Exhibit The First
Exhibit The Second
A Rant, in One-Part Harmony.
See me feel me touch me heal me. Wasn’t that what the Burning Sun God sang, all falsetto fakery? It’s really all in the way the words are said or sung or screamed, rather than the actual words you choose, isn’t it? I am content. I am content. See what I’m sayin’, there, folks? Not what you deliver, but the delivery itself!
Shuffling, whether off the mortal coil, or into the spotlight, it’s the motion, not the meat, mama. The medium ain’t worth a rat’s posterior. The eye is drawn to motion – ‘don’t move or he’ll see us‘ is whispered child’s-voice breathlessly in a technicolour dream of Monsters Under The Bed.
Shoot the messenger, or wait until the marathon man Phidippides collapses of his own accord, it’s all the same to me. Amp up that pure sweet white-noise signal. “These ones go to 11!” Don’t talk to me about Signal versus Noise – the noise is the signal. The carrier wave carrying itself. Not amplitude, but frequency modulation.
It’s not the Message, by golly, it’s the Carrier.
Go go gadget fugue state!
Comedy comma improv. The native indian aboriginal american whatever the hell we’re supposed to call those poor bastards these days (racist sacks of redneck dung, amongst drooling cadres of whom I spent my formative years, referred to them as ‘chugs’), anywaywhatevernevermind, the tribe that lived for a few thousand years in the area in which I grew up in Northern British Columbia before us white devils arrived, the Nikozliautin the Pintce and the Nakraztli, are collectively referred to as the ‘Carrier Tribe’. This name arose from their custom in which a widow was obliged to carry the cremated remains of her husband on her back for three years after his demise.
Just think of that. Three years of carrying that dust and those bones.
Exeunt omnes, with sackcloth and ashes for damn sure.
All that you see, all that you eat, all you excrete (sucker that I am for scatalogical humour, one of my favorite moments of the late lamented Family Guy is when the son, Chris (ain’t that a kicker), stares intently at a chocolate bar before gleefully declaiming in his oddly-timbred voice : “I’m going to turn you into poo!” and taking a bite), and so on a la U2 ripping off Pink Floyd : it’s content, baby. And we are all just containers : conduits, conductors, conspirators. In this I am content.
Now gimme that money, ‘fore I smack you up!

non compos mentis, Uncrappy
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Join the conversation! 5 Comments

  1. Fish paste. Steam boat.
    Or, methinks the chicken needs a drink. Cascade do? I’m off to the pub on the way home and I’ll be happy to have one for you.

  2. I encourage you to have many for me, good sir. Although, it being The Day of Fri, I’ll be having a few of my own as well….

  3. Re-reading this post after enjoying a Reasonable Number of Beers, I’m reminded an offhand way of a comment I made long long ago to the group of proto-grrls I hung around with in university, the self-proclaimed Love Dolls (who I mentioned here) : I said something one late night, in response to praise for my wackiness and madcap hijinx, to the effect that that I wasn’t particularly creative, that I was ‘just an amalgam of everything I’ve ever read, ever seen, ever done, ever heard’. This became a quotable wonderchicken quote in later years (although the monicker back then was Prof Bosco T Matrix).
    It pleases me immensely that without even trying, I kinda sorta revisited that long-forgotten theme in this post.
    I now return you to your regularly-scheduled comments thread.

  4. I’m sorry, I was in the bathroom. What did you say?

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