’t know if a Hollywood writer tossed in the line about Ferris F. Fremont buying up all the voting machine companies, or if that’s in Phillip K. Dick’s novel Radio Free Albemuth. It would be easy enough to find out. Get it on Kindle. Search it. It might put my mind at east to know that is was a bit a Hollywood fluffing for an overtly political movie.
I’m afraid if I buy it, I’ll read it.
Bobby Kennedy. I found myself compulsively wondering, as I wandered up to Cansecos for cigarettes to steady my nerves. if Sen. Bernie Sanders will make it to the podium alive. Bobby. Martin Luther King, turning from civil rights to the war and economics, stealing Malcom’s African Nationalist economics of the Ballot or the Bullet speech into equal rights on every level, questioning the foundations of a society that requires a pool of surplus labor of all colors starving in the wings, wars invented to siphon off and thin the surplus while making money for all the right people.
Have you ever watched Bulworth? If you do, freeze frame on the assassination scene at the end. (Don’t complain about the spoiler. If you were going to watch the most important political film made in America in the 20th century you’d have gotten around to it by now.) Notice the uncanny resemblance of the central tableau to that on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel.
Perhaps They have evolved beyond that, become more sophisticated. Buying airtime for Rush Limbaugh until he caught on, tapped a vital and ugly vein at the core of America. Fox News. Badgering the real journalists for not being Fair and Balanced until the media corporations took over and enforced their version of Fair and Balanced. Flat earth versus round, equal time for both sides: you decide. They have divided us as bitterly as the Serbs and Croats, something to think about if it all comes apart. Because that ended so well. And the Right has all the guns.
So that’s it, I’ve lost it. You’re sure of it. Certain, because you never took a turn to sleep in your office because someone tried to break in, because someone was rifling the trash at night before corner-store shredders were a thing, because of the dark sedan frequently across the street that drove off when you approached it. All because of that Menace to the American Way, U.S. Rep. John Breaux. His voting record is hard to find, but he was as centrist as they come. A founder of the Democratic Leadership Council, which birthed President Bill Clinton and gave that cute young Republican Hillary a leg up into her lap dance for Wall Street. Still, he was a threat. A victory by Breaux in the “first primary” of the old Louisiana election system could have upset the apple cart and tipped the Senate to the Democrats in 1986. This bode ill not just for the last years of Reagan, but was a threat to the entire Southern Strategy of the GOP, built on open race baiting and voter suppression. And he did. We did. We beat the motherfuckers, even if my own views were nothing like Breaux’s. And those things happened: the sedan, the garbage riffling, the attempts to force the door.
Paranoid. If paranoia consists of someone putting a plate of fish in front of you and saying, here’s your chicken, and you call them out, then I’m pretty much stark raving. If paranoia is writing stories questioning the campaign finances of a suburban police chief who publicly pistol whipped a disapproved of boyfriend of his daughter’s b in the parking lot of Oakwood Shopping Center, and having your car broken into and nothing taken, not even several dollars of change in the tray on the console. Nothing but your briefcase. Yep, I’m pretty much talking to the lizard wall paper. That’s me.
I’m sure it’s just a coincidence that a few chapters of Black Lives Matter have taken to harassing Sanders, because groups like that are never infiltrated by the Red Squad. There are no provocateurs. Red Squads, he says. (Make circle around your ear with you finger here). No, I’m sorry, I meant that bunch of photographers covering the First Gulf War Protest who were standing at a good distance from the rest of the media. The ones in suits. Ever met any photo-journalists? Ever seen one working in a suit?
Paranoid. Ever had your named leaked to the newspaper as part of a list of people who would not be admitted to a George Bush rally? I think the most radical thing I had done in the 20 years before that was write a letter to the editor suggesting if they wanted a Decalogue in the city park behind my office, maybe they should consider the Bill of Rights. Oh, and I volunteered for Howard Dean. Remember him? Raaawwwhhhhh. Yeah, him. Pretty much everyone on the Fargo 42 had done some work for Dean.
So, signed any petitions for Bernie Sanders? Been to any rallies? Really. (Scribbles in notebooks). Anything else? Any intemperate political remarks on Facebook? Hmmmm. (Scribbles).
I have shied away from electoral politics since the Coup of 2000. (Yes, you heard that right. Or don’t you remember that video of the flown-in GOP hill staff Hitler youth trying to break down the doors in Broward Country, bringing the recount to an end.
(Damn, he went and did it. Hitler.} No, I said Hitler Youth. I think I get an exemption for that. If not go back and see if you can find the video on the Internet. It forgets nothing. Unless it is erased.
I haven’t watched a national news program since I returned from Europe. I had avoided cable news in any form for years before that. My ex- kept asking me why I wouldn’t watch MSNBC. I couldn’t. I probably would have had a stroke by now if I did. I joined the Breaux campaign not because I agreed with his politics, but because as a young newspaper reporter I was tired of watching. I wanted to get into the Great Game.
It is not a game, unless your definition of games includes Russian roulette, the poison scene from The Princess Bride and, possibly, Day Glo lawn darts in the dark while on acid.
I try not to click through the latest bits of idiocy by the GOP nominees. I would not have been caught dead watching that debate. This isn’t for shits and giggles. This is real, as real as that black sedan, as real as the leaked list, as real as it gets. And I have a feeling it about to get a lot worse.
Why did they have to mention Bobby Kennedy?
Why, when Sanders is single digits behind the neo-liberal (did I say lap dance?) Secretary Clinton.
Why did I watch that fucking movie?
Do not watch Radio Free Albemuth. Do not watch Bulworth (sorry about the spoiler). Just go on about your lives treating the GOP nominees like they’re from the Flat Earth Society. But do stop and think and debate the tactics of certain chapters of Black Lives Matter as if there wasn’t only once answer.
Oh, and definitely do not watch Network. Especially the assassination scene.
Sorry, I hope I didn’t spoil that one for you, too.
Good Morning To You, Too July 17, 2015Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, fuckmook, The Narrative, The Pointless, The Typist, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.
Tags: Southwest Airlines
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I’ll tell them to you some day none the less, if I think of it, if I can, my strange pains, in detail, distinguishing between the different kinds, for the sake of clarity, those of the mind, those of the heart or emotional conative , those of the soul (none prettier than these) and finally those of the frame proper, first the inner or latent, then those affecting the surface, beginning with the hair and scalp and moving methodically down, without haste, all the way down to the feet beloved of the corn, the cramp, the kibe, the bunion, the hammer toe, the nail ingrown, the fallen arch, the common blain, the club foot, duck foot, goose foot, pigeon foot, flat foot, trench foot and other curiosities. And I’ll tell by the same token, for those kind enough to listen , in accordance with a system whose inventor I forget, of those instants when, neither drugged, nor drunk, nor in ecstasy, one feels nothing.
— Samuel Beckett, from the Complete Short Prose, title unsure, as if it mattered to forget in this kingdom of ignorance, intellectual banality of the Theoryists, USA Today and forever, retakes of reality television, the Fox in the newsroom, the implicit idiocy of us the cisgendered, the dumpster economy of a thoughtless and tasteless gluttony, the disliteracy of Twitter & caveman pictographs of Instagram, & a hundred other reasons to regret not asking for the cocktail coupons off my invalidated Business Select tickets when I was sent canceled and packing from the Southwest gate last night, struggling to be (is it possible?) happy to be a Beta. I console myself with the knowledge that the Bloody Marys are no doubt normalized well within six sigma of the national bland with nine nines of certainty…
— The Typist
Crabapple Lane June 27, 2015Posted by The Typist in A Fiction, cryptical envelopment, New Orleans, Poetry, The Pointless, The Typist, Toulouse Street, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.
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Happiness is for saps.
You see them paired in
matching polos and shorts,
their fat pink squealing children
on even, green lawns.
Science we find is wrong.
The universe does not rush into
their vacuous block
to fill the gaping void yawning
in formless boredom.
There is this skulking skunk.
He squats inside my chest
I want to yank him out, toss him
butt first in their yard.
Going In Circles June 26, 2015Posted by The Typist in New Orleans, NOLA, The Pointless, The Typist, Toulouse Street, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.
Tags: Confederate memorials, Lee Circle, Robert E. Lee
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“If they can get you asking the wrong questions, they don’t have to worry about answers.”
― Thomas Pynchon, Gravity’s Rainbow
(It’s Just) Another Day June 17, 2015Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, New Orleans, The Narrative, The Pointless, The Spectrum, The Typist, Toulouse Street, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.
There’s simply nothing you can’t do if you’re armed with patience and perseverance…
What my horoscope doesn’t tell me is where I can acquire these things. I am the poster child Gemini, flighty, garrulous, of two minds about everything but insistent when my mind is made up.
Patient, not so much. Perseverance? Really?
I think I will arm myself with patience and persistence. Mañana.
For now, there is coffee.
I had a good night’s sleep, by the clock. It started probably around 7:30, perhaps a quarter to eight. I know I woke just before ten with half of the beer I opened for dinner clenched in my first, my vape fallen into the sofa, my old Kindle lying on the floor. I had slid into a position that made the space between my toes hurt, my body gradually slumping while my rubber-bottom sandals remained planted in place, cutting into my feet. I went straight to bed, and plugged in the phone but forgot to turn on Sleepbot. I may have snored like a warped board saw and tossed and turned all night, but have no way of knowing. By five my brain decided it wanted to get up, although my body is exhausted.
I sit down with the microwaved dregs of yesterday’s coffee, and light a cigarette. I was determined last night not to buy cigarettes and did not. As I draw on one of the last ones in what was to be the last pack, I can feel Death’s hand squeezing the tops of my lungs. They are not icy but warm. Still, I can sense the cold bones underneath. Death whispers “emphysema” with each exhale, and gives a little squeeze. I look in the box at the last two smokes, and contemplate running to the sketchy store before works starts at seven.
Does contemplating going out for smokes in this condition constitute suicidal ideation? I will have to ask the expensive but empathetic psychiatrist.
I believe insistently logging into VPN at the current incarnation of Moloch before 6 a.m. constitutes suicidal ideation.
Memo to self: un-hide the resume on Monster, Dice and CareerBuilder. Let my boss’ next check-in call go to voicemail as if it were an accident. Let her hear the greeting that tells why I don’t answer unrecognized calls, that if you are yet another recruiter that I am currently employed and thank you for your interest. Change the arrangement; tip the scales in my favor.
For now I am one hour away from “protected time,” the arrangement by which a multi-national Moloch manages meetings between New York and Singapore. Next week it will be 7 pm until. And then I will start again with a two-hour morning meeting at 7 am, and another at 9 pm.
So it goes.
I need an attitude adjustment, but grow weary of pills. I can’t afford the psychiatrist I sought out to get away from them and a therapist. I missed the first class of Tai Chi yesterda, because work did not give me a moment to call doctors to make sure I got my new medication and made arrangements to not run out of my blood pressure medication. I should be practicing the mindfulness technique my psych and I practiced on Monday, but feel compelled to write, and the compulsion to write calls for the “seer in front” with a cheering section deep behind him, and the lizard brain hiding beneath the stands swilling coffee and contemplating cigarettes.
All along Moss Street they walk, they run, they bike. They walk their dogs, or run with their dogs, and sometimes (but not this morning) let their running dogs pull their bicycles. I drive, entombed in my car, a new pack of cigarettes safely in my pocket. (Emphyyyseeeemaaaa.) A clearly homeless man, wearing a dirty yellow safety vest, is hand-lining for breakfast, his distant but pleasant expression places him more at peace with his world than I am with mine. (Work: T minus 33).
If I had more time, I should have jumped on my recently repaired bicycle and forced myself to ride to the sketchy store for cigarettes. If I had more time. Today’s calendar hangs from my tiny whiteboard by a magnet, a cryptically colored, solid block of no-time, of not enough time even to do what is written.
Emphysema. Cigarettes. Work.
Tonight is date night. Hopefully I won’t be exhausted.
My side of the bed at my girlfriend’s house is what I call my “happy place”, the one spot in the universe where I feel truly relaxed and at peace. I don’t dare go there tonight, and risk falling into a restful slumber. I have a meeting tomorrow.
At 7 am.
“I heard another beep. Who joins?”
[rewind … flap … flap … flap … Krapp]
1. The title comes from the irrepressibly cheerful Paul McCartney, the one who should be dead. I fucking hate Paul McCartney. 
2. A working class hero is something to be. 
3. Listening to George Harrison’s “Wah Wah” on the car stereo while in a hypomaniacal state, I might as well be cranking it while swilling straight from the Speaking Tequila Skull while doing donuts in front of the police station. This is what I believe the mania index quiz calls “risk taking behavior.”