A Sanctuary

In New York City, there is a restaurant called Don Aniano's Pizza. If you go into the restaurant, and walk towards the back you will find a hallway. This hallway leads to the read exit, but also to the restrooms and kitchen. On the left side of the hallway there is a nondescript door. This door leads to a room, and room that is completely vacant save for a chair placed in the corner. The restaurant is not important to us, it is the room which we should speak about. It is a room that possesses a very interesting property. Namely, that god cannot see the actions that take place inside it. It is the proverbial blindspot in his omniscience.
That it is his blindspot is not a well known fact, in fact it had only been discovered by accident. One day Mario Claussen escorted Xavier McCartney into the the room where he promptly shot him in the head. After Mario's death, when he went before God, he was not judged for the sin of murder, only for the sin of thinking about murder. God had not seen the murder.

******

Somewhere else, in a church perhaps, two priests were conversing when one posited a hypothetical situation to the other.
"What if there where a place where god could not see into." The first said to the other.
"What do you mean?" Replied the second.
"A place that god could not see into, a place where your sins were not visible to him."
"I don't think that's possible. God is all knowing and all seeing." Said the second who was much more pious than the first.
"Just pretend for a moment."
"But how is such a place possible? How would it be constructed?"
"In some stories it's not the how that's important, but what happens that is more important."
"Perhaps."
"What would you do in such a place?" The first priest asked.
"I don't think I would do anything. Why would I need to? What would you do?"
"I would think about women and all the various things I could do to them.


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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, and WiL Whitlark of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'Sanctuary'.

Historical Facts about Sanctuaries

Did you know that historically a sanctuary was any religious space such as a church or monastery? And that the condemned who attained this space could plead sanctuary, and then they couldn’t be touched? They could live there years and years, and no one could touch them. In fact, the priests or monks or what have you would have to bring them food. And if any executioners came knocking, the priests would send him away, and they’d have to go. In fact, the executioners would have to go and fetch a lavish five course Last Dinner for the condemned because that was their job. And the condemned criminals would live night after night in the sanctuary enjoying fine food and wine and women. Yes, women too. Because the executioners would have to fetch the condemned men prostitutes. It was their Last Request. In fact, the executioners had to complete all Last Requests. They pursued vendettas. They tracked down buried treasure. They delivered single gold coins and tear-soaked handkerchiefs to long-suffering grayhaired mothers. Often fulfilling the Last Requests landed the executioners in hot water and then in the sanctuary themselves, living it up with the priests and the other condemned. In fact, 39 percent of those claiming sanctuary were former executioners. It got to the point where the local parishioners couldn’t attend religious services without tripping over a robber and prostitute enjoying a nice glass of wine. Sometimes the parishioners joined in. If anyone tried to stop them, they just had to plead sanctuary.

I hope that you have enjoyed this fact gift from history to you.

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, and WiL Whitlark of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'Sanctuary'.

Forests

Abagail and Martin were walking through the forest. It was a lovely spring day; warm, but not so warm as to preclude the necessity of a jacket. Flowers were blooming, the sun was shining, birds were singing; and even the most jaded hipster, backlashing against things commonly accepted as pleasant, would have to admit that it was a beautiful day.
"I love the forest." Abagail said, spreading her arms wide, as if to embrace the entirety of it.
"What?" Martin asked, pretending he hadn't heard what she'd said.
"The forest. I love it. It's just so beautiful."
"That's what I thought you said!' Martin sneered.
"What's wrong? Don't you like the forest?"
"Yeah I like the forest." Martin replied, emphasizing the like. "But I wouldn't say that I love it."
'Why not?"
"Because I only love you." Martin replied, trying to be charming.
Abagail kissed him and laughed. "You know what I mean."
"No, I don't." Martin sneered back at her. "I don't know what you fucking mean."
"Don't be like this."
"How can I not be like this, when you reach into my chest with your cruel talons and tear out my fucking heart!" Martin threw himself onto the ground as he said this. Tearing out grass with his hands and throwing it in the air.
"I've done no such thing."
"Yes you have. I love you so much, but you, you have to throw all that away. And for what, some verdant shrubbery?" With that Martin stood up and walked away.
Abagail looked up at the sky and wondered if it was really worth it. To keep putting up with this insanity. At some point she would have to stop preserving his feelings and let him know. Perhaps today would be the day. She saw Martin trudging back up the hill and resolved to tell him as much, even if it meant she'd have to walk home. But before she could say anything she noticed the can of gasoline and the gun Martin was holding. He went to the nearest tree and shot it with the gun.
"This is what I think of the fucking forest you love so much." He then dumped the entire can of gasoline on the tree, lit a match, then threw it at the tree. Soon the entire forest was ablaze.
"There, now I've destroyed the one thing you love." Martin said before walking away. They never saw each other again, a thing Abagail was glad of.

Forests

For Valentine’s Day, Marty wrote Abby a sonnet.

“Our breath is drawn together like the flames
of two candles, laid low in the same wind,
like forest shadows knit by dawn’s taming
slant-skied braid. I think this when the window
gives me sun enough to see you, veiled by hair
as softly fragrant as the moss that peeks
between the roots of two twinning trees. And there,
where your eyes meet the day, as sweet and quick
as every forest pool that tries to get,
for its quick life, a piece of blue inside
of it, I find a place to rest my eyes.
I set myself beside the curving hollow
carved by your neck and clavicle, against
you, nesting love safe as a forest bough.”

Abby said, “I’m glad to see that you love the forest so much.”
“That poem was about how much I love you,” said Marty.
“Oh yeah? Because it didn’t sound like that to me. So you compare me to a forest bough, do you?”
“Yeah.”
"Yeah, a whole shitload of similes. And a simile, as you know,” the bitterness that Abby conveyed in “as you know” is not to be conveyed by any simile ever like or as’d on heaven or earth, “such as ‘a man as strong as a lion’ commonly contains a quality ‘e.g. strong’ and two objects, one of which is compared to the other. Let’s call the two objects, the similee ‘e.g. a man’ and the similer, ‘e.g. a lion.’ Everyone knows that the similer is more qualitied than the similee.”
“Huh?”
“If you say my hair is as softly fragrant as moss that peeks between the roots of two twinning trees, you’re saying that moss is what’s really fragrant. Fucking moss! So I’m really fucking glad that you think moss is so fucking soft and fragrant. I thought you loved me.”
“I do,” protested Marty.
“So why do you think fucking moss is more fragrant than my hair?”
“I don’t! You’re wrong. The similer isn’t always more qualitied than the similee.”
“Oh, so you’d say, for example, that the bird took wing with the grace of an Obama.”
“Yes, I would.”
“Yeah, I bet you would."
“Fine, I’ll write you another poem,” said Marty.

“Two candles, laid low by the same wind,
come as close to meeting as our breath. Sometimes
when I’m in the forest for no reason, I see the roots
veiled by moss—it’s as softly fragrant as your hair. I observe
the forest pools, trying to get a piece of sky as blue as your eyes in them; the pools are
sweet and quick like your eyes when your eyes
happen to be open, so that works, I guess. A forest bough
holds a nest as safely as you hold love between your neck and clavicle.
I set myself against a tree, bark as bitchy as you.”

Abby said, “I fucking hate Valentine’s Day like cold death.”
Marty said, “I fucking hate cold death like Valentine’s Day.”

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, and WiL Whitlark of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'Forests'.

Shuffle 4

1. The Rolling Stones-Coming Down Again: Nice woozy sounding ballad from Goat's Head Soup, an underrated albeit flawed album. It sounds a bit like a leftover from Exile On Main Street. Keith Richards sings on this one, and he lacks the charisma and vocal talent of Mick Jagger, and his voice these tracks are often buried in the mix. It works on this song though. Allegedly the song is about Keith's relationship with his then girlfriend, though considering Keith Richards' reputation, it's not surprising to think of this a drug song.

2. Tom Waits-Bride of Rain Dog: Brief instrumental interlude from Rain Dogs. A nice jaunty tune with good sax. Doesn't really work outside of the album though.

3. Bob Dylan-I Shall Be Free No 10: Those who know me, know that I love Bob Dylan. He's a songwriter who works across the entire spectrum; from silly to sublime, heartbreaking to political and everything in between. A friend of mine says Bob Dylan is one of those guys who's stuff shouldn't work, but it does. This song is quite silly.

4. Leonard Cohen-Last Year's Man: I fucking love Leonard Cohen! This is a standout from Songs Of Love and Hate, one of my favorite albums. One can almost suffocate from all the despair in this song. Usually he displays a fair amount of black humor, but on this album, he just seemed really pissed, bitter and depressed. I dig the minimal instrumentation on this song. And, oh yes, great lyrics.

5. Radiohead-How to Disappear Completely: I like Radiohead, but i don't love them. I will say that Kid A is a brilliant album, full of interesting sounds, but I never feel like listening to it. In Rainbows is really good though. This is a pretty subtle song, one that can easily be relegated to background music. Love the squealing violins at the end.

6. Destroyer-Trembling Peacock: You'd think with a name like Destroyer there'd be some crazy rock and roll. Instead you get some Bowie influenced singer-songwriter shit. While that description might make one shy away. It isn't annoyingly introspective, rather clever and self-aware. I'm quite a fan of this band, though this song isn't that great.

7. Black Flag-Jealous Again: Another killer Black Flag from their first four years. Speedy, angry punk before they became annoyingly macho. Greg Ginn rips it with a killer solo as well.

8. Elliott Smith-Memory Lane: Solid song from the late, much adored Elliott Smith. I like this song, it's got a nice jaunty melody and pleasant lyrics that avoid being overly precious or maudlin. I've never thought that Elliott Smith was that great of a lyricist, but he crafts melodies that make up for it.

9. Led Zeppelin-What is and What Should Never Be: It's Led Zeppelin, so of course it rocks! Rocks hard! Interestingly this song kind of pre-dates the popular (especially in crappy late 90's grunge type stuff) songwriting technique of soft verses that explode into loud choruses. Love the call and response guitars at the end.

10.Big Boi w/Khujo Goodie-N2U: Big Boi has always been the most underrated part of OutKast. Andre3000 has the flashier personality and wrote Hey Ya, but Big Boi is an excellent (if occasionally mysoginistic) rapper with a great flow that wraps itself around the beat. This is one of the standouts from the Idlewild soundtrack, a funky and Prince-like song about fucking, though it must be said that with OutKast, the whole is greater than the parts.

Superstition

Brown Bowl with Fruit sat on the dining room table, his ¹ customary spot. It was a Monday morning and the Morrison's were all a blur with activity. Mrs. Morrison² was packing up lunches for her children; Wyatt, 16 and Judith, 13. Mr. Morrison³ read the paper while drinking coffee. A piece of flapjack fell of his fork, and left a sticky mark upon the family patriarch's clean white shirt. Brown Bowl with Fruit laughed, inaudibly of course.This always happened on flapjack day.

Brown Bowl knew their routine by heart. Mr. Morrison would take the children to school, then return and clean up. She would change into something a bit more risque, often a skirt with a low cut blouse, of which she seemed to have an infinite supply of. Though the Bowl upon the table did not object, he thought Mrs. Morrison had nice legs. Then she would fuck her lover, loudly, in all rooms of the house. Once they even did it on the table, right next to Brown Bowl with Fruit, who could smell Mrs. Morrison's perfume.
Brown Bowl often wrestled with himself as to whether he should alert Mr. Morrison to his wife's dalliances.Ultimately though he felt that it was a family matter, and that it was not his place to interfere. Besides, he didn't have a mouth. And his contentious relationship with Mr. Morrison certainly didn't help matters.
Brown Bowl knew for a fact that Mr. Morrison himself would, upon arriving at work, promptly take a pull from the bottle of bourbon in his desk drawer. Over the course of day he would berate and engage in illicit liasons with various subourdinates⁴. Brown Bowl continued watching the morning routine play out before him. You see, Brown Bowl felt that any deviation from the routine was an ill portent of things to come. One morning months ago, Mr. Morrison had failed to drop the flapjack on his shirt, and Brown Bowl had spent the rest of the day with a thick fog of existential dread hanging over his head. Which really didn't suit him. He was, after all, a still life.
So it comforted him when, at 8:30, Wyatt ran upstairs and, like always, pounded on the bathroom door, imploring Judith (who was frantically extinguishing her cigarette and spraying air freshened while the door was being pounded) to "Hurry up Goddamnit". Then Mrs Morrison, on cue, yelled up the stairs: "Wyatt don't take the Lord's name in vain." Wyatt, who was coming to terms with his nascent atheism, would mutter under his breath; "Fuck god." Judith would exit and Wyatt would take her place in the bathroom, where he would take his customary pre-school⁵ wank⁶.
But this morning, this morning was different. For starters, Wyatt went to the bathroom first. It was Judith who was banging on the door. Mrs. Morrison declined to pack lunches, instead giving the children a per diam to be used on lunches. In fact, she would be leaving the house to spend the day on the beach with her lover. Finally Mr. Morrison neither drank coffee or read the paper. Brown Bowl with Fruit sighed with relief when Mr. Morrison dropped the flapjack on his pants; but deep down inside, he knew that the fibers of the day had been irreparably damaged. Oh how he wished he could go to sleep, and let the day pass over him like a harmless cloud. Sadly, Brown Bowl with Fruit was incapable of sleep, so he had to sit in the quiet house, waiting for the unspeakable horrors that he was sure would take place.

1. If gender pronouns are even applicable here. Though Brown Bowl with Fruit does self identify as male, being an inanimate object the point is moot.

2. Barbara to those that know her best, though Brown Bowl is quite polite and would only refer to her as such if explicitly given permission to.

3. Jack, who Brown Bowl, in his humble unsolicited opinion, felt was a bit of a boorish lout.

4. Brown Bowl's method for finding this is unkown.

5. If the reader is confused, this is referring to before going to school, not the school attended by small children.

6. Brown Bowl often pondered what the boy used to aid his onanism, but concluded that the boy must have a powerful imagination.

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, and WiL Whitlark of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'Superstition'.

Superstition

Imagine that the world is an animal. Not the Earth, not the globe, but the world encountered—the black cat walking away from you; the birds circling overhead in twos and threes and fives; the itch that lands on your left nostril; the bird that flies into your car as you load the groceries and then trembles on the seat, its wings and heart fluttering like a moth; the spill of salt across the ground.
Imagine that all this is a small animal or even a cookie, bark-brittle and tasting of sugary glue, which you can open it and read what is inside. (You eat the flesh, the outer shell and muscle, as always, but the insides, you read.)
And what you read is the self you can encounter but never inhabit. Your mirror self. Your photo self. Your puddle self. Your footstep self. Your self within a marriage ring. Your self rising and falling on the waves of a distant sea. Your self in labor. Your name. Your shadow self, future and past, laid out like a compass rose. Your ghost self. Your dead self.
And what is remarkable is what you want to know about this self. You will cry on Wednesday and blush on Thursday. You will die first or last. You will kiss a fool.

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, and WiL Whitlark of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'Superstition'.

The Joke Zone

Q, What did the senator say when he broke up with the other senator

A. I need some cloture.

Q. What did the terrorist say to the actor who portrayed him in the movie.

A. That was an extraordinary rendition.

Shuffle 3

1. The Stooges-I Want To Be Your Dog: A classic! A fucking classic! A great riff that serves as a template for punk rock past preset and future. It's become a punk rock standard with many covers, but the original is the standout, due in no small part to Iggy's intense vocal performance and an awesome solo by the recently deceased Ron Asheton

2. Radio Birdman-Murder City Nights: Australia's first punk band with a killer rocker here. I love the vaguely tropical introductions. (in an interesting note, the Radio Birdman took their name from an oft misheard Stooges lyric.) Another good guitar solo. It should be noted that punk's lack of guitar solos can be traced directly to the Ramones, and the style perpetrated by them. Most other bands around that time had solos, though of varying quality.

3. Curtis Mayfield-Freddie's Dead:Great funk from the Superfly soundtrack (good movie, better soundtrack). Curtis Mayfield is one hell of an arranger, stacking strings, horns, guitars atop a killer baseline to make a great song.

4.Guided By Voices-Hardcore UFO's: In one of my other shuffles I discussed bad GbV songs. This is one of the good ones. Off Bee Thousand, which some people consider a landmark album, it's a much more fleshed out song with a reel hook.

5. Van Morrison-I Will Be There: I like Van Morrison, but I haven't really listened to him enough to absorb him into my consciousness the way I have with other artists. So I can't really say more than, this is a good song with a good vocal performance and a cool saxophone solo. Van's kind of going for a lounge singer/Frank Sinatra kind of vibe here.

6.Van Morrison-Jackie Wilson Said (I'm In Heaven When You Smile): Weird, not only two Van songs back to back, but off the same album (St. Dominic's Preview) no less. I like this one better than the last, but both are good. This is a more R&B, uptempo style than the last.

7.Black Flag-Clocked In: When in comes to Black Flag, I prefer the First Four Years material with Keith Morris better. I guess I prefer his style to Henry Rollin's macho posturing. Great quick hardcore song about hating work, with excellent guitar work by Gregg Ginn.

8. Cleveland Bound Death Sentence-Drain; Short song by Cleveland Bound Death Sentence a punk group featuring one of the guys from Dillinger 4 and Aaron Cometbus of a lot of bands and his venerable zine. Pretty catchy song that's over before it can get boring.

9. Manhattans-The Feeling is Mutual: The Numero Group's Eccentric Soul comps are great collections of soul songs from obscure, defunct never-successful labels across the U.S. This is from the Big Mack label. Kind of derivative and amateurish, but that gives it a certain charm.

10.Isaac Hayes-I Stand Accused:Issac Hayes pioneered the epic length soul song. This begins with a monologue delivered over a steady chord progression, but this gets monotonous after about four minutes. Then he starts singing, and it gets good. Female backup singers come in, horns blare, strings swell. If you can make it through the monologue then it's an enjo

Disfigurement

It seems to me likely that a folktale exists in which a pair of twins falls in love with the same woman. Or perhaps only one of the pair falls in love with her, but he can’t believe that everyone hasn’t fallen in love with her, least of all his brother. And it seems to me that the brother who wins the woman’s hand in marriage would demand from his brother a promise that he will not take advantage of their identical features to trick the woman into bed. At first the man would accept his brother’s word as assurance enough, but soon enough his jealousy would grow. They have the same face; he can’t trust him. He would demand that his brother scar his face to remove all doubt from his mind. Brothers in folktales, as sometimes in families, do remarkable things for each other, but I doubt that any man who scar himself so easily. I think that he would demand the right to sleep with his brother’s wife just once before he erases his brother’s face from his own. And does this mean that his brother was right and he wanted to sleep with her all along? Is this why he accepts the scar as his due? He will sleep with his brother’s wife, and his wife will know him even though he is not yet scarred, but she will sleep with him because her husband didn’t trust her. The brothers must fight in the end, and I think the first brother will lose. One will be scarred or both. Some will tell it one way, and some another.

Or perhaps—and this rings perhaps more true for those who do not accept the time- compressing properties of guilt—a brother discovers his twin sleeping with his wife. The lover swears that he tricked the woman; she believed he was her true husband. The man demands that his unfaithful brother scar his face to erase all such misunderstandings in the future. This will be his revenge. The guilty brother balks, but in the end agrees. When the man once again discovers the lovers together, he will know that the only misunderstanding was that he believed his wife ever loved him and not his brother. And this is his brother’s revenge.

Or perhaps the story is about the woman, and her husband has been killed in battle. She has washed out his wounds, the fist-size hole in his chest and the face-wide scar like a second pair of lips. While her husband’s cleaned and perfumed body cracks like popcorn in the fire, his parents comfort the woman, telling her that her husband’s brother will come to marry her before spring. She will vow that she will never love the brother like she loved her husband, who she watches jealously, bleeding greasy tears inside the fire. The brother will arrive on a long winter night, and by firelight, the woman will see that he is exactly like her husband. At first she will hate him and curse him because he looks exactly like her husband. But she will quickly come to love him. This could happen in one night by the light of one fire, or it could require more. Every day, the brother will huddle all day inside blankets, as if the sun is cold to him, coughing in the smoke because his chest is weak. As the days lengthen, the woman will see a scar spreading across his face. She will be pregnant by then, and it will seem to her that her husband has always been his brother and always been scarred.


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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, and William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden. This week's theme: 'Disfigurement'.

A Day in the Life of Brickface

Brickface, so called because in his younger days he had been accosted in the face by a brick, the brick leaving it's rectangular indentation on his face; left the bakery in a bit of a hurry. He had forgotten his wallet, you see, and needed to return to his office to retrieve it. Brickface was employed as a private investigator. As he rushed out, he caught sight of himself in the window, and thought to himself: "What a dashing fellow, in spite of that indentation"
At his office; he noticed, through the glass on the door, two men inside.
"Ah, excellent!" He exclaimed, shameless of his talking aloud. "Customers!"
He opened the door and saw, to his surprise that there were three men, one of whom was sitting in his chair behind his desk. Brickface was a bit miffed that the man would infringe on what he saw as his sovereign territory, and asked the man as much.
"Bumby don't like you asking questions." One of the men standing next to the desk said.
"And I don't much appreciate him sitting behind my desk." Brickface replied.
"Oh a wise guy." The man replied.
"While I do consider myself quite wise, I do not think myself exempt from the follies of humanity."
The two men began to roll up their sleeves, symbolic of a desire to engage in fisticuffs, when Bumby halted them with a gesture.
"I've got a job for you." He drawled.
"Very good sir, how may I be of assistance to you?"
"My daughter's dissapeared, I need you to find her."

****

After obtaining all available information from Bumby, and negotiating a payment that both parties felt appropriate, Brickface returned to the bakery. On the way he mused about fate, and its unpredictability. After all, had he remembered his wallet and not needed to go running back to his office, then Bumby and his boys would have gotten tired of waiting and left, procuring the services of another P.I. It's not as though Brickface was hurting for work, he just felt that this case would offer a little more in the way of adventure.
As he entered the bakery, noting the fresh scent of cinnemon rolls, which he hoped to soon consume, he took instant interest in the only other customer in the small store. "What luck!" He thought, restraining himself from letting a hearty "Huzzah!" erupt from his mouth. He checked the picture Bumby had given him to make doubly sure. It was her! Brickface practically skiped over to her.
"Excuse me miss, I was wondering if I might ask you a question?" He asked politely
She turned around and was speechless, trying as one would not to stare.
Brickface was used to this, and gently explained to her: "Ah yes, my countenance is somewhat shocking. But I mean you no harm, I was simply hit in the face with a brick as a youngster."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude." She said, somewhat taken back. "Does it hurt."
"Not anymore. I daresay that many days I forget it's even there! Now then, let's get down to brass tacks. Is your father Bumby?"
"Yes" She replied.
"Oh, jolly good. He's employed me to find you."
"Cool." She replied.
They left the store, Brickface forgetting what he had originally intending to go there for. Though it must be added that in all the excitement he had still forgotten his wallet.
As they left the store, a car screetched around the corner. Seeing Brickface and Bumby's daughter, the opened fire with submachine guns. Brickface tried to save her by pushing her into an alcove, but there was nothing he could do, she had taken too many bullets. Brickface had two in his shoulder, but she was dying. As he tried to pick her up and take her somewhere where a miracle could take place, the men left the car and knocked Brickface down. They kicked him in his side and his head. They stopped and exchanged high fives, then departed.
After he was sure that they were gone, Brickface picked himself up. He looked down and noticed his reflection in a puddle. His hair was disheveled, his scar more pronounced. And for the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt the phantom pain of that brick, thrown at his head so many years ago.

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, and William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden. This week's theme: 'Disfigurement'.

Excellence in jpegs

Shuffle 2

1. Thin Lizzy-Get Out of Here: Thin Lizzy is a great band. Phil Lynott is a great songwriter. Great melodies, and driving rock, what more could you ask for. I really dig the call and response style in the verses. And as always, the guitar solos are great.

2. Sleater-Kinney-Sympathy: Sleater-Kinney is one of the great female rock bands, though I'm not a huge fan of this song, or the album it's from (One Beat, which is a bit of a transition toward what would be their greatest, the awesome rock force that is The Woods). Though I must say, on this listening I'm enjoying it more. How much you like Sleater Kinney depends on how you feel about Corin Tucker's voice, which I enjoy greatly. Janet Weiss' spectacular drumming must also be mentioned.

3.Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band-Midnight Rider: Pretty cool song from one of his earlier albums (before Night Moves made him a big star). I like the use of female backup singers. Cool, relaxed r&b vibe to it.

4. Crimpshrine-Rearranged: Sloppy punk from the early 90's late 80's. Short and catchy. Positive lyrics. I'm not a huge fan of Crimpshrine, but this is one of their best songs. One of the singers has the kind of affected nasal voice that makes on think of Blink 182, which I'm not too keen on. I much prefer the singer who sounds worse that him.

5. Bruce Springsteen-Hungry Heart: Classic song from the Boss, who I must add, is fucking great. I guess this was originally written for the Ramones, but Bruce decided to keep it. He doesn't really sound like himself on it, but it's a nice catchy song, sees him moving away from the longer songs of his first several records towards more concise, traditional songwriting, but not suffering for it.

6. Ted Leo and the Pharmacists-Heart Problems:iPod has a heart theme going. I like Ted Leo, and this is from my favorite album of his, though it's one of the weaker tracks. Punk?Indie?rock indebted to people like Elvis Costello and the Jam.

7. The Nash Ensemble (Messiaen's Quartet for the End of Time)-VII. Fouillis Darcs-En Ciel: One of my goals this year is to learn/appreciate/listen to more classical music. I recently finish Alex Ross' excellent book "The Rest is Noise", which gives a detailed history of 20th century classical music, including this piece, which was written in a Nazi prison camp. I wish I had the vocabulary to fully discuss this piece, but it is quite lovely.

8. Be Easy-Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings: Modern funk/soul/r&b that adheres to the same songwriting tropes as many of the classic Motown et al. bands. Instead of sounding like a modern novelty act, it works successfully, in no part to Sharon Jones' strong vocal performance.

9.Noise Noise Noise-The Damned: The Damned are a classic first wave punk band, one of my favorites. This is from their second album, after they'd broken up and reformed with a slightly different line-up. Dave Vanian is a great punk vocalist. This song shows an evolution from their (and punk in general) earlier simplicity, and has some interesting back up sound effects as well as a pretty killer guitar solo.

10. Untitled-The Cure: The Cure (along with The Smiths and Minor Threat) are bands I can appreciate, even like, but not having gotten into them at the right time, I can't fully love them. Not having older siblings, I never was subjected to The Cures particular band of moping. That said, I think Disintegration is a great album, just not one I reach for very often. As for this song, it's alright. It kind of meanders on a pleasant synth melody for a while, while Robert Smith sings his lament, then it fades out.

P.S: This is my 100th blog post.