Thursday, June 30, 2011

19th nervous breakdown


Wednesday, June 29, 2011

These are primitive times

Told ya, 'tis snapshots or a protracted self-haruspicy &
the human condition's socially awkward as is. You're welcome. 

Highway star.

Cool & refreshing, minus high fructose corn syrup.

Even (most) blockheads have brains.

The path of least resistance.

The Eye of Leviathan.

Who's the asshole screwing up my shot?

Face the thing that should not be? Gimme a few minutes.

♪ Mallard duckie, you're the one ♫

You knew rust would show up sooner or later.


Does not belong to the Peonage.

Shiny happy breakwall holding rocks.

The Gymkata Splish Splash Spectacular starts at two.

Slackers not winning the future.

Obligatory shot of downtown Clevelandistan, though the non-fugly half of Peonage Local no. 13 suggests Clevelandia as more linguistically swanky.

The coast with the most rocks.

Where's my honey bee?

Sorry, military-industrial complex, it's not you, it's me.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Lake Erie Monster vs. MechaOfficezilla

If you know me, & my condolences if you do, you know who wins this epic, but please be kind, don't reverse rewind, fast forward in the lingo of the kids. 

Knees are known photobombers.

We found the scoundrel's last refuge.

Beautiful downtown Clevelandistan.

I swear that's not ours. We save the boozing for work.
A dollar if you can guess who's less nattily dressed.

Hands off me doubloons, ye scurvie dogs!

Yes, there's a lake.

Are you sure?

I'm sure.

For leviathans, plastic pails provide much needed roughage.

To aid in smashing stuff.

Colorful stuff.

Though harpoons are useless against such a creature.

Was warm yet crisp, but that water was nonetheless tempting.

Hang ten, gnarly dudes & dudettes.


Looks like me when I get out of bed.

& that's how I feel. All day. Save perhaps here.

Peekaboo, I see you. Sort of.

Driftwood's had a long one.

After climbing the ziggurat for the sacrifice, back to the grind.

Oh alright, one last glance.

I'm not crazy, you're the one that's crazy

"Can you play Pepsi by Suicidal?"

The Wheelie Bus™ was five minutes early, thus proving, with verifiable proofs both mathematicall & sybillinicall, the efficacy of my vaunted Leave Five Minutes Early, Stupid campaign against the brutally slacker Vandal horde that demands I wait to imbibe the Kynge's Brewe or kills me dead, yet the strange was a two-pronged devil: first, & I'm not proud of this, I -- gasp -- I used my cellular telephone device on the bus. Sob. Put away your guillotines & iron maidens unless it's Seventh Son or earlier & let me explain my hypocrisy, I was the only one on the bus & I just had to get my request in to Radio Free Cleveland dammit take that fascists.

Oh, like a banker in the hooker-plated gutter, I feel so dirty. 

Second, despite a gap in space-time of a mere 18 1/2 minutes three hundred seconds, none -- I repeat, louder for those of you in the back -- of the regular public transportationista proletariat materialized, thus lending further credence to my pet theory of said riders being automatons housed in underground silos not unlike the subjects of Curtis LeMay's wet dreams, launching when the Wheelie Bus™ enters a programmed intersection of chronology & radius.

This is what I get for not having built a sleep sanctuary; all that horror, & spending my afternoon off discussing a whole slate of heretofore unknown phobias whilst penning a burlesque piece about a fucking bee.

Hello, Cleveland! & darkthroning through the tulips, yes, even under the bloody sun & a whole bunch of other stuff, no bowties, though: I love this tune.

Sunday, June 26, 2011

Welcome to our spaceship, mighty Hercules

Posting becomes a herculean task -- how come 101 out of every 100 instances of this trope use the Augean stables? Our undead childish fascination with shit that our adult selves unthinkingly apply to annoyances sundry & spine-powdering because Amazonian girdles are too sexy for this song or my hat* or my cat**, I suppose -- not always when writer's block blocks the noggin, or swampy Helios melts my bad haircut into something worse, or [insert personal experience here].

*I don't own a hat, just a black hoodie of great personal value

**to determine which cat, roll d4
The second's a dead issue (the block, not the cat(s), I'd be a basketcase & not posting), the first's currently transient, from hour to whatever hour this ungodly one is ('tis one? spooky noochies) until a word or an image serendipitous or excavated with a detox purpose --
oh sure, you (not you personally, unless I mean you, you know who you are, don't you? Yes, yes, I hear you) use art to celebrate, you shiny happy oddity holding hands (was this blockquoting helpful? I wish to know because, gentle readership, I care)
out of a book (or the confounded computer screen; to satisfy your curiosity, a black background is real dark in the dark) sparks. The puzzle's deciding which incompatible pieces to jam together to-morrow & yesterday no jam to-day though it is now to-morrow, smearing firework cardboard in symbols esoteric, commonplace if I'm feeling frisky (read: blotto or running on a fucking third wind, a mistake never to make, oh, wait;
calm blue ocean
calm blue ocean
calm blue ocean) or, smartly, saying nothing at all, like this.

Whew. Pages bursting with text exist; half of them ascetic wheelie bus repetition that casually morphed into the lyrics of whatever song was in my ear forcing me to deconstruct like a dirty Frenchman; the other half standoffish stanzas; the third half scribblings most wretched including this new batch of the second half, but too often they're as revelatory
including this new batch of the second half x-raying my various systems & finding a malignant naiveté -- I'm afraid it's terminal -- no, he's dead, Jim
as that most famous popcorn flickish finalé. No seven-headed beasts, just radioactive lizards. Does this water taste funny to you?

Surgeon blogger's warning: don't attempt to operate heavy machinery or formulate coherence under the influence of insomnia.

Thus, the recent (& foreseeable) preponderance of the snapshot -- & the occasional bit of ponderous humor but I repeat myself -- these from Supermoon Storm of Doom a quarter fortnight ago or so not that you can tell due to obscure camera failings & the lack of precision Olympian thunderbolts. But they seem to fit where my gooey insides are at, hubris & cowardice fisticuffing over the opportunity to throw my sorry ass in Lake Erie so I can wake up, cool off.

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Tripod, or, Church-In-A-(Digital)Box

I need one -- the former, though I'm quite enamored with cathedrals -- for these shots are the few that didn't seem to be filtered through Timothy Leary's fridge. Could chalk it up to living overcaffeinated or ineptitude, but since I've built up a tolerance to both, the buck is passed to the point-and-click.

Whenever the Towering Slab enters view, look up & be relieved.

What? Ixnay on the atin-lay?

They've come to snuff the rooster.

Fire Marshall Bill, lemme show ya something.

Much cooler in person, a hint of Chinese lantern.

One of the more conventional windows. We noticed a few that were constructed piecemeal; colors matched to the scene but via miscellaneous fragments of faces, crowns, implements, background, nearly a stained glass mosaic, a visual poem of the discarded becoming something new.

Flower of power.

Hard to see -- again, suckitude on the part of yours truly -- but the lanterns reflected a subdued rainbow gleam, quite alluring in the flesh.

That just looks cool.

No special effects, but for once, my inability to shoot was a plus.

Because I'm a colossal geek, this reminded me of Castlevania.


Shit finalé, but looked real neat in the viewer.

I always know I can count on grey.

One of those 'stained glass mosaics.'

Ladies love the lute.


Thundered whilst inside, sunny when it was time to head back. Behold the awesome influence of the Peonage.

From a distance, it appears to say rison & we all know how that turned out.