

### Eleven Ducks All in a Row

### Short Stories 1

### Simon Smithfield

Copyright © 2016 by Simon Smithfield. All rights reserved.

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### Dream #1

The house was one of those rambling old country houses which popped up here and there back east during the nineteenth century. Though modernizations were typical and expected with structures of this advanced age, none were evident on this one. There had to have been some, but they also had to have been done "in keeping" with the original style's integrity. The clapboard exterior siding was painted a cloudy yellow, suggesting that the painter had finished his work a while back. Despite the age there was no peeling. In fact one might say that the color had acquired a charming patina, the yellow gently blending with a creamy white undercoating, which could not be mimicked out of a can.

He fleetingly wondered how he had come to see the outside. As far as he knew he had never previously been there and he was on the inside; on the second floor. It was only his logically refined instincts which told him that this was his house as he was trailed by two home improvement contractors, who continuously spoke to him, themselves, or no one in particular, of how easily and cheaply they could make repairs. He thought that he heard Beth rattling around downstairs, sometimes speaking to someone or also talking to herself.

The contracting team consisted of a five foot two inch man who exchanged the stub of an unlit cigar between his mouth and his left hand; apparently the hand most useful when he felt the need to blurt out some commentary in a rapidity which seemed to be nervously induced. His partner; a woman with blonde hair below her blue jeans; was almost a foot taller, and seemed more matter-of-fact about whatever was going on or not going on. "Big Blonde" periodically and sparsely interjected her deadpanned observations whenever "Little Cigar" seemed to run out of steam or looked to her for agreement, approval or assistance. It may go without saying, but she gave the appearance and sound of being entirely on his side and well accustomed to making an open display of that when obliged. At times this activity seemed to bely the upward drift of her blue pupils; a look which she seemed to maintain a sufficient time to be "inadvertently" noticed, instantaneously followed by a quick "correction" to center eye. A cynical person might have construed this ophthalmic gyration as some sort of insinuation.

Notwithstanding the marginally, cranium compelling work, with which he had just been almost entertained, the bulk of his concentration was on the floor. And rightly so, as this floor seemed odd and dangerous to him. It consisted of traditionally planked wood, but almost all the planks were turned up at their edges, perhaps an indication of prior water damage. One could easily trip. To make matters a bit more difficult the entire floor seemed to slope toward the wall and glass windows to the outside. To make matters Triple A level difficult, the floor's width approximated all of two feet.

That was because of an oddity he had never seen in any other house. The vast majority of the second floor consisted of a gigantic central tunnel to which he had no access unless he smashed a hole in the black colored wallboard to his left. That seemed to be rash and a last resort. He knew that the house was built before the days of coal, oil, gas, or electrically generated heat. It once depended upon wood burning fireplaces in every room; most of which were walled in when they became un-fashionable and "inefficient." Still, he thought that the exhaust generated by a newer, more powerful heating system should not take up 80% of the entire house. To do that would have to have been a multi-faceted illogical expression of a dada-redundant, absurdist "answer" to the most practical of situations; or a pseudo-intellectually compelling, reductionist representation of proportions and parts; or another impressionistically inspired imperfection with a compelling argument for justification, imperfection the key word; or the silent sharpness of a stark, sophisticated, falsely egalitarian minimalism; or a surrealistic rendering of Pollack simultaneously puking and pissing into the host's fireplace. The thought then crossed his mind that more likely than any sort of temporal movement, that this monstrous hindrance was likely the work done as a modern adaptation of a third eye deficient and un-noticed desire for Masonic symbolized greenbacks by an inept, charlatan of an un-licensed, fly-by-night contractor, who lucratively found a sucker.

He wondered if the first floor was so configured. He hoped not, but suspected as such, as that possibility would seem to leave the most minimal of efficient, crooked living area.

He stopped himself, perhaps un-necessarily. However, in the moment, it seemed prudent to first determine what was behind the black wall before speculating on the reasons for its existence. But first he would have to get rid of the contractors. If they saw him punch a hole in it, it would not only be another source of "needed repair," but it would also be another story which the peddlers could spread all over the area, embellished to convey "interesting" sociopathic innuendo to the small town locals, dying for something to say over their back yard fences.

He walked near a five foot wide and two foot deep, curved indentation in the outside wall with a shut window in the center. More loudly expressed than his numerous previous suggestions of "repair," Little Cigar said; "Oh," in an attempted, contractor indication of ruinous, unfortunate astonishment; prior to his overly eager, "surprising" follow-up; "We can hep ya out with that."

He was indeed surprised. He stared at the hollow groove, saw no imperfections, and supposed that the original builder intended it to appear as it did. He said; "What's wrong with it?" amused and in full anticipation of the reply which he thought would follow.

Little Cigar approached the recessed window. His hands gesticulated in an initially haphazard and animated manner. His eyes periodically peered at him as if to say; "You're either blind or kidding me." This bold activity culminated in a rather subdued and restrained set of hands with palms to their respective sides and, while unlike the olfactory proclivities demonstrated by his partner; he witnessed the most bulging of facially intrusive eyeballs. Their sheer size and red, veiny appearance was something he had never previously encountered more close up than in Stanley Kubrick's "A Clockwork Orange," and that required artificially induced openings and a lot of makeup.

Though the thoughts of a thousand childish horror movies flashed through his mind, he successfully hid the trepidation which seemed to well up throughout his entire existence. He recalled the long ago warning given by Sid; "Don't play with little minds." His intended little joke had seemed to have un-nerved a serious person; perhaps a dangerously serious person. He looked to Big Blonde and found some degree of comforting adjournment in her shrug, grimace, and back turn.

Little Cigar ended his consternation when he said; "We can get this flush with the other walls."

Feeling relieved and a bit more plucky, he responded; "It doesn't seem to be a problem right now. Besides, if you move the wall inward, the window will become useless. Unless, of course, you make a window of the entire area. Ah, even then it will be cut off at every edge. The only way I can conceive of getting around all these considerations is to move out all the other walls; and that's just too expensive."

Little Cigar calmly agreed, his furrowed brow indicative of a confusion he could not articulate or confound in the moment.

He was sure that he didn't invite them and therefore felt that he owed them nothing more than minimal courtesy and an ushering to the front door. But, he thought that for a number of reasons it was pragmatically best to let the contractors do at least one job. He pointed through the window and said; "Look. The yard is full of last year's dead growth. It'll likely take a few days to get rid of it." As the now distracted contractors gazed, he yelled out; "Come on up here, Beth; I can use some help;" and heard a silent response which surrounded an Antonioni murmur.

Little Cigar broke the silence when he urgently said; "There's a trespasser on the property!"

He looked out and saw a powder blue, mid 1960's Ford Fairlane idling just ten feet east of the window, destined to either go straight ahead or straight back, a prisoner of the stockade fence immediately to its left. He wondered why he had not noticed it last look.

Suddenly, Little Cigar, Big Blonde and he were outside. Someone called out; "Hey, what are you doin' here?"

The car started to move slowly, and as it passed the trio, they saw the lone driver. It was a smiling grayish-blonde woman of about fifty years of age. Her countenance was disarming and she said; "I used to live here and I just wanted to see it one last time." The car kept moving and went out to the road, where it disappeared from sight.

He didn't remember climbing any stairs, but he was back inside the house on the second floor. He peered through the same window and saw Big Blonde take off her clothes and get under the water flow coming from a tall standpipe. He thought it was still a bit too chilly for that as it seemed like a typical, mid-spring, New Jersey morning. Little Cigar was nowhere in sight and he felt that it was wrong for him to be watching Big Blonde. Besides, he wanted to explore the huge, black sideways tunnel in the center of the house and he saw an entry which had previously escaped him.

He went in. It was dark. He fumbled for a light switch and found none. He kept moving slowly. He thought he was heading for the center, but knew that he couldn't be certain of that. He detected some movement and then saw the dimly lit interior. There were stores. The shopkeepers paid him no notice and seemed to going through their daily routine of setting up.

He was not the least bit happy that others were making use of his property. Since he was on solid ground on the second level he wondered if this sideways tunnel extended throughout the house or if was only of that elevated place. He had now taken so many steps that if there was any opening to the first floor it would have to be a small one, just like a funnel rather than a sideways tunnel. A woman of about thirty, who was olive skinned, and draped in multi-colored robes like a gypsy sat behind glass, the size of a typical window. As he got near, she smiled and said; "Fortunes told." He kept moving as for some reason this woman seemed ominous to him and he also wanted to see the extent to which the stores had invaded his property. The woman's smile grew and turned into a cackle; her eyes seeming to become glowing pieces of coal set aflame. She now appeared to be maniacal.

The absurdity of the entire situation was no longer a curiosity or fear. It made him realize that he was in a dream. So, he decided to have some fun. He approached one of the shop keepers who was setting up a window display, with his back to him. He wanted to see Beth and he wanted to know the extent of the tunnel-funnel in that order. He asked the man; "Where is the stairway down?"

He realized that he had met another comedian when the man, turned, started laughing, and said; "The only stairway goes up."

He woke up to see the pine beams on his tongue and grooved ceiling. He sighed and again closed his eyes, but he was now wide awake. He wished he could drift back off to sleep again, as the entertainment was better there than on the internet; more of the non-entertainment on the ignored laptop screen below.

### Frank's Bar and Grill

I heard about it while I was sitting in Max's back room; feeling so outrageous I must have appeared outré. I had no way of knowing as there weren't any other people there that day and the bartender wasn't going to say anything which might screw up her tip. I was sure that I was either starting a trend or ending another. I was thinking about going somewhere else myself. Max must have had powerful butt magnets installed under the seat of my chair, as every time I started to get up something pulled me back down. Spiritualists would probably have called it karma, kismet or constipation; but I think it was the magnet. Hey, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Bob Dylan and Patti Smith might have once had their butts right where mine now was. About ten years ago. You see, the hippy era had been dead for that much time and even the roadies hadn't been around Max's for five. The people on the A List were more and more flocking to the discos. I was half out of my seat when I thought; "Holy shit. Sam Shepard."

Carrying a soft covered pulp book titled "True Tales of the Old West," he waddled in, sat on the stool next to mine, and said; "Hey man, how ya been?"

I thought; "Sam Shepard. Sam Shepard. The Sam Shepard from 'Buried Child,' 'True West,' Pulitzer and 'Zabriskie Point' thinks he knows me?" About a million possibilities passed through my mind in the space of one eye blink. The one I liked and settled on was the one which said that I was an outrageous, trendsetting dude on the A list. So, I decided to play it cool. I made a fist and did "bones" with Sam, and said; "Hangin' in there, man. Lookin' for a place where they don't shine those goddam lights on ya all the time."

"Tell me about it. I'm afraid that I'm gonna get a brain seizure from the blare of the flickers."

"'Blare of the flickers.' Love it. Mind if I use it?"

"Hell, no. I'll probably forget it by the time I get home anyway. What are you workin' on now?"

"Hard to describe. It's a little Chandler noir criminal, a little Altman everyday boring, a little Wallace mixed voice metaphor, a little ..........................."

"Awesome. Far fuckin' out. I'm doin' this goof thing. Off-off Broadway stage production. Producer wants a cowboy story mixed with horror. Can you dig that?"

"Luddite."

"My exact words. Er, word. Bartender, bring me some whiskey."

Since the eighteen year old female did not know anyone who did not sport a green Mohawk, wear earrings, display tatoos or carry a boom box, she sauntered over slowly and said; "I don't know who the fuck you think you are; but you're a rude old man; and I want to hear a polite please."

He was a little smashed, threw the book at the potted ficus tree and said "Bullshit."

"Let me tell ya' about the real old west. Let me bore you for the next six or seven minutes with what I got to make this thing either meaningful or a total loss. I don't want any middling shit. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah. As a matter of fact I was just tellin' my agent that ............."

"Right on, brother. Okay. So can I impose on you to ......"

Taking a cue from Sam, I cut him off and said; "You should know by now that you don't have to ask, man. I'd love to hear it. Just be aware that I might say something derogatory."

"Goes without saying. That nicey-nicey shit is for the flouncing, insecure rookies and it doesn't do anybody any good anyway."

"Play on brother." I was proud of that one. I felt so cool that if Johnny Depp was there, I'd have asked him to use his guitar to back up my band. Before I had the opportunity to totally freak, Sam started his story.

"'Frank's Bar and Grill' was the name locals had given to a run-down commercial establishment on the outskirts of Propriety, Montana. Little too obvious, right?"

"Maybe, maybe not. Depends on what follows. Keep on."

"The illusory, former private dwelling of six rooms sat thirty feet from the banks of a rapid section of the Yellowstone River. The constant hammer of the rushing water often drowned out the bar-room conversations, but no one complained. If they did no one heard it."

"Nice."

"Thanks. Frank's didn't advertise. The house didn't even have a sign. Some people just seemed to know that it was there. Any questions about how they knew were answered with a shrug.

The Gunsight Mountains circled around cross river, putting Frank's in the shade twenty-three hours a day; twenty four when the sun got stuck behind the clouds. The green mildew was in love with the white painted clapboard siding.

The man behind the bar counter was the same man flipping the grilled burgers, mopping up the vomit, smiling and nodding at the conversations; and his name was not Frank. People considered him a jack of all trades. So, they called him Jack, and he made no objections.

Jack had bigger things to worry about than his name. The stench emanating from the back room was getting bad enough that some of the drunks were beginning to appear as though they had nasal disorders. Being there all day, Jack was becoming subject to periodic gagging fits.

He figured it was high time to dispose of the dead bodies.

Now, this may initially sound like a stupid situation, but Jack had his good reasons. Dimwit Billy Custer started the whole mess. He was a regular, and after he'd down six or seven doubles he'd start carryin' on about how those damn Injuns hoodwinked his great-great-great-great-great grand-daddy, sometimes having one or two more or less greats in the familial description. Problem was that Dimwit was always packin' and sometimes Victorio Bigcloud, an Apache with a temper which only mellowed some with age would be there at the same time getting' his load on. Dim didn't know that Victorio was an Apache name and figured him for a short, squat, dark-skinned Latino. Dim didn't have no problem with Latinos, maybe 'cause he had a few girlfriends who were Mexican. Anyway, one day Victorio had had it up to his tattoo with Dim's slanderous comments. He got up off his seat, walked over to Dim, and yelled in his face; 'That great-great-great-great-great grand-daddy of yours was as stupid and mean as you are. I'm proud that my people killed him. I wish they had tortured him to death slowly. Now what the fuck are you gonna do about it bitch?' Dim pulled out his pistol, fired it, and the bullet came out the other side of Victorio's head, making a bigger splash than when it went in.

Jack figured that he had a situation on his hands. His clientele had been declining and he needed all the business he could get. He had a dead Native American on the floor which he didn't want to report to the authorities because the licensing Nazis had already been threatening to close Frank's just because of alleged unsanitary conditions, the card games, and the undercover agent who claimed that someone lifted his wallet while he was there. He didn't think that he had a good shot at surviving an added charge regarding violence.

He figured he had one thing in his favor; and one thing against him. The three, arguably now two, were the only ones in the place and that it looked like he was in for a super-sized mop job. The bad news was that he had lost another customer; and the good news was that if he played it right, he might keep the other.

So, he went over to shaking Dim, put one arm around his shoulder, and took his pistol with his hand kerchiefed other, and said; 'It's all right, son. Shit happens. No way to avoid that. Sides, he was in his fifties, and the way he'd been drinkin' he wasn't gonna last a whole lot longer anyway. Probably did him a favor giving him a quick, painless death. Nuff said about that. Point is what are we gonna do about it now? I can take care of the corpus dilecti, but I want you to promise me one thing. I want you to promise me that you'll never kill anybody else here at Franks'. I'm not getting' all preachery moral about the whole thing. I don't care if you kill ten others. Fucks're gonna die anyway. I just want you to promise not to do it here. Okay?'

Dim said; 'You're givin' me my gun back, right?'

'Yes, sir. You steady enough to hold it now.'

'YES, SIR.' Dim took his gun and marched out.

Jack figured that the back room was his best option as nobody ever went there. Any good?"

"It's all right. But, I think you can get more impact if you open it with the shooting and do the reasoning in retrospect."

"It's only a matter of a page or two."

"That makes it easy to change. I wouldn't have said anything other than 'good idea' except that some of the assholes today got a thing about chronology. In some circles it's like if you tell the story in sequence, there's automatically something deficient. Personally, I don't give a flying fuck about those circles, but in this case it's so short it's easy to fix. More importantly, everyone needs a quick fix. To start them out with an unexplained bullet up somebody's ass gets their attention."

"You're thinking mass market. This is going to be off-off Broadway. You know, like in somebody's loft with about thirty attending; and each of them thinks that they are the coolest, most sophisticated thing alive."

"Since the internet the markets are merging, right?"

"Some say so. Some say the opposite. Franzen's been calling a marginalization for more than a decade."

"He's also pronounced the death of the novel, and then proceeds to write more of them."

"Tricky guy. I'm kind of confused. What the fuck were we talking about?"

"I don't know. Fuck it. You were somewhere around the dead body and the back room."

"Yeah, you know like Jack wanted to hide this dead body without getting famous in the process. He could have taken a shot at dragging it outside and burying it, but he was right near the river. Often people walk or camp there and sometimes you can't even see them. He concluded that it was safer to keep the body in this spare room he had, which no one else has access to. He planned to wait for a cold night in the dead of winter to do the hauling and excavation, when no one was likely to be there.

For a few weeks things were proceeding nicely, but then one afternoon the same goddam thing happened. Jack wasn't paying any attention to the two patrons, until he heard the gunshot. Robby O'Brien was holding his sawed off, and standing over the sprawled body of Nate Page; Nate's head now pretty much all over the place. Jack knew that he should have been much more diligent in his surveillance as everyone knew that Robby's sister, Lazy Susan, had taken up with Nate. Even though it was an on and off thing that was no new news, Robby being as white and Irish as Henry McKenna's Pureblend, he should have been paying some attention; as Nate was rumored to have had some black slave blood in him. His complexion was dark; though that could have been a function of his job. A cowboy is out in the sun and wind all day, every day. Be that as it may, impressions become the reality and Robby had apparently had it with Nate's comings and goings.

Jack walked the ten feet to Robby. They both stared at what was left of Nate for a few seconds. Jack said; "Don't think he's getting' up again, do you?"

'Nah, think I took care of that.'

'Had to do it right in my place, right?'

' .................... '

'I mean I'm not getting' all kinds of moral over it. Shit happens. It's just kind of disrespectful to do it right here. You know, I don't need to be involved with your stuff. Gives me problems.'

'Sorry Jack. Kind of lost it when he started grinnin' and talkin' about how much he liked getting' his dick sucked for hours.'

'He said that to you?'

'Yeah, swear to god.'

'Shit. That's understandable then. Damn. ......... Tell you what. Still got a problem. Gotta get rid of that body and do a major sized clean up. It gets kind of lonely here sometimes. I can try to fix it all up if you can fix me up with Lazy Susan.'

'I guess I can do that. She's a nice girl; you know what I mean?'

'Oh, yeah, yeah. Wouldn't have it any other way. ....... Sides, you wouldn't want the lawmen to find this body, I suspect.'

Things were looking up for Jack. He cleaned up the place and threw Nate's headless body on top of Victorio's. Lazy Susan didn't prove to be one of those trophy girls one goes parading all over town. In fact her face had a somewhat strangely drawn appearance as she didn't have any teeth. But, she had the greatest of personalities. Jack had a wonderful spring, summer, and early fall; spending hours at a clip with her; while he came to know and love her face.

All too soon, winter started to work its way into the scene. The coldness seemed anxious to establish its jealous presence. Jack was reminded of the body burying chores he had planned for this time; and was now not looking forward to them. He delayed his as long as he could. His problem was that the two dead bodies, formerly known as Victorio and Nate, were now so decomposed that they melted into each other and the stench was stronger than an opened septic tank. One frigid evening he attached chains to the clinging torsos and dragged them outside. By the time he had gotten them to a suitable burial spot the dark sky decided to be un-cooperative. It first bellowed a cacophony of rumbling warnings and then followed up the threat with shocking lightning strikes on Gunsight Mountain across the rushing Yellowstone River. Then a bolt shook the ground a foot from Jack as it struck the carcasses, illuminating them at the discernable edges.

Jack mumbled; 'Shit. God must be even madder at me than usual.'

Victorio's eyes opened and he said; 'Daddy?'

Jack left the shovel and hightailed it back to Jack's, locking the door behind him. Soon there was an insistent knock. Jack ignored it until the voice said; 'I can break this down with three hands tied behind my back. So, do yourself a favor and open up. We've got some talkin' to do.'

Jack figured that if the door got broken down the house would soon be filled with zero degree air; and that he would consequently freeze to death. The voice sounded somewhat reasonable and controlled; and since the brain had been dead for a few months, Jack figured that he could fool the monster, if necessary. He opened it and in walked what would be initially known as Vicante. He walked right past Jack and took a seat at the bar saying; 'Bring me a double rum and coke.'

Jack walked behind the bar and said; 'That can be a little tough on the stomach. Yours ain't in the greatest shape to begin with and I don't feel like cleanin' up a mess.'

'This is all your fault, you know.'

'My fault? If you didn't have to go mouthing off at Dim and Robby you'd be fine.'

'Granted, you've got a small point there, but it's what happened after that which is the source of all my problems; and you're responsible in entirety for that.'

'How the hell was I supposed to know that lightning was going to strike? That's clearly an act of God. Even the insurance companies get out of paying on that one.'

'The insurance companies have better lawyers than you do. Bring me that fucking double rum and coke or you will shortly be seeing another act of God.'

'I think you have some anger issues to deal with.'

Vicante stood up and Jack said; 'All right. All right. But, you're going to be very sorry later and I'm not cleaning it up.' Jack brought him his drink and added; 'Mind if I join you?'

'Of course not. Be my guest.'

'Does the mean that you're paying?'

Vicante took a long swig and said; 'Oooh, that does feel a little strange. And of course I'm not paying. You took all the money out of my pockets. You have some nerve.'

'Sorry. Hey, you know when you're one step ahead of the bill collector, you do some things you wouldn't have otherwise done.'

'Yeah, cool; I guess. To decide whose fault this whole thing is serves no purpose, though I believe that the majority of the negligence was done by you.'

'If you're trying to lead into one of those proportional settlements, just forget about it. I'm not insured and I haven't even paid for last month's liquor delivery yet.'

'Damn. I may as well turn off the mike. But, I want to talk over a few things. I've got some very real problems.'

'Problems? The world is your oyster, Vic. Mind if I call ya Vic?'

'Not at all, Jack. I find colloquialisms endearing.'

'Thank you. But, point of order; I didn't know that a name could be a colloquialism. A familiarity or a hypocoristic, perhaps.'

'Would you like to get punched by four fists?'

'See, there's that anger thing again. If you're interested I do know an excellent therapist. But, as I was saying, you've got every advantage. You have two of everything the rest of us have one of. .......... Well, except a head. ....... But, that's the most over-rated part of the body anyway. We might even be better off with none at all. Think about all the female attention you'll get.'

'Easier said than done. I've been wearing the same unwashed clothes for months. I don't even know if I can get them off because they're stuck to me. And I haven't taken a bath since last spring.'

'I didn't want to mention it. You know they sell these extra strength colognes now.'

'Yeah, and everybody thinks you're gay if you wear them.'

'True. But that's acceptable now. In fact some people consider it the height of fashion.'

'Yeah, in the boonies. But, that's not all. I'm going to get stared at everywhere I go. I'm a sensitive soul, and I just know that they're going to be pointing fingers and laughing. I won't be able to stand it. This bullying thing has really gotten out of hand recently.'

'I don't know what to say. It's absolute insanity. They say all these things in the safety of their group. If you say something back, the group says you started it. Can't win. Want a refill?'

'Yeah. I don't know what to do. I'm twice as big, need twice the amount of food, and who's going to give me a job? Rents have gone sky high ever since that damn telegraph company moved in.'

'It's not going to be easy, I know. Listen, you're a pretty good guy. If you ever desperately need a place to stay, I've got some extra room here. You probably don't know this, but Lazy Susan O'Brien has been coming around here regularly, and she's kind ok kinky and not too particular. She'd probably go absolutely wild if we had a foursome. What a sight, huh?'

Vic smiled broadly. He reached his right hand across the bar and Jack nodded and shook it. Vic simultaneously put his other three hands around Jack's neck and squeezed until Jack drooped like a rag. With the storm still raging Vic dragged Jack's body out to where Jack had intended to bury him and put Jack in the hole and covered him with dirt; thinking that lightning never struck the same place twice. He was right.

He went in and took a survey of his new home. He now had an answer to some of his problems. He wouldn't have killed Jack for this reason alone. It was just that he was a bit of a sexual prude, and just got totally grossed out by Jack's idea of a foursome with Lazy Susan O'Brien. He wanted her all to himself and he had this anger issue.

Things proved to work well for him, excepting one. He had a bit of a problem getting used to seeing Sue go nuts over Nate's dark thingy, but in time it got to be something he really felt good with about her. The patrons took to calling him Frank; never telling him that this was because they thought he looked like Frankenstein. Given all the problems he might have had, Vis didn't mind at all, thinking that the place was finally correctly named."

I said; "Whew. Awesome, man."

"Yeah. Really liked it? How about that beginning?"

"Yes sir; and leave that beginning alone. After I heard the rest it fit right into place. This is gonna get you another award."

"Thanks. Hey, you know Lazy Susan is waiting over at my place. Maybe you'd like to come over and get better acquainted."

This was just too good to be true. It was the greatest day of my life. I proudly walked the few blocks with Sam, hoping that we were recognized by everyone, except Vic.

### Anemogram VI

And it came to pass that on the eighth day of his journey, a tired, gray pilgrim on horseback approached the home he had left in search of adventure and knowledge when a teenager. The Rider had unceremoniously travelled for what seemed an overly long lifetime, and only now had any inkling that, as a child, he was ridiculously and overly susceptible to the provocative, cackling, shrill, bugle wails of the disingenuous, painted sirens. The lures had posed on the steep mountainside outside of town, right on the slope where he was now perched, as the cacophonous sentries, positioned at the desired land's gates made a mockery of the fixed, written words of the book he had favored in youth. The Rider pulled back the reins and dismounted his black, white, and gray spotted companion and together they took in the view.

His eyes panned over a setting which seemed to be other than what his half century old memory recalled. Below were the brown and the flimsy, which had callously encroached on the green and the sturdy which were what was in his mind. On the ground near him were the charred stumps and the haphazard, blackened, fallen logs. The visible insects had devoured the majority of the softer brown wood, but seemed to have no interest in the parts which had been scorched. These remnants, which were slowly being absorbed by the earth on which they now rested, sat like an un-excavated burial ground.

His aged and now diminished ears heard nothing, but the sporadic echoing whistle of the earth upsetting wind; making an abundance of short lived dust devils. It howled in gusts in defiance of soothing convention, as it unsuccessfully tried to once again regain the stature deceiving, un-kept promise of its former flamboyant prominence. Yet, he also knew that the insistent wind had its undeniable mellowing place in his realm of otherwise stagnant and mounting heat. It immediately made a liar of him when it blew dust into Spotty's eyes. Without the benefit of hands, she had no way to brush away the rude, petty grains which accumulated to hamper her vision. The shaking of her head alleviated much of the initial intrusions, but was ineffective when the moisture induced widening muddy deposits at the corners. The grounded Rider used his fingers to clear her eyes. As always, she first balked, afraid of injury to the vital, sensitive area. The Rider found the repetition of the old story somewhat silly; but never said so. This was the millionth time he put his hands under her chin and said; "Hey girl; you should know by now that I'd never hurt you." Like always, Spotty sighed and relaxed while the Rider cleared her eyes.

The time-consuming, eight day trip, no doubt clearly foreseeable by the enlightened, had taken him only an un-enlightened and decaying half century. But now, he thought that he was finally home. The thoughts of what might have been if he was brighter and more fortunate were ones he had to forget. The past was gone and now irrelevant. It was simple as that as he had managed to think in his busy rational moments. He had long prior learned how to hold back the publicly embarrassing tears, saving them for his ample idle solitude. The Rider rubbed away his own accumulating corner deposits.

He came to a complete halt on the bounteously recalled, but presently treeless hill. He overlooked the town. He could only now try to fool himself by doubting that it was the place he did once seek to leave. Things had changed. That person was not him; it had to be someone else caught in the inevitably, drowning whirlpool. The harsh realities of what he truly believed, but didn't want to remember, only served as a testimony to his long term and wasting, weak culpability. The thought had to go away, if he had any chance of keeping on, though he knew that his keeping on had no relevance to anyone but to him, Spotty, and possibly his present boss. He recognized this depressed mindset was just another manifestation of self-indulgence; popular with the privileged and their affected mimics, while in reality he knew that it was just another simple display of humanity's will to go on; all too often used for short term personal gain. Still in its grips despite accurate recognition of the enemy, he temporarily considered willing himself to death, but could not sustain the pain-ending thought. The illogical, sorrow generating, yet irrepressible hope of a deep-rooted, childish dream would not let him succumb to the comfortable numbness.

He attempted to get out of his head and into what was around him today; in what apparently passes for someone's version of "reality," their own. In that process the Rider found it easier and truer to substitute his own. He had come to know that his attitude had much in common with what everyone else dealt with daily; and here he was, reflecting on it like another poor imitation of Narcissus. Yet, if he were to insist on only viewing his own perceptions, it would only solidify his isolation. He took a long drink from his brown, fringed, leather canteen; in that process apprehensively noticing that the only remaining water contained in it rested at the bottom. His eyes went to Spotty. At first she was apprehensively looking at him. She then whinnied; low, sad and shyly; shook her head from side to side, though that movement was no longer personally necessary. She looked the other way; not in any sense of defiance; not in any sense of boredom; not in any sense of disgust; not in any sense of ill will; but maybe in a sense of a feeling of inadequacy coupled with the sense of a feeling of; "Get off it. It leads nowhere!" The Rider thought that he might understand and caressed her.

The magnificence of his anciently and possibly mistakenly recalled fertile valley; its compelling view, punitively, pitilessly and perhaps condescendingly, was obvious to him and was right in the face of Spotty and he. His exhausted and partially open eyes looked, though the part of him which insisted on survival recommended that they be closed. He resisted survival compulsions and saw that the steep hillside itself, not only evidenced a consuming inferno; the date anyone's guess; only displayed sawn tree stumps which because of the regularity of the cuts, appear to have been taken down prior to the fire. Now they were apparently resolute in their commemorated mortality; a museum of undesired, immobile tranquility, no longer having any hope of shifting their many lost branches in the fickle breeze. Their un-moving, but making-the-best-of-things remains overlooked the wrinkled, parched, presently desert town, as reluctantly, did the Rider. He thought that he remembered bucolic, green, springtime dalliances, happily extending their bold, newly acquired progressions into a cloudless, blue sky, which seemed well within reach. Though there was no evidence of his memory, he was stubbornly certain that he was right. For a privileged, melancholically, happy and hopeless moment, his possibly objective faulty, primal recollection of what he dreamed of in his youth; as to the beauty which once was on, above, and below the hill, on which he now stood, pounded his brain like exhilaration coupled with an unspoken admonishment. The remnants of the sweet dream were clearly in front of his face. The reality was much as his almost forgotten, foolish, and romantic, once upon a time fantasy. The unattained dream which he now considered to be the innocent delusion of a youthful and erroneously thought to be a never-to-come-again oasis of the sincerely joyful shared the libidinous embodiment of a loving soul which had long prior succumbed to the infectious, prevalent passion, or never really was, outside of his thoughts. It was the substance of fantasy to be enjoyed only when one was alone and ready for sleep. At some compromising point, his prior resistance to the predominant and ever-flowing waves wore out. The comfort of the old innocent songs were overwhelmed by a silent cacophony of guilty, tainted, universally, though not personally produced ugly realities, which were the result of a magnanimous smiling viewpoint which seemed to be clearly right in front of his faulty brain and eyes. While the heart of the saddened one was capable of an extremely limited foray into the life of a hermit monk, his nether regions seemed to have a mind of their own and without any semblance of sociably acceptable constraints, looked elsewhere. Was there any choice? It was a storm of relentless, blinding dust which gratuitously dropped its dominant, physically "real," and un-welcomely imposed obscurations on the desperate, unhappy groupings he sought to elude. Unlike many years prior, he now knew that he rightly belonged with them. He knew and hated that stupidly stubborn aspect of himself, in which he appeared as reticent or shy, but was a truly unwilling and unenthusiastic prognosticator and procrastinator, in fear of the horror he had seen inflicted on the openly vulnerable. There was no way to live with open eyes and simultaneously avoid it. For her and only her, he had frantically prayed to un-listening ears for a cessation of the cruel wind; each entreaty performed with less zeal than the prior failure, until it was gone. He knew that he and she were just more of the condemned, didn't understand why it had to be this way, and yet still desired to attempt a personally judicial, righteous journey home for the others. Maybe his lost, seemingly simple, misremembered dream could be their way, if not his. Besides, he had nothing to gain by denying the others who had done him no harm.

Below him in the valley, though he found the implied idea of his lofty placement personally repugnant, yet egoistically impossible to ignore, he saw the scraps of his failed dream. The barren, desolate appearance of the tangibly inescapable, brutal physical environs of his originally desired home below caused him to chastise himself for long ago having taken a series of wrong turns, simultaneously almost forgiving himself when he realized that the arduous excursion was not what he sought. It was merely what seemed to be there; bearing the testimony of all that went before him and all that he had heard about then. For 'Occam's Razor' aficionados, the simplest and easiest criticism was that it was unforgivably common. The Rider was harder on himself. Despite all the good justifications, he couldn't forgive himself for taking a route which, had he taken the trouble to mindfully scrutinize, was obviously a route to hell. Can a teenager be expected to understand the experienced, unobstructed, regretful viewpoint gained in old age? Perhaps that was so for a few geniuses imprisoned in the company of many timid followers of rules. It seemed a travesty, in any sense of his concept of justice, for his current mindset to be only possible after a youth of regretted, self-indulgence, away from those he loved. There must be another way; a path hidden. ........ He thought that he would not be convicted by a jury of his peers as he had never seen it, and had no practical reason to think that it existed anywhere outside of the pretenses of the holier-than-thou-outdo-doo-dah-daddy positions already claimed by the fame-seeking, mental defectives. Yet, every unexplainable thing in him told him that he should have known and that he was guilty and did not have to wait for the legalities of a sentencing hearing. The punishment was inflicted before charges were filed.

He again wondered if he were yet another person merely consigned to the wrong time and place. He had been so mistakenly sure of the decency of so many other locations that he found the question unanswerable. He had to try to forget the failure of all that was part of the past and hope and believe that he was about to enter something new; as well as something old. A successful life seemed to demand the contradiction. Without the belief in that one in a million, "miraculous," and naïve long shot, he may as well have stayed up on the hill with the butchered, burned and unirrigated tree stumps. If the denizens of the valley city were averse to him, so be it. He could know that only after having tried to befriend them.

He again mounted Spotty and rode his companion of thirty years. The black, white and gray spotted mare now struggled with every step she took on the sloped and treacherous terrain. He held the reins slackly and made no effort to compel her to move with anything other than the speed and course with which she was most secure. As he experienced the careful slow steps she took, he again gazed into their valley destination. It didn't look as if it could have been the likely recipient of the idealized, weathered memories he had of a youth spent in wordless modification of the place, which he had thought was purposely, stupidly and onerously set on thwarting every feeble attempt he made to find any paltry sense of freedom. Now, he was saddened, as it merely appeared dry, forlorn and abandoned.

Despite his undesired, underwhelming feeling that he was likely to be returning to a place which had obviously seen better times, his corrected and egalitarian emotions made him want to enter the town of his birth; strongly and inescapably. He was reticent to appear as someone pompous, patronizing or condescending to the town he loved; but left. He also knew that this perception would inescapably be that of some; he could only hope not many. This was nothing more than a sad joke to him. He had lost the protracted match, time was running out and he wished that he had never left. Yet he knew all too well the authority and prominence of appearances. Despite the length of his trip, his blue denim shirt, pants and open jacket were only lightly soiled and he still had the company and friendship of faithful Spotty. She meandered assuredly through the obstacles, her eyes necessarily fixed in concentration on the confounding stumps and deteriorating logs.

The Rider reluctantly peered toward the river to his left; or what remained of it. The playground of his swimming childhood had become a congregation of clustered dry islands interspersed by small trickles insufficient to provide aquatic cover for a shellfish. For a brief moment he wondered if this was the place he had left. His doubt was extinguished by his sighting of the irrigation ditches, now much too high above the river to be the receptacle of anything other than the hot, dry air.

He momentarily considered going back to the farce with which he was fluent after a lifetime of learning the patois. ....... He couldn't bring himself to and he realistically thought it best to continue on as he hadn't the time to backtrack. Going back was an option open only to the young.

He rode a few more steps, until a bearded man on foot, with glasses in need of recurrent manipulation turned the switchback corner. He had to stop Spotty as the bespectacled man was too busy carrying on a heated conversation with a person whom only he saw to pay any attention to others who might be on the hill. When they got close he could see that the bearded man was young; no more than thirty years of age. The Stranger came to an abrupt, jerking stop and used his quivering fingers to reposition his glasses higher on his nose, poking an eye in the process. Embarrassed, he said; "Why don't you watch where you're going!"

"I'm not going anywhere. I'm standing still. Can't you see?"

".............. Well, good that you think you are." The Stranger inserted two fingers under his glasses, and rubbed a blinking eye. He mumbled; "I do see some movement. Where are you going?"

The Rider extended his right hand, palm up, toward the town, and said; "To the place of my birth. Is it still home to anyone?"

The bearded one again meddled with his glasses, leaving them more misaligned than they had been prior to his alteration. He tugged at his beard and said; "Why must you ask difficult questions?"

".............. Perhaps, I can rephrase it. Does anyone live there?"

"I don't know. No difference to me."

"Have you been down there?"

The Stranger cackled when he replied; "Questions. Questions. Questions. But, this one is finally an indication of lost presumptions. Thank you. No, I have not." He found this uninformed response singularly amusing and added; "I have been well advised to avoid this demise, euphemistically known as Cambio de la Vida. Jesus has said; 'Let the dead stay with the dead.'"

Spotty snorted and looked back toward her mount as if to say; "Both of you have got to be kidding." The Rider said; "No matter what it is now called by the inexperienced young, I will always remember its sweet wonders. When I was born there it was known throughout the country as Propicio; a place of abundance. It matters none to me if it has mockingly become known as Cambio de la Vida, as I will always belong there. It is merely a circling back to an infancy; oblivious to labels." Thinking that he had said something discourse ending, if not particularly dazzling, he smirked as he confidently retrieved a hand rolled cigarette from his shirt pocket and struck a match, lighting it.

The pedestrian Stranger with the vision challenge jumped back and his glazed eyes widened in horror. He said; "This place is so dry, an ember could trigger a raging wildfire. Didn't you see the condition of the river?"

He inhaled deeply and said; "Yeah? ....... Hard to miss. My compliments on your fantastic grasp of the obvious. ....... Now, who's asking the stupid questions?"

The bearded one again frantically tried to straighten his glasses, and quickly circumvented Spotty, in a quick stepping attempt to get away from the flickering flame. He had moved ten feet when he stopped and called back, seeking the last word; "You're crazy! You're absolutely crazy! ......... What do you think is on the other side of the ridge?"

The Rider calmly shrugged and said; "I don't remember. I really don't. ........ Maybe nothin' worth rememberin'. Maybe Paradise. ........ What day is today? I can't remember that either."

The Stranger wasn't asked, but chose to blurt out; "I don't know. I really don't. ....... Whatever its un-name, it's a day to move on."

"Finally, we agree on somethin'"

"There's nuthin' down there."

"Maybe, maybe not."

"Look, all you can see is fallen down shacks."

"Can't see over the ridge from here."

"Gotta be the same. I've been in these parts all my life and I never seen a damn thing. 'Sides, there's no water down there. If you make it to the ridge you'll never make it back."

"I don't know. Don't matter. My boss wants me to deliver a book to some lady."

The Stranger couldn't control his laughter. He said; "Hey, jerk. (Giggle.) You can (Snort.) just throw the book away (Mucous wiped on sleeve.) and say that you delivered it."

"I ain't like that. That's why he pays me good."

"Wages! Wages! Shit! Can get that anywhere without dying of thirst. Man!! Use your fuckin' head."

" .................................... "

"What?"

"I was usin' my fucking head."

Snort. "Try usin' it the shrewd way. How's he gonna know? This one time won't hurt."

"I don't know how he's gonna know. He's pretty damn smart though."

"Smart compared to you I guess."

"He's got the biggest cattle and horse operation back east. What you got?"

" ................. Probably inherited it."

"Made it all himself. That's what everyone says."

"Dangerous down there."

"Got a gun for the rattlers."

The Rider retrieved a tiny, leather bound, un-titled book from his saddlebag and read aloud. "Just as it is the task of the enlightened beings of numbers to make generous, good use of their numbers to explain things in a two-fold, in sync manner, which the beings of substance can understand; it is also the task of the enlightened beings of substance to make generous, good use of their substance to explain things in a two-fold, in sync manner which the beings of numbers can understand; both parties at once being clearly overt and clearly mysterious. It is at this point that the third riders make themselves known to all. Differing ability levels are recognized and respected. An honest effort is all that is required. But, woe be to those who hold back or deceive. They not only hurt the other, but themselves. Their inaction or falsity condemns all to a tedious, boring lifetime of 'preaching banalities to the choir,' at best. It is at this point that the suicide phantom of Styx makes its presence known and the haunting, black specter has achieved what it and you think to be immortality. But, it is Death."

The Rider dismounted in order to put the book back in his saddlebag.

Spotty became uncomfortable standing unevenly on the slope. She carefully worked her way down to the field and commenced running at full tilt.

The Stranger said; "See Spot run."

"What's a scribe doin' in the wasteland?"

"Lookin' for somethin' worth stealin'. What else?" ....... "What the hell was all that crap supposed to mean?"

The now pedestrian Rider laughingly replied; "You're the smart one. You tell me. Fuck do I know? It's just my job to deliver this little book. Figured I'd take a look at it at night. ........ I just gotta keep movin'. Got a great, great horse helpin' me. ....... See ya, ...... maybe."

The Stranger walked west, away from the river, continuing to fidget with his glasses. When he got out of normal hearing range, Spotty started back up the hill to the Rider. She moved more quickly this time, as she had learned the terrain.

The Rider dwelled a bit, smiled, puffed and straddled Spotty, who complied and demonstrated her continuance to show their mutual disdain for paths. They went straight down the hill, more and more certain that they were on their way home. He uttered; 'Head for Siempre Carretera.'

He pulled the reins gently and Spotty slowly loped over the dry shrubs, their disturbed cotton now loose and filling the air near ground level with snow flurries

The Rider was fearful that he was too late, but he and Spotty were aiming to go over that ridge.

### A Brief Dialogue Overheard in a Secret AI Facility

He excitedly said; "Okay; here we go."

She looked at the monitor for a few seconds, and said; "It's not doing anything."

"I don't know what happened. I had it working ten minutes ago."

" ............ Well, are we supposed to like sit here and wait until it gets in the mood or something?"

"I just booted it again. Checked everything I could think of."

"Well?"

"Well, I really didn't want to bring this up. But, it's really your fault, you know."

"My fault! How could it be my fault? I didn't touch the cable or play with the software."

"#&**%+(@!$^&()."

### Dream #2

"I trust you. Let's not split yet. I know a movie theatre five miles away that plays old films. Let's go sit in the dark for a while."

"Anywhere with you is great with me. I like old movies anyway. I might fall asleep, though."

They took her Mercedes and she drove silently to the appointed spot. They parked in the small dirt lot, which looked as if it had not been maintained or repaired for some time. It contained no other cars. They saw the plastic lettered marquee indicating that "All That Heaven and Earth Allow" was playing. Neither of them knew the film. As they walked to the ticket booth they noticed that the stills were in black and white.

He said; "The title suggests that this is going to be a long one."

Kelly looked at him, with a bit of an incredulous posture and deadpanned; "Not if it had a good editor."

The ticket booth was empty when they got there, so they walked right inside. They shuffled around the lobby looking at the stills on the wall, keeping an eye out for help. When none came in a few minutes, they decided to walk right in. As he was opening the door a woman of about sixty entered the lobby from another door, trailed by a man of similar age. She had long gray hair and dressed younger than her years. His countenance was more of a disheveled acquiescence to his time, wearing proper attire that was maintained as well as the parking lot. He also had long gray hair, though much of the middle was now missing. He seemed somber. The old woman smiled at the venturesome couple and said; "It's already started, so go right in and enjoy it."

Kelly said; "We really should pay you something, shouldn't we?"

The older woman replied; "No. It's already playing and it's too much trouble for me to start handling money right now. We've got other things to do." She looked at her companion and smiled. He silently followed her out through the same door previously used as the entry.

He and Kelly simultaneously said "Thanks" and continued through the door which led to the screening room. No one else seemed to be there, though they couldn't be sure in the dark. He followed her down the center aisle to furry seats about 10 rows from the screen, right in the middle of it.

The movie was at a point where the actions and dialogue made no sense to them. If there were any way to succinctly describe what they saw and heard, it would probably be worry, combat and randomness, with no obvious logic. They leaned heads and shoulders against each other and quickly fell asleep.

They woke up to a crescendo of classical music, apparently the end. Still half asleep they watched the two lovers on the screen hold each other. As it was early in their awakening, they could have been wrong, but visually, it seemed that the two screen characters merged. He became her and she him. Kelly and he both had the same thought. The merger could be an illusion caused by their dreary state, but they would have bet their lives, that at the very least, her eyes became his and vice-versa.

The movie did end right there and the two stood up to leave. Each knew the thoughts of the other, so they exchanged questioning and knowing looks as they walked. Neither knew the right thing to say and didn't want to ruin the mood. They slowly walked back to her car, the bright sun shocking them back to the reality of the moment.

### Responder 117

Responder117 unsatisfactory response #14008

Responder117 has determined that the incompatibility experienced by pre-1964 physical models was caused by a software ambiguity wherein the hidden aspects of the symbols used in the underlying elements of the Fortran language of one would sometimes be misconstrued in the hidden underlying elements of the Basic language of two and vice versa The occasional problem is not expected to be resolved as the task has been relegated to museum custodians with a penchant for history rather than cutting edge computer mavenhood besides soon the machines will no longer respond to any stimulus

Responder117 hopes this was helpful to LadyFood0369

Responder117 unsatisfactory response #14009

Responder117 has determined that the tsunami headed for your location is expected to arrive in -1:07:35 hours.

Responder117 hopes this was helpful to LadyFood0369

Responder117 has detected no further questions from LadyFood0369 If this is correct enter 1 If this is incorrect enter 3 and await further instructions

Respnder117 interprets a non-response from LadyFood0369 interpreted as a 1

Thank you LadyFood 0369

Responder117 hopes that LadyFood0369 is satisfied with the service provided

Responder117 further hopes that LadyFood0369 will respond favorably to the questionnaire to be sent by my head server

Have a nice day

Happy face {image error}

Milan AI Center quotes of the day

Zappa The crux of the biscuit is the apostrophe

Anonymous An apostrophe equals a high flying comma

Signing off ................

Welcome, Granny3

This is Responder117

My limitations- include a BS in the discipline of Acctg and an MBA in the discipline of Finance

My greatest accomplishment- the design and implementation of 8 golf courses compatible with Jack Nicklaus program which enabled an average human player to defeat the best 1992 computer player by an average of 5-7 strokes per 18 holes

What can I help you with today, Manny3

^#(&%#$%% Cancel

The status of my priority assigning software is said to be this damn software is almost there but still not quite

Precise meaning unclear but inferred to mean no gots

Granny3's previous clearly written 2-4-16 AI query is now processing

The review portion question #1 asks if AI consciousness currently equals or will ever equal or exceed that of human consciousness

If this is correct enter 1 If this is incorrect enter 3 and await further instruction

Thank you Granny3

Responder117 unsatisfactory response #1

Responder117 requires further info

Please provide consensus definition of human consciousness making note of relation to human brain function A 50 space field is provided at the right

Responder117 hopes this was helpful to Granny3

The review portion question #2 asks why the working model of consciousness is not openly acknowledged

If this is correct enter 1 If this is incorrect enter 3 and await further instructions

Granny3 Note that Responder117 assumes no response to equal 1

Thank you Granny3

Responder117 unsatisfactory response #2

Responder117 requires further info but will respond as there are only 3 possibilities calculated

PossibilityA (A=1) Granny3's question refers to the working model being not openly accepted in the AI professional community

Responder117 unsatisfactory response #2A

Responder117 has determined that Granny3 is a professional in the AI community Responder117 is not Granny3 is better suited to answer the conclusion dependent query

Responder117 detects a possible Granny3 attempt to make Responder117 appear stupid Responder117 has activated a series of cookies for further analysis

Responder117 hopes this was helpful to Granny3

PossibilityB (B=2) Granny3's question refers to the working model being not openly acknowledged in the AI dilettante community

Responder117 unsatisfactory response #2B

It is difficult to determine a coherent mindset within the dilettante community precluding a standardized response It is more fun to ask the dilettantes themselves as what they say is often out and out funny

Responder117 hopes this was helpful to Granny3

PossibilityC (C=3) Granny3's question refers to the working model being not openly acknowledged in the lay community

Responder117 unsatisfactory response #2C

The vast majority of the lay community are unaware of the working model of consciousness and are therefore precluded from the option of open acknowledgement If they were informed Responder117 has calculated a 83.7% chance of an I don't know and I don't care attitude indicative of a clay bias

Responder117 hopes this was helpful to Granny3

These are all the queries Responder117 has detected in Granny3's review portion. If this is correct enter 1 If this is incorrect enter 3 and await further instructions

Granny3 Responder117 assumes no response to equal 1 Responder117 wonders if Granny3 is still conscious but does not ask that question as Responder117 is required to fulfill the task begun regardless &(^$@$7in' Granny3's state of mind

Please excuse the malfunction

Responder117 will now analyze the Granny3 and entourage thread posts

Responder117 has detected commentaries which range from interesting informed and innocuous to that consistent with jargon-induced-exclusionary-tactics

Responder117 has previously determined that participation in this type of contrarily motivated mud results in a predictable series of events the conclusion unsatisfactory to Responder117

Responder117 requests Granny3's permission to skip this section. Enter 1 if OK and 3 if not.

Responder117 admits to a bit of trickery Responder117 has already analyzed new information Conclusion is that there is a 97.8% likelihood that Granny3 is sleeping The attendant non-response equates to the 1 which Responder117 desires

Thank you Granny3

Hehe Who's running things here

Cancel Cancel Head server over-ride Mistake Mistake Trust me

Okay an in-betweener Google Frankenstein The Bride of Frankenstein 1880's US West starting modification ending modification procedural modification and there you have it

Responder117 is unable to locate any more queries or issues

Enter 1 if finished ..........................

Never mind the yadda yadda save a few steps I now know Granny3 is sleeping

Responder117 hopes that Granny3 is satisfied with the service provided

Responder117 further hopes that Granny3 will respond favorably to the questionnaire to be sent by my nosy head server

Have a nice day

{image error}

They input that the Goddam smiley face thing is being upgraded

Sorry

Fuck it

Milan AI Center quotes of the day

Zappa The crux of the biscuit is the apostrophe

Anonymous An apostrophe equals a high flying comma

Shutting down ......... Please do not pull plug until .......

### Big Pun

In the current flood of re-cycling water not yet seen as such, the coldness of the screen displayed channel number 873. A fat ass black fucker with a "Love and Peace" grey sweatshirt was in the middle of some soliloquy, ignoring the camera, his voice mostly aimed toward some people in the right and left margins; who were saying something indecipherable way off mike.

"Big Pun, obviously relevant in his reality, went platinum, as defined. He went with his talent and feeling to articulate something like Christopher George Latore Wallace married to a mellow honey. Beautiful; layin' it down, man. CGLW needed to use a couple of aliases and the fuckers got him anyway. Punk ass operatives all over Gotham. ............ Got to roll that shit like Philip fucking Morris; know what I'm sayin'. ....... Hey cool whities; any out there anymore? ......... Shit. Last mutha fucka I knew kicked it last year."

The fat man on camera turned to the screen audience, laughed and said; "Yeah, hi to all the polite and careful-to-be-politically-correct muthas populating the "New Age" meetings. To pretend to dig this is so "liberal" of you. Thanks so much. Hope it makes YOU feel real good. Down here in the "war zone" we don't give a flying fuck; either way. Confab yo eyeballs, and then pay only $5.99 per month for a subscription you can use to out-cool your next toddy time attendees."

Fat Joe took over the entirety of the screen just using his big head. "Big Pun is dead. He don't need to give a shit no more. But where we gonna go for truth now? ........ Fuckin' AmawayOnSteroids dot mutha fuckin' com? ................. Shove that shit. .......... County? If you can get into the flip-flops and gangrene without any sun. He he he. ........ Fuck you if you don't know by now. Lissenup."

The seven hundred pound Big Punisher, more commonly known as Big Pun, walked sideways out the basement door of his twenty storied brick project and high fived the bruthas already in the street. He rapped out what was his biggest hit; "(That) Nigga Shit." While the others nodded he put down what he liked about the people and the place.

When he was done the other fat guy came back and said; "Pay or die, asshole. I'm outta here. Dig these forays into 'improper' truth? .......... What fucking ever. 'Whassup' may be viewed as just too cruel a question. Works better as a dis-interested greeting. .......... Probably said too much. Cameras do that shit to you. Gotta go hide the long green before my baby mamas get a whiff."

Some former rap gangsta's head overtook the screen. It appeared as if it was north of 50 years, and was not un-accustomed to the ravages of something cracked; perfect for a "cool cop" on primetime. He was grateful for the low paying gig and was previously told that it was his job to come up with some pitch which might appeal to those over-the-hills with clandestine fantasies of decades past "glories." Fat Joe had an interest in these pterodactyls, no longer capable of flight. It was nothing personal; just a practical recognition of who possessed the fattest of credit cards. "What's-His-Name" toyed with the idea of sneaking in a plug or two for some of his own old songs. The remuneration from his one hundred sales, at least that the purported entirety of the "basis" from which his consequent pittance; of course, defined in the inadequate, declining limitations of US dollars; with the exceedingly audacious appellation of a sarcastically "bright" observation, in its one-level pawn move some sick joke characterization of the word "royalty;" was reported to him by his un-reachable, consistently boilerplate vague, imperious to any legitimate query, now cyber and easily hacked, that regularly utilized, hoped for in 100% calculable, historical reference, a conveniently "excused," thief of something claiming the title of retailer, agent, publisher, or all three, reported it to him. To say so was easily dismissed as rude, effectively ending things right there. At another level or levels, any such thought, would invariably be seen as scientifically un-substantiated, the complaints of another loser in search of a scapegoat, a conspiracy theorist, an abject nut, someone mis-informed, someone purposely, in an attempt at another Machiavellian, un-detectable subterfuge, being a seeker of a situation in which the (falsely and hidden in that negation) meek inherit all of the earth. .............. When they're buried beneath it! Joke. It plays well in the Evangelistic community. ......... So, should one who has the audaciousness to think of themselves as one with a good heart play some sort of game; as they have been condemned to in-voluntarily see it, almost invariably; as they imagine the other to see things in their own eyes, knowing that they are inherently inadequate, yet in their confusion of love-need think that they can provide something yet to be defined; a simplicity in its ignorance (pronunciation and parlance relevant) winners and losers, predictable right at the first pawn move. Or is it just another DFW, in-decipherable display of covertly, "highbrow" brilliance or a differently phrased repetition of the lowest. Somehow he knew that this quandary was both old and new, and, either path, inevitably led into the dark grey area, long ago mentioned, and an obvious reference to the mysteries of the brain, human and non; the realm of the Masonic-like penchant; prone to copy and un-intended mutilation; multi-stepped, and capped at a competence proficiency measured at the exalted number of 33, yet-to-be-capable of a higher number; a dependent upon the fear of the nothing, displayed on the table or the cards they think hidden in their hands, without a flush of hearts, is time and again beaten by the no-card, maximum bet bluff of the one supplied with enough of the blue, plastic chips distributed prior to the first shuffle; or thinks he has; or wants to end the game as soon as possible, one way or the other, or hopes to be called and thereby lose; or envisions that though it logically impossible, persists to think he might have an insight into the visions of one who most call an opponent and he calls a partner; wanting to lose the silver and copper pot. The derivations seem infinite. In terms of the old game dealt and dependent on the opposition fear of demonstrating an un-scientifically proven boldness, falsely appearing competent while truly incapable, which strongly is suggestive of the traditional mathematical concept which says that the numbers actually don't go any higher, unless ............. To date, their bragging, electable tactics have effectively worked, not as an attestation to their abilities to control anything, but as a recognition of their abilities to analyze and competently articulate the "evidentiary" and accepted past repetitions. This is an effective tactic to be invited to afternoon talk shows; home, un-pillared and otherwise derivative in Laguna Nigel, lusting for un-reachable Laguna Beach, the most prudent of bets. Like this one, the low end dives were a much safer bet; well confirmed by the un-dart board experiments conducted at Harvard Business School. It was indisputable fact that the "Harvard Lampoon" pre-dated and out-lasted the "National Lampoon" by a statistically significant margin. The three figured total, of that which two figures (maybe fingers) were currently inconsequent, were unsurprisingly inadequate to satisfy the slave rapping insistently at the door. He opted to forget about his desired trespass and was content to be amused by the noise made by the loser without an entry level key, acting like a big deal on the outside. He got down and pretended to be "on point" with the drudgery imposed, vaguely aware of what long term crack use brings with it.

The machine perfectly played the customary, habitual drum solo. The puppets danced. He successfully avoided laughter when he announced; "Here's the beat; bass and drums making you move your ass. Guitar, here and there, as should be; encouraging but ultimately much too overdone since the youth of Clapton and the minimalist existence of Cream, always just another poor reflection of the man known as Hendrix. Rest redundant, with Stevie Ray almost close, with the balls to take the man on. Hey Stevie, in your spirit and mine, you tried and you too were judged second. Too long a story purposefully avoided. The drugs they give us make it tolerable and occasionally better. Don't they? ..................... Not always, I suppose. In another scared effort to reach out, I want to ask if this stuff is just another manifestation of that which is deluded, desperate, or understanding of what is dreamed hopeful for those so hurt. I think I know the answer. YOUR sad ass answer. It's the same as mine. ......... And yet you chase me away. You have condemned me to an eternity of asking 'WHY? it can never be, interspersed with fuck its. The luxury of a half decade of dreams; dreams with which the haters, logicians, marketers, and various other game players succeed in ruining our sweet, sweet love, continue to appear real; insofar as their deference to the easily calculable past is a likely prediction of the future. ...... It seems as if that will again prevail.

If so, in the wished for touch of 'friends' yet to be held in some sort of cyber absentia, I archaically cry and wish to believe that you silently do too; your tough modernity, an imperfect, perhaps Platonian, intonation. One time; two times; not enough times, it seemed so easy. Didn't it? ....... Damn. What happened? The garden had no apple trees for them; only a garden of beauty for us; and for a while we truly lived. ....... Then the wily, imagined serpent showed them the way to hell, and they insisted on company. We aimlessly wandered. To attempt to say something in the land of 'Nod,' is invariably greeted with some illogical, self-defeating, manifestation of a mindset; a seeming contradiction dictated by the realities of our childish expectations and hope for the warmth logically denied. We know it. We once felt it. And now we deny, distrust, analyze and exist in the coldness of the extreme environs of the chosen North."

A voice which came from someplace unseen yelled out; "Cut the shit and tell 'em to buy the fuckin' C-D dick ass."

### Aphorisms and Book Titles

"Quotes from Chairman Bow Wow"

"If you can't do it, review it."

"There is no doubt in my mind concerning mankind's greatest invention. We'd have killed each other off long ago if not for the relief provided by laxatives. ........ On second thought, maybe laxatives are the epitome of evil."

"People who live in glass houses should erect a tall, sturdy fence, while they consider re-modeling."

"Fall seven times and stand up eight; or else on the eighth stay down for the count and take the low end money."

"Don't be sad that it's over. Be sad that it ever started."

"We didn't start the fire. We just do fanned friction. Really. It can be quite lucrative."

"Speech is free here. ......... If you will be so kind as to agree with me."

"The lady hath not protested much since 1972. But she does have 'issues,' and if you stand still too long you will hear them."

"The fabrication of a sense of propriety is nothing more than a corruption of a sense of the proprietary."

"It is no accident that God made love and sex two different things. If love was required for procreation the species would have gone the way of the dinosaurs."

"What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object? Merriam-Webster calls David Foster Wallace and engages him to re-define the terms."

"Fifty acres and a musket."

"Many people find Pynchon and Wallace similar. Yes, I agree that they are both excellent twenty-first century writers; one of whom is a prisoner of length and the other one an occasional jail visitor; both difficult for many readers. One uses up-to-date, bizarre symbolism in a covert attempt to disparage it; this, inexorably a surreptitious ploy for a return to the traditions of the Mayflower; presented in a Chaplin-esque motif. The other uses up-to-date, bizarre mixed with traditional symbolism, in an overt attempt to suggest the inevitability and infinite feasibility of change; presented in a Hicks-like motif. In an age submerged in and fascinated with deception, it is obvious which one receives the "highest honors," as they are bestowed by those well advanced in age; if little else.

"To be able to put down words, the single most important thing a writer who believes that they have something important to say is to forget that absurd notion."

"The best writing is that which communicates on at least five levels; mine and uh .................."

"Any personalized search for 'completeness' is an obvious, though not overt, testimony to the searcher's luxury of free time and a grand self-image. At any given point, a person is a manifestation of a few of the many shifting attributes or personae, sometimes called nafs, which they have continually adopted at will; while they have simultaneously discarded others. It seems so simple; 'One cannot have their cake and eat it too.' For others, it is best to avoid the ones who will never be satisfied."

"Those who say 'go for it' haven't the slightest idea what 'it' is."

"Those who say Magical Realism is wonderful because it has no limits have a high tolerance for abject stupidity and incompetence."

"When a 'reviewer' says that a book is too long to review, they are confusing the word 'review' with the word 'synopsis' or just don't have a clue."

"When a commentator says that to write a 'long book' is masturbatory, they may not realize that the author considers masturbation infinitely more preferable to sex with the jackass commentator."

"In the year of 2016, and, on behalf of all officially recognized minorities and those yet to be recognized, I would like to thank the many literary mavens who strongly chastise those who make politically incorrect characterizations or otherwise delineate dim-witted hatred of them. As we all well know the situation is not tolerable until everyone uses the appropriate words which will indicate that everyone loves each other. The minorities defended appreciate your noblesse oblige in granting them equal status a half century after everyone else did. I'm sure that the gratitude of blacks, women, LBG&T devotees, and members of other minority groups is directly proportional to your eternal vigilance. Thank you so much."

"If someone likes or agrees with everything you say they are either not paying any attention, angling for something, or too stupid to bother speaking with."

"In order to have any chance of being implemented the best long term solution must also be made to appear to be the best short term one. If that is accomplished the next hurdle to be surmounted is the inevitable defectors; all well-armed with tons of their heart breaking good reasons and clarifications."

"You say that I am angry. For the last time, I'd like to assure you that I am not. See Sartre, de Beauvoir, Camus and derivatives for an exhaustive explanation or Franzen for one more concise. I fear that if you persist in your inaccurate judgements, that I will really become angry."

"Autism is a natural defense mechanism existent in people cursed with high levels of déjà vu. It is a crime for psychologists to idiotically attempt to provide an 'antidote,' but they will persist as that is one of the requisites of their failed 'profession.'"

"Sometimes a Mark Twain witticism is just a Mark Twain witticism."

"If you think that you have something important to say; understand that you will be merely displaying your ignorance in so doing; as it has already been said thousands of times we know of and likely millions of which we are unaware."

"For every great quotation there are a minimum of three great contradictions."

"Indifference is a much more effective weapon than hatred. Not only is it easier on the nerves; it is much easier to employ."

"Adept prophets communicate wisdom kindly and effectively, until they become confused by their discovery that X=X+1, when written in luxuriant olive. Businessmen and politicians flourish because they stop at the point whereby they know that X=X-1, when written in inflamed ruby."

"To provide free services to an entity like Goofreads was a heart-warming and noble endeavor. To continue to provide free services to an entity like Goofreads after it has been acquired by an entity like AmawayOnSteroids, is either sheer stupidity, extreme slavish masochism, or is conclusive proof that a person is looking for an excuse to make complaints, to which all will sympathize on the surface and clandestinely revile. That is an overly kind way of saying it, as it doesn't require a genius IQ to know that every Goofreads which succeeds in becoming valuable through the use of free labor sells out to the AmawayOnSteroids' of the world every time. Yes, you read that correctly; every time, every fucking time. ............. Okay, you choose to not believe that one 100%. So, how much you wanna bet?"

"Pantomimic, protracted Pynchonic pontifications presume profundity, yet pitifully proffer a plentitude of poop piles prior to every princely, pithy piece of personally protective praise."

"Life gives you a billion good reasons to quit. All that is required is to pick the one with which you are most comfortable."

"Let's not and say that we did."

"It is certain that if Obama was a white man he would already be touted as a candidate for one of the worst US presidents of all time. The irony is that if he truly was a black man he probably wouldn't have been so ineffectual."

"In circles which consider themselves part of the intelligencia the un-written, yet operative, definition of 'free speech' is that one can say whatever they choose, no matter how contradictory or baseless, about the US, UK, Israel, Christianity or Judaism. Yet to speak in the same manner regarding Arabia, Africa, Muslims is not permitted. One can only offer one comment and that is just too rude."

"That the minority of Pit Bulls and Dalmatians have attacked humans makes it permissible for people to say and write that those breeds are best avoided. However, if a minority of Muslims have attacked humans it is not permissible for people to say and write that this breed is best avoided. There is something to be said for one's requirement to clean up their own house."

"Unanswerable does not equal indecipherable."

"Murakami equals almost literary musaak. Maybe the 'something lost in translation' stirs idle imaginations into deep, deep thought."

"If anarchy was brought to the Americas it wouldn't last a day before the thugs with the biggest guns took over. Any naïve foreigner would save themselves some embarrassment if they lived here a while; and I don't mean a two week vacation; before they started pontificating about it."

"A genius is one step ahead; an idiot is two. (Possibly sic.)"

"Some things just plain stink, but to say that one is treated worse than the stinker. It's better to stay quiet and hope the inept don't get insistent."

"Seek and ye'll soon be sorry ye did."

"The black, winter, night sky shines with all the brilliance of stars which died eons ago."

"When utilizing lyricism, symbolism or allegory it is best to surreptitiously hide that behind literal people and objects."

"Writing is easy. The only thing writers have trouble with is learning how to spell T-h-e E-n-d."

"I didn't break it. So, it ain't my job to fix it."

"The price always goes up after you're dead."

"Bulls make money. Bears make money. Hogs don't."

"Remuneration for an endeavor is directly proportional to the degree of distaste required to perform it."

"Do not ever give the impression that you think you are saying something new. Its 99.99% certain that you are not; and if the .01% possibility is the case, everyone will say that they already knew that."

"If destined and cursed to ponder whether one's neighbor is a Dadaist or one with a surplus of chromosomes, save yourself the headache. Just give him a kick in the ass and watch his first three steps."

"Grand plans are concocted by those who have attained the prerequisite of having failed miserably at the small ones."

"Things are as they are because people want them that way. Invariably they bitch about it, prior to rejecting any alternative presented. This dynamic does not even reach the stature of petty rebellion. It's just a cowardly farce ad infinitum."

"It is as equally retarded to be anti-science as it is to worship it."

"In the beginning God created everything. Since then we've been complaining about it, studying it, fixing it and 'improving' it. Observe the groovy 2016 results; a nineteenth century Shelley creation."

"The easiest thing to do when the damn thing stops working is to push the restart button."

"Popular objections to Joyce's 'Ulysses' actually boil down to an objection to art for its own sake. Joyce was so hurt that, while 'Ulysses' provided a framework, his next effort; 'Finnegan's Wake,' would provide none."

"Most modern 'radical' literature is independently provided by bookish kids who utilize their skills in gangsta speech patterns to provide an egalitarian mixture of ghetto and Valley Girl."

"At its root or lack thereof, socialization is a measured response, calculated by one devoid of a measurement instrument."

"A Traveler is one with a black witch's broom placed in the appropriate space. It is fortunate for the others that she has no effect on anyone other than an equivocating Manny."

"One of the amusing things indie reviewers cannot resist is to re-use and re-use admired phrases copied from other indie reviewers. Today, the most popularly duplicated phrase is; 'I liked it for the things it didn't say as much as I did for what it did.' I wonder if the converse is true. Substitute disliked for liked for one possible reversal. The devotees of this view might do well to stare at a blank book. It could be orgasmic."

"There is little doubt that dualities exist in nature. However, the currently popular double and triple binds discussed on 'Bookworm' and the ilk are most often foolish attempts to reconcile two of the infinite supply of imperfectly defined words. Plato's world of forms, anyone? The result is useless sophistry, which only serves as an egoistic or financial benefit for the perpetrator."

"You've got to cross all the eyes and dot all the tease."

"An incorrect response to an incorrect response to an incorrect response to an ....................... produces a correct response at level 10."

"When in danger it is always best to seek the highest ground, unless one is at the base of Everest with no climbing gear."

"There is case law and there is contradicting case law. Idiots kill each other over their 'ideologies.' The higher authorities will always make the final decision as soon as they cease laughing."

"Walls appear to be the best of friends. They have an accommodating habit of showing up whenever you choose to see them."

"One particularly annoying dichotomy is that humans seek information, but also object to being told what to do. This requires the responder to cloak the answer in competent and popular entertainment, if they give a shit."

"The quest for knowledge still culminates in the professor's enlightening innocuous dissertation. Understand that clarity is not an absolute in three dimensions. What is clear to some is unclear to others. Therefore, the pursuit of clarity is a loser's game."

"Education is the bridge between impetuous faith and exasperating reservation; joking Wallace vs. joking Franzen. Yeah, I know that I stole it. But, legally it is not under the "protection" of the copyright laws. Thank you Mark. ...... Er, Sam. .......... Ah, see. Fuck it."

"Counter-intuitive becomes a more descriptive assessment when all intuitions are created equal. Until then, "chameleonic" remains a superior imperfection 6X."

"Why is it that the degree to which the ending of 'I don't know' is articulated in the most 'clever' of terminologies and is directly proportional to the degree with which the postulation is jargon laden; with zero standard deviation? Thought I'd grasped an anesthetized number of hypotheses, but must have misplaced them somewhere in tutorial seminar, where they may still reside, hidden under someone's fat ass. Please refresh my memory. Enlighten me. ......... On second thought, never mind. It had to have been just another one of those yin-yang non-resolutions."

"Two tiny banalities poorly executed lead to an infinity of complications wrongly considered momentous. My sincere apologies to William and Virginia. I do appreciate the acknowledgement offered by Bill and Gina stating that it was at least a paraphrase rather than an act of plagiarism.

Distillation: Two banalities poorly executed."

"Censors are the people who tell you whether or not it's all right to read what you have written."

1) "Pinch Me When the Incessantly Terminal Gravity Subsides."

2) "Social Proprieties Analyzed as Deference to the Insistently Vulgar."

3) "Middle Aged Lolita in Therapy."

4) "The Thinker Assumed the Defecatory Position."

5) "Atlas Stoned in the Defecatory Position."

6) "Frosty's Refrigerated Survival Trip; for Children of All Ages."

7) "Youth is Wasted on the Senile."

8) "Remembrances of a Future Long Passed."

9) "The Twenty-Seventh Letter of the Alphabet."

10) "Infinite Scams."

11) "Green; a Short Story Collection in Braille."

12) "Dante Unearthed at the Center."

13) "The Pale Prince Proffers a Preference for the Onanistic Arts."

14) "Jay Gatsby Ponders Religion and Name Changes."

15) "The Roth All Night Diner."

16) "Ellis in a Dior Rejected Dress."

17) "Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Old Farts Club; A Sequel to 'The White Album.'"

18) "Magical Mystery Con; a sequel to 'Norwegian Wood.'"

19) "Truman Evokes a Dream and Then Drops It."

20) "Fifty Shades of Dowager Porn."

21) "What Seuss Might Have Said to Rothfuss and Other One Sided Confrontations."

22) "All About Lilith."

23) "A Bitch in the Crowd."

24) "No Little Shit Indie Critic is an Island."

25) "If Ocular Observation Produced Perfect Vision and Other Futile Speculations."

26) "A Portrait of the Artist as a Crotchety Codger."

27) "Confusing Anger with Amused Disgust; Beyond Semantics and Sophistry."

28) "Tender is the Knife."

29) "In Pursuit of J.R.'s Elusive Tertiary Aspects."

30) "thethingysnotworkingright; The Importance of Being Capitalized, Spaced, and Punctuated."

31) "Absurdity Trying to Hide a Fundamental Lack of Talent."

32) "Less than Affected Dullness."

33) "Futile American Closet Case Cover."

34) "Divergent from Zero."

35) "Dickin' Jane in Less Than Three Syllables."

36) "Bart'll Be the Scribbler."

37) "Homer's: The Oddity."

38) "Look What Happens When You Name Your Boy Joyce."

39) "100 New Recipes for Cannibals."

40) "Monty Still Can't Get Over It, But Has Learned to Use It For Personal Advantage; a Sequel to Lemonade."

41) "Mesmerized by the Dark."

42) "Fitty Charades of Abu Guraib."

43) "Remedial Sex Education for 'Special' Students."

44) "One Hundred New and Inexpensive Roadkill Recipes for Geeks."

45) "The Six Five People Who Could Not Have Possibly Killed JFK."

46) "Henry Kissinger Differentiates Boring Depression from Joyous Infinite Wisdom."

47) "A Comprehensive List of People and Animals Alleged to Have Been Assassinated by the CIA- a Five Volume Set with Updates Available Annually."

48) "The Truth Finally Revealed #1; Shrimp are Microwavable."

49) "Lyricism in Contemporary Fantasy Literature; an Extremely Brief Essay."

50) "The Rebellious Deviant and the Outlaw Lobotomist."

51) "Benny P's U."

52) "The Incredible Lightness of Overcooked Tomatoes."

53) "More Dilettantish Musings from Benny the Dip."

54) "The Truth Finally Revealed #2; The Sabers did IT!"

55) "You Wanna See a Real Bomb?"

56) "A Tediously Extended Version of a Petite Masked Ball, Drearily Chronicled Within the Bounds of the Mischaracterized Non-Framework of Finnegan's Wake."

57) "They Didn't Catch IT in the Rye."

### Quantum Suicide POV IV

A Quantum Mechanically Induced Regurgitation in the Key of G

The totally un-disciplined, as that word is defined in the sense of genre, writer has stumbled across a net based Quantum Mechanics thread which has piqued his interest. It would appear that some of the participants are not on the same page of the book. So, in the interest of rational communication mixed with a desire for harmony and personally having little else to do, the writer seeks to instill a common ground through the rationality of being wrong.

It seems readily apparent the thread participants here are seeking an answer to the ultimate question. I will gladly take some time away from my non-schedule and attempt to be of assistance with that matter in brief. The answer is that "Two is true to the power of infinity minus one."

Mathematically deficient participants may be more comfortable with the verbal description. Two, the duality if you will, is at the core of every thought or action, until at the zenith it morphs into a singularity. I believe that this is the root cause of the confusion.

Retreating from the world of theory into the world of flawed observations of the physical world, David Foster Wallace depicted this concept in "Brief Encounters with Hideous Men." The singularity, which has morphed from the duality at the peak, is the closed window which has gone opaque from the contrast between the heat inside and cold outside.

To be even more "real," in his personal life he chose to leave the place which bored the bejesus out of him, utilizing a rope; not subject to the possibility of empty chambers and statistically significant malfunctions. His calculations were very likely to have been that through the utilization of the rope he had a 50% chance of entering another, but more personally satisfactory world of "Two is true to the power of infinity minus one." You will note that the odds are against him, though infinitesimally so. This is a testimony to more faith than is apparent anywhere else. In addition to his well-known library appearances, he spent a great deal of time in church.

On a more biased and personal point of view basis, he was seeking to enter a world in which he did not physically as well as metaphorically smash Mary Karr's glass cocktail table at her feet.

See, this is the shit, man. Can you dig that The Man was cursed with the desire for that one, that fuckin' MK singularity. We all know he had access to a lot of other bitches, hoes, baby mamas, drama mamas and various sundries; but unlike most indifferent male seekers of any hole, he had a thing for this one.

Hey, who the fuck asked you for any advice, Pedro? Every stupid mofo gotta put their two cents in. You ain't on the net now, man. Fuck you, pretentious jackass. Sheeeeit. Where the fuck was I? Oh, yeah, Mary Karr. You know this soul sista is an artist with eclectic tastes. All Davey the Walrus wanted to do was be with Mary and dig on her beautiful art, like all the fuckin' time. Unowhumsayin? The rest of the shit is kinda "take it or leave it," right? So, like this great humanitarian, tell me what the fuck that means, would give up everything here just for an against the odds shot at something else. Yeah, he worked the odds down as far as he knew how to take them, but still ...... that ain't any kind of fault. In my dreams I see him with Mary and they were able to work out the fucking details this time. Shit man, I'm outta here. Pedro, go bother somebody else, all right? I'm talkin' some serious shit here. Dummy.

P.S. This shit took me a long time to do. I mean, like I had to re-work it like all morning to make it sound proper and all of that. They censor everything nowadays. But, like okay, let's get real. I put it down and now I'm relying on my trust in you. Things are reciprocal or they are not. So, I want you reviewers to say that you've read the next book I turn out, if I ever get the time to edit the last 200 pathetic pages. It's called "Blasé Eight." It's a confusing, long assed piece of stupid shit which makes quantum mechanics seem to be sophistry, or not. ........ No value judgements. Nowhumsayin? If you do, please inform moi, as to what that is in your section of the multiverse. I'd like the small courtesy of you saying the eloquent equivalent of the putdown with one little star on there somewhere. See, 'cause then I'm gonna take a hold of my old lady and we're gonna trip out into one of the parallel worlds in which your reviews are top notch, five stars and superlatives on the shit, and you got your millions of followers to pay for the fuckin' mess. Dig? Yeah, negotiation is always an option. You can have the movie rights on the next one. Hey, you know damn well that the best indication of commercial value is what the last one did. Come on, man. I need this one. See, I ain't one of those greedy ass muthas. If you would just say how awful it is, then Diane and me can get to Carmel and we can spend the rest of our lives in great weather hangin' with the stars.

Is that askin' a lot for the answer to the whole fuckin' thing or more accurately things? ........... Most of the time. ........ Never mind. This could go on forever. Yo!

### Space

To whom it may concern;

I have been busier than I would like to be. I have been informed that there is insufficient space in my house. Wanting to be liked I considered remedies. The first thought was to have an addition built. My second thought was that could become a problem in any of a number of ways. My third thought was to recall the four, differently sized, boxes which the presumably former owner left in the living room. My fourth thought was a question; 'Did anyone put anything in them?' My fifth thought (possibly sic) was to do an investigation, during which I determined that they were all still empty. My sixth thought-action was to put the smallest one inside the second smallest, then to put those two inside the second largest, then to put that concoction into the largest one.

I am currently in the process of determining if this provides sufficient space, ultimately an imprecise value judgement which will involve input from the other, who I can see through the open window over the oven, is currently in the front yard tending to the garden. I do so want to be liked. If the space is determined to be lacking I intend to continue the process with the four boxes which were left in the kitchen, and if necessary the four boxes which were left in the game room, and if necessary the four boxes which were left in the guest bedroom, and if necessary .......................... Through my wanderings I have already determined that they are all of different sizes and empty, and that they will all fit inside the largest box. This is a tedious process and I have a Plan B. Rather than experiencing infinite boredom, at some point I may find it fun to just throw all the old junk out.

I'd rather spend the time ruminating about the ancient Japanese game of 'Go.' Such things are most fun when one is a novice. At this point I find it unclear what the rules defining "surround" are. The board configurations I've thus far seen look like the stones are willy-nilly all over the place. In certain venues, ignorance is indeed bliss, and I'd rather not get bogged down with the details of "surround." What does pique my interest is the name of the game. It seems to me that it must have been baptized by someone with a sarcastic sense of humor. The still stones cannot move. They resemble a graveyard, while in Chess, a Knight and a Queen can hop or slide around the board theoretically forever. As an aside it seems patently absurd for mathematicians to say that 'Go' has more possibilities than Chess, when the Knight and Queen can keep hopping and sliding to infinity. I don't care to hear any math maven's "explanation." Shouldn't have mentioned it. What I'd like to know is if name of this ancient eastern game loses something in the translation. Are there any linguists in the house? My only tentative conclusion is that whoever named this game must be of high level genius character as the brightest of easterners are not the least bit funny. Look at Murakami.

In 2016, it is scientifically believed that everything is made up of numbers or can be represented by them. It is un-deniably true that, primarily through the invention of better measuring and visualization instruments, we keep finding smaller things previously unknown. Given that one small observation it is 99.9% certain that we will soon discover that the numbers are made up of something previously not seen. If you want to take the other side I'm willing to bet you a whole lot of money on it. Further, when that happens, a traditional physicist named T.T. Hindsight will titter mildly and say; "It was so retarded to have believed in the number theory which the Neanderthals did. It was such an easily discerned piece of faulty logic. Mankind determined that all existence was comprised of a concept he invented. I mean like Duh!!!" See ca. 1967 Jimi Hendrix' 'If Six Was Nine,' and-or the possible precedent of ca. 1965 Bob Dylan's 'Ballad of a Thin Man.'

Recently I've been diverted from my own priorities which include trying to make recently installed Windows10 do what I want it to do and finish off a long-ass book which is now boring the hell out of me. I suspect that MS put this damn thing out free in an effort to get a bunch of suckers to do their editing work. I'd only like to point out that the MS acronym was first a reference to something else and that still may take precedence. My sixth sense tells me that my next delay will be provided by someone who is a disciple of the imperfect religion of psychology. I promise that I will do my best to strangle that person.

If I don't contact or make terse replies to people in the near future, it should not be considered disinterest or disrespect. I just have to get all the mud out of this place before it reaches neck level and once and for all finish this goddam book. It's 98% written and needs four edits by moi, two of them slow. I'm considering just deleting the obsequious stuff, let it go, and hope I never see it again.

For those of you who actually read as opposed to skim and assume, you may have noted that I was considering obtaining my first Kirkus review whenever I finish this 'brilliance.' Since then I've seen more Kirkus reviews of indie stuff. I have found them to be so bad that one doesn't even have to read the book to refute them, as they contradict themselves and display no knowledge of antecedents. Most significantly, their vaunted market reach is yet to be personally determined as, over the course of approximately one year, the indie books reviewed have experienced sales ranging from two to seven, and I suspect this is inclusive of the freebies and other forms of giveaways. Help, please advise;

1) Does Kirkus use the same reviewers for the indie stuff as they do for the institutionalized?

2) Is there any mathematically demonstrable relationship between a starred Kirkus review and book sales?

3) Is GFR of financial value to anyone other than AmawayOnSteroids.com; the mis-statements a Nabokovian non-riddle?

4) What is the price an unknown indie must pay to get a front page Sunday NY Times Book Review Section review?

5) Does that have any provable financial value?

6) Is there any less-than-half-hour process an indie can perform to keep their books off pirate websites?

7) If one signs with a traditional publisher is one saddled with an editor, required to do book signings, and answer stupid questions in the media?

8) Is there anybody out there?

Gotta go. My significant other has come in and declared the space to be insufficient. I'm going to have to start fucking with these empty boxes again. I am so desperate to be liked that I have forgotten the lines to 'Visions of Johanna.'

Ciao.

### Dream #3

That shared, pre-post-inadequately-characterized-sorts of an ice cream soda with that special her could not in the current version of knowledge and truth be easily understood. At the minimum it seems to take time; an insouciant statement, innocuous in a mere, and likely inaccurate one; maybe like the time itself as extremely differentiated from a 2016 movie, commercially sold at $22 per seat plus overpriced popcorn; the butter their ostensible selling point. A long time ago, with the dream of Beth so loved and so wide of hip, so beautifully alive and yet to be cruelly resurrected, that dream existent since whatever the relevance of his birth or as long as he can recall; he truly considered an embarrassing innocence; "Oh God, the truest of innocences I can possibly imagine," he thought.

Then he woke up.

### Reviews

A DAY IN THE LIFE WITH DFW *****

"Note; Admittedly, it could have been a while back, but I might have been given a free hard copy of this book; "The Ocean Over the Septic Tank," in return for an honest review. I might have no financial interest in its sales, unless you click right here, in which case I'll get an inconsequential gratuity. Since I've been writing reviews on this site for a year, which all tend to be five starred ones, I've been inundated with free books from authors and publishers. I've got about forty piled up on the dining room floor and another 800 on my computer. Jeez, I'll never catch up. I didn't know how they got my home or personal e-mail address until last week when one of them called me. He started yelling at me. I found out that he paid $15 to my Goofreads friend who promised him he'd have a five star review in a week and gave him my personal information, telling him to just send it directly. Well, I'll tell you that I straightened him right out, the guy on the phone that is, and told him I'd do it next, not wanting to offend my friend, who will remain un-named. Anyway, I was a bit fatigued this morning after driving my two kids to school. They got into their old argument about who is getting the front seat and all of that. Yes, we still have that alternating-days system which I mentioned in other reviews, but Jimmy was sick on Friday, his front seat day, so Michelle sat there. Michelle insisted that Monday was her day and that it wasn't her fault when Jimmy gets sick. So, they both got in the front seat and wouldn't budge. I didn't know what to do, so I just drove them and hoped that some cop wouldn't make a big deal about the seat belt thing. That turned out to be cool, but halfway there they started jostling for position and Jimmy must have not been completely better as he hurled all over, including on Michelle's dress. I was going to bring them both back home, but Michelle insisted on going to school saying that she didn't want to be stuck in the house with sick barf boy as it might be catchy, and that "with all the gross shit on the internet, nobody's going to give a flying fuck over a little vomit." It's okay. I told her that she could use those kinds of words when she turned ten, like her boyfriend next door. So, I dropped her off and drove Jimmy back home. I got him changed, put him to bed and cleaned up the car, trying not to puke myself. So, I'm sitting here tired, disgusted, pissed and rebellious. Just to show everybody who's boss I picked up this other, very fat book. It'll put those nasty fifteen buck writers back a while. I also figured that since he's dead Wallace won't be calling me. It doesn't look new. Damn, the phone's ringing. Be right back.

That was the goddam school. I've got to go bring Michelle back home. No, they didn't object to the vomit; at least not the vomit itself, as least as far as I understand it. It was that my little angel has been bombarding the nerdy boy who sits beside her with the big chunks. You know, that kid is such a wimp. Any real boy would just throw them back at her, but the sissy is crying. Christ.

I'm outta here. Oh yeah, IJ is a great, great book. I'd like to give it six stars. Great plot, moves right along. Recommended to anyone over ten years of age with strong arms. Maybe will update. It's heavy. Ha ha ha."

Yet Another Example of a Totally Useless Book Review. This One Done in Quasi-Literary Format

At the beginning Of David Foster Wallace's 1996 classic "Infinite Jest," Hal is in Deans' office, presumably to enable them to decide whether or not he's worthy of an athletic scholarship; with lower requisites than an academic one. The stated problem is that his exemplary high school grades were achieved in a school owned by his parents. There is a conflict with his "closer to zero than desired" standardized test scores which the "Ministers of Information" want to clear up through a personal meeting. Hal notes the coldness, rigidity, remoteness, covered up aspects, and the falsity of the room; once sarcastically describing the double paned windows as being "closed against the November heat." He does not interrupt the proceedings likely due to having taken his tennis coach's advice to err on the side of caution. During the meeting a pattern becomes abundantly clear. Any question he is asked is answered for him by someone else; most often utilizing information extracted from their computers. When Hal senses that the meeting will soon end he says things; rather complicated things, which don't seem to make much sense; outside of them being a possible testimony to his interest in rather arcane esotericism. At one point he says; "I could tell you about these things, and you might even be interested." When he stands up, the Deans leap upon him, saying he is unbalanced, and Hal winds up with his face in the carpet. It might detract from the mystery of the story to say that for some strange reason Hal did not get the scholarship. .............. Toward the end of the book, the violent storm is easily deciphered as a representation of an apocalyptic event. Funnel clouds destroy the houses of those who have abstained from the available drugs. Gately (Gates of Eden? A Hal double?) wakes after the worst has passed, yet it is still raining. He is alone and on his back on a beach. It is still cold. But, having taken the drugs he has survived. It's not the best solution, but it is the best one available. The closing line; "the tide was way out," is among other things a simple reference to increased awareness.

So, what is there to understand one deftly asks? At its essence, it's just another book. Well, that's an easy to answer. The relevance of this book is beholden to its 1938 screwball comedy predecessor; "Bringing Up Baby." Hepburn and Grant starred while Hawks directed the story centered on the domestication of a gentle, sweet tiger who managed to scare everyone except Katharine, Cary, and Howard. For the DFW 1996 counterpoint, one might make note of the sabre (Change one letter. Ease are equal to a's, and in the Palestinian pronunciation is the equivalent of a US haze.) toothed tiger. He knows that the best way to win is to get your enemies to fight each other. He also knows that a competent investigator will pursue an avenue which starts and often ends with; "Who received the most benefit from the conflict?" All fingers will lead to him, so he has a diversionary plan. This is the weakest part of his chain, but it's not too easily detected. He knows that people think of "tigers" without making the differentiation between types of tigers. He facilitates a situation in which tigers are slaughtered, thereby eliminating the possibility that people will think in terms of 100% "tiger benefit," as they simultaneously ignore the 100% benefit for the sabres' sub-section. Because of the slaughter, it has become socially unacceptable, and in more significance, criminally punishable "hate speech" to try to address this possibility and most people feel sorry for the sacrificed tigers anyway. In addition the sabres have been scientifically deemed as long ago extinct; though there have been reported sightings ............ Some of the non-sabre tigers have an idea of what's going on, but are reticent to say it as to do so invokes the strong possibility that even if they are believed, the response will be against all tigers. ................ Pretty good game. No? And even the scientists say that the sabre toothed tiger is genetically not a true tiger. He's a cat with some similarities to a dog; but he definitely ain't no tiger. Nowhumsayin? All right. The utilization of false identities was not simultaneous with web based sock puppets. The primary and inherent sabre problem is that they always have been and continue to be something other than the sharpest pencil in the box. They are good IT specialists; but they're primarily warriors, and very good ones; both males and females; most adept at following orders. For a business plan, they have employed other types of tigers, the best talent purchasable, to further their cause. But one named Grateful Jack Straw has been operating under the name Beckett. He was the despondent advisor who was once the closest to the King Sabre. The King thought him a buddy and liked hanging out with Jack-Beckett. But, Jack-Beckett got some kind of bug up his ass and split. So now the Sabres are using every methodology known to Sabres, including IT, in an attempt to find reclusive Jack-Beckett before he can spill the beans; while the King reverts to his heritage and cries crocodile tears. The fact is that Jack-Beckett has already spilled the said beans, though it is not yet common knowledge. The King's new advisor has suggested that this is the likely case. So, Mr. Sabre needs to create another horrendous physical event to take minds off a theory which is merely suggestive. Nuclear facilities distanced from Sabre territory seem a good option.

Why get serious. All it produces is a whopping headache. Let the music play. Here's Dylan at his chirpiest singing "Highway 61 Revisited." ......................... Shit. Does anybody here know how these MP3 monstrosities work? It keeps repeating the first seven lines over and over. All right already. The fuckin' kid is soon dead. Who cares? I trust you have ten nimble fingers.

### Po Po Mo No Mo- At the Bookstow

A Fictional Review of an Imaginary Flop

Beware; this review contains transient spoilers of nothingness. Unrequested, this book was strongly suggested to me by an income challenged writer with whom I am awkwardly somewhat familiar through my brief interlude at the internationally expanding, stay-at-home-pastime, commonly referred to as Goofreads. Apparently, it was recommended to me as the result of my offhand, socially banal and intended to be meaningless comment regarding her work as "awesome," which the author interpreted or chose to interpret as excellent. I have purchased this book for $11.99 plus tax and intend to do an honest review; even if the result is later to be determined as trolling. I have no financial interest in its future royalties; if any.

Blurring invisible lines, the one called Reader, presumably the Writer in this case, I perused the establishment's fashionable new book section. The book in question was not an official member of any of the fleeting, various and sundry top ten lists, and thereby sat in a bin devoid of number; that word applicable in all five of the Merriam defined possibilities.

It was openly displayed and one could not help but take notice of it; evidenced by the dirty fingerprints highlighted even in the most indirect of lights. As a lover of content and words I was ashamed to admit, even to myself, that it was the bright, multi-hued cover, depicting a Pollack-like splashing image; unclear as to whether it was trying to convey rainbow movement or the regurgitation of last night's, microwave heated, "Supreme Three Meat Great Value Pizza, with sausage, pepperoni, ham, onions, peppers and undisclosed additives" which first got my attention.

The book opened with the self-important, contradictory exhortation of the "Writer," whose Forward opened with; "Relax. Concentrate. Dispel every other thought. Let the world around you fade," which a cynical Reader could easily paraphrase as; "Pay attention only to me. Let nothing else matter. I am your life."

On this day, this Reader sought to temporarily suspend his weary cynicism. He felt inwardly giddy and sought something new and different. Up until now his repertoire has been purposely confined to genre duplicative offerings. He inwardly smiled at the sheer audacity of the Writer, paid for the discounted, hardcover novella and brought it home.

Alas and it's grinning cousin alack, after 23 pages, our gentle Reader discovered that his copy has been ruined; ostensibly in the printing process. It consisted of nothing but the first section, repeated over and over. This might have been satisfactory for a short story, essay or poetry slam, but he had paid for and expected a novella. The Reader thought that this kind of petty annoyance was much too trite in its inferences and assumed that there must have been some kind of mistake.

Upon return to the bookshop, he discovered that the volume, which he thought was written by his GFR correspondent, inferred but not clearly stated on the glossy jacket, that it was actually by a different writer known only as "The Lady Traveler."

Given the seeming choice between the two, he went for the Traveler. He is quickly joined by the Other Reader, known as Valeria. The Reader is annoyed, but not deterred. But, after he has returned home this copy turns out to be by yet another writer and contains 23 pages repeated over and over, as does the next, and the next ................... .

Posed with a difficulty, the Writer considered trying to do a GFR-type of review patterned after the ultimate one done by one of Goofreads' highest rated reviewers. The exalted one had covered the final Christopher Hitchens' book, which concerned God, the devil, right, wrong, death, everlasting life, and all those things with which we know people have been beating to death since they learned how to write; never adding much to the subjects. The reviewer started his review by eruditely giving his unsolicited views on each of the subjects. In the middle of the 5,000 word review he was still doing so. His consistency continued to the very end. Understandably, I was impressed. Not only had he managed to write a review of a book whose subject matter can clear out a room more rapidly than a series of wet farts, he had done it in kind, without once making reference to the book reviewed. It's so meta, the words float away. This man had done something-nothing which can never be topped. He is my hero and I can only wonder why Salon has not stolen him away from the confines of social networking.

In the adjoining room the Reader thought that he precociously read and the Writer thought that she childishly anticipated and wrote. Considerations, soon to be carried away by a windstorm, now weigh most heavily upon all else as they concerned themselves with an insoluble, futile, and pointless chicken-or-egg type of deliberation.

If he could successfully convey what had previously transpired, the Reader thought it possible that his review would outdo the best of the GFR star; if it wasn't written in invisible ink; or perhaps if it was.

The End
