Ed Hellman
Something about a Man with an Ax..

My mother gave birth to a beardless lumberjack. I adored lumber and found chopping it down even more thrilling. Throughout my childhood it was pretty much assumed that I would grow up to become a full-fledged, membership-card-holding, plaid-shirt-wearing lumberjack.
Did you know that “timber” was my very first word (if you don’t count “daddy”)? It’s true, it’s true. Let me just say, I learned that word much too early on. There were these great moments where I would shout it out: “Timberrrrrrr!” and all the surrounding adults would turn nervously. Instead of immediately pushing something over or cutting something down, I would stand perfectly still - and wait. The adults would circle me anxiously, each wondering, “What is he going to knock down? The lamp? The flower pot? The precariously stacked firewood?” It would drive them all terrifically mad while I would be having the best time. Once, I actually waited a full forty-five minutes after saying “timber” before plowing into the boney legs of an aging house guest.
This passion has faded. Regardless, I still have a soft spot for lumberjacks and was tickled pink when I found Russell Lee’s 1937 photograph of two lumberjacks relaxing.
What I love most about Lee’s photograph is that the lumberjacks are laying down - I had never pictured that happening. Lumberjacks are supposed to stand tall and proud. Lee shows them just sort of hanging out. It is one of those situations no one wants to see but should, because - imagination be damned - lumberjacks are just like the rest of us.
Another point of interest: Perpendicular to the lumberjacks rests the fruit of the morning’s hunt: Lumber. Lumber! I am picturing those old Looney Toon episodes where the coyote would try and kill herds of sheep but at the end of the day he would tip his hat and exchange pleasantries with his enemy, the sheepdog. These lumberjacks don’t just chop would, they chill with it.
Curiously enough: The lumberjacks are reading newspapers and one front page story has in its title the name “Hercules”. Is that not the definition of “cute”? They have a hero!

... Or do they?

Are they just reading up on other strong men or could this point to something deeper: To you, me and the average shmoe, these lumberjacks look relatively tough, but perhaps they feel inadequate. All those gruff men of the forest stumbling about in fear of something greater, spending their days madly shortening nature’s tallest and most upright creations..

-- -- -- -- --

Lumberjack watching appeals to me now much more than lumberjacking itself. It is a thinking man’s sport. The insightful lumberjack watcher can learn a great deal from photos such as Lee’s. There is something sacred - nay, heavily erotic - about seeing these gentle giants frozen in time. Lee would agree.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 4:59 PM

 
Ed Hellman
The Value of Caging Small Evil Things

I was sad, oh so sad, and needed something to lord over. Chinchillas, cute as they may appear, are quite possibly devil spawn. For this reason alone, I highly recommend them as pets. Kids will adore their deliciously soft coats of fur, but we, the privileged adults, can appreciate these spherical monsters on a higher level. For a child, a pet chinchilla is a plaything, a companion, or (I apologize here for any parent out there with the misfortune of having a child where this is the case) a best friend. The little brats can tug on the ears or rub the soft underbelly.. It will keep them busy for hours. What they do not know, can not know, will never know, is the real reason to own a chinchilla: They make the best prisoners. Now, this may be shocking at first, but think it over. Chinchillas are tiny balls of evil who love sinning.
Let’s start with avarice (or greed). Have chinchillas got that? Oh yes. A chinchilla will do anything in its power to accumulate other creatures’ possessions. For example: A chinchilla is bored with existence (what else is new). You sit down next to it and give it a gift - say, a tongue depressor to gnaw on. Today’s chinchilla is not content with just one tongue depressor. It will snatch it from your fingers only to throw it down behind it a second later. Then what does it do? It stares into you with soulless eyes, as if to say, “that’s it? You think you can appease me that easily?” When when you confess, “I have no more tongue depressors”, what does it do? It chews your watch right off your wrist and throws it next to the tongue depressor. After that? You guessed it: It goes for your shoe lace. Then shoe. Then sock. Then toenails. Of course, one must ask the purpose of all this. Why does the chinchilla want a sock or shoe or toenail? The reason is simple: Greed.
Next you have gluttony. Chinchillas don’t have meals. They feast. A chinchilla will eat nonstop until it runs out of food. At that point, it makes the inedible edible. Sheets, metal, clay, plastic, you name it, they will eat it. I’ve even seen a chinchilla lick urine encrusted pipes out of shear desperation.
Any chinchilla owner knows that raisons are to chinchillas as alcohol is to alcoholics. I give my chinchilla one raisin a day and as soon as it sees the raisin near the cage bars, the monster stretches its claws out to snatch it from my hand. When it has the raisin in its clutches, the chinchilla opens its mouth wide and shoves the entire thing in. Does it stop to chew? No time. It slides the whole raisin straight down its throat and into its stomach. If a chinchilla came across a bag of raisins it would eat them until it died.
I theorize that chinchillas do not enjoy eating. They hate eating. The only reason they stuff themselves so quickly is so they can rejoin their dark lord, Satan, when they have eaten too much. A chinchilla will never consider death by starvation though, they see at as a waste. Why starve to death when it can consume our food? They know that what they do not eat, we might. They want to take as much from us as possible. Chinchillas are sad and desperate creatures.
All this eating and hoarding may give the impression that chinchillas are active creatures. This is not the case. Chinchillas are the definition of laziness. The reason behind this is they know they have us fooled. No self-respecting person can bare to mistreat such a cuddly rodent. The chinchilla will tremble its lips and peer out of its cage with eyes wider than anything else in the world. This can all be done while reclining or stretched out on its side.
Chinchillas are utterly self-serving and demand constant care. They lend next to nothing to society. They know this, and know we know it too. When let out of its cage, a chinchilla will suffer a burst of energy where it will bounce off as many surfaces as it can as quick as it can. This love of exercise is short-lived. A few minutes will pass and the chinchilla will turn its attention to the more important task at hand: Destruction. It is in their blood. First it will attack wood-panelling. Next it will hit your wallpaper and carpet. Once it has butchered all of that, the chinchilla will take on wires and clothes and tiles and anything else within reach. Keep your babies high above the ground. Once a chinchilla has a taste for blood, it never forgets it. In fact, it prides itself on its ability to destroy those we love.
This leads perfectly into the subject of pride. A chinchilla will stare for hours at its own reflection. If you happen to walk by while this is going on, the chinchilla will stop, only for a second, to send you a disdainful look. Once it has made clear how little it thinks of you, the chinchilla will turn back to its reflection and sigh lovingly.
It should not come as a surprise that chinchillas are fully capable of expressing a wide range of emotions. They shriek when scared, grind their teeth when ignored, grunt when annoyed, and whine when hungry. The cherry on top is that the chinchilla is actually able to laugh. When it has stolen food from its owner, it will let out a deep, throaty chuckle. When it has successfully tricked its owner, it will do the same. It will laugh when it manages to chew on something it has been instructed to respect. It will laugh if the noise will keep its owner awake. It will also laugh at anything remotely humorous, as long as the joke is at someone’s expense. Chinchillas do not laugh with you. Chinchillas laugh at you.
Revolting as it may be, chinchillas have large sex drives. When denied a mate, they will take matters into their own hands - literally. Many have bizarre fetishes and will stop at nothing to have their way with an owner’s foot. This can be vexing. Once a chinchilla has reached sexual maturity (always much too early), it will become obsessed with the possibility of creating litter upon litter upon litter of its own kind. This is devil’s work, so one must be careful around the sex-crazed chinchilla. It has more lust in one stubby finger than all of mankind put together. Sure, it may sound kind of cute at first, but trust me, that fades. Boy does it fade.
Just like in the movie Aliens, these creatures are most likely intrigued by the notion of inter-species breeding. Will a chinchilla breed with a rabbit? Yes. A ferret? If it can. A dog? Snake? Cougar? Yes, yes yes. Chinchillas would love to have Chinchilla-Spiders or Chinchilla-Elks. Of course, the anatomical differences set the process back a bit, but if you look into a chinchilla’s eyes you can tell, without a doubt, that it is plotting. I do not want to label them as potential rapists but, well, we all know the possibility is out there.
Chinchillas envy mankind’s sexual freedom. We have the luxury of online dating, arranged marriages, mass weddings. Chinchillas have to beg for sex. Take their pride and greed and gluttony and it does not take a rocket scientist to figure out how much envy is bottled up inside a chinchilla. One word: Tons. Even wild chinchillas, stampeding in herds at the base of the Andes mountains, frolicking freely and undisturbed, envy us.
Sexual freedom aside, we have the one thing chinchillas will never have: Cages. Take that and that and that! Box them up and ship them anywhere in the world. If a girl in China wants a chinchilla, a chinchilla is sent to her in a cage, ready to torture or love or what-have-you. We have the ability to trap and cage chinchillas. Can you imagine what they would do if they had the same power over us? I see human zoos stretching over hundreds of miles of land. You and your neighbor, side by side, clanging tin cups along the bars, begging to be fed.
Wrath is a no-brainer here. Chinchillas hate us. They really, truly, hate us. We know they are evil, but they see us as just as bothersome. Chinchillas show their hate for us best in an unfortunately childish behavior: Ruthless, purposefully messy urination. When a chinchilla is frightened it will urinate. Does that bother you? It should, because you can bet the chinchilla won’t be urinating on itself. When provoked, chinchillas are known to rear up, pause, take aim, and fire at will. These things actually take aim. A happy chinchilla is one perched on a pile of decaying human corpses.
The above image is not far from becoming reality. Chinchillas grow stronger everyday. Stronger and more cunning. How soon before one of our kind is lost to the jaws of one of theirs? Days, possibly minutes. This can be avoided easily. Buy a chinchilla. Buy two chinchillas. Slap them in a cage. Lock them up. Any day with a chinchilla running wild could be our last.
These are all valuable reasons why a chinchilla makes a wonderful pet. Sure, we could kill them, but it feels so much better keeping them around in padlocked cages and cramped, duct taped shoe boxes. Your kids will thank you. Sleep will come easily once you control the fate of the demonic chinchilla. Let them hate us. Let them curse us. We hold the keys. Isn’t that fun?
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 4:58 PM

 
GHOST OF THE HAUNTED SNAKE!
by

Ed Hellman

FADE IN:

EXT. HOLSTADT HOUSE MORNING

DAVEY HOLSTADT, 17, strolls down the front walk and past his sister, EMMA RAY HOLSTADT, 22, head down and working under the hood of her hot rod. She looks up as Davey steps into the street.

EMMA RAY
Nosebleed! Where you runnin’ to?

Davey rolls his eyes.

DAVEY
The passion pit with Janie!

Emma Ray wipes grease from her forearms.

EMMA RAY
She’s one stacked paper shaker!

Davey shoots a glance back but keeps going.

DAVEY
Hang a moon, skag!


EXT. AROUND THE CORNER CONTINUOUS

Davey marches down the street. A hissing sound comes from behind a nearby bush. Davey pauses.

DAVEY
Shug?

The hiss grows louder.

DAVEY
You tiltin’ my sign?

Davey pokes his head behind the bush - finds himself face to face with a THREE HUNDRED FOOT SNAKE - and screams shrilly.


INT. HOLSTADT HOUSE LIVING ROOM AFTERNOON

Emma Ray, holding a guitar, opens the front door. JANIE SULLIVAN, 17, in tears, rushes inside.

JANIE
I’m not eggin’ to be a phiz, but is Davey in?

EMMA RAY
Rumor has it he’s out right now playing back seat bingo... with you.

JANIE
He never showed!

EMMA RAY
Woah, dolly! I’ll ring Sheriff Matthews.

Emma Ray walks over to a nearby telephone and dials. Janie takes an EAR OF CORN out of her purse, holding it out of Emma Ray’s line of vision.

EAR OF CORN
I DON’T TRUST HER, JANIE!


INT. SHERIFF’S OFFICE AFTERNOON

SHERIFF MATTHEWS, 55, sits at his desk, talking on the phone.

SHERIFF MATTHEWS
Missing? It’s on the front burner. Keep a cool sky, baby.


INT. HOLSTADT HOUSE LIVING ROOM AFTERNOON

Janie is sitting on the couch, next to Emma Ray’s guitar. The Ear of Corn is back in her purse. Emma Ray hangs up the phone.

EMMA RAY
A’s to our F’s for the time being.

JANIE
I sure hope Davey’s a-okay!

EMMA RAY
Me too, kiddo, me too. That onion peeler is the only family I’ve got.

Janie holds up the guitar.

JANIE
I never knew you swung axe!

Emma Ray sits on the arm of the couch and takes the guitar.


INT. SHERIFF’S OFFICE AFTERNOON

Sheriff Matthews stands behind his desk. He puts on a jacket and cowboy hat and sticks a pistol in his waistband. He pauses. He removes the pistol and lays it on his desk. He sits back down and pulls out a flask from his pocket.

SHERIFF MATTHEWS
Liquid pearl, make me dance!

He tilts his head back and takes a long swig. He pulls the cowboy hat over his eyes and snuggles further into the chair. The hissing sound starts up again. Sheriff Matthews slowly pulls his hat up and looks down between his legs. He scream shrilly as his body is yanked under the desk.


INT. HOLSTADT HOUSE LIVING ROOM AFTERNOON

Emma Ray finishes a song on the guitar. Janie claps her hands.

JANIE
Wow! That was the most!

EMMA RAY
Thanks.. I kinda laid it down after Momma and Poppa died.

JANIE
Oh, Emma Ray, that would really get me frosted!

EMMA RAY
This ol’ battle axe got me through some tough times.

JANIE
(swooning)
And you wrote that song!

The doorbell rings. Emma Ray opens the front door. Behind it stands FLINT HOLLOWAY, 38, attractive, big game hunter. Janie stands.

EMMA RAY
What’s buzzin’, cuzzin’?

FLINT
Are you writin’ a book? Cool it, ankle-biters. The name’s Flint Holloway.

JANIE
(eyeing Flint’s figure)
That’s one classy chassis!

Flint walks around the room, peering out each window.

EMMA RAY
This ain’t no girl-ask-boy so quit playin’ the role. The heats on his way.

Flint cocks an eyebrow.

FLINT
Bone box, you’re razzin’ my berries! You gotta get on the stick. Bad news is goosin’ it to your pad and I’ve got the word from the bird. The heat is gone.

Janie gasps. Emma Ray furrows her brow.

FLINT
(continued)
You ever heard of Serpenti Cerastes?

Janie shakes her head.

FLINT
(continued)
I’ve been trackin’ it for calendars and it’s gone ape on your town. Took out the law and-

Flint shrugs.

FLINT
(continued)
-countless others.

Janie leans in toward Flint.

JANIE
What is Serpenti Cerastes?

Flint leans in toward Janie.

FLINT
Mankind’s most radioactive wet rag: the three hundred foot snake.

Emma Ray smirks.

EMMA RAY
Quit rattlin’ her cage. Cast an eyeball, cube, ain’t no snakes here. That’s close.

Janie gasps and clutches Emma Ray’s arm.

JANIE
Oh, Emma Ray, what if it sunk Davey, too!?

Emma Ray’s face drops. A hiss comes from outside.

FLINT
It’s outside!

Emma Ray and Flint rush over to a window and peer outside.


EXT. HOLSTADT HOUSE CONTINUOUS

The Three Hundred Foot Snake is coiled on the lawn.


INT. HOLSTADT HOUSE CONTINUOUS

Janie takes the Ear of Corn out of her purse.

JANIE
This ain’t cloud nine, talking corn.

EAR OF CORN
TAKE THE PHONE, JANIE!

Janie stuffs the nearby phone into her purse. Emma Ray and Flint turn around. Flint turns around and points at Janie.

FLINT
Alright, you’re nuggets! You’re going out as bait while we agitate the gravel.

EMMA RAY
No!

Flint opens the door and begins to shove Janie outside, despite Emma Ray’s protest. Janie holds the Ear of Corn close to her.

FLINT
Pop the clutch, fream!

The Three Hundred Foot Snake flinches. Emma Ray pushes Flint out of the way and pulls Janie back in.

EMMA RAY
The corn! Of course! Snakes hate corn!

Emma Ray grabs the Ear of Corn from Janie’s hand and chucks it outside.


EXT. HOLSTADT HOUSE CONTINUOUS

The Three Hundred Foot Snake explodes.


INT. HOLSTADT HOUSE CONTINUOUS

Flint stares out the door.

JANIE
That was close!

Flint places his arms around Janie’s shoulders.

FLINT
You’re safe now, baby. It’s Fat City from here on out.

Flint coughs, buckles, dies.

JANIE
Emma Ray, what happened!?

EMMA RAY
The curse of the weaker sex, Clyde, the curse of the weaker sex. You know, here’s a solid sender that’ll chill ya: I’m kinda glad they’re all dead.

Janie looks deep into Emma Ray’s eyes.

JANIE
Why?

Emma Ray kisses Janie smack dab on the lips.

JANIE
(blushing)
Oh! Emma Ray, you’re a living doll!

Emma Ray kneels down and plucks something up from the doorway.

EMMA RAY
Why, it’s popcorn!

JANIE
Can I eat it?

EMMA RAY
I don’t see why not!

FADE OUT:
THE END
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 1:49 PM

 
Ed Hellman
Cultural Reportage
Photo Review

Russell Lee Photographed Me in 1938

We threw down the advertisements and combed and combed, combed and combed. The little things had been relatively safe before Photography. We had writing (cursed by many) but there were few images to distract, so rare was it to come across “the ideal”. I bathed, you not so much; and that was okay. We all were a bit mousey. Words told us what to do, but there was no pressure nor urge to visually conform. No smiling, crinkled up pictures of Errol Flynn, Elvis, Giselle, Jay Leno. I asked you, remember, “Will she like me now? Is this how they look?” and you said, “Who are ‘they’? You look lovely.”
When they sent the first camera across the mountains we learned what the world expected of us. Everyone wore red caps. Ski jackets were preferred. When I went to school, I hid everything but eyebrows because eyebrows were “in”. Everything else was “out”.
All that is left of the old world is a photo, the result of our perfectionist revolution. It captures the change so well, and you took it, and it is lovely. Title: Son of a Sharecropper Combing Hair in Bedroom of Shack, Missouri. My father was a tyrant but keen in the sharecropping industry (and that’s what it was, an industry). Your father was a photographer, and fought with mine sometimes. The photo you took depicts my transformation from innocent to modern. There I stand, peeking up into Mirror, surrounded by visual stimuli: Mother Advertisement. I can still hear her whispering to me to “comb harder”. We can see her words quite well in the cracks creeping through my reflection. What I saw was distorted and broken. My true face is hidden because it has become obsolete. I see a distortion and the viewer (he, she, it) is left with what I present to the world - my back - something I can only see clearly through photographs.
What I had forgotten was the costume trunk. We hid in it once, then took it out to sea. The hats I wore till they frayed. Now I am old and you visit me with photographs of our world, photographs which I once hated and have begun to like. I comb my hair for you, in front of Mirror - so cracked it would be useless, had I not pinned more advertisements to its shoulders.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 2:05 AM

 
NEW POST! NEW POST! NEW POST!

Here are two short scripts I did recently:


HOW IT ENDS by Ed Hellman

FADE IN:

EXT. TALL OFFICE BUILDING LATE EVENING

Gray sky, windy.


INT. VETERINARY OFFICE WAITING ROOM LATE EVENING

HERBERT, 46, and STEPHANIE, 47, huddle on bench. Stephanie, perspiring, strokes Herbert’s clasped hands.

A NURSE IN TRAINING approaches.

Stephanie stands to face her. Herbert keeps his head down.

Nurse In Training looks down to the side. She shakes her head.

Stephanie covers her mouth with both hands.

Herbert covers his eyes with one hand, cries.


INT. VETERINARY OFFICE HALLWAY LATE EVENING

Holding each other, Herbert and Stephanie follow Nurse In Training.


INT. VETERINARY OFFICE EXAMINATION ROOM LATE EVENING

Stephanie rushes to: DOCTOR, rolled up sleeves, behind examination table. They cry in each other’s arms.

Herbert stays in the doorway.


INT. CAR NIGHT

Stephanie drives. Clutches wheel too hard.

Herbert cradles a SHOE BOX. Occasionally caresses it.


EXT. BACKYARD NIGHT

Herbert, with Shoe Box to his side, digs grave with gardening spade.

Stephanie looms over Herbert’s shoulder. Crying. Hair blowing in her face.

Herbert finishes and looks back to Stephanie.

Herbert opens Shoe Box.

Herbert removes MR. TRUMPINGTON, dead sock puppet, and places him in grave. Covers. Stands.

Stephanie’s hair continues to blow in her face. Herbert’s, not so much.


INT. BEDROOM NIGHT

Missionary position. Herbert’s left hand lays limply to the side.

Stephanie looks at it.

Herbert looks too.

They stop.


EXT. BACKYARD - FROM BEDROOM WINDOW NIGHT

Rain spatters Mr. Trumpington’s cardboard headstone.


INT. BEDROOM NIGHT

Herbert packs a suitcase.

Stephanie sits cross-legged in CONNECTING BATHROOM doorway.


INT. HOTEL ROOM MORNING

Sun streams through cheap blinds down to where Herbert is sleeping: the floor. The bed is empty.


INT. DINER AFTERNOON

Herbert studies his menu. His finger runs over various pictured meals. It stops at a “Meal for Two”.

Herbert frowns.

His finger moves on. Stops at “Meal for Three”.

Herbert bawls.


INT. SAME BEDROOM AFTERNOON

Stephanie, sprawled on bed, eyes wide open.

INT. KITCHEN FLOOR AFTERNOON

Stephanie sews button eyes onto a sock.


EXT. LONG PARK BENCH EARLY EVENING

Sitting next to SEVERAL LARGE ASIAN MEN, Herbert plays with his WEDDING RING. Into it is carved seven notches.

He swallows it.


INT. SAME BEDROOM EARLY EVENING

In moderately-sexy-lingerie, Stephanie approaches the bed.

Her NEW SOCK PUPPET lays in it. Comfortably. Looking at her.

Stephanie slithers under the covers.


INT. SAME BEDROOM EVENING

Stephanie sits on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.

Her NEW SOCK PUPPET hangs halfway off the end of the bed.

In its head: Three kitchen knives.


INT. TALL OFFICE BUILDING MIDNIGHT

The parking lot is empty.


INT. TALL OFFICE BUILDING HALLWAY MIDNIGHT

Herbert jimmies the lock to the VETERINARY OFFICE.


INT. SAME BEDROOM’S CONNECTING BATHROOM MIDNIGHT

Stephanie showers.


INT. VETERINARY OFFICE WAITING ROOM MIDNIGHT

Herbert, alone, ashen. Holding his suitcase.


INT. CAR MORNING

Behind the wheel: Stephanie rubbing her eyes.

Something out the window catches her attention.

She whips into the TALL OFFICE BUILDING PARKING LOT.


INT. VETERINARY OFFICE HALLWAY MORNING

Many NURSES IN TRAINING run towards...


INT. VETERINARY OFFICE EXAMINATION ROOM MORNING

Doctor, standing in doorway, arm stretched out.

The window is open.

Herbert is on the windowsill.

He looks back at Nurses In Training.

Left fist clenches.

Shuts his eyes.

Jumps.


EXT. TALL OFFICE BUILDING MORNING

Herbert: eyes still closed, falling.


EXT. TALL OFFICE BUILDING - GROUND LEVEL MORNING

Stephanie stands on sidewalk, looking up at Herbert.

He lands on her.

Rolls.

Opens his eyes. Confused. Alive.


A PASSERBY rushes over. Feels Stephanie’s pulse. Shakes his head. Closes Stephanie’s glazed eyes.

Five POLICEMEN grab Herbert and haul him away.


INT. JAIL CELL - YEARS LATER LATE EVENING

Herbert, bearded, gray.

FADE OUT:

THE END

---------

MANY QUIET THINGS by Ed Hellman

FADE IN:

INT. HOSPITAL EXAMINATION ROOM DAY

ED, boxers and undershirt, perched on the edge of an examination table, biting the inside of his mouth. There is a clean, large window to his right with curtains half drawn.

A stack of cracked picture frames on the counter to Ed’s left catch his eye. He slips down to the floor and pads over to examine them. Ed begins to straighten the stack.

Before he can finish, Ed’s attention is drawn to the waste bin at his feet and the mass of shredded paper inside it. He kneels down and removes a few strips. He places them on the floor and arranges them together. They make the midsection of a medical diploma.

Ed cranes his neck over the edge of the waste bin and pushes his hand around inside the shreds of paper, all of which can now clearly be identified as strips of shredded medical diplomas. He peers up at the stack of frames.

Ed picks himself up and hops back onto the examination table. He places strips of paper he had arranged on the floor onto the table beside him and pushes them around.

Ed looks up. His eyes drift over the sink and various medical devices that line the walls (IV Pole, ventilator, set of bagged thermometers, blood pressure monitors, etc.). He notices two large, unmarked cabinets facing him against the far wall. He wrinkles his nose and wipes it. He turns and looks down to the white light shining through the one inch gap under the door to the room. There are no shadows of movement in the hallway.

Ed pads over to one of the cabinets and places his hand on the cold, metallic cabinet door. He surveys the second cabinet without moving, and notices a fist shaped dent a few feet up from the floor. He turns his attention back to the first cabinet and opens it.

Two fur jackets cut for women hang on wire hangers inside the first cabinet.

Ed resumes biting the inside of his mouth.

He closes the doors to the first cabinet, then reopens them. Ed crosses over to the second cabinet and opens its doors.

Inside the second cabinet are shelves cluttered with glass jars holding single human hands. The hands appear fresh, as if still attached to a living body.

Ed closes the doors to the second cabinet and returns to the first cabinet. He tries a fur coat on. He shakes dust out of it. He places it back on its hanger an closes the cabinet.

Ed reopens the second cabinet. He removes a jar and holds it up to eye level. As he moves to replace it on its shelf, he drops the jar, sending the hand inside it out onto the floor.

Crouching low, Ed fumbles to gather the jar and its top together. He picks up the fallen hand and as he does so, the hand he is holding it with falls off. One of the hands lands next to his foot and the other rolls under the first cabinet.

Ed crawls across the floor and reaches with his remaining hand under the first cabinet, slips on his own blood and hits his chin on the floor and his forehead on the cabinet door. The door swings open and a fur coat drops on Ed’s head.

Ed gets up and shakes the blood out of the coat. He uses his remaining hand and his mouth to replace the coat back on its hanger and into the cabinet.

He kneels down and reaches under the cabinet, grabbing the hand. He crawls back to the second cabinet and leaves the hand on the floor next to the other severed hand. He picks up the jar and turns back to the hands, which look far too similar. Ed moves to inspect the hands with his remaining hand, but as he pulls his arm away from the jar, the hand falls off. Ed leaves it on the floor and turns back to the other hands.

He leans down and picks one of the hands up with his mouth. He carries it over to the jar and stuffs it in. He uses his bloody stumps to clasp the bottom of his shirt and attempts to wipe the blood off the jar.

Ed wipes his nose with his sleeve but gets his face bloody, so he wipes it again on his shoulder. Ed picks the jar up again with his stumps and turns back to the cabinet, which he bangs into with the outer side of his right arm. The jar falls for a moment but is caught between Ed’s left arm and his chest just barely before it can touch the floor.

Ed shoots his glance upwards to the jars inside the cabinet, all of which are shaking from the impact.

Finally they stop.

INT. HOSPITAL HALLWAY DAY

A DOCTOR in a lab coat walks alone. The hallway is littered with doors and the Doctor stops in front of one. He examines the chart attached to it and enters:

INT. HOSPITAL EXAMINATION ROOM DAY

Ed sits on the examination table, pursing his lips. He still has bloody stumps at the end of his arms, but now one of the hands is seamlessly attached to the side of his neck.

The Doctor examines the hand on Ed’s neck. The hand quickly clenches into a fist.

Ed looks up at the Doctor and then starts to pull his shirt up with his mouth. The Doctor helps him and pulls the shirt all the way up, revealing Ed’s second hand, now attached to his belly.

The Doctor puts the edge of the shirt in Ed’s mouth for him to hold up and examines the second hand.

The Doctor pulls a pen from his lab coat and clicks it. He straightens his tie and smoothes his hair. The chart is held up to his chest to write on.

FADE OUT:

THE END



P.S.

Don't try to copy this stuff --> it's backed up and copyrighted and all so back off!


- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 1:06 PM

 
Ed Hellman

Blue Ship

Dole sat in his small, olive-drab, ground floor apartment and painted the model ship a deep blue. This was his favorite ship and Dole had assembled it many, many times. The plastic sails were almost done and next would come the rigging; then back to the hull for a black wash. The glue would dry and the paint too and then Dole would take the ship into the laundry room and strip the paint, loosen the glue and start over. This was his favorite ship and Dole took as fine care of it as he knew how.
Dole licked the corner of his mouth and pushed hair out of his eyes. His heart ached a bit as he leaned back and wiped paint off of his thumb. He still had a week before he would be able to hold the finished ship in his hands again. He inhaled deeply and held the breath a little longer than he had to. It was cold in the room and Dole had forgotten to look into why. Dole scrunched his shoulders up around his neck and click went the camera and click went the camera and click went the camera and click went the camera...

The Polaroids floated down to the concrete and settled in a small pile before being gathered up by two hands wearing $450 gloves. The roll was done, but Dole had gone through three over the past half hour. He placed the photos in his $2,000 jacket and secured the $3,000 camera in his $300 camera bag. Dole crouched down further from the window and tiptoed away from the apartment building. At first, when he had discovered it and its inhabitant, he had been terrified of being seen or getting caught, but it had recently dawned on him that this would never, ever happen. Dole’s $45,000 luxury sedan sped out onto I-95 and left the enthusiastic hobbyist to apply a third coat of blue.

Dole’s $8,200,000 mansion welcomed him stiffly. Dole had skipped dinner again, but hurried past the kitchen to his bedroom. The camera bag went in a closet on the way. Dole switched on the five light switches and walked over to the $1000 mirror his father had given to him several years prior. Lifting it off the wall, Dole moved the mirror onto the floor. He removed the photos from his pocket and spread them out on the back of the mirror, underneath the others. Dole’s $90 answering machine beeped and beeped again. Dole pressed “play” and set to work taping each photo in place. His $3,000,000 reflection scowled up at him from the gloss of the photos, forcing him to finish with both eyes closed. Dole replaced the mirror on the wall. Recorded voices filled the room and frozen images lulled Dole to sleep.

Dole woke early and slipped into the shower. His apartment was even colder than the night before, but the water was a relatively refreshing lukewarm. After dressing himself, Dole checked to see how his ship was drying. The mast was almost ready to be glued on and the rudder too, but there was still much to be done. Dole made himself a turkey sandwich and left his apartment, as he did every morning.
Men in caps nodded at Dole and unloaded bags of recycling as he entered the sorting shed. Dole put on a pair of cheap rubber gloves and opened up the bag nearest to him. Junk mail went into one bin, high grade paper in another, the rest with newspaper or cardboard or bottles or trash... Dole pulled up a sleeve to check the time but realized he had left his watch elsewhere. As he worked, Dole saw his beautiful blue ship floating on a beautiful blue sea. He smiled as the ship sailed above him.
After returning home, Dole began applying the mast to the plastic deck. It took several minutes for his glue to set.

Dole parked his $45,000 luxury sedan and crept alongside the apartment building. He could see inside the window and stood for a while, watching Dole work. He felt calm for the first time that day. Dole smoothed down the back of his hair and put on his $450 gloves. He breathed in deeply...

... And dropped his paintbrush when the doorbell rang. He wiped his nose and stood up. The glue had set well, but he was in the middle of black washing. Dole rubbed the back of his neck. He peeked out the window but saw no one, though the door was barely visible from that angle. Dole slipped the key into the door lock and opened the door. $450 gloves grabbed at his neck and Dole felt himself crashing down to the floor, felt himself struggling to push off the attacker, felt the beautiful blue waters fill the space around him, and watched his boat sail away.

Dole left the door open and the body on the floor. He sat down at the workbench and placed his $450 gloves in the pocket of his $2,000 jacket. He retrieved the paintbrush from the floor and dipped it in the watered-down black paint. He dipped it in the paint and then placed it on the boat.
Dole woke early and slipped into the shower. After dressing himself, he checked to see how his ship was drying. There was still much to be done. Dole made himself a turkey sandwich and left his apartment.
Men in caps nodded at Dole and unloaded bags of recycling as he entered the sorting shed. Dole put on a pair of cheap rubber gloves and opened up the bag nearest to him. The bag was full of discarded junk mail, crumpled up tissues and empty soda cans. Dole was miserable and Dole was very happy.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:47 PM

 
Ed Hellman
Double Story #2

The Inch

As he stood before the obligatory bathroom mirror, Jerome admired his sleek, naked form. He looked fit and Shelley liked fit guys. Shelley, in fact, liked just about everything about Jerome, which did not come as too much of a surprise to anyone, considering his house was quaint yet roomy, his income steady and admirable, and he was one all-around great guy. Yes, Jerome was the type of fellow a girl could bring home to her father again and again. Jerome was, as they say, a keeper.
Shelley arrived home just as Jerome took supper out from the oven.
“Oh, Jerome,” Shelley said, “You’re so good like that.”
Shelley was right. Jerome was good like that, and he was good like that all the time. He had that certain way of being able to get everything done and still have time to spare. Jerome knew, and Shelley knew that Jerome knew, that Shelley liked it when supper was right on time.
After a delicious meal, Shelley and Jerome moved straight into the bedroom and embraced dramatically. Several short hours later, Shelley curled up next to Jerome and laid her head on his bare chest.
“That was amazing, Jerome,” Shelley mewed.
Jerome wiped a moderate amount of sweat from his forehead and chuckled lightly.
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Shelley continued, “that you would be able to perform so well after this afternoon.”
“How do you mean?” asked Jerome, still chuckling.
“Oh, you know,” Shelley said, “Tonight was amazing, really amazing, but this afternoon you were just perfect.”
Jerome stopped chuckling.“Shelley,” he said, turning to her, and in doing so, pushing her off of his chest, “What are you talking about?”
“You know,” Shelley said, now with a brow set to furrow, “You’re always better in the afternoon.”
Jerome sat up. “Shelley,” he said, “I work all afternoon. What are you talking about!?”
“Oh, Jerome,” Shelley said, “Sometimes you are so unexpectedly weird.”
Jerome stormed down to the kitchen, which was as far away from the bedroom as he could storm without leaving the house. “That girl,” he grumbled, “Sometimes that girl....” This grumble came to an abrupt halt as Jerome entered the kitchen and came face to face with someone who looked very much like himself nibbling on the leftovers from dinner.
“Wuh Ohhh. . .” murmured Jerome’s double.
For Jerome, this was a new experience and as he did with all new experiences, he waited until he was absolutely sure he knew what was going on before asking anyone else what was going on.
“So,” Jerome stiffly said, “I want some of those leftovers.”
He pulled out a chair and sat diagonally from his double. He tried his hardest to stare as deeply and casually ahead of him as he could, but the television screen that sat across from him on the counter wasn’t on, wasn’t even plugged in as a matter of fact, due to his secret, strong distaste for new information (the television was for Shelley). He ended up feeling incredibly stupid, yet he had the sneaking suspicion that he would look even stupider if he stopped. As Jerome puzzled over the situation at hand, his double seemed to realize that Jerome had no intention of eating the leftovers and begin picking at them again. This puzzling and picking continued for several minutes in silence before Shelley called down from the bedroom, “Jerome, are you coming to bed or not?” at which point Jerome’s double promptly stood up and tromped up the stairs to the second floor, leaving Jerome alone in the kitchen.
After covering the remaining leftovers with plastic wrap, Jerome tiptoed into the living room and curled up on the couch. He was not sure why he had made a point of moving quietly or why he was downstairs and not in bed with his girlfriend. The following day was a Friday, so Jerome concluded he had the whole work day to puzzle as much as he pleased and everything would be revealed by the next evening. As it turned out, he was sort of half-right.

When Jerome woke, three things struck him: That he was on his couch, that with his alarm clock upstairs he was most definitely late for work, and that there was a hot pink post-it note stuck to his jugular. The note read:
Jerome,
I thought you could use the extra sleep, so I went to work for you. Shelley did not seem to notice you on the couch so no worries there. Enjoy the day off, just be sure to do all my chores for me before supper time. The chores list is attached to the fridge.
Signed,
Your double

Jerome mulled this over for a few minutes and then meandered into the kitchen. So far, he thought, his double was up to snuff, for there indeed was a list attached to the fridge, though Jerome was sure this was the first he had noticed it. On it there was a calendar of sorts with little notes pointing out the chores he had for each day. To his surprise, all of the chores up to that day had been successfully checked off with his initials next to them. Jerome squinted.
“By gosh,” he muttered, “He’s got my signature to boot!” Jerome poured himself a tall glass of scotch and returned to the couch.

This time, Jerome was woken by his girlfriend Shelley.
“Wake up, you adorable man,” Shelley purred, “It’s three o’clock!”
Jerome wiped sleep from his eyes and struggled to sit up.
“Shelley?” he asked, “What time is it?”
“What time is it?” She whispered as she crawled on top of him, “I think you know very well what time it is. Now come on, honey, my break ends in an hour.”
This statement was followed by a kiss and many other things. Forty minutes later, Shelley pulled up her stockings and lit a cigarette.
“Odd,” she repeated for the third or fourth time, “Usually you are so much more. . .”
“So much more what?” Jerome asked, not even trying to hide his pout, “You keep saying ‘so much more’ and trailing off, so what am I usually so much more of?!”
Shelley took a long drag.
“Nothing, sweetheart, nothing at all to worry your pretty little head about,” she said, “I woke you from your nap so it’s my fault you weren’t as good you usually are at this time. I think it was just special. Yes, that’s it, today was. . . very. . . Special.”
She seemed to have a hard time getting the last few words out, as if she had planned on trailing off but decided against it on too short notice. In an attempt to fix this, she kissed Jerome on the forehead and left. Jerome decided it was once again a time for scotch.

When Jerome’s double returned home he passed the living room where Jerome was waiting ominously and headed up for the daily post-work shower. Jerome hurried up after him.
“Hey!” Jerome shouted, “Don’t even think about using that shower!”
His double spun around with a surprised look on his face.
“What’s gotten into you?” he asked.
Jerome flung his arms out making himself into a cross.
“Me!?” Jerome howled, “Me!? I’ve got some questions for you, bub, and what I want is answers, not your sneaky double talk, answers! You hear me? Am I talking loud enough!?”
“Geez, okay, man, just be chill.” Said his double. Then the double suddenly knelt down and inspected the carpet. “What the-” he stammered, “You didn’t vacuum! Did you do any of the chores at all?!”
“No, I haven’t!” snarled Jerome, “What’s the deal with that anyway? You go around my house doing chores and taking credit for them and sleeping with my girl?!”
“Your girl? Your girl? How about our girl?! How the heck did you think the house has stayed clean and presentable? Who do you think has kept Shelley coming back every night for more? You think you could look this good all by yourself?!?”
Jerome’s double turned his back to Jerome and slammed the bathroom door behind him. After a minute, Jerome heard the shower going. After another minute, he marched right in.
“Okay, okay,” he said, “I’ve figured it out, it all out! You think I need so much help? You think I need a double to have everyone loving me?!”
“Don’t be spiteful,” said his double from behind the shower curtain, “Think of me as a friend who’s sole purpose is to help you out.”
“Oh yeah!?” said Jerome, “Oh yeah? Oh yeah!??! Oh yeah? Oh - Well. . . That doesn’t sound so awful. . . If you’ve kept out of my hair this long it shouldn’t matter really, should it?”
“No,” said his double, “I don’t think so.”
Jerome felt himself smile. He found that he liked how this was all turning out. He had a real double. A twin, of sorts. Just another Jerome to get things done in a timely matter.
“Well,” said Jerome, “I have decided you can stay. I have decided a double might be useful to me. I mean, who knows? Yeah, you can keep doing the chores and that stuff. That sounds fine. It’s sort of weird you look and sound just like me, but I think I can look past that for now. . .”
Jerome’s double turned the shower off and stepped out. He wrapped himself in Jerome’s favorite towel and inhaled loudly with his nose a bit.
“That is not entirely true,” he said, “We aren’t exactly the same.”
There was a short pause that probably should have lasted a bit longer before Jerome asked what the difference was.
“You see,” said his double, looking directly into his eyes, “You’re wearing shoes. I’m not. And yet. . . We’re level.”
There was another pause. Jerome stared blankly into his double’s eyes.
“So?” he asked, “What of it?”
“Jerome,” his double said slowly, “I am exactly one inch taller than you.”
To some people, this difference would have been insignificant, even forgettable, but Jerome would not have it. All his life he had been told he was perfect. He had been told he had nothing to worry about and nothing to fear. He had been told this by friends, neighbors, lovers, even the occasional stranger or passerby. Now, all of a sudden, out of the bluest of blue, had come this fiend, this usurper, who had not only his image, his voice, his talents, his success and accumulations, but one full extra inch. One whole inch of Jerome that he, the real Jerome (well, that’s what he thought, though his double was just as real) lacked. His own double was more Jerome than he himself could lay claim to. For Jerome, a man who considered himself the best of the best, this was not perfect. This was beyond sub-par.
“Double,” he said in a hushed tone, “I think it’s time that I prepare supper. I expect the couch for you tonight. I trust our little secret will remain just that: A little, unrepeatable secret.”

Jerome spent the next few weeks awkwardly. He wanted to act natural (which was impossible at this point) and he wanted to appear okay with their little compromise (though it was Jerome who was doing anything at all differently than in the past). He tried to look on the bright side of things. He tried to think of himself as blessed. A mighty god had thought it a shame to only create one Jerome so he had made two. Unfortunately, all the perks of having a double quickly faded. It was the inch that he wanted. The inch he needed.
During this time, Jerome’s double went about his business as usual. He made sure to change the light bulbs in the house and did, alongside his other daily tasks, the little chores that only a man of superior height could be perfect at.
Shelley grew increasingly confused. Next to being perfect, Jerome had always been consistent. Now he was hot and cold. Half the time he was a dear but the other half of the time he seemed distracted, lost. This worried Shelley. Had she been a perfect girlfriend instead of a fairly decent one, she would have tried harder to ease Jerome’s apparent suffering, or questioned whether or not she might be to blame, or even put two and two together. Shelley, however, was not perfect. That department had always been left to Jerome. Now she was out at sea with only one paddle. Sure, it moved the boat keenly to the left, but that other paddle, where the heck was that?
Though he never let on to his double, Jerome knew that, despite being on somewhat of a downward spiral, the two could go on forever without change. The situation was not perfect, but he knew he could adapt. Whether he could tilt the spiral upward was a question Jerome decided was better left unanswered. Unfortunately for Jerome, the straw his camel was so earnestly trying to avoid turned out to be quite unavoidable. It came while he was at work. Of course, he noticed it as soon as he got home.
“Double,” Jerome said, “Did you move the lock on the front door?”
His double looked down at the floor.
“Double,” continued Jerome, “Tell me you did not have the lock moved up from its original spot.”
His double said nothing.
“Double,” hissed Jerome, “How much higher has it moved?”
His double pretended to cough. There was another pause. Then he looked back up at Jerome.
“A half of an inch,” said the double, “I thought it could meet us halfway. . .”
“You did, did you?” said Jerome, “Is that what you thought? You thought you could come into my house and change my lock to suit your needs, whatever they might be, while I am off at work slaving-”
“Technically,” cut in his double, “It’s our house and our lock and I didn’t move it up a full inch-”
“I’m not talking technically,” cut in Jerome, his voice rising, “I’m talking here, now, in my house where you go around flaunting your ridiculous height, which really, though I have never said it, is just ridiculous and I don’t even think it suits you so hot. Technically speaking of course! So you thought it was so damn necessary to move the lock up an inch just so you could fit the key in easier? Is that it?!”
“I said it’s only half of an inch,” said his double, “It’s not closer to me than it is to you. It’s an equal distance!”
“Oh!” cried Jerome, “So now we’re talking about distance! It’s always about your height! That you’re better than me! You can’t live that down, can you!? ‘Equal’! Ha! I’ll show you equal!!”
Jerome lunged at his double and knocked him to the ground. He had been waiting for this moment and pulled a thin blade from his back pocket. He got on top of his double and, due to the advantage of preparing for the attack, was able to hold his double down and shuck off his double’s shoes.
“Hey!” cried his double, “What gives, bub?!”
“The inch!” shrieked Jerome, “The inch!”
Jerome quickly and precisely cut the bottom inch from both of his double’s feet (Jerome went to medical school, did I mention that?) and ran upstairs to his bedroom, locking the door behind him. At that moment, Jerome could not hear his double howling downstairs. In fact, at that moment, Jerome could not hear anything at all. His mind was set on one task: Find Shelley’s sewing kit.

Jerome enjoyed his new height quite a bit. Sometimes he even dared to wear lifts and this made him feel worlds above everyone else. With the extra inch, Jerome felt he could do anything he dreamed of. His confidence level boomed. He was a new man, a new, taller man. Perfect height, really.
Shelley never met this new Jerome. When she had returned home she had promptly driven Jerome’s double to the hospital to have his wounds treated. It was there that she broke up with him.
Truth be told, this story could end here. In fact, it could have ended a few paragraphs earlier, but technically speaking, there is more to tell, for six months later Jerome was dead.

“I’m sorry,” said the elderly doctor with a fleck of emotion, “I can’t do much about foot cancer. You’ve landed the ol’ foot cancer.”
Sad as it may be, the very piece of extra flesh Jerome had so admired on his double was in fact what would have caused his double permanent death. That inch was cancerous. Jerome died soon after leaving the doctor’s office.
Things turned out a bit differently for Jerome’s double. With his new wounds, he was now eligible to enter the special handicap olympics. He entered and won. They all won.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:46 PM

 
i added some new/old stories below... check 'em out. more soon, really this time. if you haven't seen "nervous laughter", "Two AM Wont Shut Up", or "Crablad2Crablad", gimme a hollar on AIM at carlmule and I will send them to ya - short films BTW. I'm working on a script for a more trumped up piece to be shot in the next few weeks and edited throughout the semester - to be used when declaring a major. When it is done/when i have news on that i will post about it... and i plan more posts, once i regain my fanbase. updates soon, e
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 8:05 PM

 
It Was Snowing, So We Traveled To The Desert And Got Lost

The llamas sloshed on. Goodbye civilization, goodbye hum and tinker of modern life! I began to philosophize about a great many unspeakable things and came up with some pretty deep theories on humanity etc. I had not seen my reflection in days, but could feel myself changing into a modern day prophet. A wiseman. During all of this, Leonard was telling me a story, something about a department store and a tree of hooks. His rationality seemed dubious to me, so I played it off like I was paying attention. Momentarily, we were both satiated.
By dusk we had joined up with a herd of nomads, large mystics of the desert. They offered us food and shelter for the night and we bestowed upon them trinkets from the city: Bubble gum, cheap lip gloss and more - anything we could find that belonged to our lost comrade. The nomads were enchanted, having never seen such intriguing samplings of the West, or at least their latest versions. I regaled them with a realistic take on our adventure and Leonard helped out with some extraneous, yet cute, details. Real tears cascaded down my manly cheeks when I told them about little Vivian and her disheartening fate and I think I made Leonard cry too. “Eaten by a pack of wild cats!?” one of the nomads exclaimed, “Never in my life have I heard of such a thing!” Their innocence was adorable, and I slept blissfully.
I tell you, desert folk are extraordinary hosts. We were treated to a veritable feast for breakfast. Unfortunately, when Leonard asked what we were eating, a nomad replied, “your llamas” and it took a great deal of shushing to calm my companion. These were our hosts, our friends. I taught him all about their crazy antics and how we should respect their social differences. Maybe eating a visitor’s ride was customary? Surely, we were not in a place to judge.
After the meal - the feast! - a nomad dragged out a young girl and cried, “And now, you marry my daughter!” I wish I could have said no, but a leader is forced to risk unpopularity when tough issues arise, so I gave my consent for Leonard to marry her. She was not a looker, but I thought she might be able to get our llamas back. Leonard looked a fool as he attempted to argue his way out of responsibility. I began to prove him wrong, but stopped short because I already held his money.
The wedding was short and aesthetically bearable, much like the bride. I made a rousing speech and admitted to going to bed with one of Leonard’s former loves, chiding him as a best-man does. It was a special day. I was, of course, beside myself with emotion.
We left on foot, girl in tow. She would become a valuable ally against the harsh things the desert threw at us. She reminded me of Vivian in a blurry, fleeting sort of way. It seemed fitting that our old chum would be reborn in the form of a dusty, foreign, parcel. Vivian had always been a trooper, from the day she moved in upstairs and discovered the snakes to the moment we threw her into the swarming, feline melee of claws. This new girl gave off that same sort of vibe. You knew she could keep her mouth shut, or open, if need be. I trusted her more than I trusted Leonard.
I remember one time I passed out on his couch after a party and woke up to find my hair smelling of a different conditioner. This is not the sort of behavior that translates well to heroic, desert life. The eccentricities that had charmed then were now grating on my every nerve. For a while he had been my stepping stone, my golden ladder or bridge or silver raft. Admittedly, I would not have made it to the desert without the money his Toyota had hauled in. Now, he was, realistically speaking, living deadweight.
The night earlier, as he slept on exotic blankets under a primal nomad tent, I took note of his absurd use of facial hair. He just looked silly. Silly, really. This in itself was not a big deal, but I realized that Leonard, much like his beard, was barely a comfort blanket. He was like the ugly cow that only makes black milk; your daughter loves it so you give it to her as a pet, and then it kicks her and you have to take it out and shoot it. In the end, you figure out that the smart thing would have been to shoot it right when it left the birth canal and that the daughter probably was not yours to begin with. Being my closest friend, I knew he would concur, after all, he too had studied Darwinism. Leonard was a city boy out of his element, doomed to historical obscurity, but I was a desert man, free at least.
I understood that it was, and always had been, just the desert, my map, and me. I had freed myself from the civilized world. I knew the map was bogus, but by then it did not really matter. I had already found my Nazi gold. You know, in the whole experience. It was like someone had shook me in bed and said, “Listen, when you get up, we’ll share the pancakes!” I am left, half asleep, all groggy and stuff, thinking, “I had pancakes? I did not even know I had pancakes and now I lost half of them just by sleeping.” and still I do not get up. It was like a revolution inside my mind. I could feel my perception of the world - of the universe - shifting magnetically. Indeed, the world was my pancake, and I had lost half of it in the form of Leonard and Vivian and the llamas, but I had a new appreciation for the remaining half-pancake and knew I would spend the rest of my life sopping up every last drop of syrup.
The girl pulled me off Leonard’s corpse before I was through defacing it, but morale was up. I named her Pickles and used her as a toboggan down a sandy hill. Oh, the things we do...
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 8:05 PM

 
The Last Tuesday

This morning, Paul Selsian awoke drenched in ice-cold sweat. He had dreamt pleasantly, but as the geriatric English professor stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom, his mind was filled to the brim with the darkest of thoughts. He is a good man, or at least a reasonable one, so his sudden urge was utterly inexplicable... And yet, it existed all the same.
After packing a lunch and an afternoon snack into a small duffel bag, he tumbled out his front door and headed to work. It is not a short journey, from Queens to Annandale, but Selsian believes himself to be a master skateboarder and managed a nearly respectable time. Of course, this morning, the usual day dreams of giant sunflowers and huggable bunnies were nowhere to be found.
By the time he reached Bard College, Selsian knew he had a problem. A very large, dangerous, problem. For some reason he just could not shake the sneaking suspicion that he was about to do something extraordinarily evil.
Leaving the circling vultures outside, he trudged up six hundred and fifty-two stairs and into his classroom. Per usual, the students let out a quiet, collective gasp as he lurched across the room and slumped down into a few seats, unintentionally doing his best impression of a slightly lifelike, bag of potatoes.
“Well???” he growled, “What are you all doing here!?”
The students stared silently.
“Well???” he repeated, “What is the matter with all of you!?”
No one said a word. Selsian had always enjoyed the students, even the ones who desperately needed to “pound the thesaurus”, but as he glared back at their round, pancake faces, he could feel his blood boil and anticipated the smell of cooked meat. Despite the pleasure he had always felt when served a fresh, head of lettuce at supper time, he found himself reaffirming that, above all else, he was a carnivore.
“You think you are pretty delicious,” Selsian sneered, “Don’t ya?”
His tiny, caterpillar eyes darted back and forth across the room. He began to picture the students as peppermint matchsticks, and shuddered at the possibility of rubbing and then licking their red-hot, flaming skulls. He slouched down low. Selsian’s face crinkled up as he smiled knowingly.
“Yes,” he thought, “The door most definitely has a lock.”
Just then, radiant light flooded the room as the last student sauntered in, excusably late. Selsian’s eyes turned to saucers and his knuckles whitened. Though the student’s name alluded him, he was suddenly certain that this would be the target of his mysterious wrath.
“I submit to you,” oozed Selsian, “That you are the most succulent, the most choice being I have ever laid my eyes on.”
The student rubbed the back of his neck and looked up slowly.
“What was that?” he asked.
Selsian’s lips pursed and then smacked open.
“You are perfect,” he clucked, fishing in his coat pocket for something blunt or full of spikes.
The student smiled and said, “Well, yes.”
So he stood up, slung his bag over a shoulder, and left. It was only 10:45 and the cafeteria was still serving breakfast.

- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 8:04 PM

 
SECRET FUN PROVERB

Wendy had a husband, three kids and a secret: Every week, the world famous Superman would fly into her dry-cleaning shop and give her his suit to clean. Of course, she was sworn her to secrecy. Superman was all about secrets, but Wendy just felt guilty. Her poor husband had no idea and she was dying to tell him.
One day, she was thinking and decided that if she could get Superman and her husband into the same room, the secret was bound to come out.
So Wendy stayed home from work and entertained her surprised husband by dancing. She danced him outside. Then she poured lighter fluid around the house and lit a match.
“The kids are inside!” he yelled, but Wendy just stood calmly and watched. She held her husband back, saying, “There’s nothing we can do. Leave this to a professional.”
She waited until the house was completely leveled before releasing her husband. Where was Superman?
Wendy ran down the street and all the way to her store. There stood Superman in his skivvies.
“Your suit!” she cried, “I forgot to dry-clean it!”
Without a word, Superman crossed the floor and gave Wendy a good slap. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough for her to know the next one would. Wendy felt her face turn bright red.
Seconds later, her husband exited a phone booth, tucking his plain white shirt into his plain khaki pants. He was not so much confused as he was bitter. Now he had a nutty wife, no kids, no house, and still a blasted secret. Damn his super powers, damn Lex Luther, Kryptonite, and most of all his wife. The slap, however, had been a treat.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 8:04 PM

 
(Sock Puppet) Love Hurts
(or Threesome Uh-Oh)

Stitch by stitch, Mr. Trumpington was coming together and it was Herbert’s fine handy-work to thank for it. He had not picked up a needle in years, but sewing was like riding a bicycle and he did not prick his fingers even once. Yes, Herbert wore the thimble well.
By mid-afternoon, the project was complete and Herbert had time for a bath.
“Bubbles?” Herbert thought, “Shall I add bubbles?”
Stephanie returned home, drenched to the bone. There was a steaming pot of vegetables waiting for her on the kitchen table, along with a note. Stephanie put down her gym bag and umbrella and headed straight for the first-floor bathroom. When she emerged again, a second note was waiting for her on the table alongside the first. Twisting her hair up into a bun, Stephanie sat down in the living room and flipped through a TV Guide. It was Tuesday and CBS always seemed to have an underrated sitcom on in the early evening, though she could never remember which sitcom it was. Before she had time to find out, her stomach let out a loud groan, sending Stephanie back on her feet and into the kitchen for a snack. As a Hot-Pocket grew toasty warm in the microwave, Stephanie opened up the first of her three notes. The first read:
STEPHANIE! SURPRISE! THERE IS A SURPRISE WAITING FOR YOU UPSTAIRS! LOVE, YOU KNOW WHO!
The second read:
STEPHANIE! SURPRISE! I LOVE YOU AND AM UPSTAIRS WITH YOUR SURPRISE! LOVE, YOU KNOW WHO!
The third read:
STEPHANIE! COME ON UPSTAIRS! LOVE, YOUR HUSBAND, HERBERT!
As she finished the last note, Stephanie heard the microwave beep and furrowed her brow.
Heavy footsteps made their way up the carpeted staircase and onto the second floor. Stephanie stuffed the last corner of Hot-Pocket into her mouth and opened the bedroom door, one eye closed. Inside waited her husband and his freshly made sock puppet, both terribly naked.
“Honey,” Herbert began, “Meet Mr. Trumpington...”
“Herbert, dear...” Stephanie whispered.
“HELLO I AM MR. TRUMPINGTON!” cut in the puppet.
“Right,” said Stephanie, “I am very-”
“IT IS NICE TO MEET YOU TOO!” cut in the puppet again.
“-tired...” finished Stephanie.
“But honey,” Herbert cooed, “You always wanted a threesome.”
“HAVE A HEART, LADY!” cut in the puppet.
Stephanie began a sigh that finished in a full-blown frown. “Who should I be addressing here?” she whispered. Herbert and the puppet looked at each other quizzically.
Needless to say, the night was filled with romance. As the sun came up, the three lovers collapsed on the bed in a sweaty heap. Herbert felt a new sense of satisfaction spread through his body and drifted asleep. As far as he was concerned, the surprise had been a smashing success. Stephanie, however, thrashed about restlessly. Over the past ten years of marriage, she had not stayed faithful to Herbert, though her indiscretions could certainly be called sporadic. She cared for him, yes, but every now and then adultery seemed to be unavoidable. Once again she felt that tingle of lust for another man slither up her spine and Stephanie sank her yellow teeth into her Todd Oldham pillow. This time, things were so much more complicated.
The following week was a tornado of lovemaking, but by the weekend Herbert began to feel a tad left out. He noticed his wife spending an extra-long amount of time in the bathroom, mysteriously taking the puppet with her. Of course, to his face, Mr. Trumpington was all smiles and playful winks, but Herbert grew increasingly suspicious. Once, when pressed on the subject, Stephanie had told him that the puppet was kind enough to give her harmless bath massages, but when Herbert asked if he himself could experience Mr. Trumpington’s “magic fingers”, she had blushed and changed the subject. What went on behind that bathroom door?
By this time, Stephanie, however, was having a ball. Her affair was mind-shatteringly hot. She was having her cake and not only eating it, but spreading it all over her sexy face. Mr. Trumpington was a gentle lover.
The tip of Stephanie’s iceberg was reached not long after. Once again, Herbert prepared a tasty dinner and waited in the bedroom, but this time he was alone, his wife having taken the sock puppet to work with her. Apparently Mr. Trumpington was the “inspiration” for her new presentation, though Herbert honestly could not figure out what sort of presentation a swim instructor would make. Herbert heard the front door open and close and puffed himself up. Moments later, the bedroom door opened, but in walked his wife, his sock puppet, and a very large, very grim looking Asian man. Herbert’s jaw snapped open but found himself at a loss for words. The Asian man was wearing the sock puppet. The Asian man was wearing the sock puppet.
Noticing her husband’s confusion, Stephanie asked, “What’s wrong?”
Herbert blinked a few times and said, “Who is he??”
Stephanie spun around, rubbing her forehead. She made her mouth very small, and then said, “Oh. Him. I thought Luther could be Mr. Trumpington today.”
Herbert knew there had to be a hole in his wife’s logic, but came to the conclusion that it was an invisible hole, for he could not find it at all.
The next day, Stephanie could not concentrate. She had such a wonderful time the night before - who could say what fun awaited her after work? The times were good. Oh, oh, so good. Recently, she had begun to actually fantasize about Herbert, somehow. This surprised her more than anything, but it was a fact, none the less. Mr. Trumpington - and Luther, oh Luther! - had been terrifically exciting, but Stephanie sensed a change in Herbert. He had grown angsty, sullen, hot. She had even forgotten the sock puppet on her way to work. When the work day ended, she hurried straight home.
Stephanie flung open the front door and stripped on the welcome mat. Her large bare feet padded up the stairs and to the bedroom. For a change, the door was open, and the room empty. Stephanie’s heart sank a little bit. Then she noticed the shower was running. She scurried over to the bathroom and burst in, a blank smile plastered on her face. Unfortunately, the smile quickly disappeared. There stood, in the shower, Herbert, with Mr. Trumpington on his hand, and Stephanie’s sister, Hilda.
“What is going on!?” shrieked Stephanie.
Herbert looked up and wiped water from his eyes. “What’s wrong?” he said, “I thought your sister could play you today.”
Stephanie’s eyes burned a hole in Mr. Trumpington, who gave her the sock puppet equivalent of a shrug. Herbert had found his iceberg.

- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 8:03 PM

 
MOVING TOWARDS (by E.H.)

As our eyes close, a young woman named Noon Ending switches on her mental nightlight and follows the wind to a scrap of paper it stole from her. We might say she is stalling, her having memorized the scribbled-down address hours ago, but Noon understands the nature of time and appreciates this chance to accelerate it. After spotting her camouflaged prize, Noon turns and crawls in the opposite direction, toward the sanctuary of a flickering lamppost. Peering down from her lip, a defeated cigarette watches an army of ice crystals claw their way up a plaid skirt, wonders how such a girl as Noon could be naturally so much prettier than she ought to be, and attempts to put itself out.

The lone sound of Noon’s high heels click down the hall and past our room. Her clothes are dry now, but pale flesh prevents the hotel’s musky warmth from comforting anything deeper. Noon finds herself in front of a numbered door and reminds herself that behind it hides the key to a fresh meal. She knocks, but receives no answer. Noon scrambles to find the address that has suddenly been torn free from the directory between her ears. She runs a hand along the nape of her neck, and brings the edge of a long hair to her mouth. She turns the door knob herself and is mildly relieved to find it unlocked.

The door is opening...

The second fact that registers in Noon’s mind is that the room is almost entirely empty. There are no windows, no tables, no beds, no chairs, no carpets, and not even a light switch to operate the single bulb screwed into the ceiling. What greets Noon’s eyes, if greet is the word, is in the center of the room, opposite the door, and living inside a small cage. It is hard to tell what sits behind the rusted bars, but various flashes of movement prove that Noon is not alone. She turns to leave...

...But a new shape catches the corner of her eye. Squinting, she can now make out a cord leading up to a faded blue telephone, its receiver laying off the hook and beside the cage, and sticking out underneath it, a messy wad of twenty dollar bills. Noon takes all of this in, still silhouetted in the doorway. She bites, then licks, her bottom lip.

This is the moment - when her soft tongue traces the location of her first and last kiss - where Noon hears the low, sickeningly thick, rhythmic, croaking. A shiver travels up her spine and settles in her mouth, chilling the back of her teeth, and reminding Noon how a rabbi at day school had taught her to eat an Italian Ice from the bottom up. Her brow furrows on its own and her eyes snap back to the cage. She had missed one last object in the room: a coiled tube running out from the cage connects to a doll-sized respirator. Its bag fills and empties with every wheeze and hiss; every mucus filled gurgle. Noon feels a thick, wet, river flood from her lips and realizes she is biting down hard. Two beady, black eyes burn into Noon. The creature, whatever he may be, has been alive for a very long time.

As the voice of Prince rises from Noon’s walkman, the horrible breathing sound is drowned out. A button from Noon’s shirt has been lost. Noon’s eyes have closed. Her hips are gyrating. Her leg is raised. She kicks off a heel. A stocking is lowered and tossed on top of a tiny oxygen tank. As Noon dances, we remember her practicing in the snow, the fate of her twenty-sixth cigarette, and how the night lamp had bent down from its pole and kissed the tears from her cheeks.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 7:58 PM

 
sugarcane twist

shades of white, shades of gray
morning moon, fade away
as walls engulf the room
we prophesy our doom
you realize the laughter is not your's
tears drop in tens and twos and fours
this minute march I can not lead
so turn it into flavored beads
and put it on a string
I’m pretty now but soon you’ll see
colors deep inside of me
so wear it as you wait for snow
and remember that my nightmares go
around your neck
we’ll measure Shapley’s redshift
give Socrates a face-lift
send Thales down a well
then follow him to Hell
and if we fall from Satan’s window
do not worry, do not fret
it’s time to make a wicked bet
out the alley, through the spring
she dangles on a crooked string
fist a ball of bone and blue
you thought you’d won, didn’t you?
night will shine on my spiral
wedged against your glassy palm
stay with me and no go nothing
someone will turn the light switch on
and then as you limp the wrong direction
from their neck I’ll swing
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 4:27 AM

 
Ed Hellman
5/6/03

Billy’s Raft

Billy knew next to nothing about nuns, but he found them very alluring. Everyday after his piano lesson he raced down to the churchyard to watch, with vulgarian glee, the nuns do their thing. With faces like prunes and the grace of downed fowl, they were not conventionally sexy, but there was something about them that made his heart wiggle inside his skeletal torso in an extremely pleasurable manner. Yes, they were definitely hot.

Perhaps his attraction was due to the way their black and white cloaks played off his colorblindness, or perhaps it was bad parenting at hand; regardless, the obsession continued throughout into adulthood. Particularly turbulent were his college years because he insisted on wearing a nun’s habit in the bedroom, limiting himself to brief romances with unconventionally experimental girls.

Billy felt his obsession was damaging his chances at becoming a concert pianist, but his family knew differently. In fact, they blamed all of his lost jobs, loves, and opportunities on one thing alone, something entirely separate from his nun-fetish. They blamed the gigantic blue tentacle that grew out from Billy’s left ear. He’d had it all his life and something about it, well, bugged them.

“It’s not natural,” Mom would say, “You have such a beautiful tentacle-less right ear.”
Billy always responded the same way, with a simple shrug of his shoulders and an absent-minded tug on his tentacle. After all, what else could he do? Then Dad could be counted on shuffling in, holding half-opened mail in one hand and muttering, “What’s that I hear? You think the woman carried you for nine months to have you come out like this? Get rid of that thing already!”
“It has a name and it’s name is Molly!” Billy would shout back as he ran up a staircase, his long fingers feebly covering the tears that invariably streamed down his face at this point in their conversation.
“What, you think my part was easy too!?” Dad would roar back, “Look at her!!”

On their thirty-third birthday, Billy and Molly decided to seek the advice of the only people they trusted, the local nuns. It took all the courage they could muster to approach these sinfuly-heavenly beauties, but at thirty-three, they knew it was all downhill.
“Look, see,” Billy began, and before he knew it, the nuns were huddled together discussing what would become of Molly. Billy waited in the corner of the churchyard, his stomach filled to the brim with butterflies.

After what seemed like ages, the nuns approached Billy and Molly with a verdict.
“Son, “ the largest nun said, “you should really lop that thing off.”
Billy was taken aback. He had trusted them. They were his nuns. His luscious, luscious nuns. They would never tell him to cut off Molly. No, they had to be mistaken.
“I think you might be mistaken,” Billy squeaked out. He felt as though the butterflies in his stomach had grown fangs and a taste for stomach lining.
“No,” replied the nun, “The tentacle is a real turn off.”

On tiny feet, Billy ran from the churchyard crying. He had always known his love of nuns would bring him into harms way, but at the same time, how could anyone ignore the advice of goddess in women’s bodies? His skin tingled as he remembered the way one nun had bent over in prayer. Billy slowed to a stop as he realized what he had to do. Life without Molly would be tough, but he still had his blueprints for shear nun’s habits, and that had to have a market. Pulling out his pocketknife, Billy patted Molly goodbye and made a clean cut along the tentacle’s base.

What happened next was beyond anything Billy could have ever imagined. As the discarded tentacle fell to the ground, salt water poured from its gash, knocking him off his feet. Before Billy had the chance to stand, the tentacle had unleashed enough water to flood the entire earth. Everyone drowned. Well, everyone except Billy. As he struggled to stay afloat, Billy came across the body of a nun. Soon he had shackled together all the nuns’ bodies and road his makeshift raft to safety. Sure, everyone had died, but things were still pretty much okay.

Billy wiped his brow and surveyed the bloated bodies before him. All his life he had craved nun, and now he had a veritable harem before him. He knew he should feel content, but as he ran his fingers over the fresh wound on the side of his head, he realized it was no longer nuns that he desired.

This story is dedicated to my girlfriend, Molly, who is the tentacle to my Billy.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:18 AM

 
jenni (the poem)

dolphin rug ontop
slippery yellow marble middle
after that its hard to say
(we all want to
but never do)
dolphin middle
yellow top
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:37 AM

 
eclectic melon

the sea escapes me
on a boat
of wicker shadow sails
and later eats
one
excellent
melon
that was mine, on dry land
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:34 AM

 
more tonight!!
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 9:18 PM

 
below you find 2 funfilled essays (dont let the word scare you) and some new poems. go crazy. or slightly antsy-in-your-pantsy.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 1:11 AM

 
5/18/03
Ed Hellman
FYS
Personal Essay Draft 3

Not-So-Generic Man Makes Not-So-Generic Movie
or Extraordinary Man Makes Extraordinary Movie

I am not an arrogant man, merely an introspective observer, so I say this with the utmost humility: What a glorious world it would be if each of you could live inside this web of flesh within which I am bound. Perhaps then you would learn to fully appreciate the magnitude of my consummation, for I can honestly say that hearing the applause was one of the finest auditory experiences of my life. To finally finish what I had spent nineteen months laboring on was all I wanted, so, knowing that the end result was both appreciated and understood by others was almost too delicious. The cheers of excitement from the crowd confirmed their enjoyment; however, in the end, the best part of that applause was the cozy warmth deep inside my abdomen that had finally had its own optimism justified. The applause, yes, that was something wholly indelible.
I will admit: I can be a bit naive. Those nineteen months earlier, my simple-hearted consciousness had failed to grasp the absurd enormity of what I wished to achieve. My mind had been clouded by a desire too strong to question. Whether some celestial power had burrowed this urge deep inside me or I truly conceptualized it myself is hardly relevant. That I was able to stumble my way through such an endeavor, and still come out utterly triumphant, deserves endless accolades.
As you must know, I was not entirely inexperienced. I had made four films prior to “Generic Man’s Noteworthy Excursion”, although they were significantly shorter in length. I will always cherish these gems, much like a mother who can never fully turn her back on her disfigured child. The fondness for them, albeit pure, is (dare I say it?) incomparable to the fierce and passionate love I have always had for my first feature-length motion picture.
It was the millennium, and eleventh grade was really boring.
***
With conscience clear as a champagne flute, I wish to stress that anyone who says making a movie is easy should be shot. For those who ask why: nineteen long, arduous months. For a dog, that is more than seven years. For the slight, awkward, bedraggled teenager that I was, nineteen months was the equivalent of several lifetimes. Some skeptics may say I was impatient, but how could I not be? Even one day of waiting to attain a dream is an eternity!
To properly recognize my success, it is essential that you understand who I was before I began the undertaking. Growing up in Baltimore was a fairly unexceptional experience, even for the exceptional boy that I was. The city provided little in terms of entertainment, so, aside from attending a particularly stellar school and the occasional visit to a peer’s house, I spent the bulk of time between birth and senior year up in my bedroom brooding. It was there, during the summer after fourth grade, that I discovered my lust for film making. I spent the following years making short videos in my spare time, and the shyness that had plagued me to this point diminished with each effort. The desire to create, however, swelled dramatically. I yearned to undertake a truly challenging project and grew increasingly dissatisfied with the brevity of my creations. By eleventh grade I knew I could wait no longer. My very existence depended on the creation of a feature-length movie. The dark claws of cinematic realism gripped my “élan vital” and I was swept up in a whirlwind of what I can only describe as Promethean euphoria...
Being the prodigy that I was, coming up with a plotline was a cakewalk. The film would be about a local superhero who, with the help of his crustacean sidekick, must stop a nefarious ice cream mogul from poisoning the children of America. In one of my “classic Ed” strokes of genius, I took special note to include an underlying theme of homo-erotic bestiality between the hero and his young ward, Crab Lad. Everything fit together as expected, so I went about the task of choosing writers for the screenplay.
The first choice was obviously myself, but I felt confident that the burden of writing should not rest on my own shoulders. That said, I delegated the responsibility to three college freshmen whom I knew to have rapier wits: The ever imperturbable Dale Beran, small-time drug kingpin Paul Nestadt, and my own brother, David. I do not relish using the word “mistake”, but choosing these three to write was a lapse in judgment on my part. I was correct in assuming that they would write dynamic scenes for me to shoot, but what I failed to consider was that all three of them were chronically procrastinating booze-hounds. We all make “mistakes”.
While pushing the writers to churn out scenes on time, I multi-tasked and took on the role of casting director. Beran was easily swayed into portraying the hero, Generic Man, having already committed himself to the project as a co-writer. The same went for Nestadt who filled the role of the Vincent Price-meets-Peter Lorre-esque villain, Baron Narcotic. The casting of these two lead roles worked perfectly to fit with the surprise twist that I and the writers wove into the storyline: Beran’s own seediness and Nestadt’s gentle complacency carried over into their characters, allowing the audience to realize at the critical moment that the violent, slothful Generic Man is the movie’s actual antagonist, and Baron Narcotic, despite his supervillain appearance, a penchant for dark clothing and inappropriate fits of maniacal laughter, is a simple-minded ice cream entrepreneur with a great love for children (Of course, this is all realized too late, for Generic Man, after surprising the Baron in the home of a fictitious young cancer victim and yelling “Not so tough when you’re defenseless, huh!?”, beats the poor sap to death with a baseball bat). The roles of the thirty other cast members were quickly filled by more than willing peers, blood relatives, and personal gurus.
After borrowing a Hi8 video camera from a friend who happens to be a professional photographer, repeatedly cracking the whip over the writers, painstakingly drawing out every camera angle, making sure that those who had volunteered to sew costumes were upholding their part of the bargain, and spending hours (and I mean HOURS) on the phone scheduling cast and locations for every scene, it was time to begin filming (While I am sure you would be utterly enthralled by specific details pertaining to the above tasks, it would be impossible for you to appreciate them on the same level as one such as myself).
As I stood behind the camera on July 8th, 2000, the first day that actual filming took place, the image I saw through the viewfinder was not that of Generic Man and Crab Lad sneaking into the Narcotic Ice Cream Industries building, but of myself accepting award after award after award after award after award...
Complications arose when J.P. McIntyre, the frail, curly-haired youth playing Crab Lad, developed what those in the Industry call “an attitude”. Lord knows, I did everything humanly possible to pacify him, but in the very end, he turned out to be a traitor in the same league as Brutus and Judas Iscariot. This may sound harsh, but there was a self-serving ferocity underneath McIntyre’s pimply skin that no man could contain. After portraying Crab Lad for several months, he suddenly refused to film his two remaining scenes. As if signaled by Lucifer himself, my three writers joined in the diseased melee of atrophy left in McIntyre’s absence and gave “lethargy” a whole new meaning. Beran would arrive hours late to film dates with his customary hangover and Nestadt rarely performed sans the influence of any number of medicinal aides. The reins of productivity I had so masterfully held began to slip from my grasp. I contemplated the actuality of a sacred higher power, etc.
What followed is what I refer to as “The Dark Period”. Forced to exert all my energy into freeing myself from the sea of incompetence that flowed around me, production was at a stand still. Days became weeks, weeks became months, and, as ashamed I am to admit it, even I questioned the fate of my beloved creation.
...And then, in a brainstorm meteorologists all along the East coast would dub “Cyclone Ed”, I, single-handedly, saved “Generic Man’s Noteworthy Excursion”, bestowing upon the lives of those who had taken part in production months earlier a newfound worth. The writers were rallied together and, after altering several key scenes, it was undeniably apparant that my idea was more than satisfactory. Throughout the earlier drafts, Crab Lad had learned of Generic Man’s fickleness in regard to replacing his sidekicks. In my new draft, the film would start with an alternate Crab Lad who would be quickly fired. McIntyre’s Crab Lad would be introduced as the replacement, lending more credence to his fear of abandonment. The Ex-Crab Lad would have his own subplot, illustrating the downward spiral of the “oublié”. A new actor, Micah Joseph Gates, was commandeered to play the Ex-Crab Lad, and, at last, we resumed production.
Aside from a cast member calling in sick claiming to have vomited blood (What she had foolishly diagnosed as “vomiting blood” turned out to only be vomiting with a harmless nosebleed. She was quickly replaced), filming the remaining scenes went like clockwork. I taught myself how to use an advanced editing program on an Apple G4 loaned to me from my high school, and began piecing together the thousands of shots I had filmed. Oh, how delightful it was to watch my ideas come to life! Editing the film was by far the most delectable part of the project for me. I was blessed with the luxury of solitude.
As the lights dimmed in my high school’s auditorium at the premiere of “Generic Man’s Noteworthy Excursion” on January 19th, 2002, I surveyed my audience. I marveled at the fifty-odd viewers who arrived too late in the packed house to enjoy seats but stayed anyway, and the camaraderie of my cast and crew, all of whom would be experiencing the film for the first time with everyone else. With pride, I realized it was I who had brought them all together and it would be I who would go on to bring similar transcendental events to commonalty across the globe. At that instant I finally felt at peace. I had done it. I was rich, wise, and beautiful. I had beaten the odds. Nothing imaginable could surpass such an absolute level of elation.

But then, oh yes, then came the applause...
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 1:10 AM

 
Ed Hellman
5/19/03
Essay Three

ARTH 130
Introduction to Visual Culture

How They Play Us

A sickeningly cute little boy stands on a breathtaking beach with both hands stretched towards the setting sun in a momentary display of joyful exuberance one only experiences as a child. Next to him, you discover the words, “It’s not a feeling you can get everyday.” Nodding slowly, you find yourself whispering, “Ain’t that the truth. Boy, ain’t that the truth.” As the sensation subsides, your Ovaltine-stained fingers creep to the corner of the March 2000 issue of Vanity Fair you are reading and turn the page. To your surprise, the image in front of you is that of a BMW X5 Sports Activity Vehicle streaking from the left side of the page to the right. Next to it are the words, “Or is it?” It takes a minute for the connection between the two pages to register, but when it does, you immediately flip back to the image of the boy. “What the..” you say, “Is this kid, this innocent, wide-eyed bratling, trying to sell me a car? Or... Did the car run him over?” The next words out of your mouth, according to the advertisers at BMW, should be, “Gosh, I really need to get me one of these!” So, be honest, are they right?: Would the ad make you want a BMW? Do you truly believe that if you buy one of their cars you will attain some sort of equivalent to your lost childhood?
Some of you will have answered yes but the wiser minority of you will have screamed out, “No! Do you think I’m crazy!?” Well, I do not, but apparently the fine men and women at BMW do. They must be unaware of the mass headaches they are causing. Today’s consumer is forced to read an ad several times before understanding what it is attempting to sell. There has always been a varying level of manipulation between merchants and consumers, but, more often than not, contemporary ads work on highly subliminal or associative levels. If advertisers are out to brainwash us, what tricks are being surreptitiously employed and what differentiates these ads from more honest ads? Are there honest ads?
So as not to unfairly single out BMW, let us briefly examine a competitors ad. We will stick with Vanity Fair, this time looking at the February 2001 issue. At first glance, the advertisers would deserve kudos - the ad appears straightforward. It is a seemingly unaltered photograph of a man covered in bees. This bee-man is standing on a small soapbox in front of a rope fence. So, first reaction: “Oh, cool, bee-man.” The text next to the figure, however, brings us in for closer inspection. It reads: “Hey, there’s a blue one.” As we reinspect the ad, we are, understandably, quivering with excitement. Regrettably, this excitement only lasts until our eyes fall on the text at the bottom of the page, which reads, “Drivers wanted.” Following these words is the symbol for Volkswagen. It begins to hit us that we might not be seeing our elusive blue bee after all, which does not seem terribly fair, since the only reason we even considered the prospect of such a bee existing is because they alluded to one in their ad.
Now that we understand that this ad is also trying to sell us a car, we spot, way off in the distance past a field and behind a mesh fence, a small, blue, Volkswagen Bug. “Oh, I get it,” you mutter under your breath, “Yeah, they had bees and they are selling a Bug. Bee. Bug. Yeah, that’s... That’s funny.” No, Mr. and Mrs. Volkswagen, this ad is not funny. It is unclear what the ad even means. Volkswagen: Weird as Bee-Man. Or maybe, Volkswagen: Driving One is Like Being Covered in Bees. I am sure this would appeal to a certain demographic, but is it even Volkswagen’s target audience? The ad suggests too much and too little.
If you enjoyed the last ad, you bee lovers might get a kick out of the next example of advertising lunacy. Remember Honey-Comb cereal? Evidently, it still exists. I mention it only because of a certain provocative ad that can be found in the February 2003 issue of Teen People. The ad is a photograph of a mildly attractive, teenage, girl in a bathtub. Around her is your typical bathroom, but - surprise, surprise! - everything, from the bathmat to the tiled walls, is decorated with the image of a Honey-Comb. Not only that, but everything is also a varying shade of neon purple! Oh, and let us not forget the adorable (neon purple), Honey-Comb shaped hairclips in our friend’s hair, as well as the matching bracelet on her wrist. It seems as though someone sure loves her Honey-Comb cereal.
Now, I have to admit, this ad would not be so bizarre if it were not for the final touch the advertisers felt they needed to include: The girl, throwing sanity to the wind, is not bathing in water... She is bathing in a big bathtub full of milk and Honey-Comb! So, what is this ad telling us? There is a new type of Honey-Comb that not only tastes like honey, but cleans you as well? If it is not, I have a definite problem with this girl eating something she is soaking in. If it is a special new kind of cereal, it certainly should say so on the ad, right? This brings us to the only text in the ad, which can be found in the bottom righthand corner next to the image of a box of Honey-Comb (in case we did not get who was behind the ad). The text is, “anything but ordinary.” Ah, so that clears it up. This girl is not ordinary. Well, I could have told you that without the text. She’s bathing in Honey-Comb. That definitely is not ordinary, let alone sanitary. If the ad is trying to say that those who eat Honey-Comb love it so much they bathe in it, well, “no thank you.” The text negates that idea anyway because it would imply that people who love Honey-Comb are not ordinary. Even if they meant “not ordinary” in a good way, the image is contradictory. The only thing it could succeed in doing is instilling the notion in viewers that Honey-Comb is special in some unspecified way. This ad is clear as to what it is selling, but it is either so vague it is ineffective or inducing an idea in consumers’ heads that is utterly unfounded. I saw the ad. I still think Honey-Comb is a boring, boring cereal.
Coca-Cola is a popular product. It is probably the world’s favorite soft-drink. There are uncountable ways the company could advertise the soda. Sadly, the Coke ad I discovered in the same 2003 Teen People is no better than Honey-Comb’s. The ad is a two page spread and features an eye-level photograph of three giggling, teenage, girls. One is in a chair next to a cell phone and a bottle of Coke, and the other two are standing over the chair and tickling the first girl. There is another bottle of Coke (opened) on a nearby windowsill. The words, “he called back” are above the first girl, and the words, “Coca-Cola Real” are over one of the standing girls. The entire ad is tinted red because a giant Coke logo is printed on top of the photograph. My first question is the same as yours: Is there a product called “Coca-Cola Real”? There are so many varieties of Coke that it is actually surprising that “Coca-Cola Real” is not a product. This ad is selling regular, original Coke. What does the text mean then? And what are the advertisers getting at with, “he called back?” If it means what it suggests, that the girls are excited because a boy returned the first girl’s phone call, how does that connect to Coke? As you are still pondering this, the answer hits me: They mean that if you drink Coke, boys will call you back. In other words, they are saying that they are liars, because everyone who has called anyone knows that drinking soda does not make the person call back. The word “Real” is even more ridiculous because we have already caught them in their lie. Instead of giving us an ad that shows the good things that have happened to actual people who drink Coke, the advertisers expect us to believe this obviously phony claim. The devious part of this ad is that for those who do not take the time to look closely at it, the image of laughing girls becomes connected with Coke. Wait, “he called back”, I thought this ad was targeting females?
We have looked at ads that try to trick the viewer and ads that try to implant false messages in the viewer’s head. What is the next step from honesty that advertisers take? What sort of ad tries to trick the viewer as well as implant messages? As you are still cracking snide jokes about the previous ads (“Yeah Coke, that’s real.. A real lie!”) I whip out the March 2003 issue of RollingStone magazine. Sure enough, within minutes we have our mother of all ads. The page is entirely orange, with nothing on it, no small print or images, except for four words in the center of the ad: “Where did lunch go?”
Being the shut-in that I am, I turn to you for a clue as to whether this is even an ad. You check adjacent pages for some hint but find nothing. We are about to give up when your “friend” walks by and says, “Oh, hey, Uncle Ben!” After a lengthy internet search, we understand that this ad - if you can call it that - is for Uncle Ben’s Rice Bowls. Really. What does “What did lunch go?” mean? The only reason people connect it to Uncle Ben is the font and because they recognize the phrase. Bizarrely, nobody seems to actually know what the phrase means. This is the worst kind of advertisement. We, the consumers, are given a buzz word or phrase that means absolutely nothing and are taught to connect it with a product. Consumers connect buzz words that they have memorized with good things so they want to buy the product. Here is the resulting interaction as I understand it:

Person A: “Hey, where did my lunch go? It was right here a second ago!”
Person B: “Go buy Uncle Ben’s Rice Bowls.”
Person A: “Uh, ok. Why?”
Person B:“I’m not so sure.”
Person A: “Hm. Weird. Well, sounds good.”
Person B: “Go buy Uncle Ben’s Rice Bowls.”

I can only theorize that in the not too distant future, there will not be any clear-cut form of advertising at all. People will walk around and be surrounded by so many subliminal messages that no one will need to watch commercials to buy “Nike” shoes or “Coca Cola”; the level of manipulation will be so high that they will decide to buy these products on what they believe to be their own accord. Regardless, we do have one thing to look forward to: In the future, they might finally sell us our blue bee.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 1:06 AM

 
sometimes summertime art collector

sometimes i forget your name
but it can't be uglier than
your face
ugly
boy
oh boy
tact is a lost art
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 1:01 AM

 
out of snake license

a lady never tells
she sells, you
faintly sigh
a rumble between the
jellybean afternoons
tea time
last decade
i know the truth
who doesn't?
we only hide
the secrets everyone
already knows
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:59 AM

 
andrew (the poem)

little shiney button top
in your ear i place my eye
in your brain i plant my
purely original ideas
my theories
my loves, my hates
you turn them into mush
and spout them out
onto the page
as your art
i know your secret
a button is just one
on my sheepskin
raincoat
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:56 AM

 
vivian (the poem)

eat the bread, vivian
we know you want bread
you haven't touched
it
the bread
you vivian
you bread you
THE SAME!!!!!
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:54 AM

 
molly (the poem)

in her nose she hides
her spare heart
and in her easy chair
she drifts and smiles
between the green
tiny fishermen tug
back the invisible line
that splits to attach
three circling cats
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:49 AM

 
more tomorrow..
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:30 AM

 
Union Bullet Run

In the south
They only fight with
Spears
And throw them
While standing
Behind the barracks
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:30 AM

 
Frustration in the form of a Z

you think you're the epitome of cool
well you know what?
Z
mother
fuck
that
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:28 AM

 
ok ok, after a SHORT hiatus, I am ready to begin what will be refered to as THE FREQUENT POST-A-THON-A-MANIA! so get ready to not only rock, but roll and roll till your stomache turns.

I have a few sad notes, a handful of uplifting theories, and a barrel full of surprises to throw your way. Don't get too excited, ya hear? Not yet anyway. Let's try building the suspence. If you're in on it too, things will go much easier.

Now, enough with the formalities, how about some POST!

-------------

something small and sweet to wet your appetite...

Loveless Landslide

Filthy filthy trash man
Free your mind, take the
Smaller bag too
Under it we hide our faces
Melting into cement squares
No need anymore
(Nothing is shapeless)
It ruins our lives
And is so tiny
Take it, with my heart
(No need anymore)
Let it all come back around
In a circle
Everything is upside down
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:20 AM

 
yes there is!
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 10:21 PM

 
tomorrow is a relative term. the day after tomorrow, however, isn't....
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 2:05 AM

 
SUPER UPDATE: TOMORROW
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 11:09 PM

 
"The disturbed Emperors made a tremendous row, trumpeting with their metallic voices. There was no doubt they had eggs, for they tried to shuffle along the ground wthout losing them off their feet. But when they were hustled a good many eggs were dropped and left lying on the ice, and some of these were quickly picked up by eggless Emperors who had probably been waiting a long time for the opportunity. In these poor birds the maternal side seems to have necessarily swamped the other functions of life. Such is the struggle for existence that they can only live by a glut of maternity, and it would be interesting to know whether such a life leads to happiness or satisfaction." - Apsley Cherry-Garrard (on Emperor Penguins), THE WORST JOURNEY IN THE WORLD
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:01 PM

 
easy easy, we have to coax these new updates out slowly... lovingly..
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 5:27 PM

 
we alllll know it's way past time for an update, so....
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 11:54 AM

 
Eight

Thank you
My love
For these wings
Grow mightier
Everytime
Your lips
Touch mine
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 2:45 AM

 
Andrew: Do you like coffee?
Ed: Once in a while.
(pause)
Ed: Do you?
Andrew: YES.
Ed: Mm.
(pause)
Ed: I like cheese danishes.
(pause)
Ed: Do you like cheese danishes?
Andrew: YES.
(pause)
Andrew: But you can't SIP cheese danishes..
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 11:46 PM

 
Slowly Backwards

What comes
At least we know
Shorter
Short breaths become
Beside the bed
When I feel them join me
All the way
Everything
My ears my nose my mouth
Covering my eyes
And stumble down stairs
Black to white
Beneath a cotton pretense
And hide my head
Of far away stars
I hear the distant pleas
Swallowed up
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 11:15 PM

 
Shiver Night-Cling

Swallowed up
I hear the distant pleas
Of far away stars
And hide my head
Beneith a cotton pretense
Black to white
And stumble down stairs
Covering my eyes
My ears my nose my mouth
Everything
All the way
When I feel them join me
Beside the bed
Short breaths become
Shorter
At least we know
What comes
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 2:09 AM

 
ED'S hORRIBlE loVe PoeM

Your heart is red and rosey
Your feets are nice and toesy
You are sweeter than the sweetest
milk
My sun, my moon, my winter solstice
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:41 PM

 
selections from my poetry portfolio: (excuse the repeats)

Socks and Things

I am wearing
one sock.
It is soft and white.
I do not know
where it's partner has gone.
I do not know
whether or not it
misses me. Surely,
I do not miss it.
One can always find
more socks.
Sometimes, early in the morning,
I roll over and trace with my fingertips
the delicate indentation that remains,
the proof
that she is not there.
It is then that I know best:
I am not wearing
any
socks
at all.


Home

For the longest time I was not aware
that there is a ghetto in Maryland.
My street connects to another street which
connects to another street which connects
to my school.
Driving North I find rolling
hills, South, dense forest. East and West,
one or the other.
Someone has lied to me.
I do not leave my house. And yet
now that
the secret has been revealed, I do not
have to cross the corn fields to see silent faces,
the hopeful, boney hands reaching to survive.
I see it all.
Freshly
chopped
blades of grass.


Kline to Death

walking home
in the dark
hands in my
pockets, book
in my hood
i
cross
the
wind and
as the light shifts
my shadow
passes
me
by

"son of a bitch,"
i think,
"i'm glad it was you."


Movie Theater Diagnosis

Man who sits in the front row
We know you must be a child molester
Gave it away at Beltway


Sinister Danger

I caught him with my sister
Had a sweet baseball bat on me at the time
Saab trunks hold one boy plus bat


Golf Club Haberdash

Tiger Woods plays some good golf
If he was a ship, he would be one big ship
Blackmail stops here, Mr. Woods


Spider Sophisticate

I remember our hard love
You in my arms, whispering sweet sweet nothings
Die die die spider monkey

Inside My Private Massacre

Organized my life for you
Only three seniors can take fiction writing?
Bitterly: Your dog is gone


Sleep Music

Lions will kill you tonight
Go sleep soon, you won't feel cold jaws round your neck
You thought you were safe ha ha


Distant Revelation

The girl she loved is a jerk
Once I was tying my shoe and she snickered
Like they teach tying in school

No No No Laugh

London bridge is falling down
No no no no, you should not joke about that
London bridge killed my cousin


My Secret Passion

I shrimped you today, my dear
Caressed your foot with my tongue, sucking each toe
Next time you will be awake


Shrump Meat

I met a boy on a hill
?This is your dream, my friend,? the boy said to me
I met a girl on a hill


Hubujub?s Final Words

Goblins whisper to me now
?The night you die, I plan to dance in your skin?
I swat lightly at my ear

Timid Brainspan

that
's enoug
h to shu
t all of yo
u up for s
ome time
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:37 PM

 
this is a very relevant set of song lyrics by mr david gray:

BE MINE

From the very first moment I saw you
That's when I knew
All the dreams I held in my heart
Had suddenly come true
Knock me over stone cold sober
Not a thing I could say or do
'Cos baby when I'm walking with you now
My eyes are so wide
Like you reached right into my head
And turned on the light inside
Turning on the light
Inside my mind hey

Come on baby it's all right
Sunday Monday day or night
Written blue on white it's plain to see
That rainy shiny night or day
What's the difference anyway
Baby till your heart belongs to me

If I had some influence girl
With the powers that be
I'd have them fire that arrow at you
Like they fired it right at me
And maybe when your heart and soul are burning
You might see
That everytime I'm talking with you
It's always over too soon
That everyday feels so incomplete
Till you walk into the room
Say the word now girl
I'll jump that moon hey

Come on baby it's ok
Rainy shiny night or day
There's nothing in the way now
Don't you see
Winter summer day or night
Centigrade or fahrenheit
Baby till your heart belongs to me
Thursday Friday short or long
When you got a love so strong
How can it be wrong now mercy me
Jumpin' Jesus holy cow !
What's the difference anyhow
Baby till your heart belongs to me
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:43 PM

 
guy one: hey those pieces of cake look good
guy two: you think?
guy one: that oreo cake looks delicious
guy two: and don't ignore this chocolate nut cake..
guy one: yumm
guy two: i'm gonna eat them together at the same time
guy one: it'll be like they're making love
guy two: in my mouth ..ew.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 3:51 AM

 
woman in movie: he's as mule-ish as a sheep!
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 3:43 AM

 
here's an optimistic (or at least more optimistic for this page than usual) song by David Gray. No meaning for posting it here aside from I like it (which is reason enough).



BE MINE

From the very first moment I saw you
That's when I knew
All the dreams I held in my heart
Had suddenly come true
Knock me over stone cold sober
Not a thing I could say or do
'Cos baby when I'm walking with you now
My eyes are so wide
Like you reached right into my head
And turned on the light inside
Turning on the light
Inside my mind hey

Come on baby it's all right
Sunday Monday day or night
Written blue on white it's plain to see
That rainy shiny night or day
What's the difference anyway
Baby till your heart belongs to me

If I had some influence girl
With the powers that be
I'd have them fire that arrow at you
Like they fired it right at me
And maybe when your heart and soul are burning
You might see
That everytime I'm talking with you
It's always over too soon
That everyday feels so incomplete
Till you walk into the room
Say the word now girl
I'll jump that moon hey

Come on baby it's ok
Rainy shiny night or day
There's nothing in the way now
Don't you see
Winter summer day or night
Centigrade or fahrenheit
Baby till your heart belongs to me
Thursday Friday short or long
When you got a love so strong
How can it be wrong now mercy me
Jumpin' Jesus holy cow !
What's the difference anyhow
Baby till your heart belongs to me
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 3:42 AM

 
Teacher: Is Kurtz mad? Is he crazy?
Student: He's.. uh... "crazy like a fox"!
Teacher: Well, how crazy IS a fox? They seem to know what they are doing?
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 3:18 PM

 
THE HAND THAT ROCKS THE CRADLE (the smiths)
Please don't cry
For the ghost and the storm outside
Will not invade this sacred shrine
Nor infiltrate your mind
My life down I shall lie
If the bogey-man should try
To play tricks on your sacred mind
To tease, torment, and tantalise
Wavering shadows loom
A piano plays in an empty room
There'll be blood on the cleaver tonight
And when darknesss lifts and the room is bright
I'll still be by your side
For you are all that matters
And I'll love you to till the day I die
There never need be longing in your eyes
As long as the hand that rocks the cradle is mine
Ceiling shadows shimmy by
And when the wardrobe towers like a beast of prey
There's sadness in your beautiful eyes
Oh, your untouched, unsoiled, wonderous eyes
My life down I shall lie
Should restless spirits try
To play tricks on your sacred mind
I once had a child, and it saved my life
And I never even asked his name
I just looked into his wondrous eyes
And said : "never never never again"
And all too soon I did return
Just like a moth to a flame
So rattle my bones all over the stones
I'm only a beggar-man whom nobody owns
Oh, see how words as old as sin
Fit me like a glove
I'm here and here I'll stay
Together we lie, together we pray
There never need be longing in your eyes
As long as the hand that rocks the cradle is mine
As long as the hand that rocks the cradle is mine
Mine
Climb up on my knee, sonny boy
Although you're only three, sonny boy
You're - you're mine
And your mother she just never knew
Oh, your mother ...
As long ... as long ... as long
I did my best for her
I did my best for her
As long ... as long ... as long as ... as long
I did my best for her
I did my best for her
Oh ...

- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 2:20 PM

 
song of the day: Every Day Things Are Improving by DH

let me tell you what they told me
and i'll tell you what they said
every day things are improving
and that makes such sense to me
in so many ways
every day things are improving

don't think i don't understand
your petty motivations
cause i understand them extremely well
and i feel such gratitude
for the ways we show concern
every day things are improving

faces form fences
they live in glass
they are alive with glass
and if it hurts
maybe that means that you?re doing it wrong
and every day things are improving, my friend

and i'm sitting underneath
a beautiful palm tree
have we really grown so old
our sense of continuity
may be the last thing we have
at least every day things are improving
and every day
things are improving, my friend

and every day things are improving
and every day things are improving
and every day things just improve
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 11:04 PM

 
a very happpppy birthdaaayyyy to jenni! happy! birthday! happy birthday!
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 4:24 PM

 
i copied this down for an email, so i've decided to post it here since it's already written out. it's from GLAMORAMA by Bret Easton Ellis. he also wrote American Psycho and Rules of Attraction. watch for the Patrick Bateman cameo........

-----
"Bye, Baxter," Chloe says, tired but sweet, as usual.
"Yeah, bye, man," I mutter, a well-practiced dismissal, and once he's barely out of earshot I delicately ask, "What's the story, baby? Who was that?"
She doesn't answer, just glares at me.
Pause. "Hey, honey, you're looking at me like I'm at a Hootie and the Blowfish concert. Chill."
"Baxter Priestly?" she says-asks morosely, picking at a plate of cilantro.
"Who's Baxter Priestly?" I pull out some excellent weed and a package of rolling papers. "Who the fuck is Baxter Priestly?"
"He's in the new Darren Star show and plays bass in the band Hey That's My Shoe," she says, lighting another cigerette.
"Baxter Priestly? What the fuck kind of name is that?" I mutter, spotting seeds that cry out for removal.
"You're complaining about someone's name? YOU hang out with Plez and Fetish and a person whose parents actually named him Tomato-"
"They conceded it might have been a mistake."
"-and you do business with people named Benny Benny and Damien Nutchs Ross? And you haven't apologized for being an hour late? I had to wait upstairs in Eric's office."
"Oh god, I bet he loved that," I moan, concentrating on the pot. "Hell, baby, I thought I'd let you entertain the paparazzi." Pause. "And that's Kenny Kenny, honey."
"I did that all day," she sighs.
"Baxter Priestly? Why am I drawing a blank?" I ask earnestly, waving down Cliff the maitre d' for a drink but it's too late: Eric has already sent over a complimentary bottle of Cristol 1985.
"I guess I'm used to your oblivion, Victor," she says.
"Chloe. YOU do fur ads AND donate money to Greenpeace. YOU'RE what's known as a bundle of conversation, baby, not this guy."
"Baxter used to date Lauren Hynde." She stubs her cigerette out, smiles thankfully at the very good-looking busboy pouring the champagne into flutes.
"Baxter used to date Lauren Hynde?"
"Right."
"Who's Lauren Hynde?"
"Lauren Hynde, Victor," she stresses as if the name means something. "You DATED her."
"I did? I DID? Yeah? Hmm."
"Good night, Victor."
"I just don't remember Lauren Hynde, baby. Solly Cholly."
"Lauren Hynde?" she asks in disbelief. "You don't remember dating her? My god, what are you goning to say about ME?"
"Nothing, baby," I tell her, finally done deseeding. "We're gonna get married and grow old together. How did the shows go? Look - there's Scott Bakula. Hey, peace, man. Richard's looking for you, bud."
"Lauren Hynde, Victor."
"That's so cool. Hey Alfonse - great tattoo, guy." I turn back to Chloe. "Did you know Damien wears a hairpiece? He's some kind of demented wig addict."
"Who told you this?"
"One of the guys at the club," I say without pausing.
"Lauren Hynde, Victor. Lauren Hynde."
"Who's DAT?" I say, making a crazy face, leaning over, kissing her neck noisily. Suddenly Patrick McMullen glides by, politely asks for a photo, complimenting Chloe on the shows today. We move in close together, look up, smile, the flash goes off. "Hey, crop the pot," I warn as he spots Patrick Kelly and scampers off.
"Do you think he heard me?"
"Lauren Hynde's one of my best friends, Victor."
"I don't know her, but hey, if she's a friend of yours, well, need I say anything but AUTOMATICALLY?" I start rolling the joint,
"Victor, you went to school with her."
"I didn't go to school with her, baby," I murmur, waving over at Ross Bleckner and his new boyfriend, Mrs. Ross Bleckner, a guy who used to work at a club in Amagansett called Salamanders and was recently profiled in BIKINI.
"Forgive me if I'm mistaken, but you went to Camden with Lauren Hynde." She lights another cigerette, finally sips the champagne.
"Of course. I did," I say, trying to calm her. "Oh. Yeah."
"Did you go to college, Victor?"
"Literally or figuratively?"
"Is there a difference with you?" she asks. "How can you be so dense?"
"I don't know, baby. It's some kind of gene displacement."
"I can't listen to this. You complain about Baxter Priestly's NAME and yet you know people named Huggy and Pidgeon and Na Na."
"Hey," I finally snap, "and you slept with Charlie Sheen. We all have our little faults."
"I should've just had dinner with Baxter," she mutters.
"Baby, come on, a little champagne, a little sorbet. I'm rolling a joint so we can calm down. Now, who is this Baxter?"
"You met him at a Knicks game."
"Oh my god that's right - the new male waif, underfed, wild-haired, major rehab victim." I immediately shut up, glance nervously over at Chloe, then segue beautifully into: "The whole grunge aesthetic has ruined the look of the American male, baby. it makes you LONG for the 80's."
"Only YOU would say that, Victor."
"Anyway, I'm always watching you flirt with John-John at Knicks games."
"Like you wouldn't dump me for Daryl Hannah."
"Baby, I'D dump you for John-John if I really wanted the publicity." Pause, mid-lick, looking up. "That's not, um, a possibility ... is it?"
She just stares at me.
I grab her. "Come here, baby." I kiss her again, my cheek now damp because Chloe's hair is always wet and slicked back with coconut oil. "Baby? Why isn't your hair ever dry?"
Video cameras from Fashion TV sweep the room and I have to get Cliff to tell Eric to make sure they come nowhere near Chloe. M People turns into mid-period Elvis Costello which turns into Better Than Ezra. I order a bowl of raspberry sorbet and try to cheer Chloe up by turning it into a Prince song: "SHE ATE A RASPBERRY SORBET ... THE KIND YOU FIND AT THE BOWERY BAR ..."
Chloe just stares glumly at her plate.
"Honey, that's a plate of cilantro. What's the story?"
"I've been up since five and I want to cry."
"Hey, how was the big lunch at Fashion Cafe?"
"I had to sit there and watch James Truman eat a giant truffle and it really really bothered me."
"Because ... you wanted a truffle too?"
"No, Victor. Oh god, you don't get anything."
"Jesus, baby, spare me. What do you want me to do? Hang around Florence for a year studying Renaissance pottery? You get your legs waxed at Elizabeth Arden ten times a month."
"You sit around plotting seat arrangements."
"Baby baby bay." I light up the joint, whining. "Come on, my DJ's missing, the club's opening tomorrow, I have a photo shoot, a fucking show AND lunch with my father tomorrow." Pause. "Oh shit - band practice."
"How is your father?" she asks disinterestedly.
"A contrivance," I mutter. "A plot device."
Peggy Siegal walks by in taffeta and I duck under the table with my head in Chloe's lap, looking up into her face, grinning, while taking a deep toke. "Peggy wanted to handle the publicity," I explain, sitting up.
Chloe just stares at me.
"So-o-o anway," I continue. "James Truman eating a giant truffle? That's lunch? 'Entertainment Tonight,' yes - go on."
"It was so hip I ate," I hear her say.
"What did you eat?" I murmur indifferently, waving over at Frederique, who pouts her lips, eyes squinty, like she was cooing to a baby or a very large puppy.
"I ached, ACHED, Victor. Oh god, you never listen to me."
"Joking, baby. I'm joking. I really see what you're saying."
She stares at me, waiting.
"Um, your hip ached and - have I got it?"
She just stares at me.
"Okay, okay, reality just zapped me...." I take another toke, glance nervously at her. "So-o-o the video shoot tomorrow, um, what is it exactly?" Pause. "Are you, like, naked in it or anything?" Pause, another toke, then I cock my head to exhale smoke so it won't hit her in the face. "Er ... what's the story?"
She continues to stare.
"You're not naked ... or ... you are, um, naked?"
"Why?" she asks curtly. "Do you care?"
"Baby baby baby. Last time you did a video you were dancing on the hood of a car in your BRA. Baby baby baby ..." I'm shaking my head woefully. "Concern is causing me to like pant and sweat."
"Victor, you did how many bathing suit ads? You were photographed for Madonna's sex book. Jesus, you were in that Versace ad where - am I mistaken? - we did or did not see your pubic hair?"
"Yeah, but Madonna dropped those photos and let's just say THANK YOU to that and there's a major difference between my pubic hair - which was LIGHTENED - and your tits, baby. Oh Christ, spare me, forget t, I don't know what you call-"
"It's called a double standard, Victor."
"Double standard?" I take another hit without trying and say, feeling particularly mellow, "Well, I didn't do PLAYGIRL."
"Congratulations. But that wasn't for me. That was because of your father. Don't pretend."
"I like to pretend." I offer an amazingly casual shrug.
"It's fine when you're seven, Victor, but add twenty years to that and you're just retarded."
"Honey, I'm just bummed. Mica DJ had vanished, tomorrow is hell day and the FLATLINERS II thing is all blurry and watery - who knows what the fuck is happening there. Bill thinks I'm someone named Dagby and jeez, you know how much time I put into those notes to shape that script up and-"
"What about the potato chip commercial you were up for?"
"Baby baby baby/ Jumping around a beach, putting a Pringle in my mouth and looking surprised because - why? - it's SPICY? Oh baby." I groan, slouching into the booth. "Do you have any Visine?"
"It's a job, Victor," she says. "It's money."
"I think CAA's a mistake. I mean, when I was talking to Bill I started remembering that really scary story you told me about Mike Ovitz."
"What scary story?"
"Remember - you were invited to meet with all those CAA guys like Bob Bookman and Jay Mahoney at a screening on Wilshire and you went and the movie was a brand-new print of TORA! TORA! TORA! and during the entire movie THEY ALL LAUGHED? You don't remember telling me this?"
"Victor," Chloe sighs, not listening. "I was in SoHo the other with day with Lauren and we were having lunch at ZOE and somebody came up to me and said, 'Ohyou look just like Chloe Byrnes."
"And you said, er 'How dare you!'?" I ask, glancing sideways at her.
"And I said, 'Oh? Really?'"
"It sounds like you had a somewhat leisurely, um, afternoon," I cough, downing smoke with a gulp of champagne. "Lauren WHO?"
"You're not listening to me, Victor."
"Oh come on, baby, when you were young and your heart was an open book you used to say live and let live." I pause, take another hit on the joint. "You know you did. You know you did. YOU KNOW YOU DID." I cough again, sputtering out smoke.
"You're not talking to me," Chloe says sternly, with too much emotion. "You're looking at me but you're NOT talking to me."
"Baby, I'm your biggest fan," I say. "And I'm admitting this only somewhat groggily."
"Oh, how grown-up of you."
The new It Girls flutter by our booth, nervously eyeing Chloe - one of them eating a stick of purple cotton candy - on their way to dance by the bathroom. I notice Chloe's troubled glare, as if she just drank something black or ate a bad piece of sashimi.
"Oh come on, baby. You wanna end up living on a sheep farm in Australia milking fucking dingoes? You wanna spend the rest of your life on the Internet answering E-mail? Spare me. Lighten up."
A long pause and then, "Milking ... DINGOES?"
"Most of those girls have an eighth-grade education."
"You went to Camden College - same thing. Go talk to them."
People keep stopping by, begging for invites to the opening, which I dole out accordingly, telling me they spotted my visage last week at the Marlin in Miami, at the Elite offices on the hotel's first floor, then at the Strand, and by the time Michael Bergen tells me we shared an iced latte at the Bruce Weber/Ralph Lauren photo shoot in Key Biscayne I'm too tired to even deny I was in Miami last weekend and so I ask Michael if it was a good latte and he says so-so and it gets noticeably colder in the room. Chloe looks on, oblivious, meekly sips champagne. Patrick Bateman who's with a bunch of publicists and the three sons of a well-known movie producer, walks over, shakes my hand, eyes Chloe, asks how the club's coming along, if tomorrow night's happening, says Damien invited him, hands me a cigar, weird stains on the lapel of his Armani suit that costs as much as a car,
"The proverbial show is on the proverbial road, dude," I assure him.
"I just like to keep - abreast," he says, winking at Chloe.
After he leaves I finish the joint, then look at my watch but I'm not wearing one so I inspect my wrist instead.
"He's strange," Chloe says. "And I need some soup."
"He's a nice guy, babe."
Chloe slouches in the booth, looks at me disgustedly.
"What? Hey, he has his own coat of arms."
"Who told you that?"
"He did. He told me he has his own coat of arms."
"Spare me," Chloe says.
Chloe picks up the check and in order to downplay the situation I lean in to kiss her, the swarming paparazzi causing the kind of disturbance we're used to.

-----(another shorter excerpt later on..)

I'm silent for a minute before I can say, "That's ... so depressing baby."
Lauren struggles up out of the booth and, standing unsteadily, grabs the edge of the table for support, shakes her head to clear it and then dances slowly, gracelessly with herself across the raw concrete floor over to the pool table and I reach out and touch the strand of pearls I suddenly notice draped around her neck, trying to move with her.
"What are you doing, Victor?" she asks, dreamily. "Dancing? Is that dancing?"
"Squirming. It's called squirming, baby."
"Oh, don't squirm, lovebutton," she pouts.
"I think there's quite a bit to squirm about tonight," I say tiredly. "In fact, I think lovebutton's squirming is totally justified."
"Oh god, Victor," she groans, still swaying to the music. "You were such a cute, sweet, normal guy when I first met you." A long pause. "You were so sweet."
After a minute without moving, I clear my throat. "Um, baby, I don't think I was ever any of those things." A realization. "Except for, um, cute, of course."
She stops dancing, considers this, then admits, "That's probably the first honest thing you've ever said."
And then I ask, "Did you mean what you said down there?" Pause, darkness again. "I mean about us." Pause. "And all that," I add.
I hand her the bottle of vodka. She takes it, starts to drink, stops, puts it on the pool table. The rays from the spotlight cross her face, illuminating it for seconds, her eyes closed, tearing, her head slightly turned; a hand is brought up to her mouth, and it's curled.
"What?" I carefully move the icy bottle of vodka off the pool table so it won't leave a damp ring on the felt. "Is this all too bummerish?"
She nods slowly and then moves her face next to mine and the sounds of horns from limos in gridlock and the relentless roar of the massive crowd outside is carried up in waves to where we're stumbling around clutching each other and I'm muttering "Dump Damien, baby" into her ear as she pushes me away when she feels how hard I am.
"It's not that simple," she says, her back to me.
"Hey babe, I get it," I say casually. "Lust never sleeps, right?"
"No, Victor." She clears her throat, walks slowly around the pool table. I follow her. "It's just not that simple."
"You have ... star quality, baby," I'm saying, grasping, sending out a vibe.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 6:00 PM

 
Dan: "A very special person is going to be getting a Billy Joel figurine soon...."
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 7:37 PM

 
Prof. Cohen: "No, no, I want to be called a cat."
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 4:30 PM

 
walking home
in the dark
hands in my
pockets, book
in my hood
i
cross
the
wind and
as the light shifts
my shadow
passes
me
by

"son of a bitch,"
i think,
"i'm glad it was you."
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:40 AM

 
THIS (by bukowski)

self-congratulatory nonsense as the

famous gather to applaud their seeming

greatness

you

wonder where

the real ones are

what

giant cave

hides them

as

the deathly talentless

bow to

accolades

as

the fools are

fooled

again

you

wonder where

the real ones are

if there are

real ones.

this self-congratulatory nonsense

has lasted

decades

and

with some exceptions

centuries.

this

is so dreary

is so absolutely pitiless

it

churns the gut to

powder

shackles hope

it

makes little things

like

pulling up a shade

or

putting on your shoes

or

walking out on the street

more difficult

near

damnable

as

the famous gather to

applaud their

seeming

greatness

as

the fools are

fooled

again

humanity

you sick

motherfucker.

- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 11:16 PM

 
Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree with Anybody Else but Me - bukowski

to choose
wisely is half way
along the
road to
victory;
the other half is
conquered by
indifference.

on the one hand
you can say
anything
you want;
on the other hand
you don't
have to.

somehow
I've managed
to do
both.

so any
problem you have
with me
is
yours.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 9:54 PM

 
AIDS - bukowski

the easy days of sex are over,
sex is almost finished
here on earth
unless they are able to cure
what is killing
us.

the young will never know
how recklessly we went
from bed to bed,
from body to body,
from night to night.
it all, at times, became a
bore.

I wonder what we will lose
next?

it's been a hell of a
half century:
first the atom bomb,
then
this.

it's time for an invasion
of Space Aliens.

and they can damn well
have
it
all.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 9:48 PM

 
Beauty Gone - bukowski

You were, at best
the delicate thought of a delicate hand
and when
beneath the love of flowers I am still and gone-
as the spider drinks the greening hour-
strike grey bells,
let a frog say
a voice is dead;
let the beasts of the forest,
the days that have hated this,
the contrary wives of unblinking grief
plan a small surrender somewhere
between Mexicali and Tampa;
you gone, cigarettes smoked, loaves sliced,
and lest this be taken for wry sorrow:
put the spider in wine,
crack the thin skull that held poor lightning,
make it all less than a treacherous kiss,
and put me down for the last dance
you much more dead than I:
I am a dish for your ashes,
I am a fist for your air.

the most immense thing about beauty
is finding it gone.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 9:38 PM

 
Happy Birthday, dad! I ate pizza and pasta tonight just for you!
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 5:44 PM

 
Excerpt from "WOMEN" by C. Bukowski

"I drove to Sara's. I also had several bottles of wine with me. In fact, I had polished off one of them while shaving. I seldom shaved but I shaved for Sara's birthday, and Veterans' night. She was a good woman. Her mind was charming and, strangely, her celibacy was understandable. I mean, the way she looked at it, it should be saved for a good man. Not that I was a good man, exactly, but her obvious class would look good sitting next to my obvious class at a cafe table in Paris after I finally became famous. She was endearing, calmly intellectual, and best of all, there was that crazy admixture of red in the gold of her hair. It was almost as if I had been looking for that color hair for decades . . . maybe longer."
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 5:44 PM

 
ok, so its yom kippur and its also Mexican Independence Day.. so the cafeteria is serving Latin Food.. i'm not sure which holiday overrides the other. i'm thinking i'll fast until tonight and then celebrate Mexico too. that way, both our gods are favored.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 2:57 PM

 
I think ed has vanished.
- posted by L. @ 7:09 PM

 
it's spreading...!

http://www.top-greetings.com/N.py?A=20020904
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 1:50 PM

 
more lovely Waits..

Alice
(Tom Waits/Kathleen Brennan 1992)

It's dreamy weather we're on
You waved your crooked wand
Along an icy pond with a frozen moon
A murder of silhouette crows I saw
And the tears on my face
And the skates on the pond
They spell Alice

I disappear in your name
But you must wait for me
Somewhere across the sea
There's a wreck of a ship
Your hair is like meadow grass on the tide
And the raindrops on my window
And the ice in my drink
Baby all I can think of is Alice

Arithmetic arithmetock
Turn the hands back on the clock
How does the ocean rock the boat?
How did the razor find my throat?
The only strings that hold me here
Are tangled up around the pier

And so a secret kiss
Brings madness with the bliss
And I will think of this
When I'm dead in my grave
Set me adrift and I'm lost over there
And I must be insane
To go skating on your name
And by tracing it twice
I fell through the ice
Of Alice

And so a secret kiss
Brings madness with the bliss
And I will think of this
When I'm dead in my grave
Set me adrift and I'm lost over there
And I must be insane
To go skating on your name
And by tracing it twice
I fell through the ice
Of Alice
There's only Alice
-----------
(p.s. you're alice)
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:55 PM

 
Barcarolle
(Tom Waits/Kathleen Brennan 1992)

A cloud lets go of the moon
Her ribbons are all out of tune
She is skating on the ice
In a glass in the hands of a man
That she kissed on a train
And the children are all gone into town
To get candy and we are alone in the house here
And your eyes fall down on me

And I belong only to you
The water is filling my shoes
In the wine of my heart there's a stone
In a well made of bone
That you bring to the pond
And I'm here in your pocket
Curled up in a dollar
And the chain from your watch around my neck
And I'll stay right here until it's time

The girls all knit in the shade
Before the baby is made
And the branches bend down
To the ground here to swing on
I'm lost in the blond summer grass
And the train whistle blows
And the carnival goes
Till there's only the tickets and crows here
And the grass will all grow back

And the branches spell 'Alice'
And I belong only to you

- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 9:36 PM

 
BEHOLD! i humbly announce the arrival of my roommate and my new companion (we don't like to think of him as a "pet") turtle, THE PROFESSOR CAULIFLOWER JACKNIFE. There will be zero tolerance for fraternizing with the turtle, but he will no doubt be an invaluable and respected member of Room 204. ..that is all.. for now.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:06 AM

 
"3. Is it or isnt it? Newest tally, Molly wins by a landslide, sorry Ed." You can add two to my side.. Bard students are very smart. TWO of them. and i only asked two so far, so it's not like two in twenty. it's two in two. that's like, EVERYONE so far.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 10:29 PM

 
so so heres an update for jenni cuz apparently she doesn't like the way i've been running my OWN PERSONAL WEBSITE. things here at bard are sunny. I have selected some classes that i might registar.. here's my possible class list:
First Year Seminar
History of Cinema
Playwriting
Drawing 1

neat huh? i passed my orientation class and right now i'm searching out a job on campus (or very nearby). seems i might be scrubbin' dishes in the cafeteria.. fun fun fun fun.

okee enough of this dribble for now!

:D

more later...
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 10:27 PM

 
Jesse1: "That joke wasn't funny."
Jesse2: "Let's laugh until we forget it."
----
Girl: "Can we eat the banana bread yet?"
Pesh: "Yes but you will DIE!"
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 11:58 PM

 
Excerpt from "Ham on Rye" by Charles Bukowski:

My father drove along, stopping and starting, making deliveries.
"O.K., kid, which direction are we driving in now?"
"North."
"You're right. We're going North."
We went up and down streets, stopping and starting.
"O.K., which way are we going now?"
"West."
"No, we're going South."
We drove in silence some more.
"Suppose I pushed you out of the truck now and left you on the sidewalk, what would you do?"
"I don't know."
"I mean, how would you live?"
"Well, I guess I'd go back and drink the milk and orange juice you just left on the porch steps."
"Then what would you do?"
"I'd find a policeman and tell him what you did."
"You would, huh? And what would you tell him?"
"I'd tell him that you told me that 'west' was 'south' because you wanted me to get lost."
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 1:33 AM

 
Clara: "WHO'S FAMILY OWNED THAT CHAIR YOUR LAZY ASS IS SITTING IN? MOMMA!?"
----
Excerpt from Patrick's play: "Everywhere around him he sees love. Squirrels are chasing each other etc."
----
Eric: "Gertrude Stein makes a fine rap."
----
Raizin: "If this was a Gertrude Stein college, no one on that tour would be here. They needed that poetry reading like a fish needs a bicycle."
----
Me: "I am wondering if Gertrude Stein is dead and if so, who killed her... I am curious to know what dress she was wearing when the murder took place... And whether or not she was intoxicated or high at the time..."
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 1:48 PM

 
What Good Am I? by Bob Dylan

What good am I if I'm like all the rest,
If I just turned away, when I see how you're dressed,
If I shut myself off so I can't hear you cry,
What good am I?

What good am I if I know and don't do,
If I see and don't say, if I look right through you,
If I turn a deaf ear to the thunderin' sky,
What good am I?

What good am I while you softly weep
And I hear in my head what you say in your sleep,
And I freeze in the moment like the rest who don't try,
What good am I?

What good am I then to others and me
If I've had every chance and yet still fail to see
Bridge: If my hands tied must I not wonder within
Who tied them and why and where must I have been

What good am I if I say foolish things
And I laugh in the face of what sorrow brings
And I just turn my back while you silently die,
What good am I?
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 11:42 PM

 
Eric: "Lincoln logs: The building blocks of the world!"
----
Sascha: ". . .Aquatic slaves and sluts. Now that slavery has been abolished and women have the right to vote, we should turn our thoughts to the goldfish."
----
Asian kid talking to black kid before math test: "Bet you wish you were asian now, huh!?"
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 10:55 PM

 
a humble request:

get together a lot of money (as much money as there ever was)
go to loco hombres
buy some of those red chips (MUST BE RED)
buy some of that sweet green salsa
send to

Edward Hellman/Freshman
Bard College Box#254
PO Box 5000
Annandale, NY 12504
12504-5000

very, very, very urgent.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:52 PM

 
courses of interest so far:

Existentialism
First year Seminar
History of Cinema
??? i need more.. all the fiction classes aren't available to freshmen really.

HMMMMmmm....
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 4:37 PM

 
a bit of "A Little Rain" by TW

She was 15 years old
And never seen the ocean
She climbed into a van
With a vagabond
And the last thing she said
Was "I love you mom"

And a little rain
Never hurt no one
And a little rain
Never hurt no one

- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 10:12 AM

 
Patrick: "I'm not condemning people, I'm just saying it's grotesque."
----
Teacher: "I had to pick up a proffessor and I had a stinking fetus in the car! I wished I'd done something great with the fetus, but the fact is, I didn't."
----
Teacher: "It may not have modernization in it."
Raisin Bob-Waxberg: "It's a pre-modern dictionary!"
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 5:14 PM

 
official retraction: jenni replies to emails and does so very well.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 1:43 PM

 
yay! lia play!
- posted by L. @ 1:29 AM

 
After several failed attempts, Gordon Elephant attracted the waiter's attention and waved him over.

"Another non-alcoholic cocktail for myself and the lady." said Gordon.
"But sir," said the waiter dryly, through thick braces, "she hasn't yet finished these last three.."
"She'll arrive shortly. I'm certain of that." said Gordon as he waved the waiter away.

On his way home, Gordon treated himself to an ice cream cone. A block later, he gave it to a bum on the side of the road, who in turn gave it to a little girl for kiss on the cheek.

Gordon checked his answering machine for messages and went to sleep. His dreams consisted of running through a field naked with his roommate Andy, and falling down an open elevator shaft while searching for the invisible childhood friend who had left him during puberty.

The next day, Gordon arrived early to work but his boss gave him a late slip anyway. Around 10 o'clock, a rotund man wearing a cape entered the store and, after purchasing a bathroom scale and a nail gun, flashed Gordon numerous times. Gordon didn't notice however, due to his blindness.

Sometime later, Gordon took his lunch break and completed the homework he had put off the night before. He was finding night school to be a real pain, but had already put down the deposit.

Gordon had short, curly, brown hair. He wore glasses, but they weren't prescription, which his mother had told him was the new fad.

Back in his apartment, Gordon watched television with his roommate Andy.
"What's happening on the screen now?" asked Gordon.
"Man, shut-up." said Andy, "I'm tryin' to watch toons!"

Gordon Elephant concluded his prayer to god, finished up, flushed the toilet and stood at the bathroom sink. He had been raised with the saying, "One hand washes the other," so after losing his left in an outlawed sports event, he never knew quite what to do.

Across town, Gordon's invisible childhood friend made it with a Japanese schoolgirl and then enjoyed a good, long smoke.

- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 5:39 PM

 
you wanna know who sucks? jenni. cuz she hasn't responded to my email. OH yeah, that's right. she's one of those "no respondos" you read about in the back pages of Time Life. sad really.. if she only would reply she'd just be so super duper. then i'd have to post a retraction to this i suppose and be all 'ow! jenni is on fire! she's totally mackin' with the keyboard in an email sort of way! reply-central! reply-o-rama!". well, we shall see, shant we, ayyye jenni?
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 2:28 PM

 
Claude Tangent scoped out his hot new wheels. There was no doubt about it, busses were definitely coming back in style. After wiping down the windshield and snapping hip retro shades over his glasses, Claude was ready to take the sleek 8 wheeler out on the road. With shaking hands, Claude inched in the ignition key and then steadied himself against the steering wheel as the engine lurched into action. Boy did she purr.

"Shit," said Claude to himself, "Peggy is gonna blow her wig when she sees this! I'm gonna get laid! I'm takin' this hog to the county fuckin' fair!"

"The fair!?" said a voice gruffly from the back of the bus, "this bus is s'posed to be goin' to Lexington Street. I've been waiting back here for far too long to be goin? across town to no fair! I need to go to work!"

Claude groggily turned around and for the first time became conscious of the fact that the bus was fully stocked with passengers. The passengers included: One Sardinian painter, one hunchbacked schoolteacher, three black stock brokers, seven Chinese businessmen, a faceless boy and a peckish looking Presbyterian pastor. Claude squinted, unable to place the voice with any of the passengers.

"Boy," said the voice again, coming from no one in particular, "You best be startin' up your rounds."

"I see.." said Claude slowly, "that... Is what... I will do..."

Claude pulled out onto the road and in no time found himself at the first bus stop. A slender, and curly haired, one armed, blind night school student hopped on board.

"How much?" asked the blind kid.
"Uhh, how much you got?" said Claude. He was busy wondering if he'd be done his rounds in time to pick up a futon from his brother's and fit it in the back before his date.

Minutes turned into handfuls of minutes, handfuls of minutes into forty minute blocks, forty minute blocks into hours. At 12:30 Claude pulled into a Metro parking lot and called for a fifteen minute lunch break. By this point, the only passengers to remain were the faceless boy and his pastor.

"So where ya goin??" asked Claude.
"Wherever god takes us," said the pastor impishly.
Claude chewed slowly. "Tell your kid to stop lookin? at me so weird."
The faceless boy's brow began to furrow.

At the next bus stop, Claude let on three new passengers: A biker, a computer consultant, and a lonely newspaper columnist.

"How much?" asked the biker.
"Five bucks," answered Claude.

"How much?" asked the computer consultant.
"Thirteen dollars," answered Claude.

"How much?" asked the lonely newspaper consultant.
"Fifty-two big ones."

At 4:30 Claude pulled into a Safeway parking lot and announced a twenty minute snack break. Again, the only passengers to remain were the faceless boy and his pastor.

"So father," said Claude, "does the church have anything against over compensating?"
"We are all equal in the eyes of the lord," replied the pastor as he licked his lips and continued spreading mustard on the faceless boy's arm.
"I hear that!" said Claude.

At the next stop, Claude picked up a single new passenger.

"How much?" asked the foppishly monocled British man.
"Sixty- five gajllion dollars."
"Oh, yes of course!"

The monocled man took his seat as Claude peered out the rear view mirror. A vampire dog spread it's wings and flew into the air.

Claude groaned and turned around to face his passengers, screaming, "Jesus! Everyone hold on! It's one of those vampire dogs!" Claude put the bus in gear and burned rubber.

After the coast was clear and the vampire dog nothing more than a speck behind them, Claude slowed to a stop at the side of the road.

"Well, we made it.?" said Claude.
"Thanks." said the pastor.
"Thanks." said the monocled man.
"Yeah, no problem."

Claude removed his glasses and stared off into the sunset. "Gentlemen," he said stoically, "who's up for a road trip?"

No one said a word as the bus entered a dense cornfield.

"Man," said Claude, "would someone shut that faceless boy up!"
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 11:15 PM

 
not to be connected to my life whatsoever, these lyrics stuck out in my mind after listening to their song, so i post them for you:

Leave it Alone by Moist (eww name)

Id walk the water to get back to you
And where i was complete
We found you scattered by the highway side too
Soon to be released
Gathered the pieces up and clean the places
Where you were undone
And washed the wreckage out unfinished all the
Thoughts that wed begun
I came to burn the sky and tear away
The beauty that it sows
If i could rape the day and find the things i thought
Id always known
Leave it alone again tonight
I laid your arms out long untwisted there
And shaped what i could find
Unmade the most of it then left the rest
The parts unrecognized
My reconstruction was the only way
For one last look at you
I lost the sense of it the absolution
That we never knew
Leave it alone again tonight
Leave it alone again tonight
And it takes me back from this place here
It takes me back from this place here
I came to burn the sky and tear away
The beauty that it sows
If i could rape the day and find the things
I thought id always known
Leave it alone again tonight
And it takes me back from this place here
From this place here it takes me over
And it might be lost in this place here
From this place here it takes me on
Tonight leave it alone

- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 4:42 PM

 
Girl: "I actually found 2 connections.."
Raizon Bob-Waxberg: "Woopee!"
Teacher: "Oh! The over achiever in the group-"
Raizon Bob-Waxberg: "Let's kill her! Piggy! Piggy!"
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 4:08 PM

 
Sasha: "We have to take for granted.... Ya know... Building machines."
Teacher: "You mean.. Cranes?"
Sasha: "...Yeah."
-----
Teacher: "You just mentioned a new word! 'Mass-Outspeak'"
-----
Raizon Bob-Waxberg: "In conclusion, go go America!"
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:56 PM

 
Home - e.h.

For the longest time I was not aware
that there is a ghetto in Maryland.
My street connects to another street which
connects to another street which connects
to my school.
Driving North, I find rolling
hills, South, dense forest. East and West,
one or the other.
Someone has lied to me.
I do not leave my house. And yet
now that
the secret has been revealed, I do not
have to cross the corn fields to see silent faces,
the hopeful, boney hands reaching to survive.
I see it all.
Freshly
chopped
blades of grass.

- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:51 PM

 
Socks an Things - e.h.

I am wearing one sock. It is soft and white. I do not know where it's partner has gone. I do not know whether or not it misses me. Surely, I do not miss it. One can always find more socks.
Sometimes, early in the morning, I roll over and trace with my fingertips the delicate indentation that remains, the proof that she is not there. It is then that I know best: I am not wearing any socks at all.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:45 PM

 
"Colonialism isn't just buttercups and tea" - Benedikt the german guy
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 4:17 PM

 
"I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you so much" -The Cure, "CUt heRE"
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 10:26 PM

 
5 days till i leave for college.. let the countdown begin.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:32 PM

 
does anyone still check this besides me? if so gotta know!
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 5:46 PM

 
welllll, that took.... 2 minutes.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:44 PM

 
yes, the time has come. today i go through every oriface of my room and seperate the good clothes from the bad. an arduous process i'm sure. sigh, here i go...
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:25 PM

 
Shore Leave by waits

Well with buck shot eyes and a purple heart
I rolled down the national stroll
and with a big fat paycheck
strapped to my hip sack
and a shore leave wristwatch underneath
my sleeve
in a Hong Kong drizzle on Cuban heels
I rowed down the gutter to the Blood Bank
and I'd left all my papers on the Ticonderoga
and was in a bad need of a shave
and so I slopped at the corner on cold chow mein
and shot billards with a midget
until the rain stopped
and I bought a long sleeved shirt
with horses on the front
and some gum and a lighter and a knife
and a new deck of cards (with girls on the back)
and I sat down and wrote a letter to my wife

and I said Baby, I'm so far away from home
and I miss my Baby so
I can't make it by myself
I love you so

Well I was pacing myself
trying to make it all last
squeezing all the life
out of a lousy two day pass
and I had a cold one at the Dragon
with some Filipino floor show
and talked baseball with a lieutenant
over a Singapore sling
and I wondered how the same moon outside
over this Chinatown fair
could look down on Illinois
and find you there
and you know I love you Baby

and I'm so far away from home
and I miss my Baby so
I can't make it by myself
I love you so

Shore Leave...
Shore Leave...





- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:56 PM

 
comments.

i want them.

does anyone know how to put up a place for people to comment on my posts?

if so, tell me now.

i'm forming this brilliant idea for a movie.

i just saw a couple episodes of twin peaks and i was struck how very david lynch my idea is.

if you are a genius, you will enjoy this movie.

that's what the slogan will be.

well, the idea is still forming.

more updates soon, baby.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 10:36 PM

 
"i'd love to touch the sky tonight" -cure
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 11:49 PM

 
CHAPTER TWO

Si Boxcar woke to the sound of his left pinky toe snapping in half. With all the strength he could muster, he pried his right big toe off the broken digit and separated the feet with a pillow.
"Where the fuck are my socks?" said Si.
Fishing around under his bed, Si found what he was looking for: two big medieval chain-link gloves. It was the only thing that could keep the two feet from fighting. Si popped one on each foot and hobbled around his apartment dejectedly. This was the second toe that had been ravaged by his right foot in under a week. Something had to change.
Si dialed the doctor down the hall.
"Hello, hello?" said Si into the receiver. A deep, throaty voice whispered from the other end.
"This is Dr. Directory.. How may I service you?"
"Yes, this is Si Boxcar from down the hall. The foot problem continues."
"Ah, of course, Mr. Si Boxcar, I see. Have you tried using ointment?"
"No I have not."
"Then I will send some right over. More of a balm really. Should work nicely to calm things down. You say it is the right one which is the instigator?"
"Yes, so far. I sense a great deal of rage building up in the left though waiting to let loose. Have you ever heard of this in any of your patients?"
"You realize I'm a proctologist, don't you, Si?"
"Oh, hm."
The conversation went on for hours. Afterwards, Si hobbled into the kitchen and retrieved a dull steak knife, hacked off his right foot at the ankle and then fed it to his left. Twirling the blade on the kitchen floor, Si marveled at the pool of blood accumulating at his stump. The balm arrived and Si spread it on some toast. Munching loudly, he wriggled his remaining toes back and forth on his left foot.
"Zounds," said Si to himself, "they're dancing!"
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 5:04 PM

 
CHAPTER ONE

Someone had broken the bathroom scale,

and Teacup Hernendez was feeling vengeful.

Staring up at ceiling cracks and cobwebs, Teacup threw his arms wide and whispered in his deep, throaty voice, "Dr. Directory, you bastard, you've trifled with me for the last time. By god, by GOD, I won't rest until I've had my just remuneration. I will hold your head in my hands, my very own flesh and blood appendages, stare deep into your ever-blinking eyes, your eyes, the eyes of the DEVIL, and bestow upon them the honor of watching your own body be ripped apart by vicious wild mice."

Teacup was an off-and-on writer, but he had yet to be published. Years later, he would father a cross between a dog and a goat, an abstract scientific miracle, and the confusion of momentary fame would coerce him into joining an international freak show under the alias "Father of Goat Dog", leaving his writing itch forever unscratched. Ultimately, he would die of dysentery in front of a live crowd.

Teacup watched the tiny men scurrying about down on the street. He hated them, truly. Most of all he hated Dr. Directory for breaking his bathroom scale. Teacup ran his finger along the yellow pages and opened up to the listing for Boxcar's Bottom Feeder Appliances.

Ring ring.

Another deep throaty voice, this one buzzy and distant, answered on the other end.

"Hello, this is Boxcar, I picked up the phone, start talking."

Teacup cleared his throat and hung up. "Good," he thought, "They're open."

Unlike the rest of the neighbors, Teacup dressed for one man: Teacup. Throwing a satin cape around his naked body, Teacup Hernendez marched out of his apartment and into the brisk Autumn air.

It was a long trek to Boxcar's Bottom Feeder Appliances, but Teacup really wanted a new bathroom scale.

The new scale was hard and flat, nothing like the old, worn down one in his apartment.

"Do you have anything in black?" Teacup asked, pointing to the nail gun rack behind the counter, cluttered with bright green and ultra neon pink nail guns and nail gun accessories.

"My whole fucking life is in black, asshole." bitched the blind clerk.

Teacup made a swishing motion with his cape.

In his apartment, Teacup Hernendez tried out the new scale. The tiny needle climbed up and up, past 250, past 260, past 270. It hit 495 and quivered slightly, then snapped. Teacup let out a soft sigh. He was a gigantic, obese, mammoth of a man, but he knew when he'd been tricked.

"Dr. Directory, you bastard, you've done it again!"
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 10:50 PM

 
this isn't an accurant example of how i'm feeling, but it struck me as interesting:

The Holy Hour
by the cure

I kneel and wait in silence
As one by one the people slip away
Into the night
The quiet and empty bodies
Kiss the ground before they pray
Kiss the ground
And slip away...

I sit and listen dreamlessly
A promise of salvation makes me stay
Then look at your face
And feel my heart pushed in
As all around the children play
The games they tired of yesterday
They play

I stand and hear my voice
Cry out
A wordless scream at ancient power
It breaks against stone
I softly leave you crying...

I cannot hold what you devour
The sacrifice of penance
In the holy hour

- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 6:18 PM

 
hark and the angels singg "jenni is amazin', ain't no thing"
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 11:42 AM

 
back and revved up for some blog updates.. later.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 3:20 AM

 
a snippit of smiths:

All the streets are crammed with things
Eager to be held
I know what hands are for
And I'd like to help myself
You ask me the time
But I sense something more
And I would like to give
What I think you're asking for
You handsome devil
Oh, you handsome devil
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 3:15 AM

 
in my next movie i'm gonna have a dog who walks through the scene every now and then humming quietly to himself. i'm thinkin 3D.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 4:57 PM

 
i have a yearbook on my desk that needs signing. now, i know i can fill in at least one page myself, but my hand should get awefully tired by the end of it, so here's askin' for sigs from e e e e everyone
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:18 PM

 
CUt heRE
by the CURE

"SO WE MEET AGAIN!" AND I OFFER MY HAND
ALL DRY AND ENGLISH SLOW
AND YOU LOOK AT ME AND I UNDERSTAND
YEAH IT'S A LOOK I USED TO KNOW
"THREE LONG YEARS... AND YOUR FAVOURITE MAN...
IS THAT ANY WAY TO SAY HELLO?"
AND YOU HOLD ME...
LIKE YOU'LL NEVER LET ME GO

"OH C'MON AND HAVE A DRINK WITH ME
SIT DOWN AND TALK AWHILE... "
"OH I WISH I COULD... AND I WILL!
BUT NOW I JUST DON'T HAVE THE TIME... "
AND OVER MY SHOULDER AS I WALK AWAY
I SEE YOU GIVE THAT LOOK GOODBYE...
I STILL SEE THAT LOOK IN YOUR EYE...

SO DIZZY MR BUSY - TOO MUCH RUSH TO TALK TO BILLY
ALL THE SILLY FRILLY THINGS HAVE TO FIRST GET DONE
IN A MINUTE - SOMETIME SOON - MAYBE NEXT TIME - MAKE IT JUNE
UNTIL LATER... DOESN'T ALWAYS COME

IT'S SO HARD TO THINK "IT ENDS SOMETIME
AND THIS COULD BE THE LAST
I SHOULD REALLY HEAR YOU SING AGAIN
AND I SHOULD REALLY WATCH YOU DANCE"
BECAUSE IT'S HARD TO THINK
"I'LL NEVER GET ANOTHER CHANCE TO HOLD YOU...
TO HOLD YOU... "

BUT CHILLY MR DILLY - TOO MUCH RUSH TO TALK TO BILLY
ALL THE TIZZY FIZZY IDIOT THINGS MUST GET DONE
IN A SECOND - JUST HANG ON - ALL IN GOOD TIME - WON'T BE LONG
UNTIL LATER...

I SHOULD'VE STOPPED TO THINK - I SHOULD'VE MADE THE TIME
I COULD'VE HAD THAT DRINK - I COULD'VE TALKED AWHILE
I WOULD'VE DONE IT RIGHT - I WOULD'VE MOVED US ON
BUT I DIDN''T - NOW IT''S ALL TOO LATE IT'S OVER... OVER...
AND YOU'RE GONE...

I MISS YOU I MISS YOU I MISS YOU I MISS YOU
I MISS YOU I MISS YOU SO MUCH

BUT HOW MANY TIMES CAN I WALK AWAY
AND WISH "IF ONLY... "
HOW MANY TIMES CAN I TALK THIS WAY
AND WISH "IF ONLY... "
KEEP ON MAKING THE SAME MISTAKE
KEEP ON ACHING THE SAME HEARTBREAK

I WISH "IF ONLY... "
BUT "IF ONLY... "
IS A WISH TOO LATE...

- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 5:21 PM

 
At Night
by "La" Cure

Sunk deep in the night
I sink in the night
Standing alone underneath the sky
I feel the chill of ice
On my face
I watch the hours go by

The hours go by...

You sleep
Sleep in a safe bed
Curled and protected
Protected from sight
Under a safe roof
Deep in your house
Unaware of the changes at night

At night
I hear the darkness breathe
I sense the quiet despair
Listen to the silence
At night
Someone has to be there
Someone has to be there

Someone must be there

- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 5:15 PM

 
having a difficult week. considering making myself a t-shirt that says "wet paint" on it to keep a healthy distance between myself and passers-by.

i need a writing coach.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 3:09 PM

 
sometimes i get the feeling im walking on the moon but my eyes just havent quite adjusted yet..

sometimes it feels like my hearts moving faster than my body.. or..

enough of the cliches, let's bring on the quiet disdain for society.

Rarrr.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 9:55 PM

 
psychiatrist: yeah, i always hate it when people come up to me at a party and assume i am secretly analysing them or have some immediate hypothesis of who they really are and what they are hiding.
me: well, i guess by making that assumption they are giving you a pretty good hypothesis of the type of person they are.
psychiatrist: yeah, my hypothesis is "DAMN.."
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 4:19 PM

 
ok, how many cool quotes can u pick out of this?

Black Market Baby
by tom waits

She lives in a house
That's way back off the road
There's a man with a lantern
And he carries her soul
A coal stove and a bed
A skillet and a hound
She drove a camel through
A needle
In this sinking board walk town

She's my Black Market Baby
She's my Black Market Baby
She's a diamond that
Wants to stay coal
Wants to stay coal

I swang out wide with her
On hells iron gate
Anything that you wanted
You could have
My eyes say their prayers to her
Sailors ring her bell
Like a moth mistakes a light bulb
For the moon and goes to hell

She's my Black Market Baby
She's my Black Market Baby
She's a diamond that
Wants to stay coal
Wants to stay coal

There's no prayer like desire
There's amnesia in her kiss
She's a swan and a pistol
And she will follow you like this
In Moverly, Missouri at the
Iroquois Hotel
She checked in with the President
And she ran up quite a Bill
(Chorus)
She's whiskey in a teacup
She gives blondes a lousy name
She's a Bonzai Aphrodite
And a ticket back to Spain
She's a hard way to go
And there ain't no way
To stop
Every time you play the red
The black is coming up

She's my Black Market baby
She's my Black Market baby
She's a diamond that
Wants to stay coal
Wants to stay coal

- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 5:08 PM

 
and somme how im suddenly booked for the week. how on earth did that happen in 24 hours?
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 1:31 PM

 
Three Imaginary Boys
by the cure

Walk across the garden
In the footsteps of my shadow
See the lights out
No-one's home
In amongst the statues
Stare at nothing in
The garden moves...
Can you help me?

Close my eyes
And hold so tightly
Scared of what the morning brings
Waiting for tomorrow
Never comes
Deep inside
The empty feeling
All the night time leaves me
Three imaginary boys

Slipping through the door
Hear my heart beat in the hallway
Echoes
Round and round
Inside my head
Drifting up the stairs
I see the steps behind me
Disappearing...
Can you help me?

Close my eyes
And hold so tightly
Scared of what the morning brings
Waiting for tomorrow
Never comes
Deep inside
The empty feeling
All the night time leaves me
Three imaginary boys sing in my
Sleep sweet child
The moon will change your mind...

See the cracked reflection
Standing still
Before the bedroom mirror
Over my shoulder
But no-one's there
Whispers in the silence
Pressing close behind me
Pressing close behind
Can you help me?

Can you help me?


- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 1:30 PM

 
to whomever said i wasn't redundant:

Is It Really So Strange?
by the smiths (have you heard of them?)

I left the North
I travelled South
I found a tiny house
I can't help the way I feel
Oh yes you can kick me
and you can punch me
and you break my face
but you can't change the way that I feel
'Cause I love you
And is it really so strange?
Is it really so, really so strange?
I say No, you say Yes
(but you will change your mind)
I left the South
I travelled North
I got confused-I killed a horse
I can't help the way I feel
Oh yes you can kick me
and you can butt me
and you can break my spine
but you won't change the way that I feel
'cause I love you
And is it really so strange ?
Is it realy so strange?
Is it really so, really so strange?
I say No, you say Yes
(but you will change your mind)
I left the North again
I travelled South again
I got confused-I killed a nun
I CAN'T HELP THE WAY I FEEL
I CAN'T HELP THE WAY I FEEL
(I lost my bag in Newport Pagnell)
Why is the last mile the hardest mile
My throat was dry, with the sun in my eyes
And I realised, I realised
That I could never
I could never, never go back home again

- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 1:49 PM

 
that
's enoug
h to shu
t all of yo
u up for s
ome time
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:54 PM

 
found some old 7/11/7 poems by yours truly..

let's take a look.. (each poem is three lines)

Organized my life for you
Only three seniors can take fiction writing?
Bitterly: Your dog is gone

Dream girl: Why don?t you love me?
When I look at you, I think about your ass
Oh oh so much pulchritude

lions will kill you tonight
go sleep soon, you won't feel cold jaws round your neck
you thought u were safe hA HA

?How can you diss my dream girl!??
Grounded in reality, I beat your face
My dream girl could take yours, bitch

video returned on time
no one dies if Top Dog is five minutes late
filthy capitalist whores
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:47 PM

 
mix master morrisey provides us with interesting and provocative lyrics from Suedehead, sometime after his departure from The Smiths:

SUEDEHEAD

Why do you come here ?
And why do you hang around ?
I'm so sorry
I'm so sorry

Why do you come here
When you know it makes things hard for me ?
When you know, oh
Why do you come ?
Why do you telephone ? (Hmm...)
And why send me silly notes ?
I'm so sorry
I'm so sorry

Why do you come here
When you know it makes things hard for me ?
When you know, oh
Why do you come ?
You had to sneak into my room
'just' to read my diary
"It was just to see, just to see"
(All the things you knew I'd written about you...)
Oh, so many illustrations
Oh, but
I'm so very sickened
Oh, I am so sickened now

Oh, it was a good lay, good lay
It was a good lay, good lay
It was a good lay, good lay
Oh
It was a good lay, good lay
It was a good lay, good lay
Oh, it was a good lay, good lay
Oh
Oh, it was a good lay
It was a good lay
Oh, a good lay
Oh, it was a good lay
Good lay, good lay
Oh
It was a good lay
It was a good lay

- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 1:24 AM

 
found a groovy Smiths Lyrics Generator and got these few:
1)
If you're wondering why
All the love that you long for eludes you
And people are rude and cruel to you
I'll tell you why
I'll tell you why
I'll tell you why
You just haven't earned it yet, baby
2)
love is Natural and Real
but not for you, my love
not tonight, my love
3)
I wear Black on the outside
Because Black is how I feel on the inside

----

well, thats a sad lot of lyrics there. maybe your's will be nicer. here's the link:
http://cgi.algonet.se/htbin/cgiwrap?user=inftryck&script=smiths.pl
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 1:16 AM

 
something for the ladies..

Death Wants More Death by bukowski

death wants more death, and its webs are full:

I remember my father's garage, how child-like

I would brush the corpses of flies

from the windows they thought were escape-

their sticky, ugly, vibrant bodies

shouting like dumb crazy dogs against the glass

only to spin and flit

in that second larger than hell or heaven

onto the edge of the ledge,

and then the spider from his dank hole

nervous and exposed

the puff of body swelling

hanging there

not really quite knowing,

and then knowing-

something sending it down its string,

the wet web,

toward the weak shield of buzzing,

the pulsing;

a last desperate moving hair-leg

there against the glass

there alive in the sun,

spun in white;

and almost like love:

the closing over,

the first hushed spider-sucking:

filling its sack

upon this thing that lived;

crouching there upon its back

drawing its certain blood

as the world goes by outside

and my temples scream

and I hurl the broom against them:

the spider dull with spider-anger

still thinking of its prey

and waving an amazed broken leg;

the fly very still,

a dirty speck stranded to straw;

I shake the killer loose

and he walks lame and peeved

towards some dark corner

but I intercept his dawdling

his crawling like some broken hero,

and the straws smash his legs

now waving

above his head

and looking

looking for the enemy

and somewhat valiant,

dying without apparent pain

simply crawling backward

piece by piece

leaving nothing there

until at last the red gut sack

splashes

its secrets,

and I run child-like

with God's anger a step behind,

back to simple sunlight,

wondering

as the world goes by

with curled smile

if anyone else

saw or sensed my crime

- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:39 AM

 
bukowski, you nut, why aren't you alive for me?

another poem by C.B.:

THIS

self-congratulatory nonsense as the

famous gather to applaud their seeming

greatness

you

wonder where

the real ones are

what

giant cave

hides them

as

the deathly talentless

bow to

accolades

as

the fools are

fooled

again

you

wonder where

the real ones are

if there are

real ones.

this self-congratulatory nonsense

has lasted

decades

and

with some exceptions

centuries.

this

is so dreary

is so absolutely pitiless

it

churns the gut to

powder

shackles hope

it

makes little things

like

pulling up a shade

or

putting on your shoes

or

walking out on the street

more difficult

near

damnable

as

the famous gather to

applaud their

seeming

greatness

as

the fools are

fooled

again

humanity

you sick

motherfucker.

- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:36 AM

 
poem by bukowski

"look at that old man"
a sweet birdy with brown eyes
said to a sweet birdy
with green eyes
"he's really fucked up"
the truth
at last.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 2:03 AM

 
THE BLACKBIRDS ARE ROUGH TODAY - bukowski

lonely as a dry and used orchard
spread over the earth
for use and surrender.

shot down like an ex-pug selling
dailies on the corner.

taken by tears like
an aging chorus girl
who has gotten her last check.

a hanky is in order your lord your
worship.

the blackbirds are rough today
like
ingrown toenails
in an overnight
jail---
wine wine whine,
the blackbirds run around and
fly around
harping about
Spanish melodies and bones.

and everywhere is
nowhere---
the dream is as bad as
flapjacks and flat tires:

why do we go on
with our minds and
pockets full of
dust
like a bad boy just out of
school---
you tell
me,
you who were a hero in some
revolution
you who teach children
you who drink with calmness
you who own large homes
and walk in gardens
you who have killed a man and own a
beautiful wife
you tell me
why I am on fire like old dry
garbage.

we might surely have some interesting
correspondence.
it will keep the mailman busy.
and the butterflies and ants and bridges and
cemeteries
the rocket-makers and dogs and garage mechanics
will still go on a
while
until we run out of stamps
and/or
ideas.

don't be ashamed of
anything; I guess God meant it all
like
locks on
doors.

- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 1:29 PM

 
Stephen Jay Gould (1941-2002)
Famed Harvard Biologist Gould Dies
(AP) - Stephen Jay Gould, a famed evolutionary biologist and prolific author who influenced his field for decades, died Monday. He was 60. Gould died of cancer at his home in New York City, according to his assistant, Stephanie Schur.

- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 1:57 AM

 
goodbye nelle, i will think of you every hour on the hour. maybe more.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 10:21 PM

 
had a terrific idea about a new reality tv show involving dogs, masking tape, barbells, sea salt, and a run down and abandoned, yet still functioning box factory and the hijinx that would ensue
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:28 PM

 
(and by tomorrow i mean today + time)
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 1:43 AM

 
something of interest for everyone tomorrow


- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 1:42 AM

 
ok ok i'm posting im posting! here's the skinny on ed:

im currently wearing nothing but boxers and a yarn blanket. it's cold and slightly itchy, but seems like a roomier alternative to clothes. i may stick with this for a while.

my dad is leaving for Italy in 1 hr 10 minutes

woke up feeling sick and tired and depressed which is out of the blue for me today

marginally cranky

more later, most likely after my shower washes away the gloom (fingers crossed)




- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 11:51 AM

 
postpostpostpostpostpostpostpostpostpostpostpostpostpost?
- posted by L. @ 6:57 PM

 
"stretch, girl, stretch! the floor is your friend." - talking about floor-mark-stretch-gymnastics
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 11:33 AM

 
u gotta anymore cheats for grand theft auto 3? send 'em my way cuz i've got it out for those pixelated little old ladies...
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 10:44 PM

 
(btw, that was NOT the big update)
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:30 AM

 
this may interest all of you:

at Celebration 2 expo they showed some upcoming new toys and board games and a few caught my interest.

-Monopoly 2: this "sequal" to the game monopoly has 2 levels, and u "set fire" to the bottom level at the start of the game (cardboard flames i believe) and watch society crumble as u scramble to reach the second level. apparently you "quote psalms" to "boost up". whatever that means.
-Super Life: another "sequal" to the classic game Life, and this time around the board is.. ROUND! u also have to worship or work your way up to be some sort of confusionist diety with a christian slant. sounds interesting.
-Jahoozah: much like the original game, players still must remove pieces until the tower falls, but this time the player will recieve an electric shock every time a piece is removed. this is currently being tested on rats and small (keyword small) children. there have been no living survivors.
-BoggleBots: the ingenious game of boggle just got DANGEROUS! "an exciting set of nihilistic cyborgs battle through time to stop the cunning likes of Dr. EvilSemantic and the sinister wizard prince Werrdplai. watch out for the mysterous mercenary from texas Gerund-X and his crusty dog companion Barksby Dog." these are robot figures with the game boggle jammed into their chest cavity. now kids can play boggle and play with robots at the same time. should be fun. but would be more fun if they lost the boggle theme and just went with robots.
-Sorry (the Adult Version): this is like the old game Sorry but now instead of the word sorry it has adult ways of saying that.. something something... i dunno i wasnt really paying attention to this one. ;>

and if all this isnt sad enough, im gonna go fold paper now.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:30 AM

 
oh its may. oops.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 7:49 PM

 
cha cha cha cha cha cha death march feva
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 7:48 PM

 
nothing like self-indorsements
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 7:48 PM

 
oh, and i forgot to mention. just watched the dailies from sunday's filming and let me tell you, these images are p.h.-fat in all the right places. more filmin comin up tomorrow but the real big filmings will be wednesday and friday and then off to the editing box i go. this could turn out to be really something if i can tackle it. IF.

oh who am i kiddin, its gonna rock!
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 7:48 PM

 
sup peeps, i know ur all just itchin' for some fancy pants update but ur gonna have to wait another few days as it gets prepared to be unleashed upon you and humanity as a whole. yes, that's right, this update is SO BIG, SO COLOSSAL, SO MOMENTOUS, that it really needs THAT MUCH preparation.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 7:45 PM

 
quote of the day:

jenni: Ed the turkey says: I am a turkey.


- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 2:10 PM

 
quote of the day:

Carl Mule: those lil cats, they can hold a whole mess of crap
dE wOo D 14: mm, delightful..

peace out thommy, im stealin you away next time
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 11:33 PM

 
well, you're gonna have to wait a bit longer for those updates.............
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:19 AM

 
hold onto your hats!

BIG updates coming soon
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:44 PM

 
quote of the day
----------------
Ed: "i need one"
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 8:56 PM

 
havin trouble. i gotta write a story that is a preface to a collection of stories i wrote for english. im floundering. this is what i've got..

Ed Hellman sat at his computer. He was on his thirty-third draft of his english portfolio preface and the daily grind was starting to finally wear him down.
“Why is this so difficult?” Ed thought, “I know what I want to write. Why on earth can’t I get the words down??”
The theme song to “Pokemon” was audible from the TV in the adjacent room. Ed crained his neck to see the screen.
“Pokemon’s starting!” said Ed’s brother from the couch.
“Pokemon! My god!” said Ed, “I’ve got to do something about all my writing problems!”
Picking up the telephone, Ed quickly dialed the number of the one man who he thought could help him. The first commercial break was almost over and he was running out of time.
“Pick up, pick up...” whispered Ed under his breath.
Someone picked up. The voice spoke uneasily and said:
“Howard’s house, Howard speaking..”
“Howard!” said Ed.
“Hi Ed,” said Howard, “How is my favorite...

that's all i have. im not sure where to go, what to cut, etc.
here is the ending i considered going with but scrapped after realizing it didnt incorporate any of the info i need to:

“Pick up, pick up...” whispered Ed under his breath.
Someone picked up. The voice spoke uneasily and said:
“Howard’s house, Howard speaking..”
“Howard!” said Ed.
"I'm sorry Ed, my mother's over now... and... can't really talk.."
"Gosh Howard, I just need a little help on a paper i have to write."
"oh, well, sure, maybe for a moment.. whats the problem?"
"See, I know what i want to say, but im not sure how to get it down on the computer.."
"oh Ed, here's a little secret: fudge it. that's what i've been doing and look at me!"
"Howard! No!"
"ha ha, oh im sorry, i'm just kidding. actually this is Howard's wife. But Howard should be at your house any moment now."
Click. The phone went dead.
"hmmmm" said Ed.
"Pokemon!!" said Ed's brother from the adjacent room.
The doorbell rang.
"Oh, it's howard." thought Ed and he opened the door.
But it wasnt howard.

DUM DUM DUM!!!!! THE END.



god. i need to leave high school. thinking is killing me. senior projects, the only thing i ask of you is a minimum of thinking on my part. thanks.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 8:54 PM

 
hmm that was too depressing for my tastes for today, so here's two excerpts from nice Talking Heads songs that are just too cute:

"Big and I'm bad
And I want you to know
I hand around
Where the grass is greener
Totally naked, baby
Totally nude
'Cause if I want to
Who's gonna stop me?
I'm absolutely free
Living in the trees
The birdies and the bees
'Cause I'm a nature boy"
-Totally Nude

and nexxxxt..

"Here come a riddle, here come a clue
If you were really smart, you'd know what to do when I say
Why am I going out of my head, whenever you're around?
The answer is obvious, love has come to town"
-Love Has Come To Town
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 8:42 PM

 
now for an utterly depressing set of song lyrics i discovered by that genius mastermind R. Smiffy. they reallly shake:

THERE IS NO IF...

REMEMBER THE FIRST TIME I TOLD YOU I LOVE YOU -
IT WAS RAINING HARD AND YOU NEVER HEARD -
YOU SNEEZED! AND I HAD TO SAY IT OVER
"I SAID I LOVE YOU" I SAID... YOU DIDN'T SAY A WORD
JUST HELD YOUR HANDS TO MY SHINING EYES
AND I WATCHED AS THE RAIN RAN THROUGH YOUR FINGERS
HELD YOUR HANDS TO MY SHINING EYES AND SMILED AS YOU KISSED ME...

"IF YOU DIE" YOU SAID "SO DO I" YOU SAID...
AND IT STARTS THE DAY YOU MAKE THE SIGN
"TELL ME I'M FOREVER YOURS AND YOU'RE FOREVER MINE
FOREVER MINE... "

"IF YOU DIE" YOU SAID "SO DO I" YOU SAID...
AND IT STARTS THE DAY YOU CROSS THAT LINE
"SWEAR I WILL ALWAYS BE YOURS AND YOU'LL ALWAYS BE MINE
YOU'LL ALWAYS BE MINE
ALWAYS BE MINE... "

REMEMBER THE LAST TIME I TOLD YOU I LOVE YOU -
IT WAS WARM AND SAFE IN OUR PERFECT WORLD -
YOU YAWNED AND I HAD TO SAY IT OVER
"I SAID I LOVE YOU" I SAID... YOU DIDN'T SAY A WORD
JUST HELD YOUR HANDS TO YOUR SHINING EYES
AND I WATCHED AS THE TEARS RAN THROUGH YOUR FINGERS
HELD YOUR HANDS TO YOUR SHINING EYES AND CRIED...

"IF YOU DIE" YOU SAID "SO DO I" YOU SAID...
BUT IT ENDS THE DAY YOU SEE HOW IT IS
THERE IS NO ALWAYS FOREVER... JUST THIS...
JUST THIS...

"IF YOU DIE" YOU SAID "SO DO I" YOU SAID
BUT IT ENDS THE DAY YOU UNDERSTAND
THERE IS NO IF... JUST AND

THERE IS NO IF... JUST AND

THERE IS NO IF...
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 8:27 PM

 
im makin a mix tape ---> should i put a song i wrote on it? HMMMMM....
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 8:21 PM

 
quote of (last) week
--------------------
Roemer: Egor and I are gonna dance
Egor: Ok, let's dance
Roemer: Anyone wanna help Egor?
Jesse Colvin: HEY. Are we talkin or dancin?!
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 8:19 PM

 
arrrrrright, u've been pissin n' moanin about no updates so here's a whole slew of them coming up tonight...
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 8:16 PM

 
oh hi
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 6:13 PM

 
So. Lia has fixed Ed's blog so he has comments and a counter. You should all comment so I feel less useless.

update:
ed's computer can't read javascript.
Ed is to much of a looser to update his browser, so no comments for ed.
So long, comments.
- posted by L. @ 11:48 PM

 
i've written a song.

it's sorta about how i feel right now.

it's really close to my heart.

here we go:

da na na na na na na na
da NA na na na NA NA NA
da na NA na na na NA NA NA
da da na na na da da na na na NA
da nananananana da da da
NA NA NA zoop!
da nananananana da da da
NA NA NA zoop!
da da na na da na na dada na
na na da na na da na NA
DA NA!
zoop zoop!

i also dabble in gangsta rap.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 7:14 PM

 
i've discovered the best part of passover: due to a lack of likable food that i can eat, i am left with one main food group that i enjoy, a food group that usually goes unnoticed and unloved, but could possibly be the greatest food group of all: the pudding food group. vanilla, chocolate, chocolate and vanilla swirl, fat free chocolate, fat free vanilla, butterscotch, caramel, and so on. i'm not sure how good an exclusive pudding diet is, but hot dog, it sure tastes good. now, to research whether or not tapioca counts as pudding...
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 5:50 PM

 
things are looking up
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 4:27 PM

 
hmm it seems some poor unfortunate souls are copying my pretty website. they shall be "rehabilitated"...
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 11:36 AM

 
heh what was THAT post?
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 4:08 AM

 
ok, it's like this. i had some really keen poetry lined up that i wrote a long time ago and i was gonna like, paste it here, ya know? for you all to lean on etc. so i was really jonesin' for it but apparently i erased all the poems by mistake. so, sorry. i never liked all of you anyway.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 1:22 AM

 
i've just killed a mummy and i don't feel so bad anymore.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 9:19 PM

 
my my my my my my my my my my my my my my my! i think we've been looking at us upside down! inside the vestibule sits tiny trinkets to smother. it's alll good. pistols all arounnd. ba-zing!
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 9:17 PM

 
High
by Cure

When I see you sky as a kite
As high as I might
I can't get that high
The how you move
The way you burst the clouds
It makes me want to try

When I see you sticky as lips
As licky as trips
I can't lick that far
But when you pout
The way you shout out loud
It makes me want to start
And when I see you happy as a girl
That swims in a world of magic show
It makes me bite my fingers through
To think I could've let you go

And when I see you
Take the same sweet steps
You used to take
I say I'll keep on holding you
My arms so tight
I'll never let you slip away

And when I see you kitten as a cat
Yeah as smitten as that
I can't get that small
Tthe way you fur
The how you purr
It makes me want to paw you all
And when I see you happy as a girl
That lives in a world of make-believe
It makes me pull my hair all out
To think I could've let you leave

And when I see you
Take the same sweet steps
You used to take
I know I'll keep on holding you
In arms so tight
They'll never let you go
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 9:14 PM

 
The evening fell just like a star
Left a trail behind
You spit as you slammed out the door
If this is love we're crazy
As we fight like cats and dogs
But I just know there's got to be more

So please call me, baby
Wherever you are
It's too cold to be out walking in the streets
We do crazy things when we're wounded
Everyone's a bit insane
I don't want you catching your death of cold
Out walking in the rain

I admit that I ain't no angel
I admit that I ain't no saint
I'm selfish and I'm cruel and I'm blind
If I exorcise my devils
Well my angels may leave too
When they leave they're so hard to find

We're always at each other's throats
It drives me up the wall
Most of the time I'm just blowing off steam
And I wish to God you'd leave me
And I wish to God you'd stay
Life's so different than it is in your dreams

by waits
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 9:10 PM

 
http://similarminds.com/2.gif
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 5:54 PM

 
back soon
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:05 PM

 
a ton of wonderful updates coming soon to warm the cockles of your heart.

but for now

for now

the shower.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:22 PM

 
not to be redundant, but this is how this morning feels..

"Looking so long at these pictures of you
But I never hold on to your heart
Looking so long for the words to be true
But always just breaking apart
My pictures of you

There was nothing in the world
That I ever wanted more
Than to feel you deep in my heart
There was nothing in the world
That I ever wanted more
Than to never feel the breaking apart
All my pictures of you"
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:21 PM

 
more to come as soon as i care to do so
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 11:54 PM

 
“I need a second!”
Sherman Egglesby peered down at the fat little boy in front of him. It was his thirty-third year as an ice cream vendor, and the daily grind was starting to finally wear him down.
“I need a second!” whined Fatty, reaching out now with groping, sticky fingers.
“God.” thought Sherman, “Just... God.”
“I need a secccooooonnnnnnddd!” sputtered Fatty indignantly. Excess skin hung onto his body like baby possums to their mother.
Sherman leaned down low on his elbows against his stand.
“But Fatty,” he said, “You don’t have enough money for a second.”
Fatty’s jaws clapped shut but his arms remained suspended in the air. The slight, Tiewanese boy whispered deep into Fatty’s ear. Nods were exchanged.
“Comp!” chirped Tiewanese boy, “Give him a comp!”
“Are you kiddin’ me?” asked Sherman.
“Comp!” chirped Fatty, “Comp!”
Sherman crossed his arms across his chest. Now both boys were saying it.
“Comp!” chirped Fatty.
“Comp!” chirped Tiewanese boy.
Darkness formed behind Sherman’s eyes as he remembered the distinct smell of his grandmother’s fresh apple pie and the crackle of his grandfather’s belt when he had nipped some crust.
“Comp comp comp comp comp comp comp comp!”
“Fine, dammit!” said Sherman.
With tender exactitude, Sherman kissed each boy on the forehead. First Fatty, then the other. The children toddered away, momentarily content.
“I’m going to get out of this job,” said Sherman to no one in particular, “Unless it kills me.”
Sherman gave a swift kick and sent his stand toppling onto its side. Ice cream was everywhere.
“Ha ha!” chortled Sherman and ran off.
Soon after, a pigeon choked on a fallen ice cream sandwich wrapper, leaving it’s mate temporarily unnerved.
Later, Sherman was having troubles of his own.
“I’m afraid,” said Darren, “You will never walk again.”
Darren was a doctor.
“Was it because I kicked my stand over?” asked Sherman.
“Well, while the precise moment when your leg bones collapsed is difficult to pinpoint, my diagnostic impression is that it was indeed the kick. Yes.”
“And my other leg?”
“This is what my committee likes to call ‘Bone Annihilation by Association’ or ‘BAA’ for a cute nickname. It occurs when one bone, or set of bones (in this case all of your right leg bones) are shattered. The shattered bones send a tremor, or if they had the means, a brain wave, to corresponding or parallel bones (in this case all of your left leg bones) indicating to jump on the metaphorical gravy train. Do not feel guilty, my young friend, it was not your kick that crippled your left leg, but peer pressure. This is only my diagnostic impression, of course.”
“Oh, I see.” said Sherman. He was not homosexual, but found Doctor Darren to be very attractive.
Doctor Darren sniffed the air in front of him several times and jotted something down on his medical pad. He did not find Sherman attractive.
After the operation, Doctor Darren washed the dried blood from under his nails. He had forgotten to wear gloves again, a mistake he would repeat frequently in the future. Several of his patients would die.
Doctor Darren turned away from the sink just as Sherman crawled into the room, dragging the stumps of his recently amputated legs behind him.
“I’ve got to ask you a question, Doc.” said Sherman.
“Anything.”
“Why did you have to amputate my ears?”
“I’m sorry, Sherman,” said Doctor Darren, his voice quivering ever so slightly, “Sometimes I just get over zealous at the operating table.”
Sherman did not respond. The following year, he would take a class on reading lips, but at that moment in Doctor Darren’s office, for Sherman, his question remained unanswered. He slithered out of the office.
Doctor Darren shrank back into a corner of the room, perspiring endlessly.
“My god!” he said, “I’ve got to do something about all my problems!”
As a lad, Doctor Darren had been remarkably shy. While his shyness gradually subsided as he aged, he secretly depended on written prescriptions for most any social interactions outside of the office. Taking a pencil stub from behind his ear, he scribbled sweet reassuring nothings onto his medical pad, such as:

SOLVE YOUR PROBLEMS EFFICIENTLY

And as a more private note to himself:

THE PERSPIRATION HAS BECOME A PROBLEM

Doctor Darren tore out his prescriptions and neatly pocketed them in his white lab coat.
“Now I can properly interact with society.” he said.
Doctor Darren flicked off the lights and locked the office door. It was raining; and as he walked from the building to his van, he became wet.
Inside a Mercury Villager, Doctor Darren had a brain storm and whipped out his medical pad. Lightning flashed around him as he ardently wrote:

YOUR OBSESSION WITH MONKEYS ENDS HERE

At that exact moment, six miles away, a bohemian delivered his wife’s stillborn son in his taxi cab and cried.

- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 11:42 PM

 
Pictures Of You
by The Cure

I've been looking so long at these pictures of you
That I almost believe that they're real
I've been living so long with my pictures of you
That I almost believe that the pictures are
All I can feel

Remembering
You standing quiet in the rain
As I ran to your heart to be near
And we kissed as the sky fell in
Holding you close
How I always held close in your fear
Remembering
You running soft through the night
You were bigger and brighter and wider than snow
And screamed at the make-believe
Screamed at the sky
And you finally found all your courage
To let it all go

Remembering
You fallen into my arms
Crying for the death of your heart
You were stone white
So delicate
Lost in the cold
You were always so lost in the dark
Remembering
You how you used to be
Slow drowned
You were angels
So much more than everything
Hold for the last time then slip away quietly
Open my eyes
But I never see anything

If only I'd thought of the right words
I could have held on to your heart
If only I'd thought of the right words
I wouldn't be breaking apart
All my pictures of you

Looking so long at these pictures of you
But I never hold on to your heart
Looking so long for the words to be true
But always just breaking apart
My pictures of you

There was nothing in the world
That I ever wanted more
Than to feel you deep in my heart
There was nothing in the world
That I ever wanted more
Than to never feel the breaking apart
All my pictures of you
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:22 PM

 
more to come my slippery 55's
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 6:09 PM

 
The bird in the painting had a bucket filled with dead babies. How glorious to fill oneself with babies - the babies of the rich, of the poor, of the pretty little couple at Westbork Lane with the tiny blue brooklime that grew outside their house, the blue of hyacinths and Delfware and all fine things. To live and thrive off the meat of babies. He held the baby bird up to the painting. “See, Shamshob, what beautiful plumage she had. Maybe this is your mother. See how young she looks? A fine bird on a fine boat.” If that was so, Shamshob had to know that his mother ate babies. He needed the painting.
Before he had a chance to snatch it off the wall, he was interrupted by his old childhood friend, Dr. Shivers.
“Ahh, Charles,” said Dr. Shivers gruffly, “I thought I might find you in here. So sorry about your loss. Your brother was a remarkable man before he died.”
“Yes,” replied Charles, “Viktor was as close to a god as anyone I have ever met.”
“A god?” murmured Shivers, “Yes, well.” Then turning to the painting on the wall, he motioned vaguely. “Quite a collection he kept up, hm? This one creeps me out though, as a father.”
“Understandably.”
It was then that Shivers first noticed Shamshob on Charles’ shoulder. He peered down through his thick bifocals and said, “What’s that you have there, Charles? Some sort of a exotic lizard or rat?”
“It’s called a bird actually.” replied Charles with a sniff, “It came from the sky. I’ve named it Shamshob.”
“Yes,” murmured Shivers, “Yes, well. After your mother I suppose.”
“Yes, after mother.”
“What does it eat?”
“Babies...” said Charles softly, “Babies...”
“Dear god!” sputtered Shivers, taking three steps back.
But it was too late. Charles had gone insane. He flung himself at the corpulent Shivers with all the strength he could muster. Fist flying, legs kicking, teeth biting. The doctor collapsed unconscious on the floor in a heap of cheap suit and human flesh.
Charles straightened his tie and casually pushed Shivers under the couch. Shamshob chirped. The little bird was hungry.
“Perhaps hungry for babies.” thought Charles. He moved back to the painting and seized it in his hands. “We’ll eat tonight,” he told the bird, “Oh yes.”
The little bird cocked its head slightly.
“He’s cocking his head knowingly,” thought Charles, “What a clever bird he is. And he knows it too.”
Charles hid the painting under his coat and poured himself a glass of grain alcohol. He took a sip. And then another.
“Charles?” said a voice.
Charles spun around and found Father Eldairoshay in the doorway.
“Father,” said Charles, “Hello.”
Father Eldairoshay smiled knowingly. Shamshob took a step back on Charles’ shoulder and rustled in his feathers. Father Eldairoshay licked his top lip.
“Where is Viktor’s painting?” asked Father.
“But what ever do you want with that old thing?” asked Charles in return.
“I need it.” replied Father, “The will is very explicit. Viktor is to be buried with it.”
“Oh gosh.”
“I need it, Charles. The funeral guests have already left for the graveyard. Give it to me this second. I can see it under your coat.”
He made a grab for the painting, but was too far across the room. He stepped closer and tried again, failing miserably. Charles stood and laughed. Father Eldairoshay felt a steady stream of sweat descend from his Chilean brow.
“What now, Father?” questioned Charles with a sneer, “It seems you are quite helpless all the way over there. My bird and I are safe until you draw closer.”
“Then draw closer I shall!” growled Father.
The little bird on Charles’ shoulder took flight. He flew across the room and dove straight into Father’s ear cavity, sending the man of god to the floor with a crash. Charles dashed to the fallen man’s side and put his own ear to Father’s twitching head.
“Oh god!” bellowed Charles, “I can hear the chirping coming from inside!”
Leaning in closer, Charles strained to decipher the little bird’s noises.
“He says,” said Charles, “He says... He wants... babies...”
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 6:07 PM

 
IMPORTANT NOTICE:

For anything that is worth saving, email me at errandjones@hotmail.com
For anything else, email me at carlmule@comcast.net

carlmule@home.com is no more. no more than a jackass!
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 6:07 PM

 
Quotes of the day!
------------------

Roemer: We really hated those Mormons.
Student: They started eating each other didn't they?
JP: That was the Donner party.

Egor: Marriage is just a tradition.
Roemer: Oh, marriage is just a tradition, hm?
Shana: Like senior run!

Roemer: The congressman can't come around and look in your uterus!

Roemer: Do I have the write to have sex with as many woman as I want as long as they have stupidly consented?
JP: Yes.
Josh: Yes.
Jesse Colvin: Regrettably yes.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 3:48 PM

 
if u didnt catch it in my last post, my email is errandjones@hotmail.com and i welcome any form of communication. 123456789!
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 8:38 PM

 
i will probably be doing a film for my senior project, and im happy to say that the story seems to be coming together wonderfully... it should be my most impressive and surreal and thought-provoking project yet. here's the important thingy though:

I need a girl for a part. you would be needed for a few evenings and one or sat or sundays. on-screen kiss possible. please let me know! i need to know soon! send emails (errandjones@hotmail.com)! send photos (my mailbox)! let me know!!! this is your big break geeeezzzz!!!
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 8:37 PM

 
things that have cheered me a bit lately:

jenni's email
claire's 5 words
lunch at mcdonalds
betsy being kind in general
movie ideas with dad
tv with mom
on a couch with tony bennet
driving with sara
david byrne with david
lea in general
amy's drawing
peter bruun's advice
more more more more more more
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 8:32 PM

 
Quotes of the day!!
-------------------

Egor: You're such a spirit nazi!
Roemer: Oh, I remember the first year we had senior run, oh yes. An alumni came back and said, What have you done with my little progressive school? Looks like Gilman!...And like Texas A&M...

Alex Carlin: Oh, John, John, John, you have yet to live.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 8:08 PM

 
People Like Us
by Talking Heads

In 1950 when I was born
Papa couldn't afford to buy us much
He said be proud of what you are
There's something special 'bout people like us

People like us
(Who will answer the telephone)
People like us
(Growing as big as a house)
People like us
(Gonna make it because)

We don't want freedom
We don't want justice
We just want someone to love.
Someone to love.
I was called upon in the 3rd grade class
I gave my answer and it caused a fuss
I'm not the same as ev'ryone else
And times were hard for people like us

People like us
(Who will answer the telephone)
People like us
(Growing as big as a house)
People like us
(Gonna make it because)

What good is freedom?
God laughs at people like us
I see it coming
Like coming down from above

The clouds roll by and the moon comes up
How long must we live in the heat of the sun
Millions of people are waitin' on love
And this is a song about people like us

People like us
(Who answe the telephone)
People like us
(Growing big as a house)
People like us
(Gonna make it because)
We don't want freedom
We don't want justice
We just want someone to love.

Someone to love.
Someone to love.
Someone to love.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 8:17 PM