Taxi 2

One organization, the Rapture Fund, is offering a "Rapture Will" that provides terms by which a Christian can transfer his or her estate to the Rapture Fund in the event of the Rapture. The organization's website indicates that funds are to be used for publication of the Gospel during the Tribulation. Stop and go all day long, I see some old friends, I see my brother. Some have phones and some plain don't. It is a white cloud connection to into a foggy realm growing foggier with each denunciation. Both these worlds, one that no one inhabits and the one where I live, one where a few people make money and one where my value is similarly ludicrous, I am enchanted by the lures of the former. They are huge and romantic, in the sense that they are ego-driven. The core of our Earthball must be so stressed out these days - too much pressure. I am a half-step from the door. I have my left foot in a warm tub and my right foot is an inch from the outlet. I'm just trying to step through, I said. So I ran with copper armor clanking and a sense of dignity misguided. I am a karate kick away from having the abandon I wish I had. Death and war and loss and pain, I know them in abstract. I don't have a shortcut because I don't know the address. I wonder if I would even take the shortcut, and I feel I wouldn't. But it would be nice to get there.

Changing Guards

In consideration of an edifice's verticality, that is, its upright girders, one needs context. So we provide this measure, at once, below. References are provided in short fragments - specifically - if unsophisticated.

Throughout its history, my street has maintained relative anonymity. And for that reason it believes in the Lamb. For that very reason, it elaborates upon weighty matters in brief gasps and short strokes. It is the attention-deprived nervous system of city streets. It can not deliver packages of increasing complexity or increasing volume. My street has fulfilled the promise of streets federated upon the fleshy underside of the Manhattan island, and has done so with quiet dignity despite its short stride, ambiguous pronunciation, and deepening paracitification.

You may recall that during the last few years [exposition of statistical trend]. I mean, isn't that a kicker? Big smile. Frantic chuckle fishing, frantic code red code blue the worst color code alarm. Nothing? So it's passed. I seek to describe the rigid cell wall in uncertain terms: it's over. It's over. Continuity is no longer an option, I doubt ordinary chemical treatments can help in this matter. There are two hard outer crusts between us, and I learned of these conditions bathed in a golden light at an uneasy altitude atop the city.

So the throne awaits. The lofty throne that has been occupied so many times before. From this perch, a panorama of the ages surfaces awkwardly against the walls. You can see the breaks in the wallpaper. You can tell that the architect was unable to acquire certain permits. So walk up to the throne. Stumble up, this is a public monument, after all. This is a split-second recalculation, an unthinking audible, a fiery near-disaster. There is an inscription but I'm too lazy to read it. So I stumbled down. I rolled off like a statistic in a mime show. We cornered in together, but agreed on something at once: [secret opinion on the Anglo-Saxon linguistic arsenal]. The train was packed, so we wedged. We ruined a world we weren't always part of - no I'm not thirsty.

Winter Wind

Would you say it's more ethno- or anthro-, Missy?
Frankly, it's more anthro.

Two friends marched towards a clearing in the woods. They were three or four thousand feet above sea level, and the lack of precision was getting to both of them. In statistical parlance, Nick was a 3SD kind of guy. Steven, a 2SD. They both enjoyed the outdoors in precisely these circumstances: accompanied and armed. Once they reached the clearing, they each allowed themselves a romantic turn at the vista.

Nick imagined a moment when the terrain had all its flora skinned bare, exposing the game to unfettered glassing and gravity. He imagined deep red soil and a fiery seat at the base of the upper stratosphere, watching comets and satellites rush past him. In the distance stood tiny marking stations and plush red curtains. He lept off the clearing, holding his shotgun with both hands, cushioned by the Protagonist Buoyancy Clause. He landed back among trees, standing in the front seat of a vintage old Buick. He hopped beside the muscle. The sky swirled around him like highway headlights in a thousand anonymous photos. Only this wasn't some lame bridge shot. It wasn't some deep last chance. Nick's mind cycled through it all, and took it all in: the smell of things that don't really have a smell like "this night," and he heard the "symphony" of creature noises harmonized by Missy's gradually softening sighs. He'd rather this than anything else.

Steven rolled down the clearing onto a mattress of dried leaves. When he looked up, the sky flashed dusk and the stars at him. He raised his arms above his head and clutched his shotgun in his right hand. Maybe the river flowed past him. He spotted a doe at about fifty yards among the brush and gently set his weapon on the ground. He crept towards her. She sensed him. He took a knife from his ankle holster. She heard it being unsheathed. A chipmunk stammered, "You, you don't have the guts to use that." A fox ran up a tree and caught Steve's attention. As he followed the fox up the tree he caught a glimpse of a highway sign. He must've been standing on the county line. She turned and looked right at him. He froze. They both ran towards the shotgun, he swinging his knife, she bobbing her white tail. He got to the spot about twenty seconds after her, and she had run past it, oblivious. He scoped her back side as she fled, and fired off a shot. Her right hind shank exploded and her momentum tore her rib and crown roasts.

Then the two friends followed the ridge line farther up to a designated glassing area. They reached it and glassed the landscape. Nick tweaked the focus but still couldn't see anything. Steve's binoculars had better technology. He glassed from left to right, looking for anything moving, but he also saw nothing. "It stayed hot too long again this summer." "Yeah."

Later that day they marched home with nothing to show for all their hiking, glassing, and good decisions. Nick hung up his mountain coat, Steven opened a bottle. They sat at a wooden table and said something like...

"What do you think of her Nick?"
"She's great buddy you know I like her."
"I know I know just checkin'."
"I'm in it. I'm really in it."
"Oh yeah?"
"I really am, and I'm thinking about really going for it."
"You should if you think it's right."
"I don't care whether or not it's right you know?"
"You'll never know if you don't try it."
"I hate that saying, it's so vacuous."
"Yeah."

Nick asked Steven for a pour, he obliged. They sat there thinking about her for a second. Their rifles rest against some cold stone formation in the cabin's living room. Nick remembered the best way to protect against the cold, the heat, and a variety of other things vaguely removed from instinct. Steven got off first. He thought about his accounting, his career, and his education.

"What do you think of Vitaly?"
"Ah I don't know the guy does what he wants. He's a little unhinged."
"I guess, but he's made a lot for himself, and he's honest enough."
"There's nothing wrong with it, but to each his own, you know?"
"I hate that saying, Nick. Why don't you just explain your judgment instead of admitting that you're judging someone and you're too tight-assed and afraid to say it out loud? How long have we been friends?"
"Allright. I respect that. I think Vitaly is a hard-working guy who knows what he wants and knows how to get it."
"Yeah."
"You know the truth of it, Steve, you know my tight ass can't wrap itself around something so risky."
"Then keep your mouth shut about Vitaly, and anyone else that doesn't meet your outdated standards."

They looked at each other for a second and then both clicked their recliners back. Nick looked out the great room's window and out at the imminent twilight. He thought he saw something moving in the distance. Then it got a bit closer and he confirmed it. It was a deer. Steven saw it too. They followed it across the landscape. Steven's parents had hung some knit quotations on the wall above the window before the ceiling. They said stuff like, "It takes hands to build a house, but only hearts can build a home." Nick thought of something to give it a little edge, but either couldn't say it out loud or couldn't come up with anything clever enough.

Nick looked up at the vaulted ceiling, the crossbeams and the logs' symmetry, "Listen man you're right about Vitaly I shouldn't say anything, and you're right about that retarded saying, it's a total cop-out."
"Ah whatever I'm just pissed about Teresa as usual."
"What's going on with that?"
"Same as always: nothing, and then blips of gold-plated nothing."
"Bullshit man. She's not worth your energy."
"Ah! But who is, Nick? When do you just go for it? You know?"
"Yeah I'm having trouble with that myself."
"You're fine just go for it, you already said you're in it."
"I don't know. I don't want to be left standing out there naked and all alone."
"Seriously, you say go for it with Teresa but what do I even say? It's a complete dead end at this point."
"I think you need a kamikaze mission, I do that now and then."
"What's that?"
"Just, go all out recklessly."
"You've never done that, Nick."

Night fell, the lights in the cabin completely obscured the outside. It was a scene - the two of them, wrapped in blankets, Nick's off-white, Steven's navy blue, sitting in recliners looking up at the ceiling and the beams. Joke. Their boots had dried over by the front door over the cheery "Welcome Home" mat.

"Yeah. I've never done it. Never had the probability of success where I need it."

"They Hadn't Made It Yet"

"Beautiful day out today..."
"Yeah, 73 now..."
"What a good year!"
"You said it!"
It's too soon to have an all-out retrospective - we need a subtle, archival revival instead. Indeed, we should probably shoot for something more low key. What I propose is a web featurette - some nice art, maybe get Missy to narrate over it - and then depending on the response have some kind of user-generated recap in print. It's Tuesday now, we can wrap this up by Sunday. What does everyone think?
I think auto companies should offer gas incentives up front - putting a ceiling on the price per gallon that the consumer must pay given on-time payments or more money down. It's almost like a rebate system, you work it.
It's a balancing act dude, you have to introduce these kinds of initiatives slowly, almost... ... ...silently.
"Softly right?"
"Yeah, nothing big..."
"I need to make some cuts."
"Don't we all!"
The recommended method for cleaning these creatures is to truncate the three-dimensional ellipse around the eyes (the face), remove the two-layered translucent flaps (the gills & testes), and (this is optional) remove the yellowish glandular pieces (hepatopancreas and various cartilages) towards the center of the animal.
Let's have a race! Ok, I will watch a litre of ice melt, you watch 2 sticks of butter melt, and DD (disappointed dunesky) over there will watch some dead grass grow. So we started. The bars of Breakstone stood tall and strong, but my bowl of ice was already on it's way - everything was going according to plan. There was a small puddle of butter forming at the base of the towers; I got a little nervous (and a little hungry).
"I caught one!" - he raised his hands up.
"Where's it headed?"
"Towards New York!"
"Like the other one?"
The smallish man watched his dead grass grow: and through it he imagined glorious fields and blue skies. Who maintains this beauty, he wondered. Who tends to this beautiful natural lawn. The small man stood in a black and white outfit, he uneasily raised his hand towards his foe. Sun glimmered off the crevices of his weapon. It was a classic triangulation showdown, how tense!
"Give me the crane."
"Sir, we're on the crane."
"Then raise it up!"
"Sir, this is not advisable."
Two reckless hawks at full throttle plummeted into the scene. They carried only their maniacal spirits and pointed their talons back behind them to reduce drag. Apparently they learned this technique in the tropics. The three men stood in the meadow, and I was one of them, and you were too.
The small man pulled the trigger first. The bullet flew for your face, it was a remarkably accurate shot - suspiciously accurate. I turned to you (I had been aiming at the small man), and took a shot as well. Impact meant death, and the bullet struck just within your left eye socket, then my bullet grazed your neck and persisted for a decent time. The small man took the opportunity to fall on his back for protection and fire another shot in my direction this time. Your face had exploded and the flap of skin that had come off your neck was relatively pathetic. The dunesky's bullet headed for my face and I crossed my eyes on impact. Certain flashes overcame me in that instance:

The basketball game on that beautiful day...the empty parking lot...pounding the steering wheel, the rain and its discussion...the accident in the snow...sitting on nature smoking...the brick wall painted white...emotion - saliva. It's a little grotesque to compare our deaths to something like that, but that's how it happened.

I had a jukebox graduate for a [first] mate,
she couldn't sail but she sure could sing.

"Blueprint" Preview

The age of lightning fiber has smothered us;
we’re motionless in a storm of booming characters
bent on relevance, fat with legacy.
And even in my benevolent bittersweet state,
there was a record of my tarnished past,
haunting the unacceptably latent spaces.
So I charted the best path through Babel,
arrayed those booming characters, and
set out for dreamlands and their golden valleys.
On this deep-sleep destruction hunt,
I longed for explosions to disperse the steel storm,
to dizzy my mind and unsettle my stomach.
Yet as the sticky throne appeared before me,
my first chance at releasing the vile, bile currency,
I tenderly recalled the steel sky.

The memory of its slick surface sent polar chills through me,
shivering atop the high half of the Earthball,
seducing me to stay.
A carbon-borne instinct rushed through me,
urging the auspicious econogastric reversal,
which just may have stilled the storm.
As my sclera swelled red,
a heat wave swept up and through me, and
guilt-based nostalgia swung my head back to the stormy metal sky.
Yet I stole away, shattering the boom cube,
stretching my eyes in the hurricane, and
channeling the repressed, stubborn nausea.
Against the code, taking the first, the only opinion,
I leapt with my head and
leaned forward with my heart.

How annoying are references to high caffeine intake?
to vague disobedience?
to the author?

Here At Home

[Ancestrally-privileged moguls] sometimes have these uncrinkled pieces of legal paper with manicured black characters drafted upon them, and from these West Indian (not East Asian) manuscripts, a showstopping food chain of sociopolitical implications expands – in to the inner-city, out to the shore (the ’burbs), in to the classrooms, out to the playgrounds, in ivory doors, out closets, in hearts out of iron. The networking is just splendid and the chicken is almost always prepared to perfection, their rooms are made made of bulletproof glass - a great irony considering the classes they’ve attended and the security at the iron gates.

Welcome to the Johnson & Johnson’s, leave the .223 at home next time, Damien. Would you care for a drink did you ask the trainer don’t worry I already did (what a question in this period, Mrs. Robinson reflected)? Mirrors slanted away from the walls as they soared towards the stratosphere interrupted by the arched ceiling and the golden molding in the great hall of the balding mogul’s mansion. The realism of the gazes trapped in the European paintings challenged the indifference of the Iowan safety established near the turn of the century. Safely looking up at the ceiling (because no one else was looking), Mrs. Robinson noticed paintings by Woody’s heroes on the walls.

As her shiny heels clicked behind her husband and his boss, the felt her face sink into its bones, her chest press down at her stomach, “oh, that’s George Washington,” she whispered as a code red level of inhibition began to swirl inside her. There he was, “The Father of His Country,” mounted on a horse in the New Jersey woods. Woody and Damien had a similar relationship [to other professional relationships like this one].

Right, right, oh of course. Next time, no such thing. Bust down the double doors on the field next time. Haha, yes. The logs from the inner thoughts during this interaction proved so large as to be correctly-termed ‘unwieldy.’

Winning Race

Moven

In a hole, a deep dark one, there spouts a steady stream of fecal matter. At its source, you. You are the source of a reprehensible fountain of feces. I like it. Last night, I had a dream about you. I dream of you often. All kinds of positions, all kinds of sensations, those dreams with the wide hips and crooked yellow teeth. The dreams with softly prominent nipples in a beige Baniyaan.

So then Johnny went walken...he went walken, without you. He said, "Banksy dog, why you always gotta shit right here? Ha, dog knows we about to get out this nice shit, so he gotta shit right before we hit the ghetto." Do you remember? "I'm just more of a minimalist, ya know, I hate kitsch." Johnny looked at that clown and wished Banksy had shat on his foot.

I wish my dreams came true...oooh. I don't know what to do. This month, in this month, I need to stop dreaming of you. When your hair is just right, there lies a cemetary of gelatinous coffins atop your head. And beneath the graveyard, a landing spot, for the stones I will throw when I destroy you. Lovingly, I muttered the rest of what I always say - it's the undisputed truth.

Render This!

We marketed this product for people with tiny fingers. I cringed when I heard it and shivered when I thought about it. Besides the added keys, this product is for a very select group of people, not just those with small fingers. Not only that...it's completely reasonable that, like oversize print books, the keyboard could be enlarged for those with normal-to-large sized fingers. The most essential requirement for this new software is a big, fast brain.

To plot boardwalk planks, open the landscape toolbar by clicking Views-->Toolbars-->Landscape. This is not one of the default toolbars, you'll have to open it by yourself. Also, all toolbars are accessible by holding the menu function keys on your keyboard and pressing the corresponding letter or key icon (in this case, 'L'). Hold down shift to plot a series of "sturdy planks." To automatically bolt the planks to underlying beams, press the tool menu function key + B within 3 seconds of releasing the shift button. Generally, the software recognizes these "afterthought" actions, and will give the user 3 seconds to execute commands after previous the user-input has completed. In this manner, the entire boardwalk can be completed with a series of quick-thinking, rehearsed (if necessary) finger maneuvers. As you can see, there is a full-featured set of boardwalk options: wood type and dimensions, bolt type and custom types, strength, resistance, color, to name a few.

Now that you have a boardwalk you'll need beach objects. These items fall under the Natural Landscaping category, so pull up the Natural Landscaping toolbar to draw beach objects. To carve a custom waterfront, it's often best to start with a general motion, start the sand carver and then use the keyboard arrow keys to slowly carve a waterfront. This tool will ask you to specify some broad boundaries on the waterfront you wish to carve, and then will begin recording your arrow key incisions to apply after the sand carver reaches the far boundary of the waterfront you initially specified.

Continue this process for all the static objects in your city beach. The amusement park, the retail establishments, the streets, the public transportation, the signage (very important!), the labeling, and the light fixtures.

Part II: Dynamic Objects in the Simulation - November 2007

Loop Parkway

George-bashing has been a long time coming. The fiery dome and the Romanesque promenade crowning my high school. The state and the church and that dumb story about how Hoya became their nickname. My stomach in knots gaping at plaid neckties, owning the utterly unownable city, and realizing that our appetizer was remarkably garlicky. A nice little place on 44th with its unforgettable mural and an even more profound relationship to the church. It was then that my mind was decided, so I paused my world for two years.

And the stars flew past me and the planets flew past me and in front of me were a collection of colorful electronic pixels and some cheesy Christmas lights. So the spiral continued and the unbelievable ascent continued. Two vertical bars, telling me that I couldn't proceed by my own order, so I grew more indignant and less knowledgeable. Remarkably, I traveled all the way home to punch the ballot.

If lying were a crime I'd be doing a ton of time.

Steely International (128.72)

The cosmopolitans, an extraordinary bunch, will not be missed. Soreness derives from the throat, and their throats are oysters. So I'll make, yet...another, allowance. Find a line. Smack some stuff around a bit. Inhale the dust. I hope you can crawl, I hope you can crawl with your hands and forearms only. Drag your entire rotten corpse by slamming one fist in front of the other and pressing mostly down and ever-so-forward enough to travel 20 miles like that – among the grime and blood and intellectually-curious, athletic rats. As appealing as the mention of your name...take it from me.

Missy doesn't care. She closes her eyes and feels each breath I take. I try to do the same but can't help thinking about her hair and the stars, my life after she finally leaves for good. [ ... ] We see each other in daydreams or in the leaves of man-made digital trees. On the edge of the brainlessly large megalopolis, I walked with Missy along the polluted shores. I asked her to stop crying, then I dried her eyes out with a napkin I had stuffed in my pocket after some suburban drive-thru. Do I regret IT? No, no! Ack! Row! Nimbly din sophistication (and personal despondence).

Squared off, detached...I got tugged backwards, blindfolded, in a sense. There was what I was used to, there's what I'd been down with all this time. Tugged and tugged against what I knew was forward. Slowly I could feel the tugbar straining. I felt the tension before the snap. Thickening, sickening, I would hear the pop. Oh fuck...well, now it's...now it's...SPLENDID.

Screwed Sockets

“That was Fleetwood Mac with 'Go Your Own Way' and after a short break we'll be back with a 42 minute non-stop rock block here on blazin' 94.2, double-you see ayche eee. ... Captain Freeland, how do you stay so cool under these tough conditions? It's easy, Officer Prowing, I drink Coca-Cola to fuel my rudder and use Xtreme Sport Old Spice to prime my engines. Sometimes the best way to stay so calm is to be sedated, and for that I grill up some short ribs – all in all officer, I do my body good. Coca-Cola & Old Spice do not have anything to do with one another, neither do Coca-Cola and short ribs, or Old Spice and short ...”

With intense frustration he turned the dial all the way to the right just to get off that channel. He couldn't take that wordy nonsense. With his right arm hanging out of the pool, he turned his big black radio off and then leaned back on his silver floating throne. The gurgling of the pool filter wasn't audible until the 3:43 p.m. Delta MD-80 had landed, but after that the filter was all he heard for about 70 seconds. That's all he needed to get comfortable and relax his muscles. He closed his eyes and rifled through some things: “I'm going to have to get out soon to help with dinner. I need to piss but not even close to badly enough to get me off this raft. She'll start first the longer I wait more she'll do. Wonder if she'd do all. Probably say something if she does it.” He exhaled. “Oh whatever I'm sure I still have 20 minutes.” Another MD-80 roared. “Michelle that golden hair, smile, body, haha.” He stuck his jaw out with his lips pressed together, then he twisted his torso a bit. He exhaled. He folded his hands on his big abdomen, a warm wind came in and turned the next 30 planes around, forcing them to land on the 31's instead of the 13's. “What I'd do ... she'll do it.” He fell asleep and the filter kept turning water on its head at the other end of his pool.